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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

Guinevere nods solemnly, lifting her gaze from Viviane’s body when the herbs appear in her peripheral. Turning to Morgan, she manages a wan smile and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. What? Lancelot’s turned away from them by now. When they get back to Camelot (ugh, how she shudders to think of it) she'll have to rely on thoughts of Morgan to keep her sane. And god knows she needs those thoughts like she needs air in her lungs. “…Thanks.” Splaying the herbs out on the ground in front of her, she begins unwinding the gauze around her hand, revealing the gash in her palm. The wound is fresh enough that just digging her nails into it causes it to bleed anew. “I guess you could say I learned a new trick recently?” When enough accumulates to draw the symbol, she traces it into the earth and focuses the small remainder of her energy on transforming the herbs into flowers. Rather than putting a specific image into her mind this time, she earnestly requests something that would honor Viviane.

Evidently, feelings thwart accuracy. Because this time, the spell doesn’t betray her with any excessively bright or cheerful plants, rather sculpting the herbs into a cluster of flowers in thoughtful shades of blue. (Hm. Might have to pick up a botanical guide. Because she doesn’t know exactly what kind these are — hopefully they’re not disrespectful? At least they’re nice to look at. It’s… more than she’s been able to do for some of her girls in the past, anyway.) Either way, her heart positively beams at the prospect of earning Morgan's respect with magic. She can't help brightening just a little with pride, showcasing this new skill. “Would you believe it if I told you these used to be that dude’s special, magic sword?” After giving a breathy laugh, her lips screw into a lopsided frown. “…It’s just too bad they’re not fresh.”

And that's when she notices a ghost lady crouched on the other side of Viviane’s body. Different from the first, she has the saddest, most striking blue eyes she’s ever seen. Translucent hands rest over Guinevere’s, over the flowers and… her eyes overflow with that same color. There’s the sensation of being submerged in water, of not being able to breathe, and the droplets of lake water clinging to her skin shiver with electricity. And the flowers? The flowers gradually replenish themselves. Oh... okay. At what point had her life become rolling with the punches that magic served!?

“That— that was different! Who are—?” She gasps out when it’s over, eyes flickering to their normal hue. The lady offers her a somber, knowing smile and disappears. Guinevere turns to look at Morgan imploringly, then. “Did you see her? She was right there.” Well. Morgan sure hadn’t seen the other one. Why would she see this one, all of a sudden?

“I’ve, uh, been seeing ghosts whenever I bleed?” She tries elaborating, not knowing the exact terminology to make it… make sense. None of this makes any sense! “Damn. I should’ve asked about that.” Pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead, she squeezes her eyes shut. To say it's a lot would be a severe understatement. “I don’t think they’re bad, though. I mean, they’ve been teaching me things. Like that.” Guinevere gestures towards the blood symbol and flowers with the shrug of her shoulder. “Viviane said I’m a daughter of the children of the forest? Whatever that means. She also… said they’re all dead. Except for me and Jen.” Sounds lonely, doesn't it? ...Fuck.

She squeezes her eyes shut, gives her head a reprimanding shake as if to wake herself up. Selfish. Hasn't she done enough wallowing inside the depths of her own mind? There’s a goal — a plan that should take priority over her ancestral mysteries, no matter how earth-shattering they are. With Viviane’s body at her side as a physical reminder, that’s more apparent than ever. People are suffering. Lives are at stake. Her potentially non-human bloodline can be investigated later. If they survive this, that is. “No, that's not important right now. We — we need to focus on ending Arthur's reign.” She glares at her feet. “On making him pay.”

"How long until we can make our move, Morgan?" Guinevere asks, reaching for her hand. Her lifeline. Their chances to gather in Camelot are limited. Not to mention how unsafe it'd be to discuss anything remotely related to Arthur's downfall, even in their code. Now that she's spoken to Merlin... well, there's got to be something else she can do in the meantime. Tight as the chains that bind her are, she might as well test them 'till they break, right? "What can I do to help?"
 
"A trick?" Morgan raised her eyebrow, a playful smile on her lips. "I thought this was my area of expertise, you know? With me being the evil witch and everything. But alright, do show me. Make sure it's impressive, though-- as your mentor, I want to see just how good you've become. Actually," she added after a while and her smile widened, "let's make this your graduation exam. If I am not satisfied with your performance, there will be remedial lessons. Many of them, in fact, and they will be thorough." ...thorough in the best way possible, as her expression suggested. Gods! Had Lancelot not been there, she would have kissed her right now, and definitely gone further than that. How had she even managed to hold back for so long? Oh, right. Back in Camelot, merely looking at her had been a crime-- a step into the forbidden territory, and that could have ruined them both. Fear had put her desire to sleep. With both Arthur and Camelot gone, though? Oh, it woke up again, and Morgan wanted nothing more than to have Gwen for herself now-- just they way she had had her before that cursed marriage. (She was so beautiful, and so close, and, gods, her hair smelled so nice, and... aaargh. Why did the gods tempt her so?!)

Needless to say, these thoughts dissipated the second Gwen actually showed her the trick. Because, what?! Morgan wasn't sure what she had expected, but it sure as hell hadn't been this. This-- this went against everything her books had taught her! Breathing life into something that had died should have been impossible, just like it was impossible to cross your own shadow. Magic could merely alter reality, not create it, and once the spark was gone-- well, it was gone. Nothing, nada, finito. The curtain had fallen. And yet, yet Guinevere stood there, smiling casually as if she just hadn't broken every magical law in existence. (Gods, this girl! She would be the death of her, Morgan knew, and strangely enough, she didn't even dislike it. Dying of the shock caused by Guinevere's newest escapade? A much more pleasant demise than she had ever envisioned for herself, honestly.) "...are you kidding me?" the sorceress asked when her tongue obeyed her again. "Gwen, this is huge. I-- I don't even know what to say. This shouldn't be possible! What you're doing is the equivalent of... of falling upwards. Just, shit. I knew you were a troublemaker, but breaking the laws of physics? That's a new one." So, yeah, Morgan.exe might have stopped working, but frankly? For a damn good reason! History was being made in front of her very eyes, and she didn't have the faintest idea of what do to. Take notes? Probably. Now, where was a quill when one needed it the most? She should run some tests, too, and-- no. Geez, what was she thinking? That shouldn't be her priority here! Talking to Gwen was the most important thing-- talking to her, and soothing her fears.

"And no, I cannot see her. Children of the forest, though... Hm. I think I heard the term somewhere? In some legend, I believe." And since Excalibur had been just a legend in her mind until recently, that was probably a genuine clue. If nothing else, it fit the pattern! "I'll find out more for you, Gwen. I promise," Morgan took her hands in hers. "And-- and even if you're truly the last one," which was such a horrible, horrible thought, "you won't be alone. You still have me, you see?" Gods, how unbelievably sappy. Was this who she was now, this simpering fool who whispered sweet nothings in a lady's ear? The old Morgan would have laughed-- though honestly, the old Morgan had been way too bitter for her own good and she didn't miss her. Not when being a little softer, a little more vulnerable could be so nice. ...it seemed that the time for softness had passed, though.

"Now that we know all of this? A week after we return, Gwen. I need some time to contact my group, but after that, we're all set," Morgan said, her eyes shining with resolve. Finally, finally all of this would come to an end-- the seeds she had sown had ripened, and the harvest was approaching. "We will run our simulation. When that happens, I need you to go to the cellar and steal the Excalibur. What happens next? You'll play the heroine and 'save' everyone. Hell, if you use put your new trick to use here and manage to sprout some flowers, it'll be even better-- people will eat it right up. Nobody will question your authority, that much I can promise. But Gwen," Morgan's tone grew more serious, "we need to deal with Arthur. One way or another, he has to go. So, I'm asking you now-- do you want to kill him or will you leave it up to me?" Because, as much as she would have loved to be the one to end him, Morgan wouldn't take the kill away from Guinevere without her consent. After all the bullshit he had put her through? She deserved it.
 
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With Morgan's attention and eventual awe fixed solely on her, Guinevere naturally perks up like a flower seeing rainfall after a long drought. Except comparing her life in Camelot with Arthur to drought is extremely generous. Yes, generous. Even in current times, when rainwater is quintessential to the survival of any living creature on this barren earth -- which, to someone who knows the ache of thirst as intimately as she does, is truly saying something. Maybe she better resembles a flower that was uprooted from her home and replanted in the depths of hell, subjected to living beneath the weight of Arthur's big, obnoxious boot. And he eyes of his royal court are always watching and she's expected to maintain a beautiful shape for their comfort and amusement. Only ever finding solace in fleeting glimpses at dinner and coded notes in her hands, Morgan gave her the light spells of both sunlight and rain she so desperately needed. Her light at the end of the tunnel, her future -- in sight but always just beyond her grasp. Either way, breaking the laws of physics just sounds epic, doesn't it? And especially when Morgan looks at her like that. So she laughs a bit sheepishly, tries to play it cool. "What can I say? I excel in making trouble. In more ways than one, if you know what I--" She leans in and-- and shit. Speaking of beyond her grasp. If only Lancelot was safely back in Camelot and not just a couple of feet away from them! Needless to say, she'd sure as hell make trouble if she acted on her impulses now and the thought kills the mood in one solid strike. "Damn." Something in her tone articulates her frustration perfectly in just one word, probably because it's the tone of a woman who's had to hold herself back one too many times. Breathless, smitten, and obviously wanting to use her lips for something other than words.

Still. Cooling down, the more she really thinks about all of this, the more daunting it seems. To learn her history is based on things of legends and that each new spell launches her into uncharted territory...? Well, it would have sounded like an exciting adventure, especially with Morgan at her side to solve those mysteries with her. It would have. If all their lives weren't at stake and, hey, resting on her shoulders in the meantime. The whole 'they're all doomed if she fucks up' part makes it considerably less fun. When Morgan's hands wrap around hers, though, the effect of her touch is instantaneous, like magic itself. Fingertips that turned thousands upon thousands of pages of books brushing over knuckles that'd suffered more bruises and scars than any of Arthur's knights would face in a lifetime of service. It's a wonder that their paths even crossed at all. What they have is the one good thing to come of all of this, the one thing worth holding onto. Worth more than anything Arthur has in that damned castle of his. More than even Excalibur itself. Not alone. Never alone. The weight becomes considerably less soul-crushing and Guinevere feels she can bolster the energy to outrun the fiends running wild in her mind, in reality. To turn around and face them. Because for her, for her -- she'd face anything. "I still have you." She repeats, an easy smile accompanying the words, ears singed red with something other than the cold. Her eyes crinkle, then, a touch mischievous. "And I may be a hopeless troublemaker, but you also have me. Always."

That mischief, of course, lessens in degrees while being replaced with pure wonder and thoughts as deep as the ocean itself when Morgan explains.

"A week... wow." She breathes out, almost as if she had taken the revelation like a physical blow to the gut. It's not like it's bad news, not even remotely, there's just a sort of disbelief -- that everything she's suffered through could really come to an end within the span of a single week. It could easily feel like a lifetime under Arthur's watch. But still. It's really happening, isn't it? They're going to fight for the future, they're going to take it for themselves. Guinevere takes her hair into her hands, wringing out lakewater to keep herself from fidgeting and betraying her anxiety. Especially when the matter of taking Arthur's life comes into the equation. "I can find the sword. I could find it with my eyes closed." That, without a doubt, is true. Since forging their connection, Excalibur sings to her constantly. Following that sound should be simple enough. And with Morgan's eyes on her, so serious now, she wishes she could assure her with just as much conviction that she'd be capable of making Arthur pay for everything he's done. That she's strong enough to see it through, as someone who would be expected to lead. She should take responsibility, shouldn't she? "I--" She grips the back of her neck. "I don't know."

"You saw..." She ventures, remnants of shame reappearing as she remembers everything Morgan witnessed in her head. "I mean, you heard what Jen said back there. And she was right. I-- I have trouble with--" There was far more to that escape than what was shown, anyway. When she couldn't bring herself to kill that researcher, a man who put them through hell, and they suffered the consequences for it. (And a friend of theirs paid for her mistake with his life... Jen had never fully forgiven her for that. Neither had Guinevere herself.) For so long she was ashamed... and learned to cope with it, at least to a certain extent, when Adrianne soothed her about the effects of Stockholm syndrome. "I want to make him pay. I--" She digs her nails in her palms. Hard enough to draw blood again. "I hate him. I hate him." For what he's done to her, to Morgan, to Viviane, to everyone. She swallows. "But I don't want to make a promise like that only to fuck it up at the last minute."
 
"I know you do," Morgan whispered, and it was true. She really did, in the same way she knew that the sun rose in the east and set in the west, or that gravity compelled objects to fall towards the earth rather than away from it. In other words, there were no doubts in her mind. How could there be? Had someone hurt her the way Arthur had hurt Guinevere-- well, there wouldn't have been enough mercy in the whole wide world to buy them her forgiveness. It was an impossibility, kind of like trying to force the same poles of two magnets together. Surely, Gwen must have felt as strongly about it? The brief visit into her mind certainly suggested so. "It's fine," she said and clasped her hands tighter-- to serve as her anchor, perhaps. To let her know that she was neither alone nor being judged. "Honestly, I prefer it that way. Do you know how long I've been waiting to kill him? An entire lifetime. I'm surprised I even offered to let that chance go, really." And, okay, that was a lie-- because for her, she would have done it in a heartbeat. Still, the topic had gotten too heavy, and what was wrong with trying to make her smile? With releasing some of that tension? Nothing, Morgan was sure. "Come. Let us take care of that burial, and then we shall head home."

Home. The word had always tasted bitter on her tongue, not unlike wormwood, though now-- now there was also a different flavor in the mix. Something suspiciously similar to hope, maybe. Finally, finally the time had come. They had to wait for another week, true, but what were seven days in comparison to years? To the eternity she had spent holed up in her chambers, unable to even conceptualize what the world without her brother's reign would be like? (To an extent, she still couldn't. Like a tree that had been bent in its infancy, her mind retained that shape-- probably always would, to an extent. Thinking out of the box was hard, really, when they had beaten that box into you. Still, Gwen was here, wasn't she? With her, she had tasted freedom for the first time, and that was just a sample. They would discover more together, she was sure. And yes, it was big and scary, but also... exciting? Gods, Morgan had almost forgotten what that felt like.)

The burial was a quiet affair. None of them had known Viviane, obviously, and so it was difficult to come up with an elaborate speech, but so what? Grandeur wasn't the point here, anyway. They had come to honor the woman as a human being who had died before her time, which would be more than enough. "Goodbye, Viviane," Morgan said as Lancelot lowered her body into the ground, and dropped a fistful of dirt on her. "I never knew you, but I should have. We would have had much to talk about, I'm sure. As it is, I can only promise to you that your murderer shall pay. Rest in peace."

Lancelot, too, repeated the gesture. "Um. I'm sorry, lady Viviane, and goodbye. May your spirit find its rest."

After Guinevere said her words as well, there was no reason left to linger there. The rest of the dead should not be disturbed, as everyone knew, and besides, Arthur would probably return from his inane quest soon. Now, clearly he wouldn't be happy about his beloved wife missing, which meant they had to hurry. Hurry they did, too, and perhaps the gods themselves were on their side, for no dangers impeded them on the way back. And Lancelot? Lancelot proved himself a smaller nuisance than Morgan had expected, actually. Since that kiss, it... actually seemed as if he was trying to give them some space? It was an illusion of privacy, of course, as they were still traversing the wastes and a sole traveler would have been vulnerable, but still! The thought counted, and she found herself oddly touched. To think that a resident of Camelot would take so kindly towards their feelings... well, that filled her heart with hope, too. (Maybe, just maybe they could have the life they dreamed of. Maybe they weren't just two girls being foolish and reaching for the stars. ...gods, what a concept.)

And so, when Camelot appeared on the horizon, Morgan didn't feel devastated-- possibly for the first time in her entire life, too. "Hang in there, Gwen," she kissed her on the cheek as they approached the gates. "Just a little while, and the nightmare will be over. I promise."

Too bad, however, that the sorceress was distinctly wrong about that. When Gwen creeped into her rooms, Arthur was already sitting on their bed. Judging by his clothes, he had been there for a while, too-- he wore his comfortable linen shirt and trousers, not the armor reserved for travels. Uh oh. "Greetings, my beloved," his lips curled up in a smile. (The smile was dangerous, like the edge of a knife.) "Where, pray tell, have you been? I've been looking forward to your embrace the entire time I was risking my life in the wastes, you know. Imagine my disappointment when you weren't there! I meant to ask Morgan, because somehow, she always knows everything, but she happened to be missing, too. What a funny coincidence, right?"

Within a heartbeat, his smile morphed into a cruel smirk, and then he was suddenly crushing her wrist. "Have you been lying to me, my queen? Because if those rumors were true, and you are indeed involved with my sister... well, no matter. I finally found a husband for her, you see. A friend who is willing to make her his queen, despite her less than stellar reputation. Would you like to tell her? She's bound to be overjoyed."
 
Guinevere's body stills in its new routine of silent fright upon discovering Arthur already in their chambers. Smelling fresh as a daisy and dressed like he's had plenty of time to wind down and investigate after his so-called quest. Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh fucking shit! And her heart is everywhere at once -- pounding in her chest as if it means to escape, as if it wants out of all this the same way she does. It's trapped in her throat, clouding her ears, throbbing in her fingertips. That she feels it everywhere makes it all the more painful when Arthur's news sinks into it like a knife. Because that's exactly what this is. By punishing Morgan, he forces her into submission, aims straight for her heart. That disgusting smirk tells her he knows exactly what he's doing. Expecting her to crumble under the pressure, to cry and beg for his mercy. (To feel that he has power over her, really. Must give him a real trip, huh, to take Excalibur's rightful wielder and make her into his plaything?) Realizing she's shutting down to protect herself, she reprimands herself not to fall back to the demons and fiends waiting for her in her mind. Spent and fought but not yet dead. Not until she can fight them in reality. Fuck this! Fuck all of it!

Will she revert to inaction, after everything she's been through? No! Of course, she can't go full throttle into a rage the way she wants to -- not when they're so close. A week, Morgan had said, with conviction shining in her eyes. Right. A week. If they can pull it off, that is... then Arthur's reign would end and Morgan wouldn't have to suffer in the arms of some pompous, entitled man. (Oh, she's going to be sick. Just the thought turns Guinevere's stomach in somersaults. Doesn’t she even have a say? Apparently not in Camelot.) Hell, she'd sooner burn this castle to the ground than attend a wedding meant to imprison the woman she loved!

"...Wow. Your 'beloved' has gone missing and you've decided to plan a wedding in her absence?" Guinevere tries to play it casually, she really does, but the raging inferno of fury burning in her chest on Morgan's behalf makes her nothing if not indignant. A laugh leaves her there, manic and disbelieving and all too emotional, but it's decidedly better than crying her eyes out. Her wrist begs for release -- a month tied in ropes left lasting damage and his ironclad grip is not helping. Christ. "And what if I’d been kidnapped by cultists again? The incident wasn't that long ago and in case you've already forgotten-- you failed to protect me back then. A more noble king might have assembled a rescue party for his queen by now. But wedding planning? That really makes you sound heroic. Priorities, right? I'm sure your people are so proud."

"...And if you're really so curious about what I was doing, then I'll tell you. I went out into the wastes and rescued Sir Lancelot. You know, your brother in arms? Your most respected and noble knight... the one who's been missing for a while now? Because he was the only one with the sense to go looking for me when I was in danger." Guinevere knows that unveiling this much may be dangerous, but there's no way to hide her scars. Might as well throw bits of truth in there to make it believable -- Lancelot has returned, after all, and everyone would be aware of that soon enough. (And isn't that respectable? That way, it won't be spun as a purely romantic escapade, the way Arthur seems to be implying. Not that it even was. They may hold each other dearly, but their own quests were far from self-indulgent vacations from their lives in Camelot. Either way, the true reason for their absence is too important. She can't reveal anything about Excalibur or the white stag. It's still too soon, too risky. ) "What exactly have you accomplished in the meantime, Arthur? Oh. You planned... a wedding. A wedding that you know your sister won't take kindly to!" Fuck. And that's just putting it lightly. She'd rather cut both her arms off! It'd be so simple to run her mouth and go on a rampage here -- but she knows from experience that the less she brings Morgan's name into conversations with Arthur, the better she might fare by the end of them. Saying something careless, getting her thrown into the catacombs? That won't help them. Especially not now! Not to mention Guinevere would never forgive herself for that.

"Anyway-- that hurts. If you can't bring yourself to treat me like a lady, then I sure as hell don't have any obligation to treat you like a gentleman." The spirit of boldness must have possessed her then. Or stupidity. Because she spits in his face. (Uh. Well. It's better than outright tackling him to the ground and gouging his eyes out the way she wants to? And she's too fucking furious to fear the repercussions now. You can't do this to her! She still wants to scream.) Morgan’s the one who put in the work to make her behave like a lady, anyway— if Arthur wants her to forget that, she can oblige by acting just the opposite! Trying not to lose her resolve, she makes an attempt to wriggle free of his grip. "You're repulsive. Let go of me."
 
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Arthur just... stared at Guinevere in disbelief. It wasn't even hatred, at least at first-- it seemed that he literally couldn't comprehend her actions, wasn't able to acknowledge the mere possibility of his beloved wife spitting in his face. That wasn't what wives were for, dammit! ...and yet, yet this insolent girl did exactly that. Unbelievable, truly. After everything he had done for her? After he had pulled her out of the dumpster she had called her home, and elevated her to the rank of his queen? After the countless mercies she had not appreciated or deserved? Ungrateful, that was what she was. Clearly, Guinevere had forgotten her place, and someone had to remind her.

So he did let go of her, just as she had demanded. That gesture, however? It was followed by a slap in her face, hard enough to knock her off balance. Anger flashed through his eyes then, too-- wild and searing, unlike anything she had ever seen from him before. (The mask slipped. It slipped, and revealed in full glory that which had only been sensed so far. A monster in a valiant knight's armor, really.) "You misunderstand, my lady," he spat out. "And your misunderstanding is a grave one. Ladies earn their privilege to be treated in gentlemanly ways, and that is not what you've been doing. A lady would not tarnish her husband's reputation by... gods, I won't even say it. And with my own sister, too!" ...touching, wasn't it? How much he suddenly valued his family. A drastic change of tone, most certainly, from that one time he had imprisoned her in the catacombs on a whim. "I never should have let her talk to you, much less mentor you. Ah, my belief in second chances will be the death of me!" He wiped his face and began pacing around the room, his mannerisms those of a caged tiger. Was he thinking about his next actions, possibly? Weighing in his mind what kind of punishment would hurt them the most?

"You know nothing," he accused her. "And Lancelot is the same. He went directly against my orders, and deserved everything that happened to him as a result. The gods themselves frowned upon his insolence." Convenient, right? That the will of the gods had been exercised through a bunch of unwashed bandits. How mysterious, truly. "And my sister-- my sweet sister should be thankful I have arranged this marriage for her. Urien is a just man, and a king in his own right. Finally, she'll get to be a queen. Do you think I've been blind towards her ambitions? No, of course not. This is exactly what she has always wanted. If the gods are gracious, she will in time forget about her... preferences, too. It's for her own good, you see. Or do you believe she's happy here?" Arthur laughed, but it was a mockery of any genuine emotion-- he sounded hollow, just like all the promises he had ever made. You know, such as the promises to feed her people? And everything else, really.

"Don't be selfish, Guinevere. Or would you rather have me kill her? That's an option as well," he informed her, casually, is if they were discussing what to get for dinner. Wow. He would really do it, wouldn't he? Even if it was an afterthought, uttered with the same amount of care one would usually extend towards a mosquito before squishing it. "Because while I do need you, I certainly don't need her. So, what will it be?" Arthur smiled, revealing his perfect teeth. (Gods! He really was enjoying this moment, wasn't he? Just like a wolf that had caught a doe after a long hunt, and was about to tear her apart.) "Will you deliver her the happy news, or will you bring her the noose? Your choice, my beloved. You've been complaining about having to follow my commands all the time, so this is your chance to shine. Finally, you get to decide something."
 
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Guinevere lands on the floor and brings a hand to her cheek, still burning and tingling from the impact of his slap. It's kind of strange. When the shock dissolves, it occurs to her how much she prefers this to the alternative. The kisses and gentle touches, the gross illusions of the happy marriage that never was? Arthur could easily pretend to be the hero of his fantasies in that narrative. But now the ache is raw, it's real, it's the truth out in the open. Whether he likes it or not, the gods (as he'd like to say) have witnessed without question that he's the type of man to strike his 'beloved' down. A monster, a villain free of his disguise. Except as he preaches on and proves just how out of touch he is with the lives of everyone around him, he finishes off with an ultimatum that hits harder than that slap. Scorched skin becomes cold as ice. Kill her? No. No. But he absolutely would, wouldn't he? Thinking otherwise would be laughably naive of her!

Guinevere trembles with all the words she can't say, with a rage that's capable of shaking this castle to its very core, of bringing it down. (Now is it her imagination, or is the floor actually trembling beneath her? Rattling every last piece of finery in this place, down to the silverware in the kitchen drawers?) Excalibur is rousing and just as eager to throw down as she is. And-- and she has to be the reasonable one between them.The sword isn't aware of the stakes, the importance of timing. So she tends to her anger like a little garden in her chest instead of burying it like she used to. Hushing it softly, 'not yet, not yet'. The earthquake ceases, her fire dims and curls elegantly like smoke in the air. While she would put her own life on the line with fearless ease, she would never bargain with Morgan's. Not a fucking chance. She helps herself to her feet, wearing the calm before her storm like a fitted gown. Perfectly graceful, as if his show of brute strength hadn't impressed her at all. (Is she terrified? That goes without saying! She's mortified for Morgan. Infuriated for her, too. And silent anger fits her better than silent fright.) Her glare at that moment is an expression many people haven't had the privilege of surviving after seeing. A downright lethal stare that would remind anyone who saw it of the wastelands she came from, that she still has fire in her to fight back with. An unspoken promise, really.

"Fine." Guinevere gives herself a cursory glance in the mirror. Nightmarish, really, all tangled gold hair and bloody lips. She makes no attempt to fix herself up before moving briskly for the door. Everyone in the castle can see, for all she cares. "I'll deliver the happy news. Because what woman wouldn't love to have a husband who can lord over her and smack her around? Maybe what's-his-name will be a better man than you. I'll hope for her sake that he is." Or, more accurately, that none of this would ever come to pass at all. That Arthur and all his precious illusions will fall and shatter before he can hurt Morgan more than he already has!

From there, she walks the castle halls in a haze. Her heartbeat drums in her ears and deafens her to any words of concern cast her way en route to Morgan's room. The news of an arranged marriage... or the noose. Except for Morgan, marriage might as well have been the same thing! A noose decorated in white bows and lace, perhaps, but a noose all the same. Meant to imprison rather than strangle, maybe... but it is a kind of death. A death of spirit, death of self. She knows from experience and wouldn't wish it on anyone. Least of all--

Knocking on Morgan's door and proceeding to open it is done with the haste one might use to rip a bandage off. Closing it behind her, pressing her back to it just to hold herself upright, the shield of strength she'd built up for herself falls and her eyes become moist. "Morgan. Morgan, I--" The words die on her tongue, the taste of them too repugnant to speak. Fuck. They were so close. They were so damned close! "H-how do I even say this? I'm going to be sick." Clawing a hand through her hair, she approaches Morgan, to hold her, to console her... and then hesitates to move any closer. What if Arthur follows her? Surely he won't trust them alone for long. Shit's sake. "Arthur was there when I got back. He wants me to tell you he found... he found you a husband." Tears slip, but her eyes flash with undisguised anger. "But he can't do this to you! There-- there has to be something we can do. Should I go look for it now?" The 'it' being Excalibur, which she's still far too nervous to mention by name. Maybe it'd be too soon, maybe she needs to introduce her brash plan so that Morgan can set her right with reason like she always does. Because she'd easily act on their plans right away if it meant preventing anyone from touching Morgan without her consent. "I could find it. I felt it just now. We can stop this from happening altogether. Right?"
 
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Morgan hoped to go directly to bed. That wasn't too much to ask for, was it? After all those bandits, mecha monsters, trips to different realities and an impromptu burial, the sorceress liked to believe she deserved some rest. At least five minutes of uninterrupted sleep, you know? The bar was on the freaking floor, so surely, surely the gods wouldn't disappoint her this ti-- Oh, she thought, bitterly, when knocking resonated throughout her room. Of course. Why am I even surprised? (If anything, that little prayer of hers had likely given the gods an incentive to pull this nonsense. That was the precedent here-- whenever Morgan had asked for something, they had fallen all over themselves to do exactly the opposite of the thing she had requested. No, really, the pattern checked out. Had she burnt down a place of worship in her past life or something? Because that would have explained a lot.) Either way, alright, she got it now-- no prayers, ever. Lesson learned!

Grumbling, Morgan turned away from her bed and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. (The nightrobe wasn't modest enough by the Camelot standards, you see, and getting into trouble because of something as stupid as this was just about the last thing she needed. Especially now, when freedom was so close she could almost taste it!) I swear, if this is some maid being too eager and trying to bring me a dinner... It wasn't, though. It was Gwen, and she looked as if she had fought more bandits on her way here. Needless to say, all of her anger fizzled out. "Gods! Gods, Gwen, what happened--" No, she stopped herself in the middle of her sentence. Not here. As much as the sight tugged on heartstrings, she couldn't afford to be foolish enough to discuss it with the door open-- might as well have made a public announcement. Even the walls had ears here! Resolutely, she grabbed Guinevere's hand and pulled her inside. "So?" Morgan asked her, suddenly fully awake. (And to think she had been thinking of sleep just a few seconds ago! Her heart was racing now, thud, thud, thud, and her blood? Oh, her blood was boiling. There were no bandits here, couldn't be, and that meant one of the resident lowlives had dared to strike her-- the lowlife called Arthur, most likely. Who else but a king would dare to touch a queen, after all? Since her owned her, in the same way he owned his sword or perhaps a helmet, and obviously, he was free to do whatever he liked to his things. ...gods, tearing him apart with her magic would be such a treat. He'd cry and scream and beg, and all of that would be music to her ears-- the sweetest of melodies.) Morgan inhaled sharply, her fury a fire in her chest. "Was it Arthur? Arthur did this to you, didn't he? Gwen," she caressed her face, careful to avoid the bruised spots. "Tell me."

And Guinevere did tell her. Not all of it, granted, but she didn't even have to do that-- connecting the dots wasn't difficult. You know, the dots between the fact that Arthur had apparently found someone willing to marry her and Gwen's broken lip. That wasn't really a mystery for the ages. "...oh," Morgan said, completely baffled. "I-- gods, I thought the bastard gave up years ago." Who was he, anyway? Someone with no standards, she was sure, because the stories she had spread about herself in order to avoid this exact scenario were nightmare material. Horrible, exaggerated things-- her feasting on human flesh, and dancing on the graves of her enemies. Could it be that Arthur had found someone with an actual brain? Someone who didn't believe everything he heard? (For some reason, that seemed like a stretch. More than likely, it was a man from a land so distant her reputation hadn't reached it-- and Arthur, with his signature honesty, had failed to inform him that his bride was an evil witch. ...gods, his bride. Now that was a label Morgan had thought she'd never use for herself! The word felt gross in her mouth, a gag and bile all at once. Panic was rising in her chest, a tidal wave threatening to bury everything unlucky enough to stand in its way, but-- well, the feeling wasn't new. Far from it, actually, and so the ways of dealing with it had been carved into her skin years ago. Breathe, she told herself. One, two, three. One, two, three. Think, don't feel.)

And, really, she had to do that, because Guinevere felt passionately enough for both of them. There had to be a balance--ice to her fire. "No," Morgan said quietly. "It's too soon, Gwen. We cannot." Her heart wanted to, more than anything, but so what? Following her heart would only have gotten them killed. "Actually, this is fine. Great news, even. No, really, just... consider what this means. Arthur can't possibly be planning to marry me off tomorrow, can he? No, there are preparations to be made, I'm sure. Despite our differences, I'm his sister. Royal blood flows in my veins still, and so my wedding has to be grandiose. It will be the perfect stage. Many guests will come, and all of them will see my brother for what he truly is. A trap of his own making. So, let's go along with this," Morgan raised her chin, her voice all steel. "He handed me a weapon, Gwen, and I'm not going to throw it away. And this," she touched her face softly, "this can be a weapon as well. Because, do you think his followers will enjoy finding out that their valiant king beats his wife? Oh no, no, no. I can guarantee most of them won't like that. Not nearly heroic enough, if you ask me. And, oh, you know what? Let's go all out. Gwen," Morgan smiled, and for once, the absolute lack of warmth in her expression almost resembled Arthur, "do you think you could pretend you miscarried because of what he did? Imagine the propaganda potential behind that." I'll turn everything against you, you bastard. Every single thing you did to her.
 
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Great— great news!? What is she—? “What are you…” Guinevere's eyes bulge at the idea of this news being anything if not agonizing. Before she can articulate, Morgan steadies her with reason without wasting a moment. Jaw set forward and eyes ablaze with resolve, so soon after hearing such harrowing news… lord, this woman. Guinevere feels an undeniable stirring in her heart at the sight. Whisking her emotions around with an intensity she’s certain she’s never experienced towards anyone else in her life. Damn. Bright as a star in a sky of black velvet, she sees strength emanating from Morgan. The same strength that drew her in from the very start. Because this is what a survivor looks like. They aren’t just cultivated in places like the wastelands, where fighting to live another day is more literal… they also come from places like Camelot (no— especially Camelot) which she knows from experience, now more than ever before. God, she's sick just thinking of sleeping in the same bed as Arthur after he struck her, of performing in the pitiful charade he called a marriage. Burying the truth under illusions just to stay alive, over time it adds on and on to the point where the load becomes nearly impossible to carry without dragging your feet. That Morgan had survived this hell for years and not shattered under all that weight is nothing to sneeze at. "...Morgan, you're brilliant. Have I ever told you that?" She asks, breathless. And even if she has, it undoubtedly won't be the last time. Because it's true!

Guinevere herself still shakes like a leaf. This wedding is Morgan's burden to shoulder and all she can do is sniffle like a little girl! She was exhausted enough after their quest before dealing with… with all of this. And she's dealt with monsters in the wastes, dealt with wounds and scars. Nasty gang leaders, cultists, several of Jen's ex-boyfriends. Jen herself! But none have hurt her like Arthur has. What could it have been like, growing up with him? They've never spoken about it before. And they probably won't anytime soon. Can't, considering the circumstances. But she catches flickers of something haunted in Morgan's eyes sometimes, when they brush the subject... maybe someday. Maybe when all of this is over. They'll have time to talk. To heal. Because Guinevere knows she's not the only one with scars.

On top of having her shit together, Morgan composes an elegant plan of their dilemma like a symphony, with intent to turn Arthur’s own weapons against him. Come to think of it, it's reminiscent of the time they used that giant monster’s barbs against it, the first time they fought side by side. She nods slowly at first and then faster as she visualizes it. Another wedding crashed and sent spiraling into chaos. It is a good plan. A great plan. Even if the concept of Morgan even having to suffer even the preparations for a wedding is less than great. But who is she to tell her that she can’t go through with this when she put herself through the very same thing? (Now her gang’s attempts to sway her from taking Arthur’s offer, the fierceness in their eyes — she understands it now more than ever. As well as Morgan’s pleas that they run on the eve of her wedding.) It would be downright hypocritical of her to insist they try something else. It’s not like they have much of a choice, anyway. She has to adapt. Has to be strong, too — for Morgan's sake.

"I don't want you to go through this. It's all bullshit." Guinevere speaks her truth, but her tone is vulnerable enough to say that in spite of her reservations, she's surrendering to this fate. Resolving to fight at her side. What good will griping and complaining do, anyway? Absolutely squat. Unable to hold herself back any longer, she wraps Morgan in an embrace. Honestly, she couldn't care less if Arthur catches them like this. Isn't she delivering 'happy news', after all? And Morgan might not be falling apart on the outside, but she's going to comfort her somehow, damn it! Because this can't be easy for her. Nothing about this is easy. "But of course I'll do it. I'll do anything to make sure this works. I-- I might need advice on how to make it believable, but..." Her voice lowers to a whisper in her ear, then. "Anything. Anything to make him pay."

Calmed by Morgan's put-together manner, Guinevere sighs, exhaustion catching up to her again. Ah. Morgan smells so nice, so clean and refreshed after their trip into the wastes. She could easily rest in the crook of her neck and stay there all night. Safe in her arms. Far away from her bastard husband and thoughts of the bastard man agreed to marry a woman before giving her the opportunity to meet and choose for herself first. (Maybe it's harsh, calling a man she's never met a bastard. But considering how little he cares for Morgan's say in all this? That's all she needs to know. Along with the fact that he apparently has Arthur's seal of approval... which would sooner plummet her expectations than elevate them.) "And then we can finally choose for ourselves."
 
"You might have," Morgan smiled gently. "Once or twice per conversation, I think. It doesn't hurt to hear it again, though. In fact, I happen to enjoy it, so," she pressed a light kiss on her forehead, "feel free to repeat yourself. I'd love that." More than that, she loved her, but... well, this wasn't the time for such a confession. Not at all. Tensions were running high, with emotions clouding their judgment, and-- and Gwen deserved more than a few rushed words whispered in the night. (Besides, did she even feel the same? That was the true concern here. Morgan, of course, didn't doubt that she was dear to Guinevere's heart-- anyone with working eyes could see that, in the same way they could see that the sky was blue and birds could fly. Was it love, however? The border between infatuation and genuine feelings was razor thin, especially in Camelot. Danger made people grow fonder for one another, after all, and-- and maybe Gwen simply didn't know her enough yet. Crucially, she herself hadn't said it. Despite all her impulsiveness, all her usual clumsiness with words, Guinevere remained tight-lipped on the subject of love, which... Well, it meant Morgan wouldn't push it, either. Because, if she confessed first? Gwen would follow in her footsteps, no matter how she actually felt about it, and that wasn't something she was willing to do to her. Robbing her of her choice-- that had Arthur's handwriting all over it, not hers. She wasn't him, dammit! Wasn't, wasn't, wasn't.)

"Shhh," she said, caressing her hair. It was strange, really, to see her so obviously distraught-- this woman who had laughed monsters in their face, and faced her own unwanted marriage with such staggering dignity that you had to wonder how all of that strength even fit into her slim frame. Still, Morgan supposed, perhaps it wasn't that surprising. The depths of despair she herself had been thrown into upon realizing what, exactly, Arthur would do to her? Oh, she remembered those. (She had never left them, actually-- just learned not to get drunk because of it too often. Succumbing to alcoholism wouldn't have helped anyone, you see, and Morgan was nothing if not practical.) So, yes, the sorceress could imagine how Guinevere felt now-- she could imagine it in vivid colors, and her heart bled for her. "It'll be fine. We'll manage, Gwen. We've managed so far, so what's one more wedding? This one won't even be real." It'll be nothing like what you went through, she almost said, but stopped herself in the last moment. Bringing it up didn't feel appropriate, and... well. Perhaps she also felt a little bit guilty? For sacrificing Gwen while she got to escape unharmed. (It had been more complex than that, of course that it had, and it hadn't even been Morgan who had made the sacrifice, but try explaining that to her brain!)

"And as for the preparations-- I don't mind. I like being pampered, and I bet the dress Marietta will sew for me will be beautiful. See? Advantages, advantages everywhere!" Naturally, fear still lurked in the depths of her heart, but Morgan had to be strong. Strong for herself, for Guinevere, for their cause. And wasn't humor the best way to combat this? Brains could only really focus on one thing at a time, and if you were too busy laughing, it was impossible to worry. (Worry about things such as their plans failing, and her possibly having to marry that strange man, and never seeing Gwen again--)

Stop with the hypotheticals. You'll cross that bridge when you get to it, IF you get to it. "Okay. Okay," she whispered, and peppered her face with kisses. "Can you get away with maybe not sleeping in the same bed with him tonight? If not, then it's fine, but make sure he gets up first. Claim that you feel sick and need more sleep. After he gets out of there, I'll send someone to you. Not Marietta, as that would be suspicious, but... someone. They'll bring pig blood, and you can have some fun with it. Pour it into the bed, on yourself and such-- surely you'll know what to do?" Morgan smirked. "Afterwards, I'm thinking you should make a scene in the great hall. You know, all bruised and still dressed in your bloodied nightrobe. Sounds fun, doesn't it?" Few sights would elicit a stronger reaction than that one, Morgan was certain. If motherhood was a woman's only role, then denying it to her would be unimaginably cruel, now wouldn't it? Especially if she was to bear the future king! "I'll be there, too, and confirm it happened because of your injuries. We won't be able to say it was Arthur directly, but a smart enough implication will be even better than that. People love a good mystery, after all. Can you imagine all those rumors?"
 
“My Morgan is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.” Guinevere obliges eagerly at the prospect of making Morgan happy, punctuating each word with a kiss. "Stunning, strong, and beautiful to boot!" Sweet with an underlying taste of danger, knowing the absolute shit they’d be in if they were caught. To hell with it! Aren’t they already screwed as is? The only way things could really get any worse is if… well. On second thought, she knows precisely how it could be worse. ‘Or would you rather have me kill her?’ Arthur hadn’t stuttered. In fact, the bastard smiled with the mien of a predator who discovered his prey’s soft spot. A rueful expression accompanies her thoughts, then, and she only dares to tuck a copper curl behind Morgan’s ear. Feeling too much could endanger her. Notorious for her muchness, if she has to shove her emotions down for much longer… she’s going to break. Nearly did, when she spit in Arthur’s face. Was it stupid? Yes. Yes, it was. And it was amazingly cathartic in the fifteen seconds it took him to process what had happened. She'd probably have reacquired a taste for rebelling straightforwardly if not for the fact that he, you know, threatened Morgan’s life. Shut her down real damn fast, the bastard. As much as it guts her to tame her wild heart, now's not the time to get sloppy in the heat of the moment.

“...I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Glowing like a sunbeam under Morgan’s soothing affection, Guinevere falters at her question and brushes a hand over her bruised cheek. Seeing as Arthur made a point of saying that she finally had a choice (...Right. A choice. Whether he sold Morgan off to a stranger or killed her. How fucking generous of him!) her chances of being granted another 'choice', let alone a private room, are going to be slim. Especially so soon after sneaking into the wastelands. If anything, he'll keep her on an even shorter leash in retribution. Fortunately, Morgan accounts for that possibility and clears up those concerns. And her smile does creep back, if only a little, when the sorceress brings up the prospect of making a scene, of it being fun. With a wicked little gleam in her eye, she bolsters the courage to kiss her again. Fleeting, maybe, but purposeful. “All right, then. I’ll haunt him in the morning like a spooky ghost and we’ll give everyone something to talk about.” Not that Camelot has any shortage of things to discuss for once, with news of Lancelot’s safe return and Morgan le Fey’s engagement (ugh) — Guinevere interrupting breakfast like a bloodied, vengeful spirit of nightmares will cause an uproar. It’ll wipe that self-satisfied smirk off of Arthur’s face, that’s for sure. If he thinks this arrangement is going to solve all his problems, he’s got another thing coming.

When Guinevere goes to bed that night, she stays quiet and subdued in Arthur's presence. Doesn't even make a case about his being able to afford another wedding while being unable to afford to feed her people, even when it's hot on the tip of her tongue. Convenient, right? Instead, she mentions offhandedly that she's feeling ill, turns away from him, and genuinely tries to get some sleep. For once, it isn't terribly difficult. Perhaps she has their eventful trip to the wastelands to thank for that. Raw exhaustion takes over her body to the point where even an extra-large heaping of new things to be anxious about couldn't keep her up. Everything Viviane told her. Arthur's threats. All of it is swept away in the throes of a deep slumber. And her dreams are lovely and indulgent, where she becomes the wind itself, sailing between tree branches and making the leaves dance with her. Those fantasies are quickly pushed aside by the time she wakes, though. Promptly, she carries out the plan exactly as Morgan had described it the night before until she's in bed and crying out in her bloodstained nightdress. She rouses the attention of two knights first. And with the poise one might expect from the fine, noble knights in Camelot, they freeze up and gape at each other like clueless little boys at the sight of her. One reluctantly offers to call for a maid... but by then, Guinevere is already pushing her way past them and making her way to the great hall.

Despite all the performing she's done recently, Guinevere isn't Jennifer. She isn't nearly enough of an actress to pull out a dramatic speech or crocodile tears in front of so many people. Instead, she aims for something silent, dazed, and distraught. Wandering the halls as if possessed by grief. (All it takes is bogging her mind down with thoughts of her gang starving, of Morgan's predicament to make it more believable.) The sight of her bruises, the blood on her clothes and hands? That should speak for itself, really. When her heart starts pounding, she reassures herself. As long as she doesn't smile or anything, she should be fine. After all, crashing Camelot's events in bloodstained nightdresses is becoming a bit of a theme for her, isn't it? That in mind, she appears in the entrance, standing idly and uncertain, allowing the people around her to do the shouting for her as they panic and react upon noticing her. Rather than approach Arthur outright, she just stares at him accusingly. As if to communicate something unspoken between them, as if to imply she's frightened to run right to his arms. She sinks herself down onto her knees for good measure. It just has to be enough to suggest it, Morgan had said. It isn't much, really, but hopefully -- hopefully this will be enough for them to start with.
 
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Surprisingly, sleep came to her swiftly that night. Was it thanks to the exhaustion born of traversing the wastes? Probably, at least in part-- not even a sorceress, after all, could will away hours and hours spent on walking, on thinking, on not resting. Still, Morgan had a creeping suspicion that that wasn't all there was to it. No, not in the slightest. On some level, it also might have been this-- this strange sense of relief? Of knowing that her sentence had been passed, really. (Arthur's wrath had always hung above her head like the sword of Damocles, like the darkest of promises, and that it had finally morphed into something tangible? Oh, that soothed her. Counterintuitive, perhaps, but that was what it felt like. You couldn't fight shadows, after all-- no more than you could fight dreams or nightmares. Not without attacking their source at the very least, and that was a path she couldn't follow just yet. Now, though? With the wedding looming on the horizon, and their plan etched in her mind? How to proceed from there was finally, finally clear. Just like a fighter knew that they needed to sharpen their blade before battle, Morgan also knew what to do in the face of approaching conflict-- knew how to don an armor of her own, really. Soon, she told herself. Soon, this nonsense will end.)

In the morning, Morgan didn't waste her time. Taking care of the pig blood was easy-- one whispered command, one quiet 'thanks' and the cogwheels started turning. The rest of it, though? Oh, the rest of it was much more delicate. (Today would belong to Gwen and her acting skills, yes, but that didn't mean Morgan couldn't prepare the stage for her. In fact, she had been doing that for weeks-- implying that Arthur didn't care about his subjects, questioning the endless quests that had never amounted to anything, emphasizing Gwen's political acumen. You know, deconstructing his precious reputation piece by piece. Abusive tendencies certainly hadn't been a part of this smear campaign before, but would it be so hard to incorporate them? Morgan didn't think so-- anyone with a working pair of eyes could see there was no love between the two, much less respect. And what was abuse if not the complete and utter refusal to respect your partner? Yes, she thought, should be easy enough to weave into the narrative. A pretty little thread, made of the same material as all the others.)

Naturally, that evaluation turned out to be on point-- if anything, Morgan found out she had underestimated the gossip mill. The one concern she had had was about the timing, you see. Rumors were like dough, after all; a wise woman would put all of the ingredients into her bowl, mix them properly and then let the yeast work its magic. Let it rise, in other words, which was exactly what would happen here as well. The rumor would travel from one eager ear to another, snowballing in the process, and soon enough, everyone in the goddamn castle would accept it as a fact. Morgan had seen that trajectory countless times by now, often with her being the subject of such gossip. And, really, wouldn't it be oh so satisfying to use the exact same phenomenon against Arthur now?

...except that the ladies had done all of the heavy lifting for her already. Always thirsty for the next big story, they had followed that thread before Morgan had even known if its existence, and come to its logical conclusion. So, in other words, these rumors were in circulation already! (Arthur only had himself to blame, really-- had Gwen not looked so obviously crushed all the time, the possibility would never have occurred to them. Hell, they wouldn't have dreamt of it. Not when, allegedly, Guinevere had it all; a valiant husband, all the wealth she could possibly desire, the respect only a crown could buy you. Every single woman who enjoyed the protection of Camelot's walls envied her, doubtlessly, and yet, yet they sensed her despair. Telling, wasn't it?) At any rate, Morgan fanned the rumors. Not excessively, mind you, as that would have been counterproductive, but a little hint here and there would serve as fine foreshadowing. A template for them to fill later, or dots to be connected. How entertaining, right?

And yes, Guinevere might not have been Jen, but when she entered the great hall, her performance definitely did catch everyone's attention. The whole room fell into stunned silence-- everyone turned into a statue, it seemed, and could only stare at Guinevere in horror. Well, everyone aside from Morgan, of course. Not claiming her award for the best supporting role would be a terrible shame, now wouldn't it? Hehe. "My queen!" she squealed in surprise and rose from her bench. "Gods, I-- what happened to you, my queen?" Because the answer to that, Morgan was sure, would be very interesting.
 
Guinevere knows what grief looks like. She's seen it in the faces of friends and strangers alike... and in herself, in the mirror. Felt it over and over, like a cycle with no end in sight. Whether it's watching a loved one get snapped away at the last moment by a monster, receiving tragic news by word of mouth, or having to sit at someone's bedside as their light slowly faded out from infected wounds or starvation. She knows mothers who lost children and children who lost mothers. And she refuses to make a mockery of their real trauma by emulating it here, won't release any screams of anguish or wrack herself with mournful cries for a child that she doesn't want, that doesn't exist. As crucial as illusions are in Camelot, guilt nips at her for those who will believe and maybe even empathize with her for this. The silver lining about the real bruises covering her face is that they do the heavy lifting for her, lending tones of misery to her expression without her having to play it up. They also serve as a helpful reminder that the man she's accusing is by no means innocent. By no means! If anything, this is a manifestation of the hell Arthur put her through behind closed doors, the abuse she's suffered in absolute silence until now. This is another hurdle she has to pass to end his reign once and for all -- to put an end to that cycle of grief for her people, to stop the cruel, cruel world they lived in from snatching their lives away with greedy hands. As well for the people suspended in time like a field of frozen, well-dressed statues around her now. People who have to live under ancient rules, if only to prevent themselves from being cast into that cruel world she knows so well. It can't be naive of her to think that many of them must keep silent wishes of their own to be free. It just can't.

And Morgan. Standing in front of her, still standing in spite of it all. When they were introduced, she never would have guessed there was someone so compassionate hiding behind those cynical glares and raised eyebrows. Who would have thought? The shield she held was forged from years of experience to the point it was practically unbreakable. Back then, Guinevere understood on some level that she built up those defenses to survive. It was plain to see from day one, especially for a woman, that life in Camelot was restrictive and stifling. But wow. To this day, she considers herself fortunate that she was allowed to catch glimpses of the remarkable human being behind it. In those sweet, lopsided smiles that stir her heart into a frenzy. In the caress of fingers on her face and in her hair -- gentle hands that simply couldn't belong to the villainess of Camelot's most distasteful gossip. Those nightly lessons she gave with the patience of a saint (They both suffered through those horrid etiquette lessons, it's true, but magic? Magic was a different matter entirely.) not to mention the delicacies she'd bring in, just to make her smile. Then there's the sheer brilliance she possesses, which Guinevere couldn't stop ogling or shut up about even if she tried! Heaven knows she could go on, too. This is all part of a movement she conceived long before Guinevere even stepped through Camelot's gates. She can't let her down now. When all is said and done, Morgan will be free to grow in the sun, her personality allowed to blossom out in any color or shape of her choosing. Guinevere wants to be there to see it, to know her even better. Her late night thoughts? Her favorite color? The little, seemingly unimportant things. (But important all the same, because they belong to Morgan.) The things they haven't had the opportunity to discuss with the gravity of all this weighing over them.

"I thought I was--" Grief is broken sentences. Stones in her throat. "Thought I might be--" Guinevere looks at her bloodstained hands and then brings them inward, as if cradling a small child to her chest. She chose a white nightdress for a reason. The blood stands out over her chest as a result, like a bleeding heart. Grief is reaching for something that isn't there. Then she sinks lower, bows her head, because grief is also feeling small, feeling powerless. By crumbling, she also creates a convenient curtain of her hair over her face. After all, aren't some things better left to the imagination? If they can't see her expression, it's up to them to fill in the rest. Bolstering herself to carry on, she struggles to lift her head again, bringing a hand over the bruise on her face. Pressing, just a little, to bring some moisture to her eyes from the sting. "But..." She cuts her eyes to Arthur, and then away again as if just the sight of him stings her somewhere deep. Then to Morgan again, like she's an answer to a problem. Right. Let them all see that their queen considers Camelot's so-called 'evil witch' her safe harbor away from the king. The 'evil witch' who had also been the first to run to her side in the chapel, after she'd been kidnapped by a freaking cult! What had Arthur done, then? He just followed her lead and ordered the knights to take care of it for him. "It's... it's not too late, is it?" She tries, her voice barely holding a whisper. Fear pulses through her. Is she selling this well enough? God, she can only hope at this point. "Tell me it's not too late. Please."
 
The silence was practically deafening now-- you could hear a pin being dropped on the floor, really. A perfectly still frame, almost like a photograph. And Guinevere? Oh, Guinevere seized the moment, alright. (Back when she had met Jen for the first time, Morgan wondered how the two women could even be related-- how the same blood could be flowing in their veins when they were the day and the night, the sun and the moon, fire and ice. A cruel joke made by genetics, kind of like herself and Arthur. As Guinevere stood there now, however, wrapped in sorrow that wasn't even hers, Morgan could see the similarity, sort of. A hint of it more than anything else, but it existed, and it took her breath away. Just... how many layers did this woman have? Upon their introduction, she had dismissed her as a simpleton-- little more than Arthur's pretty doll, destined to be stuffed into a pretty dress. Gwen had cured her of that particular delusion pretty fast, sure, but that hadn't really earned Morgan's respect. It had introduced pity into the equation, but aside from that? She had still been a fool in her eyes, albeit one that would be broken by Camelot. Like a wild horse that was to be denied the endless plains where it belonged, or a bird whose wings would soon be cut. It was her who was the fool in that scenario, though, because Guinevere couldn't be tamed that easily-- and now, now they would prove it.

Not wanting to be outdone, Morgan opened her mouth in a small, surprised 'o'. The horror in her eyes was genuine-- not on the behalf of the baby that had never been, of course, but it wasn't like she had a shortage of things to cry over. Oh no, no, no. Her brother, along with her precious family, had provided those in spades, and now she only had to go down the memory lane. How generous of them, right? "Gods. Gods, my queen, I-- I don't know what to say." That seemed to be the sentiment pretty much everyone in the hall shared, really. Even Arthur, who was usually all smiles in public, was paler than a ghost-- this, after all, was his baby. His son, his hope for the future. Could the gods be so cruel as to steal him from him before he had even known of his existence? Before he had had the chance to see his face? Good, Morgan thought, since this is exactly what you deserve to feel, you bastard. And get used to despair, because you will sup on it from now on. It's only fair for us to switch our roles after all those years, don't you think?

"My queen," she said, oh so gentle, and grabbed her hand. (That part, at least, wasn't fake-- the tenderness. Morgan didn't even try to hide it as some compassion would be only proper here, wouldn't it? There was nothing incriminating about consoling a grieving mother. No, nothing at all. So what if that wasn't what the people were looking at? They would perceive it that way, and that was the most powerful camouflage of all. Better than wool over their eyes, really.) "Sit down, please." That was how people were traditionally expected to receive bad news, and since Camelot was all about pointless traditions-- well, gotta play the kind of performance they would enjoy. Catering to your intended audience was the first rule of a successful theater!

Once Guinevere sat on the bench Morgan led her to, she took a sharp breath. "I... I apologize, my queen. I hate to say this, but-- you lost a lot of blood. Too much blood. I-- the child couldn't have survived. What... how did this happen? Were you hurt, or...?" And, quite obviously, she was hurt-- the broken lip spoke for itself. Who knew what other injuries was the queen hiding beneath her gown? The onlookers' imagination could fill that in for them, Morgan was sure.
 
The absolute horror written on Morgan's face is so convincing that Guinevere wonders briefly whether it's because she completely botched her performance, or if it's the sorceress's own acting at play. She's rusty as all get-out from her scheming days, after all. Seems like ages since she's embodied Clarissa Auclair, Lilith Starling, or Juliet Du Bois. (All names courtesy of Jen, of course, who had a particular flair for conjuring stories chock full of characters with detailed backstories. In years of captivity, her sister had a surplus of time to fantasize about the lives she'd rather have, in fairytale palaces far, far away from their reality. Back when her desires were just those of a young, hopeless romantic and not...) Ugh, snap out of it! The show's not over 'till it's over. She follows Morgan's lead, then, fighting not to part with her disposition of grief in the process. Her pulse is blundering about like a chicken with its head cut off, but her frenzied heart may lend itself to her authenticity -- so she opens herself to feel the full force of every beat. It truly appears as though Morgan's hand is the only thing anchoring her to reality and holding her afloat. (That brushes so very close to the truth that it's got to be convincing, right?) And then, with an unsteady manner, she lowers herself onto the bench.

It'd be simple enough to peek at their audience to see if they're buying this, like she used to in those dusty old arenas during matches and races. Instead, she forces herself to stare at Morgan. (Which isn't terrible, all things considered. Far from it. But it's not like she can let herself drown in the gorgeous emerald of her eyes at a time like this!) As the one to deliver the news she's oh-so desperate to hear, Guinevere must hang for dear life on her every word. Wide-eyed, imploring and impressionable... the damsel in distress, basically. Which, thanks to Arthur and his preferences, is a role she falls into like second nature by now.

The child couldn't have survived. Knowing her limits, that she's not nearly a seasoned enough actress to react to hearing such staggering news, Guinevere drops her head into her hands and takes in a deep, audible breath. The sound itself is sharp and painful and god does she hope that it cuts Arthur somewhere deep. That he feels soul-crushing guilt closing over him. Even if it's not for her sake, but for the sake of this imaginary baby. Claws her nails in at her temples, presses the heels of her palms especially hard over her wounds to draw more moisture to her eyes. (Another tactic she learned from Jen, who could rarely summon tears for anyone. Not even herself.) The silence settling over the great hall is oppressive. Sucks the air right out of it. Guinevere would love to be the one to break it, to close the curtains on this scene already -- but she bears it, lets it stretch on and on and on. Because if it's unsettling for her, how must everyone else feel? More importantly, how must Arthur feel?

When she's ready, Guinevere lowers her hands from her face. Eyes wet enough to form actual tears, flecks of blood in her hair, she looks like an honest-to-god mess.

"I- I was..." She looks past Morgan and at the hushed people around her, as if unseeing, until she finds Arthur among them. All the color washed from his face. Must be squirming on the inside, huh? Good! She stares at him long and hard before retreating, like a wounded animal. Just yesterday he was the predator looming over her, smirking as if he was feeding off her fear. Now? Now it's going to out him as the monster he is. Because he knows exactly what he did. Exactly what moment she's citing in her mind. And it freaking shows! Either way, the damsel she's playing isn't strong enough to accuse him outright. Besides, how many of these people have had to smile through a lie to spare their king's precious reputation, to spare their own lives? If anything, it'll make her even more relatable. "I..." She bows her chin, like an innocent child goaded into confessing to scribbling on the walls. Taking the fall for a bully, perhaps. "It was an accident. I-I fell. That's all." Which is one of the lousiest excuses in the history of mankind for such wounds. Arthur can go along with it if he wants, of course, but are people really going to believe that? They'd have to be an extraordinary kind of ignorant to accept that without a second thought. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry -- I can't--"

Now Guinevere pretends like her life depends on it. Widening her eyes as if she's realizing for the first time she has an audience, despite being hyper-aware of their presence this entire time. Staggering onto her feet, rushing for the exit at the fastest pace a woman in her condition could manage, as if desperate to hide from her husband, from all the eyes and judgement. She sways and stumbles a few times for good measure, brushing off any feeble attempts to help along the way. Then she's navigating the halls back to her chambers. Morgan will fill her in on what happens next later, she's sure. Because that... that should be just enough to get them talking.
 
Afterwards, Camelot devolved into chaos-- a very subdued kind of chaos, granted, since its dwellers were noble lords and ladies and unrestrained emotions were beneath them, but it was chaos still. A storm in a glass of water, truly. And Morgan? Oh, Morgan thrived in it. (Arthur wasn't the true enemy, you see. He was the embodiment of it, possibly in its most despicable form, but not the core of everything that was wrong with Camelot. No, the core of that was order-- order, and along with it, the passion for sorting people into these convenient little boxes. For reducing them into neatly defined roles, really. You were a lord, which meant you got to rule; you were a lady, meaning you had to provide heirs; you were a peasant, so you were only fit to wash your better's feet. Ultimately, that was what their coup would smash-- the old way of thinking. And hey, you couldn't exactly do that with everything staying nice and tidy, now could you? Oh no, no, no. Of course not! Morgan knew that, and made that sweet chaos into her new home.)

Guinevere's performance earned her yet another detention, but what did it matter? You couldn't detain rumors, and anyone foolish enough to try would only end up feeding those flames. To his detriment, Arthur found that out pretty quickly-- when he exiled some poor bastard into the wastes for gossiping about the nature of Gwen's injuries, Morgan couldn't believe her luck. Like, really? Was this was his political acumen boiled down to? To punishing people for daring to have opinions, and in such catastrophically clumsy ways? Good job, my dearest brother. If there were people who doubted your involvement before, they sure as hell don't doubt it now. Why get so viscerally angry over a supposed bunch of lies, after all? Only the truth could cut a person so deeply, so painfully. So, in one fell swoop, Arthur confirmed the rumors and turned many of his subjects against him! (His cruelty had been entertaining, Morgan supposed, when it had been directed at an acceptable target-- at someone like her, for example. At a lone woman who had been branded as a heretic. People loved their punching bags, didn't they? With someone always conveniently there to absorb their abuse, they never had to think about their own misfortune. About their misfortune, and their own culpability in it. Oh, how the tables turned, though! Now the king they loved so much looked in their direction, anger in his eyes, and they got to taste true fear. Karma at its finest, truly.)

Morgan, of course, seized every opportunity Arthur had so thoughtfully provided. It was easy to make new friends among the nobles, now that they had seen her brother for what he was-- or rather, new allies. Because, did she like them? No, not really. Most of them were every bit as pathetic as they had been before, with their minds still bound by conventions. The only difference was that Arthur had stepped on their toes, and those spoiled brats couldn't possibly forget such a slight. Only pride motivated them-- pride, and old instincts of self-preservation. Still, Morgan thought, this is better than nothing. Infinitely so. Rejecting them because their ideals weren't pure enough? Oh, she couldn't afford to do that. She wouldn't even if she could, mostly because trying to keep her own hands clean and thoughts untarnished was a hopeless endeavor in this conflict. This was a war, and wars weren't won with freaking honor.

So, to put it mildly, Morgan was busy. Striking new alliances, contacting Avalon, spreading rumors, pretending to be reasonably excited over the wedding preparations-- ironically, it all made the wedding itself seem more distant. A vague concept rooted in some vague future that would never happen, at least not outside of her nightmares. That, however, changed quickly when Urien and his entourage arrived.

He was... not bad, Morgan supposed. Not by Camelot's standards, anyway. If it wasn't for the whole marriage thing, she could see the two of them potentially having a few meaningful conversations, even-- the foreign king was fascinated by the wastes, and apparently had formed research teams of his own to unveil their secrets. A refreshing change from Arthur's behavior, she had to admit. Still, you know what wasn't a refreshing change? The way he didn't care for her concerns at all. The way he kept reaching for her hand, even if she was glaring daggers. Did he just... not see that, or did he assume that women, those flighty creatures, knew not what they wanted? That she would get used to being claimed like this, in the same way a dog learned new commands in time? Because if so, then he was going to be thoroughly disappointed. (The disappointment would come nonetheless, as he hoped to walk away from this castle with a bride on his arm, but maybe, maybe it could have been lessened. He could have understood that she was about as interested in his advances as a rabbit was interested in a confrontation with a fox, and accepted it in his heart. Clearly, that wasn't going to happen, though. Geez. Were all kings so drunk on their own glory? To Morgan, it certainly looked that way!)

And as if things weren't bad enough already, with him following her around like a faithful puppy, Arthur suddenly decided that Guinevere had to tag along as well. Why? To show off that she was fine? Or, if not fine, then at least not a bloody mess? Probably. A good PR move, or it would have been, had Arthur not destroyed his relationship with his subjects so methodically. No, nothing short of miracle could salvage it at this point. As such, Morgan didn't fear that outcome. It did have one less than pleasant consequence, however-- namely, making Guinevere watch their 'loving' interactions. (Gods. Had Arthur done that on purpose? The lowest of the low, now and always.) Anyway, the king 'asked' Guinevere to show Urien the gardens-- and since his pleas were effectively commands, the trio found themselves walking among flowers that day.

"Breathtaking," Urien flashed them a smile. "Almost like you, my lady," he turned to Morgan specifically and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. (It took all she had not to recoil in disgust, really. Breathtaking, huh? Not breathtaking enough for him to stop and think about what he was doing, though. About what he was essentially forcing her into, because that was what this was. Shackles pretending to be wedding rings, the touch of a branding iron disguised as their first kiss.)

Still, despite her best efforts, Urien must have seen a shadow of defiance in her face, for he laughed and once again turned to Guinevere. "Lady Morgan is a tough nut to crack, isn't she? Always so serious, always so unapproachable. I heard you two were best friends, though. Perhaps you could give me some advice on how to win her heart, then? Since I am at my wits' end here."
 
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Everything may have gone according to plan… but that doesn’t mean that life in Camelot got any easier. Arthur’s royal court only witnesses hints of his rage compared to Guinevere, who experiences the worst of his temper tantrums in ungentle hands and threats behind closed doors. Pushing her around in any way he can get away with, like a child who vents by playing roughly with his toys at the end of a vexing day. At least he isn’t stupid enough to hit her hard enough to leave bruises? The fact that he’d worsen his reputation by doing so is the only reassurance she has. She senses the constant threat of something primal lurching out from under his skin every time he so much as looks at her. All flushed with the veins in his neck jutting out. Reminiscent of when he blamed her for her own kidnapping, it’s glaringly obvious that he blames her for this. For the loss of his heir and for, you know, bleeding all over his ‘spotless’ reputation? Because how dare she!? Bleeding from wounds he gave her, mind you, but it’s not like that matters to him. If he didn’t need her to acquire his precious destiny, she's sure he’d be orchestrating a convenient death for her by now-- if only to rinse her out of his hair once and for all. Find a good and proper lady to replace her as his queen. At least, she thinks, at least it’s all going to be over soon. Morgan's been hard at work with her preparations, the tide is changing. That's good. That's hope. Hellish as this is, it's overcoming the worst of the storm before it finally ends. And Morgan’s wedding (again, ugh) is just as much something to loathe as it is something to look forward to. The keys on the warden's belt ring louder with each day, promising to unlock this cage, to free them from the prison they're in. Of course, they'll have to ambush the warden to earn those keys, first. And hell if Guinevere isn't ready for that.

But of course, Arthur finds a way to worsen the wait by forcing her to play hostess to Morgan and her husband-to-be. His 'request' is so unsubtle that he might as well be forcing her at knifepoint.

Fucking hell. Guinevere really thought her third-wheeling days were over. Ideally, they should have been after Jen left the first time. That point of her life was defined by huddling up in secluded corners of smoky rooms, picking awkwardly at her nails. Shrugging off advances of dirty creeps while listening to her sister take the exact opposite approach, charming the pants off anyone who breathed for scraps. It was torture to swallow down the bile in her throat, to watch her sister put herself through that — but Guinevere had to be there. She was the brawn, the one to step in if things got ugly, which… they oftentimes did. Rarely ever visited the same haunts twice in a row, because someone Jen slighted was sure to be lurking around. Hah. To think there was ever a time she called Arthur gentle compared to most men in the wastes. To think! But she always knew it deep down, the way he touched her like she was already his, without extending a single care for her feelings. Much like this bastard is doing to Morgan, now.

The gardens may be a breath of fresh air compared to those morose, ransacked bars, but they suffocate her all the same. Guinevere once walked in the same shoes as Morgan, after all. Enduring Arthur’s kisses, forcing herself to stand still as she deflated on the inside. Except back then, she really thought that was going to be the rest of her life. (Or, rather, her death.) Didn’t humor any thoughts of freeing herself until Morgan’s secret rebellion gave her hope to change her fate. So… at least they have that? Doesn’t make it any easier to endure this, though. The urge to sock this guy in the face for what he's putting Morgan through is strong-arming her... and she can practically hear the flowers begging to be spared as the sheer intensity of her misery threatens to wilt them all.

“...I don’t know, Sir Eugene.” Forced to flatten her rage down, her patience is paper-thin. As a result, Guinevere sounds positively bored. Must be the fifth time she's called him by the wrong name, too. It's an old habit resurfacing. She never bothered to memorize the names of Jen's scummy boyfriends. (And even if she did, she still insisted on calling them by the wrong names on purpose.) Is it rude, petty, and unladylike? Why yes, yes it is. Except she can’t be bothered to care. She stands by her point that Morgan taught her to be a proper lady — and if Arthur intends to rip her away so cruelly like this, she can conveniently forget about all of that. It doesn’t matter that none of this is going to amount to anything substantial. He's still touching her, kissing her... and she’s still pissed! There’s only so much she can hold inside herself before she’s completely dismantled. “There are no shortcuts to Lady Morgan’s heart.” She pretends to be fascinated by a blue rose to avoid glaring daggers at him. “You could start by asking her permission before you touch her.” What a groundbreaking idea, right? Really, he should consider himself lucky she’s giving him the censored version. Because right about now, it's taking everything she has not to give him a true piece of her mind. (Like, say, get your grimy hands off of her, asshole!) But considering she’s already walking a tightrope as is... she shoves the disgust down, resembling her twin sister more than ever as she gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “Or, you know, just ask her? Seeing as she’s standing right there.”
 
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Morgan should have scolded her, because, really? Was calling him by the wrong name the hill Guinevere wanted to die on? It would change nothing about... well, anything, plus it only made her seem ditzy at best and immature at worst. Definitely not a good look for a queen! At the same time, though, it was kinda hilarious, and Morgan had to avert her gaze in order to avoid bursting out in laughter. (Pffft, Eugene. Such a stupid name, too! Sounded like something suitable for a-- a goose, or maybe a really silly dog. The tall man in shining armor standing in front of her did not look like an Eugene, and that only increased the comedic value. Ah, Guinevere! Taming her temper a bit would have done her a great service, but then again, would it still have been her? Would it still have been the same girl she had fallen in love with? Probably not. No, the rules should always be just wind to her-- mere guidelines, to be followed when she felt like it and ignored when she didn't. That was her natural state of being.)

Meanwhile, Urien did his best to pretend he didn't hear the insult-- or, to be precise, all those insults Guinevere had managed to pack into her brief speech. (Which, wow. It was almost impressive, really, how neutral-sounding words she had chosen and how offensive the message behind them turned out to be. Almost like wrapping a dagger in silk. ...did it mean she had absorbed some of her lessons, then? Well, yes, most likely. Gwen wasn't stupid, after all. No, she just didn't like wasting her time on nonsense, and making little sense was the entire point here. Only filthy peasants and vagabonds from the wastes had to build their entire lives around practicality-- around eschewing everything that was unnecessary, and steeling their hearts towards the brutality of the outside world. The good lords and ladies had to differentiate themselves from those masses somehow, so why not choose the opposite approach? The approach of valuing that which inherently had no value. Of course, they could have elected to become, say, more educated than them, but why? That would have required some actual effort, which, ewww.)

"Oh?" he smiled at her. "I suppose you are right. Besides, you always cherish something more if you actually have to fight for it. Spells good news for our marriage, I believe. But, yes, asking lady Morgan might be a good idea." 'Might', not 'is'. Gods, how dense could the man be? Especially since he, you know, kept acting as if she wasn't there! "Well then, lady Morgan. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything that would unlock the path to your heart?"

...how unbearably romantic. Because every woman wanted to spell out exactly what her desires were so that her partner might follow those commands like an unthinking robot, right? Enjoying a man's presence in the context most other ladies did seemed incomprehensible to Morgan on the most fundamental of levels, but this-- this was even worse, somehow.

"Hmm, I don't know," she yawned. "I don't think of my heart, sir Urien. Do you? Is there a specific recipe one has to follow to become your friend, much like when you're baking bread? Do you have a lot of things in common with pastry?"

"I-- no," he admitted, clearly confused. "I have never thought about this." And yet, Morgan thought bitterly, you expect me to provide these answers. What could the reason behind that be, huh? Could it be that you don't actually see me as human? That topic, though, was too heavy for their pleasant morning stroll. The act of denying her humanity was fine, but pointing out that that was what it was? Calling a spade a spade? Nuh uh, too ill-mannered. Very well, then. Morgan wouldn't say it outright, but there were other ways to make him feel uncomfortable-- ways that also happened to be more entertaining than honesty, actually.

"I suppose, though," she smiled coldly, "that you could brave the wastes for me. A knight should be valiant, should he not? Kill some impressive monster, my lord, and perhaps I shall warm up to you. Besides, risking your very life for the woman you love is just so romantic!" ...and if he died there, then that would be just splendid.

Urien just chuckled nervously. "Lady Morgan has a great sense of humor as well, it seems. But queen Guinevere, you have been married to my good friend Arthur for a while now. Tell me, how does one build a happy marriage? I have to admit, I am... inexperienced when it comes to women."
 
"Oh... but she has a point, Sir Eugene. What is all that splendid armor for, after all?" Guinevere tips her head inquisitively, weighing it in her mind. An easy smile comes to her as she glimpses Morgan across the path, flirtation packaged with a neat little bow in that 'great sense of humor' the man described, really. These people were incapable of sniffing out a romance between two women unless they did something glaringly obvious like, say, kissing directly on the lips. They're 'best friends', right? That can be a disguise, too. Sharing a laugh, a joke here and there, is perfectly innocuous! So she splays her fingers over her heart and gives a charming little bow. "I would slay a thousand monsters for you, my lady." The way her eyes flash say she would and could, too. But seeing as wounding a man's fragile ego is one of the worst crimes one could be guilty of in Camelot, she chooses not to push as hard as she might have liked. As it is, she's been playing with fire all afternoon. But it's only natural. That's her element, where she thrives.

Then, then the conversation changes. Like a campfire transforming into a forest fire, devouring all in its path. Guinevere's smile collapses before she can school it into anything remotely appropriate. Really, what does Arthur expect? If he doesn't want her to look so damned defeated every time she hears his name, then maybe he should treat her with respect? A little human decency? Because she's not a doll with a porcelain expression -- and even a doll would have broken by now, from all the misuse. And seriously!? Happy marriage? Has this guy been living under a rock? Or has Arthur got everyone performing his song and dance perfectly around their guests? The wedding might be the day they crush the foundations of this place, but she's not here to play by Arthur's rules until the bitter end. Oh no, no, no. He's already made it his personal mission to make her life a living hell -- obviously he can't kill her, or Morgan with the wedding preparations in full swing. Not without throwing a grenade at whatever remains of his fractured reputation. So why not return the favor?

"If the wastelands make you uneasy, maybe you should think twice before mentioning my marriage. Haven't you heard? Arthur exiled the last man who openly discussed the nature of our relationship." Guinevere shrugs as if her husband's wrath is as common as a summer storm. Urien appears more nervous than ever before -- being privy to too much information, perhaps, heavier information than he should expect to be subjected to while strolling the gardens with ladies. "Oh, but don't worry. He won't hear anything you've said from me. It was a reprehensible decision, if you ask me. The poor man was unprepared, it might as well have been a death sentence. But a queen has very little say in these things, I'm afraid. Like... like who her husband is, for instance."

God, it hits way too close to home now. The injustice she feels on Morgan's behalf, in particular. Guinevere can't carry along this line of conversation without fully cascading into a rage about, say, meeting the woman you intended to marry and giving her a choice? "But that's just how these things are done, right? Whether you're happy or not doesn't matter." She grits her teeth, glare trained on her feet. "I can't say I'm used to it, even now. Arthur took me away from my home in the wastelands and... and what can I say? It's a different world out there."

The silence after that is so heavy she can hear the faint chirping of a bird, the trickling of the little pond nearby. She fills it with a big sigh.

"Sorry. I should be singing my beloved praises, shouldn't I? How careless of me. What a terrible, insolent wife I am. I honestly don't know what I'd do if he exiled me to the wastelands for it." Guinevere smiles brightens in full force again, dauntless. Exiling her to her own home, setting her free? Hah. As if. There's something slightly cagey about her, then. "Arthur is so wonderful. So great. Really awesome. The best ever. You'll tell him I said that, right? Shall we carry on?"
 
Oh, Gwen. What are you doing? Are you-- are you trying to blow our cover?! Such thoughts, and many similar ones, were racing through her mind when Guinevere... well, started flirting with her. Unabashedly and unashamedly, as if it was her holy right and not grounds for execution. Gods, the nerve of this girl! Scandalous, truly. Scandalous and wholly unacceptable, especially since they were so close to their goal now. They only had to extend their hand and touch the prize-- which, of course, wouldn't happen if someone cut that hand off before they were allowed to do so. Someone like, you know, Arthur. Arthur or her future husband, in front of whom Guinevere acted like a lovesick schoolgirl! (This type of behavior shouldn't be encouraged, Morgan knew. It was the path to hell-- the path to their demise, paved with pain and suffering and blood. Stupid, that was what this was. Criminally so. And yet, even despite knowing all of that, the sorceress found herself... blushing? Because the utter lack of fear, the flourish with which she rejected all that was sacred in Camelot, was pretty damn attractive. The forbidden fruit effect, probably. Gods. And to think she had once laughed at such sentiments upon encountering them in romantic novels! Back then, they had seemed illogical and self-destructive-- surely, nobody in their right mind would act on them. Now, though? Well, all of that was still true, except that those ideas were also impossible to resist. Kind of like that delicious, delicious dessert you knew would be bad for you, but still had to have another bite of nonetheless. Funny how that worked, right?)

And so, despite her better judgment, Morgan flashed Guinevere a bright smile. "But my lady, that's not how this works. There is no need for you to earn my love-- my heart belongs to you already." Alright, that was... incredibly transparent, and more honest than she had ever been with Gwen before, but so what? Friends confessed their love to one another all the time. Especially when those friends happened to be women! Women were magical creatures made of rainbow and light, you see, and thus they bestowed their affection upon others easily. No romantic connotations here, nuh uh. "Besides, I couldn't possibly let another lady slay a monster for me. Oh no, that would be terribly inappropriate. Still, beasts exist to be killed, don't they? And since my future husband here doesn't seem too eager to rise to the challenge... It appears to me, my friend, that we'll have to do it on our own. In that case, I'll let you become my knight if I can be yours. What do you say, eh?" Morgan's tone was cheerful and facetious-- sarcastic enough, in other words, for Urien to see her little speech as a joke. As another jab at his address, really. Oh, how wrong he was! They really were one another's knights, you know, and together, they'd slay all the monsters standing in their way. (Soon, it would be Arthur's turn. His, and that of his wretched legacy as well.)

Things were going relatively smoothly, despite Gwen's foul mood-- until, of course, Urien asked about her marriage. Oh, gods. Had he done that on purpose?! Morgan turned around and glared at Guinevere, hoping her stare alone could calm down the gathering storm, but-- well. It was about as useful as emptying a glass of water into a fiery inferno, really. Gwen talked and talked and talked, and venom poured forth, and, damn. Since when had she been so direct? So courageous? (Often in the past, Morgan had wanted to kiss her-- just as often, though, she had wanted to put her hand over her big mouth and whisper 'shhh'. These two desires were more or less constant in their relationship, and she had gotten used to the dichotomy by now. Feeling both at the same time, however? Alright, that was... new.)

Meanwhile, Urien looked like a fish that had been pulled out of water-- he opened his mouth and closed it, and opened it again, but no sound came out. (Comical, almost, or it would have been, had it not been for the fact that a single word of his could destroy them.) "Ah. I-- I apologize if I touched a nerve, my lady. I was under the impression your relationship was harmonious. Arthur has never implied otherwise." Ah, of course he hadn't. Really, why had she expected him to? Anything other than a perfect union with a perfectly loving wife wouldn't have been good enough for their glorious king, and this Urien most likely lived far away from Camelot to swallow all the lies he had fed to him with relative ease. It wasn't like he could visit whenever he wanted and see the truth for himself-- the wastes were too dangerous for these casual trips.

"So, once again, I apologize," he bowed to her. "If it means something, I believe that it is admirable you are still doing your duty. In these trying times, that is what we should all strive for. And, once again, my apologies if I'm being presumptuous, but I am sure it will have been worth it once your children sit upon the throne. They will have what you didn't, and guide your people towards prosperity. Isn't that the greatest of honors?" ...not if it had to be bought with your own dignity, though of course someone like Urien could never understand that. He had never been in the position of a bargaining chip, and never would be. What a lucky, lucky bastard.

"Your relationship with your husband is none of my business, and thus I shall not meddle. I can see you care for your friend greatly, though. Well, you don't need to worry about her-- I am not a cruel man, and I promise you I won't mistreat her. She shall want for nothing, for as long as I breathe. You may even visit her if you find the time for it in your busy schedule. The gates of my castle will always be open, my lady. Always."
 
"Nothing wrong with a little meddling. We all avert our eyes when we see other people suffering to save our own skin because it's comfortable... and that's a problem. That'll do nothing to save the people we love, let alone future generations. If we want to build a better future, we need to learn to fight the monsters around us. And among us, in some cases." Okay. Guinevere knows she's got to stop before she takes this farther than she already has. Doesn't even have to look to know there must be a reprimanding glare on Morgan's face. Yank the reins before their chariot swerves off the set path and into a deeper layer of the hell they're already in. These emotions, though, they're running too strong, zigzagging like electricity in her veins. The man's apology does the bare minimum to placate her, really, especially as his blathering of duty and heirs only proceeds to slam down on all of her buttons. "But what do I know? My only duty is to bear heirs, after all, and I've been told that'll fix everything."

Guinevere stares at the ground again, cheeks slightly flushed as she struggles to hold her tongue. It isn't easy. God, how did she put up with this until now? It was one thing when her own pride was on the line... but it's nearly impossible now that Morgan's is also at risk.

Poor, poor Eugene. His mouth does that fish out of water thing again, if only to a lesser extent this time around. He got more than he bargained for here, didn't he? Did Arthur think that forcing her to watch this guy touch Morgan at his leisure was going to make her behave? Hell no! (Fortunately the man's being somewhat decent about her outburst? Or maybe it would have sounded that way if his promises didn't resemble the lies Arthur fed her, to appease her gang and take her hand in marriage.) Oh well. Even if he is cut from the same cloth as Arthur, perhaps he intends to play nice until after they're wed, at least? Which only comes as a comfort because no such wedding is going to occur at all. Morgan won't be forced to endure and endure until the monster finally surfaces. Over her dead body!

Camelot really wouldn't stand a chance if the world outside crept past their precious castle walls. How could they stand to fight monsters if they couldn't even find the strength to stand up for their own people? So it's unsurprising that they wouldn't fight for the sake of their queen from the wastelands. Even if it was obvious that she was being mistreated by their oh-so benevolent king. No one would dare to fight for her except... well, Morgan said it herself, didn't she? And how beautifully she had phrased it, too! Keeping her heart warm with something other than fury. They're each other's knights. Equals protecting each other and fighting side by side.

"Lady Morgan is my best friend. Excuse me for saying this, but you're already cruel for agreeing to take her away." Guinevere smothers the fire, the accusation in her words. Measured and somber, so it doesn't appear as though she's outright proclaiming him an enemy to his face. She simply gives off the air that she's... sad about it. Completely unthreatening. The unshed tears stinging her eyes could easily be interpreted that way. That's fair enough, right? An honest compromise? It's not ladylike to challenge the man to a duel for the woman she loves, after all. "She is breathtaking, right? But she's also the smartest person I know. Her passion and potential are unmatched. If you want to convince me that what you say is true, you need to respect her. So take my advice from before. Try talking to her before you reach for her hand. Because you're still practically strangers and... and she's worth getting to know."

Guinevere's trying. Like Morgan had supplied her with all of those vials in the past, she wants to do something to make this process easier for her. Whether it actually wards off unwanted advances, though, is yet to be seen. She just knows how Arthur's hands on her skin always felt like shackles around her wrists. How they still do. Ugh. She's nauseous just thinking of Morgan going through the exact same thing. To see it happen in front of her eyes is the worst kind of punishment.

"...Um. Carry on, then. Don't let me get in your way more than I already have." Guinevere ushers them forward with the wave of her hand, an ominous sort of terror coursing through her in the wake of all the things she was bold enough to say. Christ. What's gotten into her!? Everything -- everything's been too much. Of course, she's not sending them ahead to abandon Morgan. She offers her a meaningful glance, silently communicating that she won't be too far behind. She just... just needs to get her shit together. Clearly. Saving face with an amused sort of smile, she attempts to disguise her threat as a harmless jest. "Know that I'll be watching carefully, though. Be on your best behavior, Sir Eugene."
 
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Oh well. This... could have been worse, right? Not by much, admittedly, but Morgan refused to give in to despair. Besides, her assessment wasn't even wrong! Guinevere could have, for example, straight up told Urien that they were planning a coup. She could have challenged him to a duel in some misguided attempt to preserve her honor (ha!), or even kissed her. So, all in all, this was actually fine. It didn't really seem fine, and the shock written all over Urien's face supported that hypothesis, but Morgan would make it fine, dammit. A talented painter could mask accidents on her canvas by incorporating them into the final picture-- by adding them into the narrative, so to speak. With enough skill, a stain could become a star, or perhaps a little bird. An elegant solution, was it not? (Morgan, of course, couldn't paint. Painting was a noble pursuit, one worthy of a lady, and since her own hands had been stained with magic-- well, let's just say that her mother hadn't been exactly willing to hire private tutors for her. Not when she had barely been able to muster enough enthusiasm to feed her, anyway. And, yes, she could have learned it on her own after the woman had died, but why waste her time on such frivolities? By then, things much different than a paintbrush had sparked her interest-- the art of drawing pretty pictures with her words, for instance.)

"Ah, that's our queen," Morgan chuckled. There wasn't a hint of disapproval in her eyes-- instead, she looked like a teacher who was exceedingly pleased with her pupil. (In her mind, she was screaming till her lungs bled, though what did it matter? Appearances were everything, and Morgan appeared to be perfectly calm now. Serene, really, like the surface of a peaceful pond. Urien wouldn't see beyond the illusion, that she didn't doubt-- he had no desire to look at her in earnest, and so this flimsy imitation would do. ...pffft, how pathetic. And this man hoped to rule an entire kingdom, with his inability to see past his own nose? Yet another promising leader, it seemed!)

"Always so dedicated to the idea of justice-- of bettering our people. Arthur couldn't have chosen a better wife, don't you think?" Those words were knives, and Morgan could swear they actually cut her lips, but-- no. No, she had to be strong. Guinevere could no longer stand to bear her burden, and that was understandable. How long had she been carrying it now? A few months? Gods, days would have been enough to destroy the average person's spirit! Gwen wasn't even remotely close to average, but she was still human, and naturally, humans got tired. They succumbed to their weaknesses from time to time, no matter how virtuous they were. And when that breaking point came? Morgan would be there, ready to carry that burden for her. Not forever, as her position on the chessboard didn't allow for that, but long enough, at least, for her to regain her strength. "You need to forgive our queen, my lord. She is just a little too passionate when it comes to serving her subjects, you see?"

"And also a little too passionate when it comes to friendship," Morgan sighed. (Yeah, right. Friendship. Did anyone actually believe that at this point? How people could look at her and not immediately understand how much she loved the other woman, that she'd never understand. Was it not reflected in her eyes, in her smile, in every movement she made? It had to be-- there was no way it wasn't, really, and yet. Had Urien chosen blindness, or had he been born that way? Ultimately, it didn't matter, though she still had to wonder.) "I believe that is good news, though. Should you become her friend, you will earn an ally for life. She won't waver, and will stand by your side as she has stood by mine. Actually, would you believe it if I said that the path to our friendship was somewhat rocky as well?" Morgan asked with a smile. "Because it's true-- I couldn't stand her in the beginning." The way she glanced at Guinevere was meaningful, unambiguously so, but again-- there was nothing suspicious about that. Bonds of friendship ran deep, didn't they? "Sometimes, you do need to wait for the truly good things. A platitude, perhaps, but one that contains a lot of truth within. I trust you're wise enough to see it?" Wise enough not to go tattle to Arthur, in other words. Gods! If he ran his mouth, then Morgan-- Morgan would murder him in cold blood. She'd do it happily, too!

Then Gwen chose distance herself for a while-- which, honestly, was the best decision she had made today. Not that Morgan didn't enjoy her presence, but if this went on, she and Urien really would end up killing each other. Save your bloodlust, Gwen. Soon enough, you'll get to bathe Excalibur in the blood of your enemies. Before that, though, the sorceress had to discover just how much they had messed up. "So, my lord. How did you like my friend?" she asked, her tone the very embodiment of nonchalance.
 
“I, uh… I-I see.” Does he, though? It takes Urien a moment longer to arrange his thoughts, to get his ducks in a row so to speak. Then he clears his throat and musters up one of those effortless, gentlemanly smiles that only comes with years of practice. The trademark of a man who had the privilege of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth. “She is passionate, my lady.” Ah. A perfectly bland response that betrays none of his emotions. Parroting Morgan’s own words to stay in her good graces, more or less.

Urien glimpses over his shoulder as they resume their walk without the queen, as if paranoid she might so something unpredictable the moment he turns his back. Not quite accustomed to women who talk like that, is he? Let alone with such righteous fury. But to his relief, Guinevere's keeping her distance from them. Pacing by the roses, lips moving quietly as she seems to mutter soundlessly— and rather crossly— to herself. He rubs his neck and turns stiffly. “Yes. Very passionate indeed.”

“I heard from Arthur that she learned much of what she knows from you, Lady Morgan. Quite impressive. She carries herself well, despite…” Does he even know a word that encapsulates what just happened? Evidently not. Urien's internal conflict crosses plainly across his face, then, with his furrowed brow and shifting eyes. Uncertain as to where to take this, now, knowing he’s treading uneven and wholly unfamiliar ground. The two women are friends, after all. Unquestionably close. (Closer than he’ll ever imagine!) Morgan appears rather unaffected, though, and was even willing to apologize for the queen’s words. The epitome of a proper lady in comparison. So he takes it as a sign to continue. “Well. I am certain she did not acquire those, uh, passions from your lessons, my lady. It must have been trying for you. Gangsters from the wastelands are most uncouth.”

Somehow he manages to sound wary of his own wife being just as likely to mouth off while reassuring himself in the very same breath that that simply cannot be the case. The way he says passions is vaguely insulting, too, as if they're sharing some kind of inside joke about the unrefined folk of the wastelands. Of course, his own bride wouldn’t dare to misbehave like that. It takes only one glance for him to gather that she's far more refined than her temperamental friend. Morgan is Arthur’s beautiful older sister, after all, and knows their way of life on an intrinsic level that someone like Guinevere could not.

“There— There is much we can learn from them as well. I mean no disrespect. The fact that you found a friend in her truly speaks to your character.” Urien flashes another one of those polite smiles, automatically reaching for her hand. (If Guinevere weren't so far away from them then, one might have heard her take an incredibly sharp breath.) “In fact, it proves that there is indeed a gentle, loving heart beneath that serious disposition of yours. I can only hope that someday you will learn to open it up to me.” Yes. He can only hope that someday she’ll look at him with undisguised affection, the very same way she looks at her... "friend".

“Promise me you’ll try?” Urien lowers his lips to her knuckles… but then realization dawns over his face and he retreats at the last moment. Probably better not to test the queen’s nerves — at least the man isn't completely blind? He pats the back of her hand amiably instead. “In time we will be more than just strangers. We will even learn to love each other. ” Wow. He sounds so certain of that, doesn't he? It’s like he’s already convinced himself. His eyes shine with conviction that could have easily been perceived as admirable without any context. “If not right away, then perhaps in a year or two. Because surely we will bond over our mutual love for our children.” Oh yes, surely. He nods resolutely as though it's the most logical solution. Then his eyes brighten, like a cartoonish lightbulb flicking on to indicate a brilliant idea.

“I am sure queen Guinevere will come to see it that way as well when she is with child. Motherhood changes a woman. Rest assured, she will not suffer so terribly without you when she has a babe to hold.” Urien’s saying this as if he’s… as if he really is trying to reassure her? How kind. He said it before, didn’t he? In his opinion, the most honorable thing a queen can do is bear heirs. And naturally, the king’s sister would see it that way too. Not that he’s, you know, actually going to ask for Morgan’s opinion on the matter. “Of course, I have no intention of keeping the two of you apart. I said I would allow visits and I shall. But the wastelands are a dangerous place.” Eyes melancholic and serious, he says this as though he’s speaking to a child who doesn’t yet understand the true dangers of walking alone at night. Despite the fact that Guinevere just called Morgan the smartest person she knows. And that the two women just spoke so dauntlessly of fighting monsters together. Geez. (But you should go easy on poor Eugene— he genuinely believed it was a joke!) “Regretfully, such visits must be limited to two… perhaps three times a year. You understand, yes? My kingdom is no Camelot, of course, but it is very similar.”

Is resembling Camelot a redeeming quality? Urien seems to think so. He caresses her cheek, then, oh-so gentle. “I understand you may miss your dear brother and your friends… but I will see to it that you are not made to feel lonely or neglected in your new home.”
 
Ugh. Why did he wish for me to accompany him again? Not that Morgan truly wanted to speak with him, but the ignorance was irritating-- like a mosquito bite in a place you couldn't quite reach. Seriously, was the difference between a conversation and a monologue so difficult to grasp? Because Morgan didn't really think so. Surely, surely you didn't have to analyze social interactions for years in order to be able to determine that conversations, in fact, required more than one participant. And no, the other person listening and nodding from time to time didn't count! (...did he even see her as a thinking, feeling person? As something more than just an audience to his perfectly rehearsed performances? Since that was what this sounded like-- a speech prepared in advance, meant to showcase the purity of his character. 'Oh, look at me, Morgan! Am I not such a nice guy for not thinking that your friend is total trash? Why of course, I still think she's beneath me, but haha, isn't that a given? Since she's a woman and everything! Please, kiss me.' Morgan, of course, realized that the translation her brain had provided may have been a little unfair towards him, but being forced to marry him wasn't exactly the definition of fairness, either. So, no need to play nice with him! Not in her thoughts, at the very least.)

Her words, on the other hand? Oh, those were a different story. "My lord is too kind," she said, wearing one of her sweetest smiles. (Fitting, wasn't it? Since sweetness was traditionally used to conceal poison.) "In the beginning, I merely considered it necessary to guide her. She was half a beast herself-- had to be, I assume, to survive in the wastes. An unfortunate thing, especially in a young lady. I noticed her potential as well, though, and took it upon myself to refine it. Every diamond used to be a piece of coal at one point, you see? And queen Guinevere has turned into such a fine jewel under my care. Of course," she continued, and her smile grew more sincere, "diamonds are rather sharp, too. Did you know, my lord, that our ancestors used them for cutting glass? That's why I think the comparison is apt." It's also how I know she will cut you to pieces. You, and everyone like you as well-- the whole damn system. My beautiful, powerful Gwen.

It was a dangerous path she walked here, and Morgan knew it-- implications were fun, but not if the other party actually connected the dots. Still, that was what made it so thrilling, wasn't it? Dancing close to the chasm of the abyss, and praying to the gods for mercy. Not that she'd need their assistance here, though. Perhaps she was underestimating Urien greatly and would come to regret it, but so far, it seemed he wasn't the brightest crayon in the box. He spoke like a gentleman, yes-- like someone raised to speak well, in other words. His pronunciation was clear, his diction flawless, and his word choice reflected the level of education not many people could hope to attain. As for what he said, though? Endless platitudes and empty phrases. The very antithesis of wit!

And the way he mentioned children... Gods! Not once in her entire life had Morgan wanted to be a mother-- the concept had always seemed scary to her, like something out of a horror movie. Growing a whole person inside of her body, and then having to push them out? No, thanks. Not happening! She had arrived to that conclusion when she had been thirteen, maybe, and those feelings had never changed-- well, at least until this very moment. Make no mistake, however. Now, the idea of pregnancy disgusted her even more! (Poor, poor Gwen. How had she felt about this, back before she had promised to protect her from such a fate? Back when she had had no allies in Camelot? Morgan herself wasn't scared-- she knew this future Urien dreamed of would never happen, and so it was easy to dismiss his words as delusional. As something closer to a myth than reality, really. Guinevere, though? There had been no safety net to break her fall, no plan B for her to follow. Along with the crown, she had accepted the duty to bear Arthur's heirs. Just... how did one even begin to understand that level of devotion?)

"Ah, yes," Morgan nodded. "Children are indeed a blessing. The gods' gift to all of us, truly. Without them, would it even be worth it to fight for a better world? There is no point to that, after all, if nobody is there to inherit it. Wanting one's legacy to be continued is a noble pursuit. Still, queen Guinevere was right in that we don't know each other yet. Hopefully you will forgive me, my lord, for not opening my heart to you right away-- it is a precious thing, and thus has to be earned. I am a king's sister, not some tavern wench. You are aware that a lady is to be courted, right?" Because, no matter how good her acting skills were, Morgan couldn't make herself appear to be in love with him. The thought was too bizarre, too divorced from any tangible scenario.

"Loving one another means knowing one another, I think. So, my sir Urien, what kind of man are you? Tell me something about yourself." That, after all, shouldn't be too difficult for him-- not if he was as in love with the sound of his own voice as Morgan suspected. "Your relationship with my dear brother, for example. How well do you know him? And what of my new home? How similar to Camelot is it?" If she had to spend her precious time with him, then Morgan would use it to gather useful info. Silver linings, right?
 
From his lack of insightful speech, it can be assumed that Urien isn't truly absorbing what is being said — or, rather, implied about the queen. Comparing women to fine jewels and diamonds, after all, are common complements paid to ladies within castle walls. Hearing one flowery, poetic phrase about a woman's beauty means you’ve essentially heard them all, right? Formalities run on an endless loop and rarely catch one unawares. In other words, it doesn’t inspire him hear her out with the sharpest of listening ears. Oh. Oh, did she say something about Guinevere being sharp? Well, it’s not as though he can rewind the conversation in his mind to provide him with the necessary details. And asking will tell her quite blatantly (and rather rudely) that he wasn’t listening in the first place. So smile and nod it is! A convenient save... or it might have been if he were speaking to a goldfish.

“I — beg your pardon? My lady, I would never—“ Urien begins listening just in time to hear Morgan speak of his grabbing thoughtlessly for her as if she were some tavern wench. (And doesn't he look so scandalized by the very notion of taking some tavern wench for his bride! But, uh, that wasn't her point, was it?) Goodness. Walking a garden with ladies should not feel like tiptoeing through a minefield… and yet here he is. Morgan's eloquence does an excellent job of persuading him to keep his hands off of her, at the very least, as he clasps his fingers behind his back and dips down into a bow. “Forgive me. That was not my intention. I apologize if I have made you feel that way. I shall, ah, slow my advances if it would make you more comfortable, Lady Morgan. Of course.” It took several withering glares and another few not-so-subtle warnings from Guinevere, but it seems he's finally paying attention in terms of giving her a little breathing room. Some good old personal space. The man is tempted to say that her dear brother, king Arthur himself, had given him the impression that she would be far more receptive to his advances. Delighted for the attention, for the promises of being his queen and all! Except this is the second time now that Arthur’s misinformation has gotten him into trouble this afternoon. Alas, relying on that excuse a second time would be in bad form. And Urien is enough of a man to recognize when he should take some fraction of responsibility for his own actions.

However... he’s not enough of a man to recognize that maybe, just maybe, it'd be nice to give his bride-to-be an opening to speak every now and then? Visibly relieved for the change of subject (as well as the opportunity to talk about himself) Urien prattles endlessly about his personal pursuits. From pretentious talk of his accomplishments down to his favorite kind of bird. Every trite detail so drawn out and boring that it warrants no description in narration. Even the sun tires of him, sinking low on the horizon and pulling a curtain of night over the gray skies. Finally, when all is said and done (and so much is said) he acknowledges the other questions she had asked. The ones about his kingdom and her dear brother? Yeah. Those ones. “The kingdom of Rheged might be small, but it is stocked with the finest of treasures. It is a place of beauty, I assure you. Our craftsmen are truly talented, you see, and our trades with Camelot are quintessential to the survival of my people. We may not be particularly close due to the aforementioned distance between our kingdoms, but I cherish our alliance and know that your brother is a good and noble man.” Uh huh. Well, it tracks that their soil would be just as barren as the rest of the dead earth. “In return for food and resources, we provide Camelot with fine wares and lend the best of our forces to aid in your brother’s quests for prosperity.”

Oh. That sounds kind of familiar, doesn’t it? Bribing people for services with food, that is. Food that has become scarce and thus more precious than currency to people from all walks of life, even the wealthiest of bastards. It sounds incredibly familiar to Guinevere, who finally decided to catch up with them after she noticed two of Iphigenia’s cronies staring at her and whispering behind their fans. (Searching for more details to contribute to their recent gossip, no doubt.) Still. She should have walked just a touch slower... because she really wishes she hadn’t overheard the end of that sentence. Fuck. Fuck! Of course Arthur would choose to honor his end of the bargain when he was receiving a priceless vase to boast about. Or, say, that ridiculous, pompous crown he wears on his big, pompous head! Her sacrifice, on the other hand? Apparently that was worth absolutely nothing in comparison. Not even a handful of crumbs. And he intends to achieve his grand acts of heroism with her sword? Her blood? Yes. Her blood, which only just cooled and is now boiling anew.

“Unfortunately, Arthur hasn't accomplished much of anything. He's always returning from those quests in such a foul mood. If he enlisted the help of those who know the wastelands better than he ever could, then maybe...” Guinevere interrupts, callous and seething quietly as that shadow part of herself screams and writhes and fights to claw free. She bites her lip and gives her head a reprimanding shake. Scolds her internal self like one might scold a puppy who's inclined to growl and bite a stranger with a bad aura. No. Down. “Excuse me. So sorry for interrupting. Our presence will be expected at dinner soon. And we should head back inside before it gets dark.”

"My kingdom is hard at work conducting research for that express purpose, queen Guinevere. Rest easy, you mustn't concern yourself with such dire affairs." Urien flashes another one of those smiles. Either he's completely ignorant to her mood or he's ignoring it entirely. It must be more comfortable for him that way. "It seems you are right, though. Time truly flies in the company of such lovely ladies. I would say we got to know each other quite well. Wouldn't you, Lady Morgan?" Had he even asked her a single question until now, though? Or learned anything significant about his bride-to-be? Nope. Geez, this guy.

Guinevere rolls her eyes and mimes a gag when Eugene faces away. It's an attempt to cheer Morgan up (to tell her to hang in there, really, because she feels her pain so intimately that it physically hurts) before she turns on her heel and stalks off towards the garden entrance.
 
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