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“Do you think me too ambitious?” Morgana asks when they part.
Gwen presses her lips to the corner of Morgana’s mouth. "I think you noble, my lady."
(Gwen and Morgana in Camelot; the slow entwining of their lives, and the people they meet along the way. The weight of anger, of destiny, of silk and iron.)
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Bookmarked by sixoftrees
22 Jul 2020
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Bookmarker's Notes
“It had been that man’s fate to die on the road that day, he told her. But because he had donned so many layers to venture into the cold, his fate had changed. The arrow went through all of his cloaks and all of his overtunics, and all of his shirts and shifts—save one. One shift remained unpierced, and the arrow never even touched his skin. A cloak is a powerful thing, my lady, her father said, and she forgot her ire and ran out into the snow gleefully, pretending that her cloak also had the power to turn aside arrows of destiny.
Shirts and shifts and tunics and cloaks. Such common, small things.”
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Arthur knows he's dying, can feel the unstoppable pull of it, feels the spirit appear behind him to take him along. And yet, he finds he does not want to die. There is so much that went wrong, so much he regrets and he wishes, with all his being, he could change it. Could at least ensure those that managed to get away really make it out alive.
A second chance, he asks, begs, really. Just give me the chance to save them.
The being behind him pauses and Arthur can't look away from the moment he's frozen in, staring at the dark mountainside, aching to see the sun rise just one more time.
One chance, the spirit seems to whisper, voice satin soft. Make the most of it.
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Golden, beautiful, charming, pompous Arthur, drawing everyone to him like moths to a flame. She thinks of how he is the only other person in the world who understands what it's like to be Uther Pendragon's child, to crave the approval of that looming shadow and want to break free of it in the same breath. She hates him. She hates him. She hates him.
It’s only part of the truth, even now.