Work Text:
Gwen raises the sword, fragments of thoughts flittering through her head like a flock of birds scattering, but none of them can dislodge the important realities: the feel of the sword in her hands (not perfectly balanced, not a knight's sword but a rough, well-used bandit's weapon), the uneven tree bark against her back, the warm thrumming pain shooting out from her ankle and Morgana's footfalls quickly disappearing into distance. She holds the sword steady, listening intently to the leaves rustling in the wind, birds chirping, branches snapping under a full-grown man's weight.
What led her here is not important now and neither is the unknown future. All that matters is that Morgana gets away and that Gwen has the element of surprise on her side as she braces herself to strike.
Down by the river, they were expected to want to flee, not to fight. With all the attention on Morgana undressing to reveal her white shift, no one remembers to watch their weapons. Gwen's sure grip on the sword, her good throwing arm and aim is as big of a surprise to the bandits as Morgana's showy swordwork. The glint in her eyes and her curling smile is no surprise to Gwen, who sees Morgana twirl the sword as in challenge, all arrogant show of skill. Morgana always does take joy in a fight – in the gleaming arcs of steel, the clashing of blades resounding across a field, the violent elegance of a duel well fought – and her joy is infectious. For a moment Gwen is no longer on unfamiliar ground in a forest fighting for her freedom (or for her life, or for Morgana's life, which doesn't bear thinking about, not that there's time to think any longer, the time for agonizing is over) – but just outside of Camelot on a glorious autumn day under a violently colourful sunset sky, when Morgana's smile glittered wide as she swung her sword and Gwen parried and feinted.
To Morgana, fighting is at heart always swordplay; a game, an escape, a certain freedom from the rules of appropriate behaviour. Even though it was only allowed her when framed as a necessity of her position – the king's ward runs the risk of being kidnapped. Let the lady play with a sword if it'll make her feel less vulnerable, the little woman.
Just for a moment, Gwen takes a great deal of pleasure in fighting alongside Morgana again. They are so well matched, still, know each other's weaknesses and strengths and fears from a quirk of the mouth or the smallest tremble. Their bodies still know one another as well as they used to, even if secrets have kept building up between them like walls of glass shards, impenetrable and sharp. That's why Gwen threw the sword to Morgana instead of using it herself, even though she's a slightly better swordswoman. Because Morgana's vulnerability was written large across her face underneath the acting for the thug standing guard, and Gwen can't stand to see Morgana that insecure.
It's a weakness, perhaps, not using their skills to the fullest. Like all the times Gwen has let Morgana win their duels at home – not for a proper reason like that a maidservant should never get the better of her lady, but because she disliked seeing Morgana disappointed.
Sometimes, Gwen wonders how different it would be to love someone without barriers of propriety and reputations to guard, what there would be left without all the intricacies of court life to navigate, what unknown reefs to get stranded on then.
She used to find the customs and hierarchies of the court almost soothing in their familiarity, constricting but safe, outlining just what to expect and what to avoid. A solid framework to map her life within. Now Morgana's been slipping ever further away, going frail and more unknown with every unspoken nightmare, and from the outside nothing has changed (king's ward and her maidservant, the roles the same as ever), yet everything is different, and Gwen doesn't quite know what to think anymore.
But now is not the time to think: it is time to fight, steel against steel and flesh and blood. It's a vindication of their old excuse for swordplay – "in case we're kidnapped". That phrase they chorused so many times, like a mantra, a game of pretend in a single phrase that turned a threat into an escape.
Never mind how much Arthur rolled his eyes and Uther sighed at Morgana's umpteenth declaration of her need to be able to defend herself, it got her what she wanted: a sword to swing and a rough and tumble with Gwen out in the fresh air. It's a peculiar talent, be able to wield one's vulnerability as a weapon in such a way. Weakness as an instrument of power, that's a domain of noble ladies, imprinted in their soft-spoken voices and woven into the costly gowns that showcase pale necks and frail wrists.
Gwen's father used to say that she had good hands, strong and sure, a proper blacksmith's daughter. It's all in the hands, he'd say, when you have the knack of it, then you can do anything. Forge the most beautiful sword in all of Albion. Or make the king's ward the most stunning lady of the castle with fine dresses and complicated hairdos.
(Good hands can also make the king's ward come undone completely, fluttering and panting wildly against Gwen's collarbone, like when Gwen took her turn at taking charge in the safe haven of Morgana's bed, after the first time Morgana had pressed her up against the wall of the armoury. The memory is vivid: the cold stone against her back and Morgana's thigh pressing hot between her legs, and their urgent kisses. A little frantic with adrenaline and Gwen a little high with the joy of victory.)
Strong hands are also good for fighting. Good with a sword. Hard enough to give a thug a well-deserved punch.
Morgana shoots Gwen a grin – the bandit is at least temporarily defeated, and they run.
And then Gwen slides and falls and sprains her ankle on a root, and she wants to scream and rail against it, the unfairness – why now, with freedom so close?
She tells Morgana to run. Morgana is the treasure, the bargaining chip. Gwen isn't worth anything to kidnappers. She has one hope, and it's that she will be considered insignificant. The faintest hope that these men will not be too vindictive in their rage when they realise that their prize has disappeared.
Morgana gives her the sword, conflicted, looking back at Gwen once more before she runs toward safety. Gwen props herself up against a tree, the sword a steady weight in her hands. At least, the first blood spilt will not be hers.