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“This colour really washes me out,” Morgana said, a frown furrowing her brows as she ran her fingers over the soft fabric of a buttercup yellow dress in her lap. It was a masterpiece, really. Truly, objectively speaking, it was one of the most beautiful dresses she owned.
The cut and fabric spoke of luxury and expense, not something she’d ever lacked in her life, but not something she took for granted. Not when she was a ward, and not a daughter.
“I mean,” Gwen said, amusement in her tone as she brushed out Morgana’s hair, “I’m just surprised it's as beautiful as is, considering it was a gift from, you know—” she coughed, not quite saying the name.
Yes. Quite surprising. Morgana was sure the man, some first son of some Duke, hadn’t actually chosen anything other than the fabric himself. The seamstress, on the other hand, Morgana would have to get the name of. She turned around, dislodging Gwen’s hand in her hair, and ignored the little, ridiculous pang of loss she felt at that. Gwen stared down at her, the everpresent fondness in her eyes reassuring Morgana that she wasn’t doing anything absurd.
It was them, the two of them, of course this was okay.
Standing up, Morgana held the dress up to Gwen, shaking it out so the heavy skirt straightened out and cascaded to the ground.
It really was a lovely thing, with lace, and silk, and embroidery upon it. The cut was quite fashionable at the time, with a few modifications to it that gave it a truly unique and stunning look.
And it somehow managed to look even lovelier against Gwen’s dark skin.
“Here,” Morgana said, a little too quickly, “Hold it.” She didn’t wait for Gwen to follow the instruction, instead taking her hand and bringing it up so she would hold the dress up against her body. Then Morgana grabbed her by the arms and moved her towards the open window, letting in the setting sun.
Gwen moved easily under her hands. Even as she looked bewildered, she moved.
The sun really was holding onto the last of its life, the sky more a deep red than anything. But despite the striking colour, the light falling into the room managed to look soft and inviting. They had yet to light most of the lamps and candles within the room, so there was nothing to interrupt the pink glow that illuminated Gwen. And the dress.
“It is going to look far more beautiful on you than it ever could on me,” Morgana said, her voice coming out a little rougher than intended. She cleared her throat, but the little tingle in there didn’t go away. She decided to forge on instead, “Well, then, go on, try it.”
“My lady—”
“Hush,” she said, lifting up a finger to press it against Gwen’s soft lips. “I want to see you in it.”
Gwen just stared at her, completely still, not even breathing.
Morgana would know, her fingers were close enough to feel the flutter of breath on them, after all.
Almost reluctantly, she took her finger away, and then walked around to stand behind Gwen, tugging at the laces of her outer gown. This finally prompted Gwen to move, gasping in a scandalised sounding breath and letting out a soft, “Morgana!” as she turned around, grabbing Morgana’s hand.
Her hands weren’t soft, not the way her lips were. Morgana could feel the calluses, she was very familiar with these calluses, knew every ridge and curve of them, felt them on her body, on her face, in her hair, often enough that she could recognise this hand– these hands, blind.
Morgana tilted her head to the side, staring at Gwen, at the way her cheeks darkened before Gwen dropped her hand. She let out a sigh, as if doing Morgana a great favour, and said, “If you insist.”
Then, instead of undressing herself the way Morgana assumed she would, she turned around.
Inviting.
Morgana’s fingers buzzed a little as she stepped forward, hovering over the half undone lace of Gwen’s dress. She tugged it free, loosening the dress, slowly pulling it off.
The entire process was a little clumsier than she’d thought it would be. When Gwen helped her undress, she always made it look… easy, effortless. Her fingers move with grace, a kind of fluidity that barely registers in Morgana’s mind anymore.
But here, and now, even with the simpler dresses that Gwen wore, it felt monumental, this entire task. And yet it was done soon enough, and the even more monumental task of tugging on the yellow dress started.
Gwen helped her, of course, far more well versed with putting on complicated pieces of clothing than even Morgana was. And somehow this help made the entire process so much more intimate. At times, it felt like she couldn’t breathe, so close to Gwen that she could smell the iron on her, the smoke from the smithy, and sweat.
It shouldn’t have been appealing. It wasn’t, not in the most basic sense of the word. But still, Morgana had to put in the effort so as not to lean in further, to take deeper breaths, to not make Gwen uncomfortable.
Once again, the entire thing took both far too long and not long enough. Morgana tugged the last few pieces of lace, standing behind Gwen, breathing down her nape, and tying up the ribbon. She didn’t let go of it, and just stood there, for a few precious seconds. Breathing, hearing her heart beat in her throat.
Gwen turned her head, just a little, and Morgana’s breath caught. She hurriedly let go of the lace, and took a step back.
Gwen turned around, and for a moment, the dying light from the window fell directly over her eyes. Golden. A far lovelier shade on her than even the dress she wore. Her dark hair, her dark skin, her dark eyes, all of them, golden.
So much more valuable, so much rarer, than all the jewellery she owned, or could ever own.
The most beautiful thing she ever saw, in the light of that setting sun.
Several years later, when Gwen dresses for her wedding with Arthur, there are a slew of ladies in waiting who help her put on her wedding dress.
It is beautiful. A lovely dress, with a lovely cut, and a lovely skirt.
The maids are gentle, diligent, and sweet. They talk to her, they know her. Gwen was one of them, after all. They’ve never stood on ceremony with her.
It should be the best dress she has ever put on. It should be am unforgettable experience. It should be incomparable.
She tells them it is.
But she knows it's a lie.
She knows what the best dress she ever wore was.
It only needed one other person to help her put it on, and it was a lovely shade of buttercup yellow.