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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

Guinevere is spared from her embarrassment if only for a moment when the focus shifts over to Morgan. When they'd set out earlier, she never would have imagined they'd be sitting here together like this-- that people from the two very different worlds she inhabits would meet. They won't be cruel to her, of course not, but she still finds herself holding her breath on Morgan's behalf. After all, she hadn't been lying when she said it was different from Camelot, that she'd have to brace herself. Her gang's open in that way where they don't rely on distant formalities to carry them through a conversation, they say exactly what they're thinking. But Morgan seems to be have a solid grasp on her composure. And when she smiles at her, Guinevere's heart thumps a little faster as she returns it. Which, in retrospect, might not have done her any favors. Everyone's curious. And, oh, does she hear the implications loud and clear. She chokes on air.

"N-No." Guinevere wheezes. Well, her cheeks are red again. Burning so hot she might as well have just turned into a second campfire. She shoots them a pointed look of her own, fighting the urge to shoot the rubber band around her wrist at them like a slingshot and instead quickly motions two fingers in a saw-like fashion across her throat. She's tempted to say that Morgan teaches her manners, which is something these heathens could use right about now!

"I-I mean, you think anything I've learnt out here is gonna help anyone in Camelot? No one-- no one wants to learn anything from me. Are you kidding?" She laughs a very awkward laugh. It's... a safe enough answer, she guesses, in front of Morgan. Her ever-present blush isn't helping and she can tell by a few lifted eyebrows in the crowd that she's not convincing everyone right now. Besides, it doesn't matter if she thinks that Morgan has a pretty smile, that she likes the sound of her laugh or that she's intelligent and strong and-- ugh. She hasn't given it any thought, because she's Arthur's sister! Off limits. There's no venturing down that path, she can't even consider it. (Not to mention the chances of Morgan being even remotely interested in her are miniscule. Practically non-existent. The fact that she's even thinking about this now is ridiculous, right? Yes! It's ridiculous.)

"Now, now." Thankfully, Sam, who has at least a little more context comes to her rescue before anyone else can heckle her. "Don't sell yourself short. Some of them might benefit by learning to fight. Especially if those giant beasts keep showing up near the castle." Most of them, Guinevere thinks, and even the knights. But as of right now, they'd all have a good laugh at the concept of learning anything useful from her. Maybe except for Lancelot. And then he went and betrayed her trust by acting like a smitten numbskull. God, she's so glad to be away from Camelot for the night.

"Not that Morgan needs any help holding her own. She and Gwen killed one of the big ones -- just the two of them!" Sam beams as though she had witnessed the act herself. Immediately it evokes a newfound sense of wonder and respect from the women around them in regards to Morgan.

"Oh? That is impressive!" Tamara chimes among a few of them. Then she releases a sigh of admirable compassion. "It's a sad thought though, isn't it? To picture those beasts preying on those who don't know how to fend for themselves. I hope everything will be all right."

"Arthur says it's safe in Camelot, but--" Guinevere glances at Morgan with an unspoken question in her eyes, remembering what she said earlier about her research. The disturbances. She bites her lip, feeling her stomach turn over. What would happen if Camelot was attacked? It'd be unfair not to warn the people of it, if they knew the dangers... but at the same time, who would believe them? Arthur couldn't find out that they were out here like this either. If he somehow knows all of this, he'd expect them to be in the dark about it. And... what if he does know about it? What's his plan? Because his knights certainly aren't prepared to handle anything remotely like what she and Morgan faced earlier. They're all questions she wants to voice-- but delving too deeply on the subject of Arthur probably wouldn't bide well. Just the mention of him inspires a few eye rolls and groans as is. "We'll... be careful. Right?"
 
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Morgan just raised her eyebrow at the whole exchange. What exactly was happening here? Something was hiding beneath the innocent words, just like a snake would hide in the grass, but as for its nature-- that eluded her. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. In Camelot, no secret was safe from her; every code, no matter how elaborate, fell apart under her scrutiny. Morgan, the mistress of whispers. One of her many nicknames, and this one was even based in reality. Well, at least partially anyway. The lords and ladies believed she used magic to spy on them, bending the time and space itself just to hear what they told to one another under the guise of darkness, and then controlled everything from the shadows. As convenient as it would have been, it was, of course, utter nonsense. Moreover, why would one need to resort to spells when maids and servants were just oh so happy to talk? Paying in coin was far more pleasant than paying with your own blood, after all.

Here, though-- here, Morgan felt lost. The landscape was foreign and maybe not hostile per se, but definitely uncharted, and that filled her with a sense of unease. What if she needed to retreat? How could one do that without knowing the route? Sure, everyone was smiling now, though Morgan knew very well how easily those smiles could turn into smirks, razor sharp, and how quickly knives could appear in their hands. The fact that she could relax here-- it did not mean that she should. Not even remotely! A rabbit that got too comfortable in a lion's den would soon be a dead rabbit. So, yes, Morgan would smile, but she would not trust. Others had to trust her, and she could trust no-one. And to reach that configuration-- banter could be helpful.

"Oh, but Guinevere did try to teach me some things," she chuckled, oh so easily, as if everything made total sense. As if she wasn't navigating a minefield, really. "Mostly related to waving a sword around. Unsuccessfully, I'm afraid." A lady of Camelot, after all, had no need for such crude things. She had no need for anything but her husband, though Morgan didn't feel like mentioning that was too strategic. Not at the beginning, anyway. If she wanted to sow rebellious ideas in their heads, a relationship had to be established first. You didn't just ask someone to defy the king for you five minutes after you had met them!

The praise, however, made Morgan look down at her feet. Again, she wasn't humble, far from it, but-- would they still appreciate her skill if they knew exactly how she had taken the beast down? Or would they look at her in disgust and spit in her face? Gods only knew.

"It is safe," Morgan said, trying not too hard to think about that. The truth would emerge sooner or later, but that was a problem for her future self. "For now. It may not remain that way forever, though expecting that is... rather foolish in my opinion anyway. It is only natural for kingdoms to return to dust eventually. That's how it has been for thousands of years." Did Camelot not rest upon the ruins of the old world, after all? How arrogant, how short-sighted it would be to think they were immune to such fate!

"A bold idea," Nessy said. "But say, Morgan, how did you manage to fight in such a dress? Share your secrets! I, too, want to dress nicely for once, you know?"

Ah, there it was. Well, Morgan had hoped it to happen later, but there was no point in postponing the revelation, was there? And she sure as hell wasn't about to lie. Not if she wanted to forge an alliance later! Lies were poison, and she wasn't stupid enough to use it on potential friends. "Magic tends to be helpful in such situations," she smiled, her head raised high. Her heart was beating fast, though they sure as hell wouldn't know that from her posture. No, Morgan only offered them confidence.
 
Guinevere holds her breath once more as the conversation turns towards their fight. It was going to happen eventually, she knew -- and, well, the mention of magic receives the mixed response she was expecting. There's no dramatic outcry of gasping or accusations of witchcraft like there might have been in Camelot. There's not much response at all, really. It's quiet. The fire's crackling is louder than ever and in it's light and she gauges the looks on everyone's faces. Most are decidedly holding up a shield to their emotions (much like she did when she first saw it herself), some stricken with unease, or wonder, or simply lost in their own personal reveries. It's like she had said before when they spoke of it. Everyone had their own personal experience with magic -- and out here, that experience is rarely good. A few glance over to her, as though looking for guidance or elaboration they could trust. Some, like Sam, look at her a little more pointedly with concern on her behalf. And those are the stares she stubbornly avoids. Because they're citing a very specific event that has nothing to do with any of this.

"Well... it must have been, if you killed the damn beast." Sam provides with her usual smile and Guinevere finds it in her to breathe again. She's trying, here, and that's something to appreciate. Most of them have already read that she seems to along with Morgan, so she has at least that in her favor. But she can understand if some of them don't feel safe because of it. Some of them have their walls built up because of personal trauma and that's fair. It's hard to know who to trust out here. But the thing is, Morgan hasn't had to lie, cheat and steal in the wastes to get by. She's not going to take advantage of them in the way people have in the past. What does she have to gain from stealing scraps from the very place they came from? Or targeting strangers who live out in the cold with beasts who could just as easily kill them at any time?

"Should have seen her. She really was incredible!" Knowing she's the only one who can vouch for Morgan personally, Guinevere leans forward, a habit she has whenever she tells the kids one of her famously adventurous (and disastrous) stories. And as though the act itself has the power to beckon them, Mia clambers over and climbs into her lap. "Hey. Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"I can be anything I want to be." Mia grins and lifts herself up just enough to whisper in her ear that she and Morgan would get to share a tent. And, okay, she saw that coming -- but her blush prompts a few snickers towards the back. Someone put her up to this. At the very least, the temporary spell of silence has been broken and things slowly but surely revert back to a sort of normalcy. If Guinevere vouches for Morgan, they can at least respect that. For now. She knows she might not have convinced everyone, though. Mia settles down and nestles close, playing with the ends of Guinevere's hair. "And I want to know what happened, too!"

"She missed you, Guinevere. It's okay." Tamara vouches for her, and as the designated mother of the group, her word might as well be law. She slips her guitar behind her and finally reaches for the kit to treat her leg. "Magic really wears on you, doesn't it? So to kill one of those beasts with it..."

"--Um, I was there, too! Besides, Morgan knows what she's doing. Fared way better than I did, actually." She sticks her arm out as if to make a point. Mia poises her finger to poke it and Guinevere bats her hand away. "I don't even know how to describe it. It was like... a spider?"

"A spider?" There's a snicker from the back. Mia giggles from her lap, braiding the ends of her hair now, joining in with a comment of her own. "Spiders are so puny and weak."

"Okay, you know what I mean -- like, a big spider! And it was not puny or weak. It was so big I could stand under it." Guinevere puffs her chest out a little, making the girl giggle again. "Morgan stopped it in it's tracks and I hacked away at its legs, left and right. But then they grew these thorns as big as my sword. And if that wasn't bad enough, they went flying in every direction! Morgan dodged in time-- but one of them got me right in the arm. Couldn't fight with my sword anymore after that, either. I would've been done for if she wasn't there."
 
Well, there it was. The big moment of truth. Would they accept her or turn on her? One would assume that, with Guinevere there to shield her, the former was more likely, but you never knew when it came to magic. People could just be so irrational. Not without a reason, Morgan supposed, but still. Magic wasn't the only thing that had played its part in the destruction of the old order, and it certainly hadn't done it of its own will. Magical energies, after all, cared very little about matters pertaining to humans. Would they also blame lightning for wrecking their house? Would they assign a moral value to the act? Because magic had been about as involved. Even so, Morgan hadn't come there to preach, so she just... looked around, trying to gauge their reactions.

Nobody pointed fingers at her. Nobody threw rotten food at her, either, which was probably a good start. The warmth in the eyes of some of them went away, though Morgan had expected that. Those that watched her with the same expression as before, though? With smiles, even? Now that was the true mystery. Did-- did they not mind? Or did they just hide their feelings better than their colleagues? Gods, in some ways, reacting in such subdued manner felt even worse! With Camelot, Morgan at least knew where she stood. A wicked witch, a heretic, a harlot lucky enough to be the king's sister. None of it was particularly nice, but-- well, the rules had been laid out, and she knew what kind of game they were playing. Here, Morgan had no such luxury.

"It's not that bad," she shrugged, choosing to observe the flames rather than the women sitting around her. It was just... easier. Fire rarely accused you of crimes against humanity or whatever stupid charge people decided to associate with magic this time. "If you practice it enough, you get used to it." Well, either that, or you just died. Natural selection in action, really. Those who had destroyed themselves with magic-- let's just say that they hadn't been the sharpest crayons in the box. You had to listen to your body, not play the hero! Despite the majority opinion, pain was actually good. It wasn't something to be overcome; no, it served as a lighthouse in the darkness, as guidance bestowed upon you by the gods. Only a fool didn't take it to heart. "I've been perfecting my craft since before I was a teenager, so I have had a lot of time to adjust." To everything, really. To the pain, yes, but also to the stares. (Morgan wore them as a badge of honor now, with the same kind of pride Arthur's knights wore their swords. And since her magic was actually good for more than just impressing children, why shouldn't she?)

When Guinevere started telling their story, Morgan smiled. Such a pleasant voice she had! A narrator's voice, truly; it wasn't a surprise that the kids hung on her lips, and-- gods, her lips. So sensuous and probably pleasant to touch. (What would it feel like to do that? To claim them for herself? Um. ...okay, Morgan had no idea where that thought had come from, but she would just ignore it, and it would disappear. That was how these things worked, right? They had to, because this was Arthur's freaking fiance! The levels of inappropriateness were staggering.)

"No need to overestimate my abilities," Morgan said, doing her best to will the chaos in her head away. Guinevere was just some girl, and she wouldn't be swayed. Not when everything she had strived for throughout her entire life was so, so close now. Almost within the reach of her hand! "I think you would have found a way to deal with that on your own." Of course she would have, because she was strong and capable and not at all a fraud like certain people Morgan could name and-- no, she was approaching the dangerous territory again. Perhaps it had been too much social interaction for one day? Yes, retreating sounded like a good idea. Solitude, after all, allowed one to think clearly.

Morgan rose and straightened her dress, so elegantly as if she had been practicing it since she had been born. (In a way, she had.) "Well. If you don't mind, I'd like to leave for now. Not that I don't enjoy your presence, but as you said, magic is exhausting, and besides, I have no doubt that you have much to talk about. Is there a place I can rest my head, or--?"
 
Guinevere's gaze follows Morgan as she stands, feeling a pull in her heart with it, and she briefly worries if she had gone too far with her praise or made her uncomfortable in some way. Maybe she was prompted to share too much about herself, just now? But rather than ask her if she's all right with everyone's eyes on them, she opts to stay silent. (If anything, it'd only make things harder on her.) Morgan kept herself composed for the majority of the visit on a surface level, maybe -- but Guinevere herself knows from experience firsthand just how different camp is from Camelot. A new place with new customs is overwhelming. And as much as she adores the makeshift family sitting around her now, she's sure the attention and voices coming from every direction must be staggering. Camelot's... a lonely place in comparison. "Well..." Oh. There's also the fact that they have to share a tent. Thankfully she's not the one who has to break that bit of news when Mia eagerly pops up in her lap.

"We sleep in tents!" Mia announces like she's excited to play the grown up, already up on her feet. With the unhesitating boldness only a child would have, she takes Morgan's hand in hers with intent to show her around. "Don't have enough for everyone to have their own, so we need to share. It's not so bad, 'cause we can snuggle when it gets cold. Well... unless the person you're sharing with snores. Like Lucas." Lucas, her designated little brother, naturally chimes in with a 'I don't snore!'

"Children. Where they get the constant energy, I will never understand." Sam chuckles, shaking her head. "Night, Morgan! It was good to meet you. If you need anything, just pop outside." As if on Sam's cue, everyone else speaks a similar sentiment.

"You're Gwen's guest, so that means you get to share with her." Mia explains, her smile as charming as ever. Guinevere chews at her lip and stares into the fire, ignoring the smirks and snickers she predicted were coming. Why won't they just let her live?

"Um-- I'll try not to be too late. So I don't, uh, wake you up." Guinevere offers lamely, bashfully rubbing the back of her neck.

"Come on, I'll show the way!" Mia offers, leading Morgan back by the tents, to the row that they designate as 'bedrooms'. She unzips a red one with patches sewn in towards the end. Inside are two sleeping bags propped over a makeshift mattress of pillows. A stuffed bear sits on each one -- they're identical, clearly old and loved things, except that one has a red slash drawn in marker under the eye. "Silly Gwen, leaving her stuff everywhere. Hold on." Mia carefully takes the bear without the marking and sets it next to the other, leaving one of the sleeping bags vacant for Morgan. "There! All set."
 
"That makes sense," Morgan nodded. She wasn't exactly thrilled about sharing her personal space with someone else, but eh, what could you do? They weren't forcing her into this arrangement out of malice; a single look at this camp told her that, yes, resources were few and far between. Even the clothes most of them wore looked shabby, as if three other people had worn them beforehand. Could she really blame them for not giving her a luxurious apartment? Besides, it wasn't like Morgan cared about these things that much. They were just going to sleep, after all. As long as rats didn't try to bite her ear off or something, she would be content.

... or maybe not. Because when Mia mentioned that she was going to sleep with Guinevere? Morgan almost choked. Uninvited, the word 'snuggle' crept in her mind, and painted an, uh, interesting picture for her. (In that picture, Guinevere allowed her to rest against her chest. She played with her hair, too, only for that hand to slide lower and lower--) "Yes. Yes, it was wonderful to meet you as well," she stuttered. "Hopefully we'll get to talk when I feel less..." less braindead "...less tired. I'm sure we will have much to talk about, too." If she was ever capable of an intelligent discussion again, which looked increasingly less and less likely with each passing second. Guinevere stroking her hair? Really? Was she that touch-starved? How utterly pathetic!

"Goodnight. And don't let me spoil your fun. Gods know I'll be doing that every day once we return back to Camelot, so it's only fair for you to enjoy the peace while it lasts." Morgan was, after all, still responsible for teaching Guinevere manners; once they got back, their old dynamic would replace this strange tension, and everything would be nice and clear-cut once again. (Not that it wasn't nice and clear-cut now, of course. The only ties binding them were those of a mentor and a student. Believing in anything else, as sweet as it would have been, would also have been delusional.)

And with that, Morgan allowed Mia to lead her to her (their?) tent. So this is where Guinevere had used to live. It wasn't much - more nothing than something - though the simplicity didn't bother her. No, quite the contrary. After the ostentatious wealth of Camelot, a sleeping bag was-- a breath of fresh air, truly. Those who had to sleep in them every day and had their backs ruined because of it likely viewed it differently, but Morgan wasn't one of them. Once Mia ran away, she slipped into her nightgown and then into the sleeping bag. So, okay. Sleeping was probably a good idea, right? Not that she felt terribly tired, but there wasn't much else for her to do here. Dreams would at least allow her to get some peace from the ridiculous, ridiculous thoughts that had been plaguing her lately. Determined to escape from them, Morgan closed her eyes.
 
The stories around the fire continue for a while longer after Morgan's departure -- catching up with everyone on their personal stories, on the upgraded monsters they encountered since the her last visit (tangles of snakes, wolves with razor-sharp wings attached to their bodies, and others of the shapeless, indistinguishable variety) and though she’s proud of them for hanging in there, the worry that accompanies this new threat ties her chest tight, makes it hard for her to breathe. She asks about their injuries, their health, so she can gauge how much to bring with her on her next visit. Then the kids are put to bed. And over the next two hours, many of the women begin to say their goodnights and gradually start disappearing into their respective tents. Some swap their duties for keeping watch overnight. After a while, only Guinevere, Tamara, and Sam remain.

“Guinevere, I’ve been worried about you.” Tamara speaks first. She exchanges a look with Sam. “We’ve been worried about you.” Guinevere tosses kindling into the fire to avoid their eyes. There’s an intervention like this every time she returns. They don’t like that she’s throwing her life away to bring them scraps from Camelot’s table. But no one can argue that they don't need those scraps, with so many mouthes to feed. They’ve talked the subject to death by now and there’s no changing her mind. She’s the only one who can do this-- so she’s doing the best she can.

“You’ve been sneaking out of the castle to bring us supplies... all alone, until now." Sam's gaze flicks over to her tent for a moment, where Morgan's sleeping. Curiosity lingers, but she decides to get to the point first. "And you know how much we appreciate that. But those giant mecha beasts keep turning up around Camelot. You’re one hell of a fighter, Gwen, but how long do you think you’ll be able to keep that up? We don’t see you for weeks at a time. We’re always wondering whether or not you’re okay.”

“I've been trying to talk to Arthur about it, but...” Guinevere brings her legs to her chest, plops her chin up on her knees. “It's all bullshit. He won't listen to me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not surprised. It was a red flag when he suggested that we trade you for food.” Sam scoffs, patting her shoulder. Of course no one was going to trade her like that. No such agreement was made until Arthur made all these flowery promises to listen to her ideas. Just as soon as they made it to Camelot, he'd said. Again : Bull. Shit. (And even then, it'd taken a while to convince them to let her go -- to let her try.) Naturally, instead of coming to any sort of compromise, she'd simply figured out how in love he was with the sound of his own voice. How uncompromising he really was. They needed that food, though. “Like you were an object. Ugh. Bastard.”

“Well... why don't you ask Morgan if she could accompany you from now on? It would make us feel better." Tamara suggests. There's something in her smile that makes Guinevere nervous as to where exactly this conversation is headed. "Speaking of Morgan... Guinevere, you are in trouble, aren't you?"

Don't start, don't start -- why is her heart beating so fast? It's not like she has anything to hide. But then, of course, Sam starts with a chuckle. "Oh yeah. I haven't seen you blush like that since you and Adriane were together." Without her mentor there to witness it, Guinevere finally takes the rubber band from her wrist and shoots it at her. "Ow! Well, you can't blame us for wondering, with the way you two were smiling at each other. You seemed close."

"But-- but she's Arthur's sister." Guinevere covers her face in her hands defeatedly, in part because she knows she's getting flustered about it again. "Arthur. As in the Arthur I'm getting married to, if that wasn't clear!"

"But you're not in love with Arthur." Tamara sighs ruefully. "All teasing aside, we know that this is going to be difficult for you... having to pretend. To bear it all by yourself."

"I'm not," Guinevere agrees with a certain softness, lifting her face from her hands. As wonderful as today was... the painful reality unfurls in her chest like a winter storm. "And I dread the day we get married. But in Camelot, any feelings I may or may not have... they don't matter. That's just how it is."

They sit in silence for a while after that. Tamara and Sam stare with these expressions that are so sad and conflicted that she can't bear to look at them anymore. Guinevere rises from her seat, takes a deep breath, and looks to the night sky. "You know me, though. They won't break my spirit." She assembles a grin to make them feel better, then turns towards her tent, attempting to swallow the lump in her throat. "--I'm goin' to bed. Night." And with that, she heads over to her tent, unzipping the entrance as slowly and quietly as possible to be mindful of Morgan, who she assumes is sleeping inside. Squinting at the two bears sitting together on her sleeping bag in the dark, she habitually pushes them just as far apart as they'll go without falling onto the ground. Then she perches herself down between them and pulls her uninjured arm over her eyes.
 
For what felt like eternity, Morgan just... stared at the ceiling. Sleep usually came easily to her, especially after a day full of spellcasting, but the gods weren't as merciful this time. No, they simply had to fill her head with all these thoughts, one stranger than the other. Embarrassingly enough, most of them revolved around Guinevere. Some, at least, were respectable; the ones that tried to unravel her motivations, for example, or her attempts to figure out where exactly she would fit within the paradigm of Camelot's politics. Others were-- less so. Considerably less so. What was worse, it seemed that the longer the night went on, the more inappropriate her thoughts grew. Somehow, she managed to go from admiring the shade of her eyes to wondering what it would be like to-- no, Morgan didn't even dare to give those thoughts a shape. Words, after all, were a particular brand of magic. If she bestowed a name upon them, then her ideas would become real, and if it got that far? They would never leave. 'Don't give a name to that which you don't want to bind to yourself,' an old adage said. Morgan had always respected that advice. Why forsake it now?

The chatter that reached her ears was quiet and sweet-sounding, though, and somehow, it managed to lull her to sleep. Well, mostly. It was a fragile sort of rest, really, punctuated with frequent breaks, but wasn't that only natural? She didn't know the place, didn't know the people, and the friendly masks they wore could be dropped at any given moment. And when that sort of thing happened? Yeah, it usually wasn't pretty. (Paranoia, some would undoubtedly say, but this exact line of thinking had saved her life more than once. Plus, Morgan would rather be paranoid than dead, thank you very much.) Most of the breaks were uneventful, with her sliding back into sleep shortly after; 'most' didn't mean all, though.

When she opened her eyes for about fifth time that night, a familiar name roused her attention. Arthur, Guinevere said. Immediately, Morgan was wide awake. She didn't know what she hoped to hear, really, but that mattered very little. Every tiny detail, every piece of information, could be invaluable under the right circumstances, and she wasn't about to let this opportunity go. Now, what were they talking about? Some secret plan of his he had shared with his future wife? ...well, apparently not. Instead, they seemed be discussing their love life. Okay, now that was something Morgan didn't need to hear. To much information, and so on and so forth. Right, she would just close her eyes again and-- wait, what? Did she-- did she understand correctly? There was no way she didn't; things like 'I dread the day we get married' were pretty difficult to misunderstand. So Guinevere didn't love him after all. Um. Okay. That was a testament to her taste, Morgan supposed. Not to her decision-making abilities considering the position she found herself in, though. If Guinevere had agreed to marry him solely for his promises, then she would soon discover that you could rely on the king's word about as much as you could rely on a rusty sword. Poor, poor girl. She really had no idea what she had gotten herself into, had she? Sacrifice could be a noble thing, Morgan knew, but not like this; not without a pay-off. Essentially, Arthur had robbed her. (And somewhere, beneath all that pity, there was something else, too. Something much harder to describe. A vague feeling of... satisfaction? Wonderful. Was she such a monster now that she celebrated an innocent woman's despair? It was getting more and more difficult to understand her own emotions, really.)

As deep in thought as she was, Morgan only noticed that Guinevere went to sleep when she was already there. It, uh, wasn't an ideal situation. ...Shit. Shit, pretend you're still asleep! Something in her brain must have short-circuited, because there was no other explanation for what she proceeded to do. Instead of, you know, closing her eyes and rolling on her other side, Morgan practically slammed her body into the ground. "Ouch!" Uh oh. That... was far from stealthy.
 
Guinevere doesn't have much time to quell with the storm still raging in her chest when she hears -- Morgan? "--Shit." An automatic response to the unexpected slips from her before she can stop it. Pulling herself upright, she briskly presses the heels of her palms to her eyes (they might be a little wet, but no one else needs to know that) before glancing at the other woman to make sure she's all right. Oh. She fell. Onto the... ground. In her night dress. Well, this certainly isn't something she sees every day. It's rare that Morgan isn't the epitome of bewitching elegance. (Bewitching? Really!?) This whole day has been jam-packed with firsts for them, though, so why should they stop now? "Um... are you okay?" The space is small enough that all she has to do is lean forward to offer Morgan her hand and help her up.

"I know it's... small. If you toss and turn, it can be dangerous. Trust me, I've fallen out of bed plenty of times." Guinevere huffs a laugh and averts her eyes, cradling her neck in the palm of her hand. Doesn't know why she's rambling, now. Maybe it's the emotional whiplash of it all? She'd expected to have a quiet hour or two to tame the beast her fears were accumulating into. And it still runs wild and free with the racing of her heart, teeth bared and sharp... leaves her restless. Vulnerable. Or maybe that's the tiredness messing with her head. It's also becoming apparent to her now, knowing what Camelot's like, just how shabby her little tent looks in comparison. It's never something she's had to feel self conscious about before. And she's never seen someone's material possessions as an equivalent to their worth in this world. But for some reason, her cheeks burn pink, and she's thankful for the cover of the dark. Considering it's a place where she's spent so much of her time, it's... strangely personal, to share it with Morgan like this. "I know it's probably, uh, generous to define these as beds. You get used to it, though, when it's all you've got."

"...It might sound strange, but I have trouble getting to sleep in Camelot. The first night was the worst. It was so different. I'd never had a room of my own like that." Guinevere smiles then, reaching at the end of her sleeping bag for the clean shirt she'd brought with her. The one she's in now is still all ripped up and covered in blood from earlier. She'll have to leave it here, too. Can't have anyone finding it when they get back, or Arthur will know for sure that something happened. "I'll even sleep on the floor sometimes if it gets real bad."

Geez. Morgan probably doesn't want to hear about any of this. Guinevere turns so her back faces Morgan before voicing her intentions. "Er... I'm going to changed out of this real quick. Just so you know." She bites her lip. She's done this thousands of times in front of girls she's shared a space with before -- but considering the direction the conversation took earlier, it makes her heart beat just a little faster. It takes longer than usual for her to pull her shirt off -- moving her arm is difficult in the delicate state it's in right now. Her back's covered in a plethora of jarring scars, but she assumes Morgan's not watching at this point, so she tries not to feel too self conscious about those either. She slips the clean shirt over her head, breathes out slowly. "Alright." She turns around and bites her lip. Considering it's awkward enough as is, she decides to save slipping out of her trousers for when she's under the covers.

"You probably want to get some sleep and... and I keep running my mouth." Guinevere blushes again. "I'll stop. Sorry."
 
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"Yes. Yes, I am fine," Morgan said, feeling anything but fine. It was a good thing, really, that Camelot had taught her to lie so well. Without that daily practice, she would likely have been on her knees right now, begging Guinevere to forgive her for eavesdropping. As it was, though, Morgan didn't even blush. (Okay, she may have, but not for the lies. It was just that being there with her felt weirdly intimate, okay?! How was one to share a bedroom with someone and not react like this? That her mind went to the, um, activities people usually engaged in in such spaces was only normal. Just... basic associations. Brains simply worked like that!)

Figuring that she couldn't possibly embarrass herself further, Morgan accepted the hand. "It's not the bed's fault. I'm just a messy sleeper, that is all. The bed could be the size of a courtyard and I'd still find a way to fall out of it anyway." Which wasn't even a lie. Considering the amounts of fresh bruises Morgan tended to wake up with, it was a small wonder she managed to get any rest at all. (Perhaps it would have been easier to sleep if in an environment where one did not have to worry about assassins and the like, but sadly, they didn't live in an ideal world. Not even remotely so.)

"It's not that strange," Morgan whispered into the darkness. Sleeping soundly in the home of the man who apparently pressured you to marry him-- yeah, she wouldn't have been able to do that, either. (Irrationally, a new surge of hatred for her brother rose in her chest. Morgan hadn't thought she was capable of disliking him more than she already had, but you learned something new every day, she supposed. Seriously, though. With so many ladies vying for his attention, why had he done that? For the power trip? How utterly disgusting.) "They say that Camelot rests upon the bones of the old ones, so you may be sensitive to that influence," she quickly came up with an excuse. Admitting that she had heard the exchange was, of course, completely out of question. Still, maybe Morgan should let her know she was on her side somehow? Not that her plight bothered her that much, but-- uh, Guinevere could make for a fine ally. No, really, it made sense! Where else would she find someone so close to Arthur who also had a good reason to despise him? Avalon would gain a lot from their cooperation, Morgan was sure.

"Ah, of course. Worry not, you shall have the privacy needed to do that." And, as she promised that, Morgan turned away from her. (She may have been interested, yes, yet she also wasn't her brother; looking at her now would have brought her nothing but guilt. How did he even manage to exist like that, knowing what he did? Or had he fooled himself into believing the poor damsel from the wastelands would come to see him as her hero in the shining armor anyway? That was... arrogant enough for it to be true, actually.)

"No, I don't mind. I've gotten some sleep before you barged in anyway." Morgan was sitting in her sleeping bag now, her lower half covered, but the rest of her body bare. The night dress showed more than it concealed with it being sleeveless, and-- oh. In the faint moonlight, it quickly became apparent she had some scars of her own, high on her shoulders on the places that were usually hidden from sight. "Guinevere? I wanted to apologize," she heard herself saying. "I-- wasn't always fair to you, for reasons outside of your control. Now, I'm not claiming there weren't moments when you were insufferable, but often, I simply resented the position I was put into. That was uncalled for."
 
“Insufferable? Me?” Guinevere jests gently, brushing a scandalized hand to her chest. Her smile then gradually dissolves into something subdued and thoughtful. Morgan seems softer, with the silver of moonlight on her skin and hair... What brought this on, anyway? There's a quiet rustling as she settles into her own sleeping bag. Sinking against the bed of misshapen pillows is like coming home and the familiar sensation makes her sigh. She turns her head against her pillow so she's looking at Morgan, as though eye contact might attest to the sincerity of her own response. “It’s okay. I mean, from the very start, no one wanted anything to do with me. You might as well have been the only person I ever got to spend time with other than Arthur... and the whole setup seemed like it was punishment for both of us. It was obvious that you were forced to put up with me. So maybe there was some part of me that resented it, too.”

Guinevere averts her eyes after that. All the fears that've been chasing her around are biting at her ankles. The truth is, she'd really be lost without Morgan. Anyone who hadn't been so strict with her wouldn't have gotten through to her quite the same way. She'd been right about that whole mess with Lancelot, hadn't she? And Guinevere had to rely on all the lessons prior to fix it. The ladies of Camelot would have eaten her alive if she hadn't been privy to that knowledge beforehand.

“Arthur’s not... I know he’s not going to put up with my inexperience forever. He’ll expect me to act like I’m supposed to. I need to take things more seriously, or...” Or what? On the surface Arthur treats her with the tenderness that one might expect from a man in love. But the truth is, he'll say he cares about her with words when his actions say the opposite. Maybe he cares that he has her in his grasp, that his rules give him clearance to take her hands and kiss her cheek... but he doesn’t care about her. About the way she’s feeling, how she’s adjusting to her new life, how alienated she’s felt, or just how much pressure he’s setting down on her shoulders. Not to mention all the backwards views of the kingdom he preaches about force her to go against every fibre of her being. "Or I guess I'll make a pretty lousy queen." She tries in vain to laugh at herself. It's a lame lie, sure, but she's trying to keep up the charade here.

“Your advice is hard to hear sometimes, Morgan, but I do need it.” Need you, she’s tempted to say, but that seems... Well, wasn't it Morgan herself who told her that when she became queen, she wouldn’t be permitted to have close relationships with her subjects? That they wouldn’t have much reason see each other anymore? It was this time just yesterday that she stared at the ceiling in Camelot, confronting the fact that her future would likely consist of long days spent in solitary confinement, meant only to be interrupted when Arthur deigned to give her his attention. (And that doesn’t come as a relief, more like a reason to shudder. What happens when they're married and he expects to take more than just her hand in his?)

There's no denying that today was... nice. Existing outside of Camelot alongside Morgan was nice. (Nice or maybe something else -- something more? ) Taking down that monster together gave her a thrill like she hasn't felt in months and hearing the sound of her name on Morgan's lips without a title attached to it makes her heart flutter. But it’s not like her life before now was simple. She’s not naive enough to assume that when they return, the cruel reality of her new life won’t snap right back into place. That Camelot's backwards ways won't try to pit them against each other again. (And the thought of Morgan ignoring her in the halls again, after everything that happened between them out here, just the thought makes part of her curl up and die.) Guinevere's not naive... but she's not prepared, either. She's afraid to lean towards the warmth blossoming in her heart, towards all those things Sam and Tamara observed... because it might just consume her whole.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” She confesses softly, bringing the bear with the scar to her chest. It's like she's suddenly reverted to her younger self -- all those nights she'd lie awake with Jen, explaining her deepest fears and nightmares in the dark. As often as she tries to ignore it, there's no avoiding the fact that her twin sister would know exactly what to do in her shoes right now. Oh and she would absolutely thrive playing the role of a queen, wouldn't she? Guinevere closes her eyes tight to ward the thoughts off.
 
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...ugh. Morgan didn't think she could possibly feel more embarrassed about all of this, but somehow, Guinevere's comment about only really getting to spend time with Arthur and her made it even worse. He, a condescending asshole, and she-- well, pretty much the same, if she had to be honest. (Morgan had never pressured her into a marriage, sure, but that was like, bare minimum. It didn't even mean you were being particularly nice; just that you weren't completely irredeemable in your assholery.) All in all, what a grand reception! And even after all of that, Guinevere had still gone out of her way to-- well, to make her feel included. Not totally uncomfortable in the new territory. Had Camelot taken her compassion away from her, too? Because that was exactly what she should have done for her, knowing just how harsh life could be there, too. Especially for a woman who had ambitions greater than becoming the world's most accomplished embroider!

"That he really isn't," Morgan nodded. Was that a hint of sadness in her eyes? Possibly, though it may as well have been caused by the way light settled on her face. Everything, after all, looked more melancholic in the moonlight. "You do probably have time, though. Arthur is aware of who you are and where you came from. If he had wanted a perfect lady right from the onset, he would have chosen one, I think. So many used to throw themselves at his feet! You have no idea." Maybe that was actually the reason he hadn't? The appeal of 'taming' a wild woman? That sounded likely enough. Arthur had always coveted that which didn't belong to him. (He always got it somehow, too. Why did the gods love him so? Yet another question that would most likely never receive a satisfying answer. Lately, all of them were like that.)

"But-- yes. You do need to learn how to behave yourself. You wouldn't go hunt those monsters without arming yourself, now would you?" Morgan asked, her voice smooth and pleasant. Gone was the usual edge that seemed to be reserved for their lessons; now, she talked to her like one might address a friend. A bizarre notion, really. The concept of 'friendship' just wasn't something that had ever been relevant in her life. People simply preferred to stay away, and she did, too. The system worked rather well. "It's the same principle here. So, yes. You'll have to wear the right dresses, say the right niceties and follow the right rules." Because if she didn't? A single step in the wrong direction could have consequences beyond her imagination, though Guinevere-- probably realized that on some level, actually. Her admission, at least, suggested so. (Gods, it really was tragic, wasn't it? Just like watching an eagle's wings being clipped.)

Led by some unknown instinct, Morgan raised her hand and placed it on hers; the movement was hesitant, with her touch feeling almost feather-like. "That is normal. Nobody was born knowing these things, Guinevere. You will learn with practice, and-- well. It doesn't mean that you have to become what they want you to be. Not necessarily. Illusions are a lady's best friend, after all. If it seems like you're doing what you're supposed to, you can get away with many, many things." Even with spearheading an actual rebellion, it seemed, and that was only natural; wasn't silk the best hiding place for steel? That's a conversation for another day, though.

"I can teach you how to do that should you wish so," Morgan smiled softly. The shadows painted strange pictures on her face, and perhaps that was the reason she looked... slightly unsure of herself. That expression, too, appeared out of place on her. "Or I can try and brainwash you through magic so that you enjoy not being able to do anything," she teased, composed once again. "Your choice, really." And-- okay, perhaps it was dumb of her to offer it so openly, but it wasn't like Guinevere would dare to tattle on her. Not with Morgan knowing about her trips to the wastelands anyway.
 
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Much like the moonlight makes everything on Morgan look softer, the light shining on Guinevere's eyes seems to amplify the fear she's always hiding when she opens them again. It's not that she doesn't appreciate the sentiment... it's just... will all of this fade to dust when they return to Camelot? Like cold ashes at her feet, a harrowing reminder of something that kept her warm? The brush of Morgan's hand against hers, the sheer gentleness of it, coaxes her to meet her halfway. Her eyes flit to Morgan's hand, then up to her eyes to gauge her sincerity. It's clear that her touch doesn't intend to take anything away from her. It offers to lift her up, to help her stand and keep fighting. And the apology she gave just now meant something, didn't it? Maybe things... wouldn't be exactly the same in Camelot when they returned. At least, while they remained out of sight. Like right now, she supposes. She curls her toes to cope with the skittering feeling in her heart, decidedly not giving it a name.

Illusions and armor. What, she wonders, does Morgan manage to get away with in Camelot? Well there's... her research. They had made a promise around it, not to tell Arthur about what the other was doing out here.

Guinevere sits up, stuffed bear sliding into her lap, and her mind lingers briefly on what it'd be like to glide her fingers through the spaces between Morgan's. Her cheeks take on a pink tinge and she keeps herself perfectly still, deciding not to let her actions spur her on to a place that might get her in worse trouble than she's already in. The anxiousness glazed in her eyes seems to melt away as they crinkle at her joke. Trying to rid herself of the unsteadiness that's come over her, she releases a long breath in attempt to expel everything. "It might surprise you, but I'm not a total novice when it comes to illusions." She doesn't elaborate, though. Rather, she flicks Jen's bear on the forehead and watches as it falls to the ground. It was just easier when someone was around to play the role of the actress. "But still... God knows I need all the help I can get. Camelot's so different from everything I had to deal with back then."

"You know, I tried to handle that whole thing with Lancelot, after... after we talked." Yeah. If they could even define whatever that was as a talk. Strange to think that that was the last time they'd seen each other, before today. It was painful, true. But if it hadn't happened, she doesn't even want to know how disastrous it could have been for her. "Put all your lessons to good use, too. Hopefully I didn't screw it all up."

She tilts her head back as panic rises in her again, as everything she'd dealt with over the last few days rushes back over her like a cold bucket of water. "Oh shit. Now I've got to pretend to be good at... at making flower arrangements. And listening to those bards with a straight face and..." And, okay, she genuinely laughs a little at herself, there. It was all overkill, wasn't it? What was Arthur even trying to prove? Waving his influence and things in front of her, like he's trying to bribe her, like he thinks she's so eager to take something from him when he's really the one who's taken almost everything from her. "Morgan, are you sure you want to help me? Because-- well, I'm sure you already know this-- but you'll seriously have your work cut out for you."
 
Somehow, it was easier to watch Guinevere under the guise of darkness. Everything felt less intense, much like when you shielded your eyes to look up at the sun, and it seemed safer, too. Staring just wasn't a sin any longer. No, it was pretty much required. How else were you supposed to gauge your partner's reactions? A skilled conversationalist had to pay attention to them, and that was what Morgan did. The king's sister had to mind her manners, after all. And so what if it also gave her the excuse to look at her? To look beyond the surface and see, really see what she was made of? (Strength, yes, but wrapped in fragility. Morgan didn't think she had witnessed that side of her before, with all her posturing and scowls and insistence on breaking every single rule in existence. Hm. Perhaps that was what she meant by the illusions? Or was she talking about the whole mess with Arthur? Either way, it didn't feel appropriate to pry. Not even remotely so.)

"Oh? Well, then perhaps you shall prove it to me one day," Morgan tilted her head aside, her lips curled up in a mysterious smile. The hand she had placed on hers slowly grew warmer, and for some reason, it grounded her. It was something real, she supposed. A proof that, despite all the odds, this truly was happening. They were sitting there together, existing as-- well, something more than just the king's fiance and his sister. As something beyond the archetypes. (As Guinevere and Morgan, maybe. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. Those labels-- who was she without them, after all? Morgan had embraced them for so long that they had melted into her skin, and perhaps everything else had been lost along with that. Perhaps she really was empty.)

"Good," Morgan said quietly. "It's better not to let such things fester. If you let the rumors go unchecked, they'll take on a life of their own." Unconsciously, she caressed her palm with her thumb; it was a gentle touch, and easily missable at that, but yeah, it happened. Undoubtedly so. "When I was a teenager, there was this woman I hated. Annalise. She used to go out of her way just to make my life unpleasant." Even more unpleasant than it had been, which really was saying something. "I retaliated by spreading rumors of her sleeping with her best friend's fiance. I may or may not have created circumstances during which the two of them spent some time alone, and I also may have sent her flowers in his name. Needless to say, people ran with it, and soon enough, her reputation was in ruins. That's how easy it is to destroy someone in Camelot. A tiny push here and there, and others will take care of it on your behalf. That's why you need to be careful." Honestly, that she had gone and tried to fix it all was a good sign. And even if her attempt turned out to be less than fruitful-- well, Morgan had her ways.

"Flower arrangements aren't that complex. I mean, just put one flower next to another," she rolled her eyes. "You'll be the queen. The ladies-in-waiting will praise whatever you happen to make just to earn your love. Trust me, it won't matter." Her expression grew softer, however, when Guinevere asked her question. "Do I look like someone who is scared of a good challenge? Besides, if Arthur wants me to spend my time with you, I'd rather spend it doing something useful. Who knows? Maybe you'll find a way to make it worth my while. As far as bribes are concerned, I happen to adore coffee," she teased. "Just a hint. Of course, if you'd rather be creative, I can leave it up to you, too. Any ideas?"
 
Though it might be subtle, Guinevere's heart is swept up in a flurry when she feels the stroke of Morgan's thumb against her hand. It almost makes her shiver... but perhaps it's also because the sequence of events she's describing is terrifying, too. All the cunning ways that people maneuver to get by in Camelot. (Maybe it raises concern, too, because what did this Annalise do to warrant that sort of response? She hates to think of Morgan being bullied, but... it isn't her place to ask about that. Not now.) Either way, this is surviving in a completely different way than what she's used to-- where her strength and wit on the battlefield decided whether she got to fight to live another day. She's never had to navigate a minefield of relationships and gossip before. And, well, her carelessness could give people ammunition to use against her. With a tongue she has trouble holding, a knack for throwing things, scowling and not to mention her naivety. Oh boy. Is it the exhaustion, or is she getting lightheaded? Guinevere looks for the good in people, especially if they show her what she perceives as kindness... she's been told it's both a blessing and a curse. Who's to say that she won't be manipulated? Especially in the position she's taking? She pushes down on the fear once more before it can wrap itself around her throat.

Breathe, she reminds herself. Morgan's here with her now. She's offering her help.

"--No. You're too tough for that." Guinevere responds with a smile. If there's anything she knows about Morgan, it's that she's not the type of person to give up. It must have taken resilience made of steel to survive in Camelot. And though she manages a short laugh with the teasing, in all honesty... the self-conscious feeling from before creeps back up to the surface and pricks at her cheeks. Nothing she could give would truly feel like it came from her. Not really, anyway. Even so, she's sure to make a mental note about the coffee. "I'll keep that in mind. I'm afraid don't really have anything of my own to give as far as bribes are concerned, though. Normally I'd offer to fight for your honor with my fists, but I don't think that'd do either of us any good in Camelot."

Relying on Arthur for everything, for the rest of her days. Ugh. She sours at the thought. If she truly wants to make an impression, she ought to give something of her own. She knows Morgan's not being serious, here. That she doesn't really expect any sort of grand gesture in return for her help, but... Guinevere takes the bear with the scar and holds it up towards her.

"This is the only thing I've been able to hold onto all these years... it was never valuable enough to get stolen." She admits sheepishly, "I know you're wondering what use you'd have for a shabby old bear, but she makes for good company when you're trying to get some sleep!"
 
Too tough. Was she, though? Sometimes, the line between weakness and strength could be so, so blurry than Morgan didn't know anymore. Take conformity, for example. Did it really act as her shield, allowing her to work in peace, or was it just a quiet surrender? Ultimately, that would probably depend on the outcome of her plans. History was, after all, written by the winners, and whether she would end up as a mere footnote-- well, only her own actions would determine that. (Somehow, it offered her solace. Try as you might, you could never escape from your own responsibility, and no amount of stupid titles would ever change that. The world didn't care about your delusions. It would still turn just like it had for thousands of years, slowly grinding everything to dust. And, okay, that may have been a little depressing, but the impermanence? Something about that appealed to her. Dying was, after all, still better than stagnation.)

"For my honor," Morgan repeated, amusement tinging her voice. Really, who even did that anymore? Especially with someone like her? Not that it wasn't sort of sweet, but the idea seemed so out of place she couldn't help but snicker. "That ship has sailed a long time ago, I'm afraid. So, unless you can travel in time, you'll have to think of something else." Admittedly, it was a shame. As irresponsible as it would have been, Morgan did enjoy the mental picture of Guinevere challenging some knight to a duel. And if she did that to defend her personally? Gods, Camelot itself would shake in its foundations. Just the idea of her brother's expression-- no, she couldn't even think about it. The temptation to laugh would be too strong, and there was no guarantee she would be able to keep it in check when facing him later.

The smile on her lips died down somewhat, though, when Guinevere actually handed her the bear. Well, okay. Morgan hadn't actually been all that serious, but here they went. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, dumbfounded, as she looked the toy over. A gift. A gift she had asked for, so it probably didn't mean that much in the grand scheme of things, but still-- Morgan didn't get them too often. (Okay, 'never' might have been a more honest assessment of the situation.) "Thank you. I'm not sure I can accept this, though. Clearly, she spent a lot of time with you, and so she must be emotionally attached." In other words, it wasn't right to take it away from her. Unless-- "... but I can watch her for you, if you'd like. She would be safe with me. That, at least, I can promise." Why was she even doing that? Morgan herself didn't know, but maybe having a piece of Guinevere's old life there with her... could be kind of nice. For research reasons, of course. One's past could tell you a lot about a person! Experimentally, Morgan squeezed the bear; it was soft, pleasant and, indeed, probably good for sleeping.

"There has to be some story to it," she looked up to Guinevere, her eyes inquisitive. Inquisitive and alive with-- well, something hard to describe. Warmth, maybe? "How did you get a toy like that?" The irony of her rejecting Guinevere's offer to tell her more about herself only to inquire about it later wasn't lost on her, but again, few things in life were stale. And stale opinions? That was the worst of plagues.
 
“Nah... it’s simple, really. You come across all sorts of things that people left behind when you’re on the run.” Guinevere offers lightly, slipping halfway into a reverie. Well, it’s not so simple in her memory, though. Childhood was a blur of searching for clever hiding places, getting in and out of trouble, her and Jen learning how to take care of each other as they passed through unfamiliar towns. Said goodbye to friends of circumstance and good riddance to those who used them. Only ever felt safe when they were on the move. And... together. But, yeah, she’s not about to unpack all of that right now. “It... well-- they were abandoned in this decimated old building.” She reaches for Jen’s bear, holds it out so they’re side by side. Always feels like a mockery, seeing them together now, so she sets it aside a moment later. “It was a stormy night and the mecha beasts were long gone by then. They'd torn through almost everything, though. These bears were the sole survivors in the wreckage, sitting side by side on a broken shelf. And, I don't know... at the time, they seemed special. And comforting. Held onto them ever since.”

She's sidestepping a good bit of the story without mentioning Jen, but... is she ever really prepared to talk about her sister? The answer is a definitive no. Even if the warmth in Morgan's eyes nearly inspires her to open up about everything.

“They’re identical. You can only tell them apart because this one’s got a scar. Like me.” Guinevere traces the scar under her own eye with her index finger. “I felt kind of bad giving it to her, but you know. Everyone told her she looked like a badass afterwards, so it wasn’t too bad.” The way she talks, it's hard to tell if she's still referring to the bear or if she's talking about herself. Thinking back, Jen was more upset about the scar then she was. Always claimed to have phantom pains in the same place... but she was probably just being dramatic. And resentful.

Guinevere yawns in a way that's almost catlike and sinks down in her sleeping bag, blonde waves resting over her pillow like a lion's mane around her head.

"I know it might be silly... and I won't be offended if you don't want it." Guinevere blinks slowly, exhaustion from the day's events settling over her like a warm, heavy blanket. "It's just that I appreciate your offer to help. It's important to me... and I guess it's kind of a stupid pride thing, but I wanted to thank you with something that Arthur can't take credit for. That's really silly, right?" She smiles, all sleepy and soft. 'Silly', maybe, because Arthur is going to be her husband and she probably shouldn't care this much. "--You mentioned coffee before. How do you take it?"
 
"Survivors, huh?" Morgan looked at the bear. It was silly to draw parallels between the toy and Guinevere, really - or even between the toy and herself - but sometimes, you needed that sort of silliness. Sometimes, you also needed to relate to someone, even if the only comparison that offered itself was one to a stupid plushie. (Especially then.) Not that Guinevere suffered from that, of course; she couldn't, not with the way everyone had flocked to her the second she had entered the camp, and that made Morgan feel... both impressed and vaguely jealous. Just what had she done to earn that kind of loyalty from her people? (Deep inside, though, she knew that didn't matter. Even if Morgan were to learn from her-- well, the context meant everything, and her reality was too different from hers. A witch just wouldn't elicit the same kind of response.)

"It's not that I don't want it," she said, only to find out to her own surprise that it was actually true. Well. Stranger things had happened, she supposed. And the whole 'Arthur taking credit for it' thing? Gods, she understood that on such a deep level it almost hurt physically. It was as if-- as if an iron fist gripped her heart and refused to let go. Eventually, though, its hold over her weakened, and Morgan could speak once again. "I merely didn't expect it, that's all. Me and receiving gifts-- that's not a usual combination. But it's... nice, I think." A blush once again graced her cheeks, which only made her feel all the more thankful for the darkness. What was wrong with her, anyway? Talking to the girl shouldn't-- shouldn't feel like this. As if a single word from her had the power to destroy the solid ground beneath her feet. "To have something he doesn't know about." Something he likely wouldn't approve of, either, because toys were only meant to entertain children, though Morgan didn't mention that. Not being in love with him and defying him so openly were two different things, after all. Guinevere may have wished to keep her freedom, or at least an illusion of it, but maybe she preferred not to get in trouble when it could be avoided. No, she would have to ease her into this.

"You seem tired, though. Let's go to sleep. Tomorrow may be challenging, and I'd rather not be killed because of poor focus." Morgan slipped into her sleeping bag entirely, allowing the warmth to envelop her. It seemed that that was the end of it, but then, a few minutes later: "... sleep well, Guinevere."

The next day, it was time to say goodbye. Staying longer than that would have been pleasant, perhaps, but also irresponsible. That Arthur had embarked on some grand quest of his ultimately meant nothing when even walls had eyes and ears in Camelot, and their absence had surely been noticed. One day probably wasn't too catastrophic, though. Morgan could easily claim she had spent it in her chambers, engrossed in whatever novel she had borrowed from the castle library that week, and Guinevere-- let's say that Guinevere had been ill. Nice, believable excuses. If they spent more days in the camp, though? Now that was where things would start to fall apart; even sick people had to eat, after all, and sooner rather than later, a maid would enter her chamber to make sure that the future queen was alright. No, they just couldn't afford to linger there for much longer.

And so they didn't.

"Come again soon, Gwen," Tamara wrapped her in a bear hug. "You know your spot by the campfire will always be waiting for you." Sam and the others came to say their goodbyes to her, too; it appeared that everyone, no matter how old or young, had something to share with her. Those conversations seemed very much private, though, and so Morgan distanced herself-- or attempted to, at the very least.

"Hey, pretty lady!" one of the girls - Mia, maybe? - demanded her attention.

"Yes?" Morgan knelt down to her, unsure of what to expect from this interaction. How did one even talk to children? In Camelot, they usually kept them away from her, possibly thinking they'd end up in her stew or some nonsense like that. The last kid she had effectively dealt with had been Arthur, and-- yeah, those weren't good memories.

"Promise to take care of Guinevere!" she blurted out, her eyes big and serious.

"Eh?"

"I said what I said! She's strong, but strong people need to catch a break, too, you know? And you're her wife!"

Um. That was the first time she had heard of that. Morgan knew she should deny it, knew that she should tell the little girl the truth, but somehow, the words refused to come out. (Wife. How had she never noticed how sweet the word tasted? A symphony made of one syllable.) "Uh. I-- I will," she promised, not knowing what to do with her fingers, her hands or herself in general. Gods, just how flustered could she get? It was just-- just an innocent mistake. What did children know of these things, anyway? Very little, apparently, because there was nothing between her and Guinevere. Nothing!

"Your friends are pleasant to be around," she told Guinevere when they left the camp behind. Once again, the greyness embraced them, and the world felt just a little bit colder. "Not sure why some of them seem to think we're married, though."
 
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Guinevere always carries a melancholic feeling in her heart when she walks away from camp. It's like leaving her family behind. Once upon a time, she had told Arthur that, on this very path. That they were like her family and that she would do anything to take care of them. And then they'd walked through Camelot's gates, they shut behind her, and he'd forbade her from ever seeing them again. Needless to say, it still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. From the start, she'd tried-- tried so hard to find some good in him. If only to make this situation easier on her. But nothing seemed to work. Morgan speaks up and she realizes just how grateful she is to have a companion this time, the first person she's found in Camelot who's undoubtably on her side after their conversation last night and --

Hold up -- married? Did she say married!?

Her cheeks only have time to flush red as roses before she hears the scruff of a lone mecha beast's claws against the earth, dashing into their path. One of the usual ones. Used to be... a fox, maybe? Guinevere instantly takes her sword in her right hand, slashes it through in one quick strike, and nudges it aside with her foot to clear their path before carrying on as though nothing had happened. Never a dull moment in the wastes. No time to get bored. Not like... well, Camelot. Never in her life has she had to spend so much time with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company, never had the chance to get bored when there was always something productive to be done. Even when she was alone, it didn't mean she could let her guard down. The one time she did, well... there's always something lurking in the shadows. Anyway... that short encounter didn't provide enough of a distraction for her to shirk the embarrassment. Maybe she should have pretended to struggle, carried things on a little longer. She clears her throat, attempting to take it in stride with a laugh.

"Ah, kids. They are so funny." She is trying really hard here, sheathing her blade. "Um, maybe it was your dress? Tamara's always telling the kids these romantic fairytales and... must've put some ideas in their heads."

Guinevere twists some of her hair around her fingers. It occurs to her that she misplaced her rubber band to tie it back up. Misplaced... well, she'd shot it at Sam. Same difference. It had happened after she had compared what she and Morgan had to-- ugh. She might not be in love with Arthur but there's no way in hell she can make a move on his sister! Not only is it wrong on so many levels, but it wouldn't be fair. Guinevere's life is barely even hers anymore. And life in Camelot is hard enough as is for them both without adding some secret forbidden romance into the equation. It'd just make all of this harder. Not to mention there's no chance of a romance happening in the first place when she's certain that Morgan isn't interested in her like that. In fact, she'd be better off if she erased the notion of romance from her head altogether!

"...They're pretty great, though, aren't they? Like my family." Guinevere tries to smile, but it's falls a bit somber. "I think they were just excited to see I'm not all alone in Camelot. Um. Not that I'm... completely alone. I mean, I've got Arthur. Obviously. And we're getting married and that means I'm not alone." Oh god, she could honestly slap herself right now.
 
Morgan flinched when Guinevere unsheathed her sword, the sound of it grating against her ears. It was a threat and a promise all at once, both safety and danger, and in that moment, she found herself grateful for Guinevere being the one to wield it. Because she-- well, she wasn't complicated. Not in the way other people from Camelot were, with all their fake smiles and empty flattery and willingness to stab you in the back whenever you were stupid enough to turn around. Guinevere, though? With her, Morgan was reasonably sure the blade wouldn't end up lodged in her stomach. Not one hundred percent sure because only fools ever allowed themselves to believe in other people so blindly, but-- yeah. As close to one hundred percent as it could possibly get. (Perhaps it was inadvisable of her to trust the other woman that fast; all things considered, they still didn't know each other. They were just strangers, bound to one another through circumstances neither of them approved of, and it would take years before she could hope to get a glimpse of who Guinevere truly was. People just worked like that. And yet-- yet. When all of those who had betrayed her had been those she understood well, was it really that stupid of her to give the benefit of doubt to someone incomprehensible? To someone not yet corrupted by Camelot's spirit?)

And, sure enough, her trust paid off. Before Morgan could as much as blink, the monster was dead. Guinevere... was really good at those things, wasn't she? Swordplay wasn't something she was an expert at, but even she could recognize the easy, practiced elegance of her movements. More than anything else, it resembled a dance. A dance both beautiful and deadly, just like the woman standing before her. ...what? That was a completely normal observation to make, wasn't it? Nobody with a working pair of eyes could deny either Guinevere's beauty or her skill with the sword. Morgan just... enjoyed being truthful, if only in her head.

"That was a nice kill. But yes, I see, that makes sense. I don't imagine they get to meet women in dresses often." Was that a sting of disappointment in her gut? Why, though? Had she been hoping that the kid had seen some sort of closeness between them, no matter how wrong she would have been about that? Gods, how utterly pathetic. Morgan le Fey didn't need friends. Those were a liability, weak spots in your armor. She only needed people to use in pursuit of her own ends, and that was the entire reason she had agreed to help Guinevere in the first place. Any feelings of compassion were just-- a byproduct, really. Something she could shed if she wanted to because her control over her emotions was flawless, thank you very much.

... at least until it wasn't. Because hearing Guinevere gush about Arthur? How he was going to make her not feel alone? That did push her buttons for some reason. It must have been because Guinevere had lied to her, Morgan supposed. Even after she had offered her a helping hand, the girl still stuck with her initial story. Not that that wasn't wise, but didn't she deserve something for her kindness? A real proof of her loyalty? (Yes, that was what made her mad, not the idea of her brother caressing her, kissing her, claiming her as his own. That she was completely fine with. No objections there!)

"Oh, you must be so happy," she said, feeling more than a little petty. So Guinevere still wanted to play these games with her, huh? No problem, Morgan could deliver. "To marry someone like him, I mean. Arthur is such a good man. I have to admit, though," she smiled sweetly, "that as his sister, I just don't see the appeal romance-wise. What made you fall in love with him, Guinevere?" And, okay, maybe that was an asshole move, but Guinevere had brought it up first. Besides, she did need to learn how to answer such questions with a straight face. If she looked thoroughly disgusted every time someone asked her about her supposed darling-- well, that wouldn't work out, now would it?
 
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"Oh. Yeah. So... so happy." Guinevere repeats thickly. Her words say happy, but her eyes say mortified. Blinking rapidly, she tugs even harder at her hair, stares at the ground as though the answers she's looking for might be inscribed on the path under their feet. God. She dug this grave for herself and now she's got to crawl in it. All that time she'd had to herself hadn't gone to waste entirely with boredom, after all. She had to give it some thought, make it sound believable. She tended to recycle the bullshit the ladies of Camelot were always prattling on about in these situations. But Morgan is... different. She wants to trust her openly, but... she's just not there yet. Doesn't mean there's not potential, of course not, but -- everything she's done so far rests on this one thing. This one, stupid lie. And it might as well be a teetering glass vase on a table at this moment. Lying leaves a sour taste in her mouth, especially when she's lying to someone who might be her only true ally in Camelot, so she decides to try and put an honest piece of herself in her answer.

Guinevere suppresses a cringe and hastens to school her expression into something that's... resigned. She knows she's anchored to a fate that's going to drown her so the others can live steadily. In all that time she'd had to herself, she'd almost come to accept it as a sort of death. (And that, somehow, made her feel almost at peace with the pain.) So even when the implications all stab into her gut like a thousand knives, she takes every single one of them. "W-well, it's like the dress thing, I guess... when you're a little girl growing up in the wastes, you don't dream about getting married. You're too concerned with living to see another day for that." She thinks about the women and all their empty chatter when they dine together. She's not like them, though, and she can't pretend to be. There has to be truth mixed in with the lies, or everything she's built would come tumbling down like a house of cards. "I guess... he's gentle with me." Even though it all feels like an illusion that could shatter, if she says or does the wrong thing. Like Morgan said, it's the guise of Camelot and it's rules. His touch itself might be gentle, but his intentions... the way he does it without asking first... it forces her to swallow. Hard.

"Not like most of the men I've dealt with on the outside." Her eyes darken for a moment. That... is true. For now, at least. Ugh. Like that slimy guy Jen brought home one day. The way he'd kissed her when her sister left the room, all teeth and smoke, the way he said they might as well be the same person, that it didn't matter. (It was so difficult for her to work up the nerve to tell Jen about it-- that the guy she said she loved was a terrible person. Then she'd found out Jen had been using him all along. Classic Jen.) Still. She remembers vowing to never kiss another man after that. (Girls have always been softer, kinder... for a moment she thinks of Morgan's lips and how they'd feel to touch and-- nope! Not going there. Definitely not going there.) "Never had any kind of lasting relationship... with a man before. Not even my dad. I don't even know if he's still alive. Hell, he might still be kicking somewhere, but he never came looking after --"

"Woah." She goes quiet when she their surroundings call for her attention. It feels as though they've walked into a monochrome painting, littered with dark trees that resemble skeletal claws. It's somehow got even less color than the rest of the wastes... which is really saying something. Not to mention the ominous air, the way the wind cuts through her skin with an icier chill than normal. There's almost some sort of presence, here... like ghosts are swimming all around them. Like stepping into an old abandoned house that was rumored to be haunted. "This place is... uh... creepy."
 
...gentle, Guinevere said. Yeah, Morgan didn't doubt that. Arthur really did abhor using violence against his subjects-- which was why he usually told his knights to do the job for him. If his hand wasn't the one to deliver the blow, then he wasn't really responsible, right? That, at least, seemed to be the logic here. Did he really think that people wouldn't connect the dots or did he just... not care, treasuring his fantasy of being a merciful ruler more than the actual reality? Again, it was difficult to tell; Arthur had wrapped himself in so many illusions, so many legends that even Morgan couldn't begin to untangle the mess. (Not that she really wanted to. The time where her heart may have been open to forgiveness had passed ages ago-- or, more precisely, several broken bones ago. Kinda the more relevant measuring scale, was it not? At this point, Morgan just wasn't interested in all the whys and hows. No, she was interested in making him bleed.)

"Yes," she said, none of her thoughts reflecting in her eyes, "Arthur has always been the most perfect gentleman. I can see how that might be attractive, I suppose." Not for someone like Guinevere, however, because being a gentleman-- well, that term carried a lot of implications. Implications that mostly revolved around the ways his wife had to behave. What was a gentleman, after all, without a lady to be gentle to? Without a lady to care for as if she was a helpless child? No, Guinevere certainly wouldn't enjoy that. Frustratingly, it was obvious that she knew it, too; the manner in which she refused to meet her gaze was rather telling, and the way her voice shook? All that stuttering? Gods, it must have been the most low effort lie Morgan had heard in her entire life! If Guinevere thought this would fly in Camelot, then the depths of her naivety were staggering. Soon enough, she would be surrounded by people happy to dissect every word she uttered; by people who would overanalyze every twitch in her face. A lie this blatant wouldn't go unnoticed for a second!

"It's a good reason to fall in love. The ladies will eat it up, too, mostly because they're always eager to have their biases confirmed. That part about Arthur not being like other men? Play it up," she said, slipping into her lecture mode easily. (It allowed her to put her own feelings aside, which was a welcome feature, really. Dealing with her heart breaking for the poor woman-- no, too inconvenient.) "Focus on the men from the wastelands being mindless brutes in comparison with our gentle king, and they may even forgive you your skill with the sword. You needed to defend your honor, after all." A maiden who fought to preserve her purity was a much, much more romantic image than that of a starving little girl, wasn't it? And the ladies of Camelot did love their romantic stories. They gave them the hope that their lives, too, could be magical. (Opium for the mind, truly.) "But," Morgan turned to face her, her gaze suddenly sharp, "next time you lie about something like this, you look me in the eye and smile. Smile like your life depends on it. If you have to, recall a time when you were happy to make it seem believable, but smile until your face hurts. When talking about your beloved, it shouldn't appear like you're thinking of that one time you farted in public." Maybe she was being too harsh here, but again-- Guinevere had a role to play, and her performance just wasn't cutting it. And since her survival would probably hinge on these things? Informing her of that inadequacy seemed somewhat important.

Morgan wanted to say more, wanted to offer her additional tips, though the sudden change in the atmosphere stopped her. "... this wasn't here yesterday," she whispered. Were those words meant for Guinevere or herself? Both answers seemed equally likely. "Remember those disturbance zones I talked about? We're standing in one." But how was that possible? They weren't supposed to spread this quickly! (Then again, the machines also weren't supposed to take over the world, so she guessed it fit the pattern.) "It's not safe for you to linger here," Morgan said resolutely. "The spirits are restless, and you can't cut a spirit down with your sword. Return back to Camelot. I'll join you once I'm done here." There were still theories to confirm, after all, and Morgan wasn't one to let such opportunity go to waste.
 
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Guinevere's stomach drops. She doesn't have much chance to deflect the accusation before Morgan starts supplying her with useful advice. Oh. So... she sees right through her after all. But it didn't sound as though it had surprised her -- it's as if she had somehow known all of this for far longer than that. Wow. She's... sharp. Nothing gets past Morgan ley Fey, huh? (God. An intelligent woman who could probably end her life is so damn attracti-- yikes. She needs to stop.) And, okay, she should be wrought with anxiousness over this, considering everything that's at stake, but... Morgan had offered to help her just the night before (presumably knowing this even then, based on the way she's acting now) --and she seems to be offering it now -- so is there really a good reason for Guinevere to push this flimsy lie until it escalates into an argument? What does it even matter if the notion doesn't turn her away? "They told you, didn't they? They all told you that you were too gay for this." Pressing her temples, she mutters under her breath, hushed enough that it's practically a thought, meant for her ears alone.

"--No. I'm not leaving you." Upon entering the 'disturbance zone', her response is so immediate and firm that she almost startles herself with it. Guinevere is grounded, a stark contrast to the way she'd been stumbling around a lie just a few moments earlier. Resolute enough to combat even Morgan's tone. "The monsters out here are changing. We need to stay together." She moves her hands away from her sword, as if to say she doesn't intend to wave it around or agitate any... spirits. Spirits, huh. She breathes in and out. It's odd, but it feels like she's breathing for more than one person, all of a sudden. Okay. Weird. Dismissively, she tries to wave it off, blaming it on unease from the change of atmosphere. That's must be it. "...Can't risk losing my only ally in Camelot, after all."

It's not like Morgan can make her leave, anyway. Guinevere watches her and then their surroundings with a sort of wide-eyed wonder, hands flitting to her forearms to suppress a shiver. It really is cold out here, isn't it? Or maybe it's the oppressive presence of the spirits raising goosebumps on her arms.

"Why's it called a disturbance zone, anyway?" She brushes her hand over the bark on one of the trees, tracing ridges with her fingertips. And what are the spirits capable of in a place like this -- well, she wants to ask, but suddenly her heartbeat ascends to an unfathomable pace, like it's beating for more than just one person. Guinevere doesn't appear disturbed by this outwardly, only closes her eyes against it. A wave of intentions made without words beckon to her, for her -- she recognizes it intimately as a plea for help. Pain and longing she feels as her own, coursing through her veins. She opens her eyes once more, and instead of the bleak landscape that was there before, there's... a forest. Green. Flourishing. Alive. The heartbeat of the earth and her own exist as one, flowers soft and vibrant beneath her feet. (It's beautiful, but sinister... like a siren, it intends to coax her underground. Lure her inside, embed her deep within the soil, sustain it with her life.) It's so warm, too. This kind of warmth would have been comforting, if it weren't possible for it to be so warm when the wastes are so cold -- and it's that simple distinction that causes the world to shudder around her. Everything withers and dies and collapses to it's previous state.

A long while passes where she stands still, though, not appearing as though anything out of the ordinary had just happened. Breathing a touch heavier, if anything. It's simultaneously a strange and natural experience at the same time, the way she might behave during a lucid dream. Or perhaps she can't react yet, because she can tell the spirits aren't finished with her. They're yearning for something. Need something that she can provide. Or at least... she thinks so. They're restless, Morgan had said. Guinevere's voice comes so quiet it's barely a whisper and she closes her eyes again."I wish I could do something to help them all... calm down."

And, well... Guinevere's never been one to turn her back on someone in need.
 
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Of freaking course that Guinevere refused to obey. Honestly, had she ever followed someone's advice? Once in her entire life? Because it certainly didn't look like that to Morgan. Oh fine, she thought, no sense in fighting over that. If Guinevere wanted to risk her life, then that was her prerogative. Her retreating to safety would have put her at peace, but-- well, Morgan knew how to pick her battles, and she also knew better than to argue with someone who looked at her like that. Like there were swords in her eyes as well. "As you wish, then. I urge you to be careful, though. Don't touch anything unless you have to. This place... doesn't belong to us, not in the sense that Camelot does, and so you need to behave like a respectful guest. And if anything feels strange at any point-- tell me." Not that Morgan actually knew what to expect here, though she was reasonably sure she could counter whatever the spirits threw at them. It would cost her, yes, but what in this world didn't? Everything had a price tag attached to it, and it mattered little whether you had to pay in coin, time or blood.

As she spoke, Morgan opened her bag and pulled out a thin, metallic cane. It looked ordinary, except that, when she let go of it, the artefact remained floating in the air. Gentle vibrations surrounded it, too; they resembled the pulse to which the earth breathed beneath her feet, untamed and wild and thriving despite the millennia of abuse. Gods, the sheer power almost made her shudder. "It's called a disturbance zone because I willed it so," she said. "Few people research this, and so I coined the term. It seemed... appropriate, I suppose. I mean, it is a zone and it is, uh, disturbed." Which sounded kind of stupid now that she thought of it, but really, why were things called the way they were? Usually, there was no deep meaning to it. People just needed a convenient shortcut to refer to something, and so they chose a name that seemed to fit. "Now, be quiet for a while. I need to focus." The tip of the cane was singing, after all, and all she had to do was listen. Closing her eyes, Morgan touched it again, and-- numbers.

Suddenly, numbers were everywhere, dancing behind her eyelids and entering her bloodstream and, yes, she could even taste them. That wasn't all, though. No, the numbers painted a picture. (A graph, really, but that was worth a thousand of pictures if you knew how to read it.) Gods, the corruption-- it was spreading at a much, much faster rate than Morgan had anticipated! It also seemed not to permeate the ground entirely, though? She had theorized the genetic information had been overwritten, more or less, but that didn't appear to be the case anymore. The core looked healthy, just... wrapped in that foreign substance. In the substance that could be found within those monsters as well. What did it mean exactly? That, with the right method, the soil could be restored to its former state? That the spirits could leave? Gods, her heart was beating so wildly in her chest it wouldn't surprise her if it leapt out. This was-- phenomenal. Nothing short of groundbreaking, really. Just how far did the rabbit hole go? Morgan could stay and learn more and she could... do none of that, actually. Not with Guinevere acting so weird.

"What? Help the spirits?" Morgan raised her eyebrow and turned around. "You cannot help them. They are happy with the current state of things; that's why they continue to linger here." Spirits, after all, weren't like humans. They created the rules they followed instead of adapting to pre-existing structures, and refusing to see that was a fundamental misunderstanding. (Primal forces, that was what they were. Extensions of nature itself.) Explaining that to Guinevere seemed pointless, though, because she wasn't exactly herself. That vacant stare? Yeah, not hard to figure out what had happened. "... shit," Morgan muttered under her breath. "I told you not to touch anything."

"Hey, Guinevere. Guinevere, do you hear me?" Morgan moved closer to her, tugging at her sleeve. No response. Well, alright, perhaps a more drastic approach was required. "Sorry for that," she said, and then she sent a shock wave of magic through her arm, just enough for her to snap out of this. ...or at least that was what Morgan thought would happen. Instead of that, though, there was a geyser of sparks, and a sharp pain in her hand, and-- okay, now the impact sent her flying! "Ouch," she grunted when one of the trees stopped that flight, oh so painfully. For a while, Morgan saw nothing but stars, yet not even that managed to silence the stream of questions. "What the-- You can use magic?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Because that was a magical reaction!"
 
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Guinevere can hear, somewhat, but it's all garbled and blurred, like she's underwater. Sinking, deeper and deeper. The voices around her struggle for dominance, there are too many of them, none of them distinct, but they push her to investigate this place. When she takes a step, it's like she's taking a step outside of herself. And now she's an observer more than a person, seeing a tangible version of herself standing there in the same spot. It occurs to her that she's calmer than she should be. So much calmer. No, it's not that strange to see a mirror image of herself standing there. (Growing up with an identical twin, perhaps it doesn't faze her so much. It probably should, though.) She follows outside of herself for a few more steps, but it hurts to go too far. They keep pushing her to move, though, to guide her someplace from which there's no return -- and as much as she wants to help, she realizes that she doesn't know how yet. As though sensing her hesitance, the feeling becomes like claws dragging her by the arms, cutting, making her bleed... beads rolling down her skin to the earth... and flowers push through the rot, bloom outward where it stains red. I'll come back. When she promises, she means it. When I'm ready. (Ready for what, though?) The grip on her becomes gentler, as though they understand that her sincerity rings true. But they aren't letting her go yet. Please.

Morgan's cry of pain breaks through all the noise, she finally looks behind, sees the way she falls backwards and slams into a tree. The urge to go to her side is so great that she pulls even harder. I need to stay with Morgan. With the pull of her unhesitating will to go back, the connection snaps. But the impact pushes what feels like a thousand emotions through her all at once. The life rushes back into her eyes in an instant and it occurs to her that they're wet. She's back...? Yes, it would seem that way. Shakily, she tries to breathe and it's an immediate relief that it comes normally to her again. But... she touches her cheek and catches a tear on her finger. One, then another, and oh. She's crying. There's a sting in her arm, too, and it occurs to her the injury on her arm has started bleeding again.

This is the third time she's nearly cried in front of Morgan now. And, well, there's no hiding it now. But pride could never hold her tighter than concern. Guinevere blinks through them rapidly (they don't seem to stop, now that they've started) and takes a few hesitant steps towards her.

"What was that? I didn't..." Guinevere has to take a deeper breath to quell the tremble in her words, looks inquisitively at her hands for a moment. Didn't mean to? But... that would imply that she did this. Did she do this? She supposes she must have, but she was... away. At last, and the gravity of the trance she was in hits her the way it's supposed to and fear unravels through her, accumulating with everything she's held inside up until this point. She was needed. When she breathes out on that thought, her entire being feels hollowed out from having to refuse them the help they so vehemently asked for. But she... she wasn't ready... (Again -- for what?) "I'm sorry. I don't -- I don't know what happened. Are you okay?"

She's still too frightened of herself to close the distance between them. Gives the other woman a once-over to check for injuries instead. The way Morgan's watching her, wide-eyed like that... Guinevere did do this, didn't she? But how?

"I--I didn't hurt you, did I?" She hasn't calmed down yet, not entirely -- especially when the notion of bringing Morgan any kind of pain might as well snap her right in half.
 
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