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“Now, don't these look darling.”
Gwen didn't know how she'd ended up like this. It was late, the air was cooling rapidly now the harvest season had arrived, there was much to organise about the citadel yet here she was, dallying about in her mistress’s chamber as if she had nothing better to do. Gwen hid a small smile to herself whilst Morgana flitted about her room, twirling fabrics, dresses clutched to her chest, pulling out the entirety of her wardrobe.
“This one, this one,” Morgana said with glee, spinning back towards Gwen to thrust a long silken garment into her hands. “Marion, you know, from down the market - she showed me these incredible fabrics,” she gushed, eyes sparkling. “Isn't it the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?”
Gwen looked down at the dress in her hands; a deep, inky red, folds of silk slipping across her fingers, the torchlight bouncing off the sheen making it seem almost alive. She held it out in front of her, watching in awe as the fabric swept down to fall at her feet. “Yes,” she said in wonder. It was probably the most expensive thing she had ever held.
“Got to save it for the most perfect occasion, don't you think?”
Gwen glanced up; Morgana's pale face shone from across the room, her sharp eyebrow quirked, and Gwen smiled at her, amused. She tilted her head, studying the dress as it hung against the backdrop of Morgana’s chambers, her lady peering at her from over the neckline albeit a few metres apart. Gwen squinted her eyes to better picture it.
“What.” Morgana teased, jutting her chin down knowingly.
Gwen said nothing, and just stepped silently towards her mistress until she had fully closed the gap between them. Morgana's gaze was steady, those blue-green eyes gleaming with mischief, and Gwen flicked her eyes back down. Her hands were careful, yet assured; she took a second, admiring how the material weaved and swept and curved in long lines and then– held it up to her lady’s shoulders.
Gwen pinched the fabric gently with her fingertips, holding up the garment to properly assess its fit; she observed, transfixed, how the wine-red of the silken cloth poured over her lady, contrasting with the cream of her nightgown, and even more so with the paler skin that lay beneath. Morgana had stilled, her figure stone-like as the gorgeous tapestry laid against her. Gwen adjusted her position, pondering, then froze - her knuckles had brushed against collarbones, a tendon of a neck.
“Do you think I'll fit?” Morgana said in a whisper, her tongue curling around the words. Gwen swallowed, keeping her gaze lowered. Then– grasped the neckline of the garment in one hand and tugged the fabric down with the other, down, down towards her lady’s side, watching in silent vigil how the silk fell, gentle, across her front and then cinched in by her waist. The torchlight curved around her figure, now ruby-like and glowing, the only movement in the fabric the slow rise and fall of Morgana’s breaths, each inhale a gentle tug against Gwen’s grip on the material– she shut her eyes, feeling heat simmer under her skin.
“Yes,” she murmured. She opened her eyes again. The ruby statue still breathed in front of her, but she daren’t look it in its eyes.
“You’re certain?”
“Of course,” she replied, dazed.
“What about—” Gwen felt Morgana's hand rise up and rest on her own, “—here?” Morgana pressed down, pulling her hand onto her waist, so warm, warm and soft even under the two layers of fabric. She could feel the way Morgana's eyes were on her, but she refused to lift her gaze away from the dress; instead, Gwen stuck to the task at hand, pinning the silk firm against her lady’s waist, curving her hand round her side, tracking her eyes over the way the inky red cloth draped across her stomach, the way it rippled, curved, pulled up and up over Morgana's chest, she could hear Morgana's breaths falling faster, deeper, could feel the way her body moved under the silk— Gwen swallowed roughly, her palms damp; she held onto the dress like a lifeline, pressing it closer to Morgana’s body, feeling the strain of the fabric as her lady seemed to sway, lean into it, falling forward towards her— Gwen was frozen, gripping Morgana’s waist, their bodies close, the ruby silk the only thing between them. She felt a caress to the back of her hand, and looked up in horror to see her knuckles brushing against her lady’s neck, her chin, and that brought her gaze dangerously high; she buckled, met those blue-green eyes for a wild moment and then flung herself away.
“I–” she spluttered, the dress falling down between them, crumpling to the floor. “I-I…”
Morgana took a step towards her. “Gwen.”
“I must go.” She needed to leave. The dress was still on the floor. She should have never let it fall. Her heart pounded with the memory of how Morgana had looked at her - eyes wild and dark and slightly glazed over, just for second before she wrenched away. She needed to leave.
Morgana’s hand had reached out. “Don’t,” she pleaded. Gwen twisted her hands in front of herself, and didn’t look up again.
“I must go,” she repeated, as if a mantra could get her out the door, even though her legs were frozen in place and she couldn’t stop looking at the pile of ruby fabric, spilled like ink on the stone. It didn’t deserve that. It was so beautiful. “There is much I need to attend to.”
“I need you here.”
“My lady–”
Morgana grasped her wrist, and she finally braved looking into those eyes once again. They shone, wide and earnest, and she looked as long as she dared, long enough to watch them crinkle at the edges and she felt another deep swoop fall through her stomach. “I haven’t even shown you the best, yet,” Morgana teased, although less confident this time, as if afraid Gwen was about to run out the door.
Gwen let out a long, shaky breath, and nodded.
Morgana grinned at her, delighted, and flew away, her back to Gwen as she pulled a bundle of sorts out of her cabinet. “You’re not allowed to look,” she quipped, laughter back into her voice. Gwen’s stomach felt in flux, but she pushed it down, steadying her breathing, calling back to her lady,
“Why not?”
Morgana’s laugh rang out, “You sound disappointed.”
Gwen’s face flushed with heat. “Morgana.”
“It’s a surprise, Guinevere.”
Gwen rolled her eyes, heart fluttering but feeling more at ease, and she couldn’t help but smile despite the knots in her stomach. Morgana never took herself too seriously; she pulled the laughter out of Gwen, teased her, more and more as the years had passed. She had learnt how to tease back, eventually.
She started towards the room divider, sneaking whilst Morgana’s back was turned to try and get a peek at what ridiculously luxurious gown her lady wanted to show her next—
“Wait, wait!” Morgana spotted her and laughed, shoving at her gently. Gwen squirmed away from her, tried not to trip over her long skirts where they’d started to fray again at the edges, her face hurting from smiling so wide. She tried one last attempt to follow Morgana round her dressing screen, but she pushed her, no, you have to wait! and she finally relented, stepped backwards into the chambers.
The window was still ajar, the cool autumn breeze doing nothing for her heated blood surging through her body. She felt hot and flustered, and endlessly grateful for the few moments to steady her breath, wiping her palms down the front of her white apron as she waited for Morgana to reappear. Gwen stepped slowly back, her mind racing, until the backs of her thighs hit her lady’s bed. She felt a little lightheaded, so she perched, ever so slightly, on the goose-feather mattress, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She teetered so close on the edge of the bed that she had to keep balance using the very tips of her toes, ready to jump to attention - when all she really wanted was to fall backwards onto the sheets. The bed was luxurious, so soft and giving under her weight; she spread her hands out beside her, stroked along the fabric, feeling the little raised textures of the embroidery, then the satin, then the soft cream of cotton. She remembered the feel of the Morgana’s dress under her hands, imagined trailing her hands across it again, reaching the border were the silk lapped at the shore of her skin, her neck, her shoulders, what it would feel like–
Gwen swallowed, pressed her legs together, her finger nails carving little crescents into her skin. What was she doing, thinking of holding her like that, she was her mistress, but– god, the way she’d looked, the heat of her skin—
“Alright,” Morgana’s voice floated over the top of the screen. Gwen leapt to her feet. Watched her lady emerge from the shadows.
She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t this; her torso was completely covered in maille, the hauberk swooping across her broad shoulders and billowing out slightly at her wrists. The tiny silver chains rippled like water as she moved, catching each and every glint from the torchlight; Gwen marveled at the craftsmanship necessary to create such a thing, how it flowed and protected her body, coming to a rest by her hips. Her hips… Gwen’s stomach clenched as she took in the rest of her, thinking for one wild moment that her legs were bare - but the dark brown colour of the material that coated her thighs left no confusion. She wore some kind of slim, suede hose, tighter than anything she had ever seen a man wear, almost like a second skin. Gwen clutched her hands together, twisted to keep them still; she tried not to stare, but her eyes kept trailing down those legs, watching as Morgana walked back towards her, how the material stretched around her calves, her thighs, her hips, her— Gwen’s mouth felt dry, and she realised with a start that it was hanging open slightly, and with another start that Morgana had spoken.
“I— I’m sorry?”
Morgana smiled at her, with just a hint of an eyebrow, the side of her mouth twitching. “I said: you’ll have to help me with this piece,” and she held out a plate of armour, and then turned so her back was to Gwen. She looked down; a plackart, rows and rows of cascading scales of iron held together with straps of leather. She traced her finger over each ridge, letting it fall against each scale in succession, admiring the handiwork.
“It’s gorgeous,” Gwen murmured.
Morgana looked over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said, after a moment, and then lifted her hand up to scrap away the long waves of hair from the back of her neck. “Would you?”
Gwen took a minute step forward, and felt Morgana’s body heat envelope her once again. She reprimanded herself, none of that now, and gently touched the underside of Morgana’s arms to prompt her to lift them. She leant forward, weaved herself around Morgana’s torso, bringing the plackart round to her front and resting it gently against her stomach. Gwen let a slow breath out, as steadily as she dared, only to watch it disturb the little wisps of Morgana’s hair on her nape - she paused for half a moment, praying her lady did not feel them tremble. She slid her hands round, melding the plates of armour to the waist, and slowly weaved the straps together to secure it in place. As she pulled the last one taut, she accidentally tugged her lady back towards her, and Morgana let out a little umph as she swayed into Gwen’s grip.
“Too tight?” Gwen asked softly, and placed her small hand back onto Morgana’s waist to steady her, cold this time in it’s metal casing. Morgana shook her head, minutely, but Gwen decided to see for herself; in a fit of madness, perhaps because she was not eye to eye with her lady, Gwen tucked her fingertip into the gap above the top-most plate, finding an entry point just beneath her shoulder blades where her back concaved in a delicate arch. She slid her finger round, tugging gently, assessing how much space Morgana still had to breathe, around to her side underneath her arm, until the back of her finger suddenly met something much more giving - her finger was tucked right below the curve of Morgana’s chest. Gwen’s head swam; despite the ringlets of mail she still could feel the slight give, soft, oh– Gwen could only imagine how much softer it would feel, after she’d peeled back all the layers, laid her lady down, tended to her–
Gwen removed her finger, sharply. Took a deep breath. Stepped back, mournfully, her exhale no longer caressing those dark wisps of hair. Morgana turned round, her face flushed, eyes sparkling once again.
“I’ve been begging Uther for some proper hunting gear for an age,” she gushed, looking down at herself and turning on the spot. Gwen watched, dry-mouthed, as her hands slid down her own body, stopping for a fraction of a moment on her right side, where Gwen’s hand had laid – then smoothed down her hips. “This material – it’s just incredible.” Her grin was infectious, and Gwen couldn’t help but beam at her, determined to ignore the clenching in her gut.
“Is it comfortable?” Gwen asked, genuinely curious. The brown cloth that covered her legs bent to her lady’s every whim, and Gwen watched, entranced, as Morgana twirled and pranced around her chambers, like it was a kingdom of her own, then feigned a lunge with an invisible sword. Gwen couldn’t help but envy her, to have such fine things, to look so effortlessly elegant, to have such luxurious yet practical garments such as these. Gwen looked down at her own faded skirts, clean but well-worn, re-hemmed and re-hemmed as the years had gone by. Before long, her calves would be on display, she thought with a blush.
Morgana rushed forward to her, grasped her hands. “Gwen, I cannot begin to describe it. I would wear them all year round, if I could.”
Gwen flushed, imagining attending to her lady as she was; watching her storm down hallways, long legs striding from room to room, that damned brown fabric stretched around her thighs, up the courtyard steps, with Gwen always two steps behind her– gods, seeing her upon horseback–
She cleared her throat. “The metal-work is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Morgana smirked at her again, looked over her face for a moment, then dropped her hands. Gwen missed the warm pressure immediately, and almost reached to bring them back.
“Well, I certainly can’t wear it to sleep, that’s for sure.” Morgana turned away, striding back towards her changing screen, her hands behind her back to loosen the straps, as if she’d been able to herself all along. “I’d much rather my nightgown,” she said as she slid the armour off, “–if anything at all.”
Gwen blanched. “My lady,” she stepped forward, shaking herself out of the fog. “–let me–”
Morgana danced around her, easily. “I’m fine – honestly.”
“If I just–”
“Gwen.” Morgana grasped her flitting hands, as they scrambled to try and grasp at the hauberk. Gwen met her lady’s eyes, trying to diminish the desperate look of longing that she could feel all over her face with little success. Morgana looked tired all of a sudden, the shine of her irises duller now. She felt a pressure on the back of her hand; a pale thumb smoothed over her skin, over and over in little comforting circles.
“I’ve kept you long enough,” her lady spoke low and quiet, gazing at her from under her dark eyelashes. They stayed like that for what felt like hours but probably wasn’t more than a few seconds, and then Morgana gave her hand a firm squeeze and dropped it, murmuring a small goodnight, over her shoulder.
Gwen watched, numbly, as Morgana disappeared behind the screen, and then slowly came back to life, moving the discarded garments from the floor to the chair; even though she longed to stay, fold and store them properly, divulge her lady of all of it until she laid bare before her, cloth and fabrics and material all tidied neatly away and her mistress, beautiful without any of them.