where does the good go?

Sir Leon squints down at them.

“Leon!” Gwen squeaks out. “Ehm, that is, Sir Leon! Sorry sir! We didn’t mean to run into you.”

“And just what did you mean to do?” The corner of Leon’s mouth is twitching upward, though he’s trying to look stern. It’s been only half a year since he was made knight, half a year since he came to Camelot’s citadel, and Gwen’s family alongside him. Perhaps he’s still learning his new position, the same way Gwen is still learning hers. No doubt that’s why he’s been assigned this unenviable nighttime guard post at… well, wherever they are, anyway.

“To go to the library, of course.” Morgana cuts in smoothly, all charm. Impossibly sophisticated, even at just sixteen. She shoots Gwen a sly smile. “I’m teaching Gwen some poetry.” 

“Poetry, my lady?” Leon’s faux-serious face has evaporated; now he just looks bemused. “At this time of night?”

Morgana is the very picture of wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, yes. I’m ever so behind in my Greek lessons. It was Geoffrey’s idea, that I ought to do more recitation, in order to improve, you see. And, well, nighttime is the only time Gwen is free of her duties.”

“Well…” Leon doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he relents at last. “All right then, my lady. But if you wake Lord Geoffrey, on your own heads be it. He falls asleep at his desk more nights than not.” He stands aside, though, in spite of the admonition, and then Morgana is skipping through the library door with Gwen at her heels. 

Gwen’s been here only once before, and then only briefly, sent to fetch Morgana from some lesson or another that had run late. Tonight she has time to take it all in, to marvel at the long, prim rows of books nestled on their stately oak shelves. Seeing it all now, she can’t fathom why she hasn’t found some time to come here sooner. She does know her letters, and her sums as well, after all. A businessman must know how to keep his ledger, and Father had made sure to teach her alongside Elyan, in painstaking lessons in the waning hours of the evening, after the rest of the day’s work was done. Even now, it feels right that books should be something to behold by candlelight.

Morgana is skimming her long, elegant fingers lightly along the spines of the books as she floats down the aisle. Gwen’s breath hitches at the sight. From this angle, her lady is shrouded almost in darkness. Perhaps it’s only the library’s mystique that makes her seem, even as just a silhouette, to move with mesmerising grace. Gwen doesn’t think it is.

Morgana’s finger catches on the spine of a slim volume bound in a rich reddish brown. “Found it,” she whispers.

“It’s beautiful,” says Gwen. She can’t read the title, for evidently Morgana was telling at least a bit of the truth; it’s in Greek.

Morgana looks slightly surprised at the response. She glances down at the book, then up again with a shy smile. “It matches your eyes.”

Utterly disarmed, Gwen follows Morgana to the table in the alcove at the far end of the library. There’s no sound but the whisper of silk as they cross the room, nothing to drown out the loud thudding of her own heartbeat in her ears. Surely Morgana can hear it?

“I want to read you something,” says Morgana once they’re settled in the little nook, snug and secret. “It’s my favorite poem. I think… I think you’ll like it. I hope you’ll like it.” The pages of the book seem so fragile. Gwen hardly dares to breathe, afraid to tear the delicate pages that Morgana handles so expertly, or perhaps afraid to shatter the scene unfolding around her. She had thought she’d seen every side of Morgana, in the months she’s been her maidservant; seen her in every conceivable mood and setting, in company and alone, from dawn till nightfall and even, sometimes, in the hours when all the castle sleeps, when she wakes screaming and seeks a comforting touch— but never before like this. Never before, this look in her lady’s eyes like she can’t tear them away from Gwen’s.

“Here it is,” says Morgana, “are you ready?” and then she begins to read—

“οἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων

οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ’ἐπὶ γᾶν μέλαιναν

ἔμμεναι κάλλιστον, ἔγω δὲ κῆν’ ὄτ-

τω τις ἔραται.”

Even if she could understand the language, Gwen thinks, she’s not sure she’d have been able to focus on the poem, not when it’s Morgana reading, Morgana’s painted lips speaking the wine-dark words; but she wants to know, needs to know what is is that’s so captured her lady’s imagination, so she asks: “Will you tell it to me in your words?” Her voice comes out thick with something, something she’s almost but not quite able to name. “Translate it, I mean.”

And Morgana does. 

“Some say knights—” here she falters, just for a moment, but then finds her footing and continues— “and some say soldiers, and some say a fleet of ships is the most beautiful sight on all the black earth.” She closes the book, slipping one slender finger between the pages, and looks up at Gwen. “But I say it’s the one you love.”

The one you love. Gwen’s heart beats out the words. The one you love.

“I’ve never seen a fleet of ships.” Gwen bites her lip; that didn’t come out right, had sounded more romantic in her head. She lays one hand across the book and strokes Morgana’s thumb with her own, trying to summon the words that will give voice to the great swell of emotion inside her. “But as for the other things… I’d say so too. Er, that is.” She catches herself fidgeting and wills her body to stillness. With a sudden surge of daring, she lifts a hand to Morgana’s face. “That is to say, you don’t have to worry about knights or soldiers.” The tips of her fingers are just brushing a strand of hair, and she catches it and twines it gently around one finger, wanting to bind the two of them close. “My love is far more beautiful.”

Morgana dips her head to brush the lightest of kisses to Gwen’s palm before looking back up, eyes brimming.

“How dare you.” It's all Morgana can do to keep the shaking out of her voice as she glares across the table through the candlelight, the flickering candlelight casting flickering shadows across her sister's face. “How dare you. Do you still not trust me, after everything? After I nearly died for you and— and your scheme?”

Apparently unmoved, Morgause simply stares her down. “Do I trust you? You tell me. Are you loyal to me?”

“Yes,” Morgana spits out. “Though I can't fathom why, when you're behaving like such a cunt.”

“Well then.” Morgause shrugs carelessly and looks away. “I trust you.”

In a flash Morgana is on her feet, nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste, knocking over her goblet; the tainted wine splashes across the table, soaking the nice white tablecloth she had laundered just that morning. By magic, of course, but she had picked the lavender by hand, scattering it into the wash water with their linens, thinking of Morgause who was due back from Ascetir that evening. “You're unbelievable. I really don't believe you.”

Morgause pulls a frown and rises to her feet as well, trailing her fingers over the deep red stain on the tablecloth. “Dear me,” she murmurs. “So upset.” She's drawn closer, coming around the side of the table, and turns Morgana's face to her with just the graze of a finger on her cheek. Morgana can feel the humid warmth of her breath on her own lips, but she won’t be distracted. Not now. She employs her own distraction: a feather-light fingertip brushes along Morgause’s collarbone, drags down, lower and lower, between her breasts.

“You drink it,” she breathes against Morgause’s jaw. “Prove to me that I can trust you too.”

She’s not sure whether or not she’s surprised that Morgause does: pulls back from the touch to stare at Morgana with such intensity that Morgana shivers, tips just a drop of potion onto her finger and brings it to her own lips, darting out just the very tip of her tongue to taste it, never taking her eyes off Morgana’s— they flash red for the briefest moment before melting back to brown.

Morgana wants to ask about strategy, really she does: something about armies, routes and maps, or the cup of life; but what comes out of her mouth instead, painfully low and earnest, is, “Are you fucking Cenred?”

For a moment, Morgause looks almost hurt. Then it’s gone, swallowed back up by her inscrutable mask.

“Yes.”

It’s not as if the response is unexpected. Still, the admission wrenches a sound out of Morgana, a strangled sob, wild. Would that she could leash the feral thing and drag it back inside her. Clamp it fast inside her mouth, so it can never bite anyone again, least of all Morgause, least of all Morgana.

“You knew this.” The look on Morgause’s face is almost like pity. “He’s nothing. It means nothing. You know this.”

“Well, of course not,” snipes Morgana. She knows it’s childish, but can’t bring herself to care just now. She’s entitled to it, she thinks. “Obviously. I don’t know why I would have expected otherwise. You’re not the type for a summer wedding and, and, and… babies. Or whatever,” she finishes lamely, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture. As though she can so easily dismiss the lump in her throat, the one that tastes of lavender buds.

But the air shifts, a shade cooler, suddenly, and a shadow passes over Morgause’s eyes. No, not a shadow, Morgana realizes with a start, but a flash of red. Morgause grimaces, presses her lips together. Grinds out her next words: “I did. Have one. Once.”

“What?!” Morgana splutters.

“Relax,” says Morgause, although it’s through her teeth, and she’s clearly struggling to keep her own composure. “It was a long time ago.” After a pause, she grits out, “You shouldn’t have given me a truth potion if you didn’t want the truth.”

The lump in Morgana’s throat is gone, completely dissolved by her boiling rage. “How— You! I do want the truth! And it was your bloody truth potion!” A jolt startles her; it’s her own hand, smacking the table. “Were you just never going to tell me that I’ve a— a—”

“A nephew,” Morgause supplies, apparently having regained her own calm. “It was, oh, fourteen or fifteen years ago, now. His father was a druid, since you seem so keen to know. I’m not sure who, exactly. I was sent to give a blessing at the Lughnasadh festival, you know how it is. Things got a bit,” she smirks, “heated.” Her face turns thoughtful, and she adds after a moment, “Nimueh was furious with me.”

Morgana sags back to sitting. The lump is back, too. “What happened?” she whispers, wondering if she ought to reach for Morgause’s hand. “Did he— oh gods, was it Uther—?”

But Morgause looks only faintly annoyed. “What? No, of course not. He's alive. I left him with the druids, obviously. I wasn't about to let Nimueh deliver me of a child. She didn't do very well the last time.” She makes a face, half wolfish smile, half grimace. “I went to a druid camp, a different one. It was Beltane, and even their healer was falling over with drink by the end of the night. I left before morning.”

Morgana picks at fraying lace, the edge of the ruined tablecloth. “What’s his name?”

“I don't know,” says Morgause in a hard, slow voice, “what they named him.” Her chin lifts. The shadows play dangerously across her face. “What? Did you think I was going to call him after Gorlois?”

“I don’t know what I thought,” says Morgana, honestly— she can’t be otherwise, can she? She can’t seem to help her next question, either. She tells herself that she’s not being cruel on purpose, that it’s just the potion, loosening her tongue. “How do you know he’s alive, then? For all you know, he could be dead.”

“I know.” Morgause looks away. “There’s— a bond between us. I would feel it. If he died.”

Morgana snuffs out the candles. Above her, Morgause’s skin is faintly grey, just barely luminous under the half-moon. She rises to her feet to stand behind Morgause, settles her hands on her waist, hooks her chin over one shoulder, and her eyes fall upon the stained tablecloth, the dark wine cooling and setting in. There’s an idea floating just at the edge of her thoughts: a bond between us. The impression of a blue cloak, a blue gaze, too intense for one so young.

“Promise me—” The words catch in Morgana’s throat. “Promise you won’t— with Cenred. I don’t want you to.”

Morgause takes Morgana’s arms to wrap them around her own waist, and Morgana feels that she’s being posed, like a doll.