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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

What was this sensation like? Morgan couldn't even decide, really. Everything seemed to be too close and too far at the same time, and her world was spinning. On some level, she knew that her head had been hit, knew that the sticky feeling in the back of her head could only mean trouble, but-- well, it was hard for her to care. The fog consumed everything. (Had she been that tired before? Her memory was hazy, and turning to it for answers seemed about as pointless as asking Arthur for research grants. It probably didn't matter, though. Even if she hadn't been tired before, it certainly was true now. And how did one solve such a problem? Why, with sleep, of course!)

The idea of closing her eyes was so, so tempting. Perhaps she would have done it, too, if it hadn't been for Guinevere's voice that cut through the darkness. Oh, right. Guinevere. Morgan had asked her a question, hadn't she? Shortly before the fog had carried her thoughts away, gentle but oh so insistent. Hm. She should-- she should probably still reply, though. That was only polite, wasn't it, and didn't manners mean everything? Without them, they'd devour her.

"No," she managed to say, still trying to collect her scattered thoughts. Why was it important again? Oh yeah, the whole magic thing. Alright, that could potentially cause trouble. Another witch in Camelot-- well, something told her Arthur wouldn't take too kindly to that. Morgan's status, after all, was somewhat special; the blood ties acted as her shield, no matter how flimsy. Guinevere, on the other hand, would have no such protection. Hell, Arthur's perfect little wife being a magic user would only serve as the additional salt in the wound! Just how would he explain it to his knights? To his followers? There was no telling how far he would go to save his precious pride, really. "Or yes, technically. I think. I'm not sure." And fine, perhaps that wasn't the most coherent of responses, but her thoughts-- they were like honey. Like honey, except that without all the sweetness and with all the viscosity. Trying to find one specific thing within that confused conglomerate? Gods, it seemed like she would need whole days for that!

"Help me... stand up, will you?" Perhaps standing on her own two feet would help; continuing to lie on the ground only incentivized her to drift away. Some kind of instinct, surely. And was it just her or was Guinevere crying? Why? (Nothing seemed to make sense since she had wandered into her life and taken up all that space, though, so Morgan supposed she shouldn't be too surprised. Still, the tears filled her with a vague sense of discomfort. People just didn't cry in front of her!)

"Don't-- don't cry," she said before lifting her hand, clumsy and hesitant, to touch her face. Yeah, it was wet, alright. "It's fine, I promise. I'm not dying. Well, I think I'm not dying. I haven't done it before, so I can't be... can't be sure." Um. Maybe Morgan should have practiced comforting other people more diligently, but it wasn't like she had needed that skill before! And now-- now it was too late, obviously. Oh well, Guinevere would just have to make do with this. At least her heart was in the right place if nothing else. "You should have... should have told me about the magic, though. This could have been way worse. The reactions are-- pretty explosive at times, you see?" Morgan looked up at her, her eyes inquisitive. "What is it that you practice, anyway? I have never... never felt anything like this before."
 
"Sorry." Guinevere might be just as clumsy. Tears prick at her eyes easily, but she's usually better at holding them back than this. She only overcomes her fear of using her own hands when Morgan asks for her help getting up -- and even then, she's extremely tentative and gentle, as if to atone for what she had just done. It's difficult to tell if her heart is pounding harder due to the feeling of Morgan's hand on her cheek or if it's the notion that she's been practicing magic at all. Blinking confusedly, she squints through the remainder of the tears in her eyes, as though trying to come up with some other explanation for it. Because... she has never practiced magic. Not once. She brushes her eyes with the back of her hand to dry them and then shakes her head resolutely.

"No. No, no, no-- that couldn't have been magic. I mean, I've never practiced magic before in my life." It is odd, though, for her to tell the magic expert among them that it wasn't magic. Clearly Morgan knows her stuff -- is well versed enough to recognize it when she sees it. Steeling herself, she chances a glance at her hand again, feels the blood tingling in them, right up to her fingertips. Curls and uncurls her fingers. Well, whatever it was, she hadn't done it on purpose. Hell, she wasn't entirely present in her own body when it happened. Oh, yeah, and that's a whole other thing she's got to wrap her mind around. What was that? The voices and claws, the flowers, her blood.

Blood. The imagery flashes through her head again -- but alongside that, there's something almost familiar about it. A hazy snippet of her childhood reels through her mind, now. Those creepy guys who would take her blood and keep it in little glass vials. But, no, people take blood for lots of reasons. Plenty of non-magic related reasons. "Do these kinds of things ever... ever just happen by accident?"

A laugh flutters out of her, a short, anxious thing. "They must, right? I mean, there's no other explanation for it, because--" Guinevere brings her free hand to her temple. Her hand slowly moves backward, pushing some of her hair out of her face, until she's holding the back of her neck. She's so nervous she could pace. Jen was the one who dabbled in magic. Not her. She'd always kept out of her sister's schemes, always kept her distance from it. "Because I don't know what that was, Morgan. I was... seeing things. And suddenly you were on the ground and..."

Guinevere stares searchingly at her feet, urging herself to get a grip, to think this through a little more clearly. Morgan said she'd never felt anything like it before. Well, she supposes she's in the same position, right now. And not knowing is starting to grate on her. Because this came from her. And it hurt the very person she'd stayed to keep out of harms way. Tensing when her arm pulses with pain, she grits her teeth against it and tries to be subtle about it as she brings a hand to her shoulder.

"It... it must have been some kind of fluke. One of the spirits, maybe?"
 
Out of curiosity, Morgan touched the back of her head, and winced in pain immediately. Yeah, that... probably wasn't good. Her fingers were slick with blood, too, which only supported that conclusion. Still, she hadn't lost her consciousness yet, so that had to count for something, right? And now that there were stimuli for her to focus on, it probably wouldn't happen, either. The mind had its ways of keeping you anchored to the reality, after all. (Unless it was the very thing that kept you away from it in the first place. Arthur and his friends, for example-- well, let's just say they had a lot of experience with that.)

"It was magic, though," she protested, stubborn despite feeling so, so weak in the knees. (Because of the injury or Guinevere's closeness? It was hard to tell, really, especially since all those sensations created such a confusing cocktail. Pain and thrill, vertigo and intoxication, wanting to throw up and touch Guinevere some more at the same time-- who could possibly make a sense of this? Certainly not her!) "I know magic when I see it, or feel it, or... whatever." Even words seemed to fail her for some reason; her tongue was so heavy in her mouth, and reaching for the terms that would convey her thoughts properly felt like an exercise in futility. Still, Morgan knew she had to try. This was important. How else would Guinevere understand?

Guinevere. Guinevere, who had apparently never used magic before. Morgan... wasn't sure whether she believed that, actually. There were still many things she didn't know about magic, yes, and she wasn't nearly arrogant enough to believe new discoveries couldn't flip her opinions on their head, but-- well, magic wasn't an accident. It didn't just happen to you. That, at least, seemed incredibly clear. You needed a will strong enough to bind the forces, and a skill fine enough to shape that will. So, was Guinevere lying to her? Because it sure as hell looked like that!

Well, it did and it didn't. What she said sounded like nonsense, but the way she said it? The way her eyes bore into hers? Guinevere believed her story, as ridiculous as it was, and Morgan found herself to be intrigued. Just what had happened here? Something beyond her understanding, surely, which only egged her on. There was nothing better than a good mystery, after all. Especially when you didn't have all the pieces yet! (Collecting pieces-- well, Morgan had always been talented at that. Pieces of her old life, of the old world, of herself, even; few things escaped her attention.)

"Uh. I am... not sure," she finally said, still clinging to Guinevere for support. Gods, how could one person be so sturdy? The universe itself might have been tearing at the seams and Morgan would still have felt protected in those arms. Protected and accepted, too, if only fleetingly. It was funny what one embrace could do, wasn't it? "I have... theories, but I need to analyze the samples first." It truly could have been the spirits, she supposed. What Guinevere had described sounded suspiciously like possession, and perhaps one of them had channeled her innate energy for their own purposes. Yes, that seemed likely enough. It wouldn't erase the fact that she apparently had a gift for magic, sure, but it would turn her into a victim rather than a perpetrator. And wasn't that more forgivable? ('A gift for magic.' The phrase still made her shudder, really. For her, it had been the end of her childhood. The end of any chances at a normal life. Gods only knew what kind of ends this would bring to Guinevere, but she was willing to bet they wouldn't be pleasant. They never were.)

Morgan leaned closer to Guinevere, so close that their noses were practically touching, and tugged at her sleeve. "I'm tired. Get me home, Guinevere. I need to rest." Not that Camelot had ever been her home, but it was the place where her bed could be found, which was enough at the moment. A bleeding wound on your head kinda lowered your standards, it seemed.
 
“...Right. Of course.” With difficulty, Guinevere swallows her third apology down before it can tumble from her lips, knowing that any remorseful words she can speak now won’t mean quite as much to Morgan as a warm bed to fall into. There’s nothing she can say right now that can help, anyway. Maybe she wasn’t prepared to defend herself from the presence that invaded her mind-- hell, maybe she wasn’t even in her own body when it’d happened, but that doesn’t absolve her of the responsibility she feels when Morgan can hardly stand upright, when her fingers come back with blood. Not to mention there’s still a zing of electricity rushing through the blood in Guinevere’s arm, tormenting her for her mistake.

For as long as she can remember, she relied on her hands, to keep herself and those around her safe. So this, this is--

Raw heartache, honestly. But she moves forward, like she always does. The tears have dried, her expression is fixed, level and mostly unreadable. Strong. Capable. Typical Guinevere. So she hides it admirably as they walk, the fear that roils in her gut. Because stacked right on top of regret, she also has to confront the role that magic played in this. Unless she had been prompted to use it in her childhood, in a time before her memories had truly taken root, she knows for a fact that she never relied on magic for anything in life. That’s why her blade is practically an extension of herself. Because that was her choice going forward : she relied on her sword for survival. She refused to choose a method so unpredictable and risky to defend herself. Her whole life has been a series of rough paths to walk, or run, or endure-- why would she go and complicate everything even further with magic? (And Jen's choices had done just that.) But then, is magic always a choice? She was under the impression that it was, like anything else in life -- but perhaps she was wrong. And if that's true, then... what does that mean for her?

While she’s tempted to ask Morgan every question that surfaces in her mind, she firmly decides against bothering her. Instead, she checks on her every now and then with a simple question or two to inquire on her wellbeing, if only to ensure she’s not suffering from a concussion. Guinevere allows her to rest against her as heavily as she needs to as they walk, aiming to make the journey as comfortable for her as she possibly can. (Maybe because it's all she can do.) The warmth where they touch does offer some solace-- but the white noise in her brain nearly blocks it out. No. She can’t derive any pleasure from the situation they’re in when guilt still squeezes like a vise around her chest. When it’s her fault they’re in this mess to begin with.

They return to Camelot without incident. Guinevere's not up to making much conversation, just helpful when it comes to sneaking around without notice and seeing to it that Morgan makes it into her room all right. It occurs to her that this is what she had wanted to do when they returned to the castle before, back she'd missed her lesson. And... she can't help but think how much things have changed between them since then. Morgan intends to help her, now, and truly help her. Knows that her love for Arthur is a flimsy charade at best. And then there's... the magic. That disturbance zone they visited. A sort of lightheadedness hits her, now, without Morgan there at her side. (For the span of two days they'd... been close. In proximity, yes, but maybe-- is she foolish to hope that they've grown closer in more ways than one?) Well. Only time will tell if it all truly means something. Loneliness in Camelot's halls is becoming vastly familiar to her. It permeates the air around her as she makes her way to her own room.

Guinevere slips into a nightdress and climbs into bed. Feeling so small in comparison to all the space and luxury around her. Like an animal preparing to hibernate for the winter, she burrows herself under the covers and curls all her limbs protectively around her heavy heart. She replays Morgan's advice from earlier in her head a few times to commit it to memory (Her voice can really be mellifluous sometimes, can't it? ...But that's besides the point.) Smile like your life depends on it. In the morning, she'll rise and try to sell the fact that she's excited about this banquet. And that she's unafraid to dance with Arthur. Of his hands on her, or of her potentially magically charged hands on him. Oh god. And to think she'd only stressed about kicking him in the groin before. What if -- what if there's really something inside of her that she can't control, and what if it gets her into trouble?

Fatigue from the long trip back to Camelot should have eventually-- ideally-- lulled her into a deep, peaceful slumber. But Guinevere tosses and turns all night, grappling with nightmares that force her to revisit the vision she'd had earlier. All sharp claws and streaming blood. Along with a sense of need that strikes her so deeply that it aches like hunger.
 
After that, the following days passed in a haze. Morgan recovered fast, in part thanks to the enhancements she took with every meal, and once she was strong enough-- well, most of her attention got consumed by Guinevere. And honestly, how could it not end up like that? The banquet was just around the corner, grand and shiny and dangerous, and Guinevere was still very much Guinevere. A lamb surrounded by wolves, to be precise. Morgan didn't think she could transform her into another wolf in the short time before Arthur's return, but that wasn't even necessary. Guinevere didn't need to be like them. No, she just had to know how to watch out for the fangs, and the rest would sprout from that. (Well, at least Morgan hoped so, because that knowledge? That fleeting hope of making it within the walls of Camelot? It was the only gift she could give her.)

And Morgan really did try. The two of them danced, over and over, to perfect Guinevere's technique. (They did it so often that, at some point, her hands on her body started to feel-- well, normal. As if they belonged there. Perhaps that should have alarmed her, but it just didn't; Guinevere was safety and warmth, and Morgan basked in that for as long as she could. Was it really that wrong of her to indulge herself? It wasn't like it mattered. Not truly. Attachment was poison, yes, but Arthur would take her away soon, and so she wouldn't get to form it. Besides, Morgan le Fey didn't do attachments. Her heart had grown immune to nonsense like that!)

That wasn't the end all, be all of their lessons, though; when they danced, Morgan also whispered secrets into her ear. 'Lady Iphigenia is in love with Arthur, and she will do anything in her power to bring you down. Beware.' 'Gawain, Arthur's nephew, is very fond of women, so unless you want the Lancelot fiasco to repeat itself, pay him no mind.' 'Lady Aurelia is foolish and dull, but safe enough. Seeing as her family is influential, it might be a good idea to win her friendship.' And so it happened that, by the time Guinevere learned all the steps, she was armed with the knowledge of Camelot's nobles as well. (Somewhat surprisingly, however, the future queen found out very little about Morgan herself during that period. She... talked to her, and quite extensively so, but her personal life never came up as a topic. And if Guinevere tried to steer the conversation in that direction? Morgan dodged flawlessly, her finesse like that of an experienced swordsman, only to divert her attention elsewhere. Her own motivations remained shrouded in mystery.)

Speaking of mysteries, there were a few times when Morgan tried to discover what exactly had happened in the wastelands; whether Guinevere could cast spells, and what caused it. Nothing ever came of it, though. No matter how how much she prodded at her with her own magic, the reaction from before just... didn't happen. Perhaps her senses had fooled her back then? No, that wasn't possible! Morgan had seen it, seen it with eyes much more reliable than the ones planted in her head, and so it must have been true. If even that sort of perception could lie to her-- well, then there truly wasn't anything for her to believe in.

They had no time to deal with those issues, though. They hadn't had it since Arthur had returned from his journey. He came back in a foul mood, and even if he had never bothered to discuss it with Morgan, it wasn't difficult to guess what he had found on his quest. A failure, deep and bitter. (One would have thought he had gotten used to it already, but Arthur had always been great at not noticing the forest for all the trees. To him, failures were accidents, not parts of a greater pattern. Ah, how sweet such ignorance must have been!)

For Guinevere, the king's return meant that she had to spend most of her free time by his side. Once again, he fed her promises and stories of valor-- and just like before, all of it rang hollow. To him, she was a vessel to fill; that much became increasingly more obvious with every question he failed to ask. (At one point, he even brought up the names of their future children. And that Guinevere might want to have a say in that? Yeah, that didn't seem to occur to him.)

When Camelot finally came alive with music, guests and colors, it was a blessing and curse all at once. A blessing because-- well, for once, there was actually something to do. And the curse part of it? That Guinevere was stuck sitting with her ladies-in-waiting, carefully separated from anyone of consequence. Either Arthur didn't trust her not to embarrass herself, or he simply didn't think her presence to be desirable when discussing important issues. And Morgan? Morgan did attend, though they didn't allow her to sit too close to the future queen, so she may as well have not come at all. Well, at least the wine and food were delicious-- that would help her survive this mess, right? "Oh, lady Guinevere," lady Iphigenia quipped, her voice full of fake sweetness, "you look so wonderful today! I was afraid for you, I truly was, because this banquet is such a formal event, but you are carrying yourself so well. Almost as if you didn't grow up on the streets!" ...or maybe not.
 
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It's beautiful, everyone's saying it's all so beautiful, and it is. And those whose hands were hard at work making this place look beautiful deserved all the credit. Not Arthur himself, who she knows very well spent most of his time since his return at her side, talking of glory and nonsense and baby names. (God, motherhood -- having his children. She can't even think of that right now.) As the hall fills with people and chatter, Guinevere sees the ugliness that coexists with it. It's a stubbornness in her heart that keeps her from indulging in all the food when her heart is with her family. They hardly have as much to eat as the scraps scraped to the sides of a dinner plate in this hall. She tries to snuff out the passion burning in her, knowing it's fuel for something inside of her that simply lash out and reprimand them all for celebrating anything in excess when the rest of the world is dead and desolate around them. What makes it worse is that Arthur did all of this for her. For their marriage, which he should know as well as she does, might as well be a joke.

Well, Guinevere herself might as well be the real joke in here, right? Someone from the outside they all could laugh at if they got bored. She takes tentative sips of wine from time to time, if only to soothe her nerves. And she does handle herself rather well, speaking amiably with Aurelia, the girl Morgan had told her to befriend. It seems that all can't go quite so smoothly, though, when Iphigenia corners her. She so wants to glance at Morgan for reassurance, but maintains eye contact with the woman addressing her as she files through the information she was given during their lessons. In love with Arthur. Right. So she's dealing with jealousy, then. Over... a man. Needless to say, she's inexperienced, like with most things in Camelot. But she supposes that's what all the niceties are for. Ladies don't straightforwardly challenge each other to duels like knights do. They play another game, aiming their weapons behind flowery words... and Guinevere simply doesn't know how to play it like that. Might make her seem empty-headed, but why should anyone even care what she is when the whole point of this evening is to remind her that in a matter of time, the only label that will matter is that she's Arthur's wife?

"Thank you, Lady Iphigenia. I do so appreciate your concern on my behalf." Guinevere smiles pleasantly enough when she actually wants to tell her to eat shit. It's progress. Better to keep the subject away from her life, though, or she's liable to break apart. Besides, if there is something she does know how to do with another woman, it's flirt. (Under the guise of Camelot's old rules, it must appear more to the close-minded eye like a genuine compliment.) "Your dress is beautiful, by the way. It really brings out the color of your eyes." For a moment, the other women latch onto the compliment and address her with praise of the same nature. It shuts her up. If only for a little while. The conversation carries on and whenever it feels safe to do so, Guinevere's gaze searches subtly across the room for Morgan, like she's her lifeline. (Speaking of beautiful--) She can handle this when she knows at least one person in the room is on her side. Each time she sees her there, breathing comes just a little easier and composure stays within her grasp.

All the lessons and her efforts, they seem to be beginning to pay off. Unfortunately, though, the topic circles back to her life before Camelot. Even worse that it's not only Iphigenia this time -- they circle in on her like vultures, leaving her no room to escape. She handles being called a 'poor thing', handles the way they implied that Arthur was so valiant for saving her. It's when Iphigenia piles some food on her plate that Guinevere can't take it any longer. One of her friends, seemingly in on it, does the same. "You've hardly even eaten anything, poor dear. I almost expected you to wolf down your food. Don't be embarrassed, now." It feels like someone had stuffed cotton in her ears, at that point, she doesn't know what to say. Balls her hands in fists within the fabric of her skirt, nails pressing deep crescents into her palms. She searches briefly for Morgan, but can't seem to find her in the crowd. She keeps her expression admirably still, but even she can't help the way her cheeks turn red. Of course, the ladies observe that, too, with little titters and assurances that of course they won't judge her for being hungry. For being herself.

When Guinevere doesn't say anything, just stares at the copious amounts of food she has no appetite for, Iphigenia simply worsens the predicament she's already in by tipping some wine over with the subtle slip of her hand. She blinks a few times, as though it's taking her a moment to process what just happened. She'll do anything in her power to bring you down. That's what Morgan said. Ah. So that's how this works.

Of course, Guinevere's wearing white. The red stain is loud and apparent across her chest, as if to make a mockery of the blush on her face. There's a saccharine apology that follows, but she isn't listening. Her gaze flits desperately for Morgan... and she isn't there.

No, no -- maybe she should thank Iphigenia. Because if she has any good excuse to get the hell out of here, it's this stain, blooming over her like she'd been stabbed in the heart.

"It's... it's all right. I'll take care of it. Excuse me." Guinevere rises, finding some wine had even slipped into her shoes, and brushes off any attempts to help her. Arthur's in the middle of telling some grand story at his respective table, doesn't even notice when his bride to be slips out of the hall on quick, quiet feet. She's so dissolved by embarrassment and disgust that she doesn't... doesn't actually know where she's going. She just turns enough corners to escape the chatter and music, to find a place where she can be alone. She presses her back to the wall, breathing heavily in her attempts to keep the tears of humiliation in, and presses her hands over her face. Just a moment. All she needs is a moment. A few calming breaths. Then she'll get changed and return and smile sweetly as though nothing happened.
 
The place Arthur had chosen for her was an insult, point blank. Who had, after all, ever heard of a king's sister sitting with the servants? Not that Morgan cared, but damn. For all of his resentment towards her, Arthur was rarely so direct with his petty punishments. Pushing his closest living relative that far into the social periphery-- well, it said more about him than it said about her, and the things it said weren't exactly flattering. A mistake, dear Arthur. A big mistake. Well, no matter. Morgan would stay there, play the part of a poor martyr, and collect people's sympathy. The fruits of her efforts were being delivered to her even now, with ladies that never would have paid attention to her otherwise coming to greet her, but it was nothing in comparison to what would happen once Morgan planted her seeds. Oh, foolish little Arthur. Did he really think she would just twiddle her thumbs and let him do as he pleased? That she wouldn't use the only weapons available to her? Because the way he had practically handed her the ammo-- he was just begging her to use it.

And so Morgan smiled pleasantly, seemingly ignorant to the insult. She talked to everyone, from stable boys to cooks, and sipped on her wine. It might even have been fun, or something dangerously close to it, if her heart didn't feel tight with worry every time she remembered Guinevere. Guinevere, her lamb among the wolves. (Her? Her?! Now where had that come from? Because Morgan didn't remember allowing herself to think like that. Such line of thought could be-- dangerous. Destructive, even, and so it had to be buried.) Either way, gone were the days when she had suspected her pupil of throwing food at the people she disliked, though that couldn't lessen her concern. Not even a little bit. This situation was like-- like teaching someone to swim one day, and then throwing them into a river full of piranhas immediately. That Guinevere knew how to carry herself now did not mean she could also deal with those harpies yearning for her blood! Alas, she had no more time to prepare her for that, so it was swim or sink, Morgan supposed. (Had that been Arthur's true intention all along? To isolate his bride from her support network and see how she fared? Sadly, that would have been too clever of a scheme for him. No, Arthur likely just-- had a warped view of what position he had put her in, really. In his mind, the ladies' table was rainbow and sunshines, not one trap next to another. Ugh, men. One would have thought they would recognize a battlefield when they saw one, but no. Without swords, blood and all the other props, they were as blind as newborn pups.)

Good luck, Guinevere, Morgan thought, and it was the only way in which she could help her right now. Visiting her at her table just wasn't acceptable, and-- well. Even if it was, Morgan wouldn't have done it. Not when there were other, more important tasks for her to attend to. Avalon-related business, to be precise. Because, with all the guests, dancing and enjoying themselves, couldn't she also have a little fun?

Once again, Morgan thanked Arthur for seating her where he had. Disappearing would have been troublesome had he insisted on her spending the evening with him, but the situation being what it was-- well, nobody really paid attention to her. Nobody of any importance at the very least; even the ladies who had showered her with sympathy earlier had distanced themselves, probably to be wooed by the knights. (There were few things as romantic, after all, as finding your better half at the banquet meant to celebrate the love of your king and queen. So what if that was a lie as well? It wasn't like they could tell the difference anymore.)

The medallion on her neck shimmered slightly, and Morgan rose from her spot. A signal! Undoubtedly so. Her contact was waiting, and she shouldn't let her wait for long. If someone spotted Caelia out there-- no, thinking about that only made her more restless. Besides, tormenting herself with all the imaginary scenarios would get her exactly nowhere.

"Lady Morgan," a familiar female voice called out to her from one of the corridors. "Goodness, I'm so glad you're safe. I heard some terrible things."

"Mere exaggerations, I'm sure," Morgan smiled and let the other woman press a chaste kiss into the back of her hand. (Hmm. What would it feel like if Guinevere did that? If she placed her lips there and sucked on the skin and-- uh. Yeah, not a good line of thought.) "Now, come. I need to show you-- Guinevere?"

"Guinevere?" Caelia raised her eyebrow. "Why would you want to show me..." She didn't finish the sentence, mostly because there was no need to. Guinevere standing in front of them kind of made that question obsolete, after all.
 
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--or maybe she's not as alone as she thought. Guinevere squeezes her eyes shut tight behind her hands, willing herself to hold everything back, and peeks over them when she hears her name. Oh. It's Morgan and... someone else? A friend, maybe? Eyes inquisitive, she lowers her hands from her face entirely now, but keeps her arms up halfway over her chest, as if that might provide a shield for the stain on her dress. Never been the type to wring her hands anxiously in front of her before now, but she guesses there's a first time for everything. In a way, Morgan's absence at that point had almost been a relief. She doesn't want her seeing her like this. Guinevere's not meant to be weak, a poor thing, trampled over like nothing. But that's how they made her feel. The humiliation still stings on her like a fresh wound and she's almost afraid to use her own voice right now, afraid of the way she knows it's going to stutter and shake. She tried. She tried so damn hard to do well in there, but...

"Oh, um... hello." Guinevere offers them both a hesitant greeting with the polite bow of her head, gaze flitting between Morgan and her companion as though she might be able to gauge their relationship by looking at them. No such luck. It makes her uncertain as to what she should say, what she can say. Well, Morgan had used her name without a title in front of her, just now -- so that must mean something, right? Still. She seems to sway a bit on her feet, as if deciding whether she should stay or leave immediately. "I... I was just..."

Getting some air? Is it even possible for her to play it casual when it's so obvious that it's something else? Morgan's sharp, she'll see right through her in an instant, if she hasn't already. It's not like Guinevere's done anything wrong-- but if she keeps acting so flighty, it certainly might appear that way. Well, there's no point in hiding from the truth of the matter. Even if that truth makes her want to melt into the floor and out of sight. Resigning herself with a rueful smile, she lets her arms fall to her sides, leaving her wine-stained dress in plain sight.

"It was an accident. That's all." An accident. Right. She might say it with a brave smile, maintaining eye contact all the while, but it's still pretty obvious that she's lying. Not wanting to linger on the subject, she supposes she might as well address the most prominent question running through her own mind at the moment. "...What are you two doing out here?"
 
It was only in that moment that Morgan registered the stain; the red, blooming flower on her otherwise white dress. Oh. Well, it wasn't difficult to imagine what had happened in the hall, was it? Arthur might have believed that excuse, but she wasn't her brother, and expecting her to accept it just like he would felt almost insulting. Like, hello? Morgan's brain worked just fine! "Yes, of that I am quite sure," she muttered. Somewhere along the line, her expression twisted itself into that of concern, though Morgan didn't dare to examine why. Sometimes, answers only made everything even more complicated. "It's fine, Guinevere. These incidents happen, so don't let it bother you. Just go change into fresh clothes. And, if I may recommend a course of action-- I think it could be, hm, interesting to arrange a little accident of your own, just to preserve the balance of forces." Just to teach people there were consequences to their actions, really. Because if Iphigenia and her ilk learned that Guinevere took their abuse like a good little girl? There would be no end to it. No, these women were truly worse than animals. At least animals only attacked others when they needed to eat, or when their lives were threatened. "Oh, and an unrelated piece of information; lady Iphigenia loves the earrings she's wearing today. It would be a terrible, terrible shame if something were to happen to them," Morgan smiled, her eyes dangerous.

That smile was wiped off her face, though, when Guinevere raised her question. Oh, right. Caelia still stood there, didn't she? (How curious, really, that the rest of the world seemed to disappear whenever Guinevere got involved. Now she was reminded that it didn't, though, and the realization felt like a slap.) Damn. What should she say? Should she-- should she present Caelia as her friend? That might lead to a whole new set of problems, though, such as Guinevere potentially wanting them to join her at her table. Also, lying to her outright-- that would only lead to bad blood between them once Morgan unveiled the whole Avalon scheme and introduced Caelia as who she truly was! Just... why could things never be easy?

"We are... um... doing things," Morgan said, not able to endure the embarrassing silence anymore. Maybe she should have, however, because that-- that didn't come out too well. Gods, a punch to the nose was exactly what she deserved! 'Doing things'? Really?! "Things that aren't entirely allowed around here, so I'd appreciate if you stayed silent about this." There, a little bit of honesty should make this better. A watered down version of honesty, yes, and also one stripped of any context that would add some actual meaning to her words, but at least she wasn't lying to her. (Omitting facts didn't count as telling lies, right?)

"Lady Morgan?" Caelia looked at her, shock clearly reflected in her brown eyes. "Is this-- are you sure that this is alright?"

"Yes. Yes, trust me."

Trust, trust, trust. The word echoed in her head over and over, each time louder than the one before it. Guinevere had trusted her with the location of her camp, hadn't she? Maybe it was time to offer her more than just pitiful crumbs in return. Not the entire truth, of course, but at least a part of it.

Morgan took a deep breath. "It's related to my research. I'm showing my colleague here certain places around the castle. Places that could potentially be hotspots for magical activity. There's a large concentration of them somewhere under the cellar, so yeah. That's what we're doing." And that she was showing it to her to pinpoint the weaknesses in Camelot's magical defenses? Let's just say Guinevere didn't need to know that just yet.
 
“Oh... I’m sure I’ll figure something out.” Guinevere manages a sheepish response, feeling increasingly relieved that she has Morgan as an ally and not an enemy. (Her mind? And that smile? She just... she makes her heart race.) Part of her is genuinely appreciative for the advice. Another part admits that, realistically, she’ll probably have to handle this some other way. Her own way. She hasn’t figured it out yet, but -- arranging accidents? It doesn’t seem like a skill one learns overnight. And she's upset, yes, but her heart wouldn't truly be in it even if she tried. (Not to mention if she arranged something, it’d probably go terribly wrong. Or the guilt might eat away at her, compel her to call it off at the last minute.) Who’s to say, though, how she’ll feel if she endures months or even years of this treatment in Camelot? Maybe she'll change her mind, if she’s pushed one too many times. But she’s just not there. Not yet. Either way, it fills her with a sense of renewed confidence to have Morgan on her side.

Doing... things? Guinevere squints. Blinks once. Then twice. Um. That certainly leaves a lot to the imagination, doesn’t it? And to make matters worse, the first thought that pops into her head is Morgan and this woman sneaking off to share an intimate moment, hidden safely away from all the eyes and ears in Camelot. Things that aren’t allowed. Does that mean... Morgan likes women? The concept of that is bittersweet, somehow. She shouldn’t be this disappointed if she really is in a relationship-- she doesn’t have the right to be. After all, there’s a banquet proceeding under this very roof, at this very moment, meant to celebrate her marriage. It’s -- it’s a good thing, if Morgan has someone who makes her happy. It's a good thing that they’re still able to be true to who they are in a place like this and-- and why is her heart sinking more with every passing moment?

“I will. Stay-- stay silent, I mean. Of course!” She offers, perhaps a little flushed due to the nature of her thoughts as she looks between them, but unmistakably sincere. After all, Morgan knows enough about Guinevere to destroy her life in Camelot if she wanted... but days have passed now and she hasn’t. In fact, she’s been helping her with curriculum beyond what their usual lessons entail. Providing her with information she needs to survive. Why in the world would she risk ruining that trust between them, now?

She’s almost about reassure them, about to disclose the fact that she’s gay herself, when Morgan explains and it hits her that... oh. This is a magic thing. Not a... a romance thing. Oh wow. Wow. That makes a lot more sense, too, knowing Morgan and... oh for shit's sake, why did her mind even go there in the first place?

--Is it bad that, in a way, she’s relieved?

“Magical activity?” Guinevere tilts her head, curiosity piqued. Okay, she's relieved, but not completely relieved. They never did figure out what had happened to her in the disturbance zone. Not knowing... still twists her stomach up in knots. Especially since even Morgan doesn't seem to know about what's going on with her, either. Concern spears her through the heart, too. Whenever Morgan deals with magic, it tends to bring her pain. “It’s not going to be dangerous, is it?”
 
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Inadvertently, Morgan let out a sigh of relief. Guinevere wasn't going to cause trouble, or at least not immediately. Not that she had really expected her to, especially considering her own position and how closely they worked together now, but still. Living in the shadow of Camelot cured you of excessive trust towards-- well, pretty much anyone. It didn't prevent people from stabbing you in the back, of course, as nothing could do that for you, yet it made it easier for you to react accordingly. (Always watchful, always prepared; that was what you needed to be if you wanted to survive. And that it exhausted her so, so much at times? Nobody claimed that survival was easy.)

"Don't worry, we're not going to blow the castle up," Morgan smiled. Seeing Arthur's face after pulling off a stunt like that would have been hilarious, no doubt, but destruction wasn't her goal here. No, too barbaric. Besides, if Morgan had wanted to bring Arthur's pathetic little kingdom to its knees, she would have done it ages ago. Calling forth her magic and asking it to infect the cold stone? That would have been so, so simple. Simple and beautiful too, she imagined, with the rot collapsing in on itself as all those fools mourned the loss of their precious illusions. With the way they had taken her own illusions away from her, it only would have been proper. Luckily for them, though, Morgan's plans were more complex.

"There will be no grand adventure this time. We're just... going to inspect those spots, more or less. I see no reason why it should be dangerous." A lie, of course, because Morgan could see at least ten different ways in which this could possibly go awry, but she was trying to calm Guinevere down here. Listing all the arguments why panic would be the appropriate response in this situation-- that wouldn't accomplish much, now would it? Aside from the very opposite of her intentions! "In fact, I expect this to be a pretty boring affair," Morgan continued to lie. A good thing that she wasn't named Pinocchio, really, because her nose would have been about three metres long by that point. "I would have asked Arthur for his permission, but he's just so unreasonable about these things. Surely you know what I mean. My colleague's name, by the way, is Caelia."

"Nice to meet you, lady Guinevere," the other woman bowed, the doubts from before clearly gone. Either she changed her opinions quickly, or she believed in Morgan's judgment with all her heart.

As they walked, the trio reached Guinevere's room; Morgan may or may not have led them there intentionally. (What? It wasn't like Guinevere could benefit from tagging along anyway. She knew nothing about magic, which meant she would only get in their way and possibly get hurt in the process. No, leaving her to her own devices was a much, much kinder choice here.)

"So. See you later?" she offered her another smile, this time slightly apologetic. "And show your new friends that you're not to be messed with. Remember, Guinevere: your reputation is what you are, so don't let them define it for you."
 
"Wouldn't be the worst thing." Guinevere mutters darkly before she can help herself. All that shameless extravagance going up in flames. The dormant passion inside her from before sparks alive again, for a moment, when she remembers the way they laughed and stacked food on her plate. That... that was worse than the spilled wine. A stain in her dress isn't something she's going to cry about, but... food? That's no joking matter, when you know the ache of starvation. And wouldn't it all just go to waste, once the night was through? The thought turns her stomach over a few times, makes her want to be sick. Okay, no, she doesn't want the castle to blow up for real, because people would get hurt. But she does wonder how they'd all cope beyond the walls of their precious castle. If a humbling experience might make them change their ways. Always priding themselves for their virtuousness while they hoard their abundance of resources for themselves. Maybe she's bitter, too, that she's been listening to Arthur prattle on about the names of all the children he expects her to give him instead of paying mind to any of her concerns. He intends to take, and take, and take from her -- where are all those promises to give back, now? (What is she even fighting this battle for -- but, no, she can't succumb to doubt. She thinks of the bite on Sam's leg and of the kids crying from their hunger. Everyone she's doing this for. Her resolve snaps back into place.)

She inhales a long, coaxing breath as she listens to Morgan's explanation, leveling herself out. Guinevere isn't so sure if she believes her, really, but she decides against voicing any concerns this time. Maybe she's trying to keep her away on purpose, because of the accident she'd caused last time? (Yeah. She should tell Morgan she doesn't know how to plan an accident -- she'll just make actual accidents out of any accident she happens to orchestrate.) It'd make sense, though. And she wouldn't blame her for that. Besides... she's got someone else with her, now, someone who must know more about magic than she does. So maybe she'll be all right, after all. The idea of missing out on something, though, maybe that hurts a little. It'd certainly be more interesting to go along with them than going back to that banquet. The banquet, where she wouldn't be able to catch a glimpse of Morgan to ease her nerves. She'd drink more wine, maybe, if she wasn't so repulsed by the smell of it clinging to her now. Either way, she has a responsibility of her own.

The introduction gives her a reason to smile again, as she turns to Morgan's... colleague? She must be safe, right? If Morgan trusts her with her research, anyway. "Guinevere." She says it before she can think, "I mean, you can call me Guinevere, um, if you want to. It's nice to meet you, too."

Guinevere dreads every step closer to her room and it yanks on her heartstrings a little harder than she expects when they stop in front of the door. Her first instinct is to reach out for Morgan's hand, to ask her not to leave her alone with all those people, and expectations, and everything, but... but she can't. That'd be so selfish, considering all she's done for her the past few days. If she needs this time to accomplish a goal of her own, then the last thing she wants to do is get in her way.

"Um, right... later." Guinevere manages, locked in her own head as she wraps her arms around herself, over the stain. If she survives the night, that is. She hates what Camelot does to her. The way it makes her feel so small and alone and unsure. Not at all like herself. Everything she's learned on the outside won't help her in here, she'll say she can handle it, but she doesn't know how yet. Still, she bolsters herself up with another smile, as bright as she can manage, as not discourage Morgan from her task. She nods politely to both the women, hand lingering on the doorknob. "Good luck with your research. Stay safe."

With that, she slips inside and closes the door gently behind her. Presses her back against it, if only to hold herself upright and recompose herself, before turning to her wardrobe. They've supplied her with something in nearly every color imaginable, it's more than she's ever owned in her life, far more than she needs, really... and she's never been too picky about her clothes. (Her choices were always... limited, to say the least.) Still, she takes her time now, carefully selecting a dark red dress to replace the one she was wearing before. Red like wine. Or blood. It seems... fitting, somehow.
 
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"Good luck with your research?" Caelia asked once the door closed behind Guinevere. "Lady Morgan, uh, I know it isn't my place to comment upon that, but--"

"It really isn't," Morgan agreed, her voice sharp like a knife. Caelia of all people would not get to question her decisions! Besides, the prospect of speaking about Guinevere to her subordinates seemed strange. Almost as if-- as if she was her dirty little secret. Forbidden fruit she had dared to pluck, maybe. It wasn't like that, of course, not even remotely so, but Morgan just didn't feel like explaining the dynamics between them to an outsider. (Maybe because that would mean actually defining their relationship. Really, what were they? Future sisters in law? Conspirators? Somehow, all the labels felt severely lacking.) "It's a good thing that you're this self-aware. Now, let's go. We don't want to bump into anyone who might actually jeopardize our plans, do we?"

Caelia looked like she wanted to protest, but decided against it at the last second. "Well, alright. I trust that you know what you're doing. If you say that Arthur's wife won't be an issue, then it's fine."

"... she's not his wife yet," Morgan quipped, rather uselessly. Because that little 'yet' at the end of her sentence? It tasted like finality, like a sentence signed, and any hope that might have sprung from anything that came before it was thoroughly dashed. (Yes, she wasn't, but she would be. Inevitably. As surely as night was followed by day, Guinevere would be Arthur's.)

"Right." Wow. Morgan didn't think that so much meaning could be packed into a single word, but here they went. What did Caelia even mean by that? It was difficult to read her expression, really, but she could see... incredulity? Incredulity mixed with sympathy, perhaps? Why, though? Morgan le Fey didn't need anyone's freaking pity! She would take what was rightfully hers, and she would take it soon. Obviously, feeling sorry for her was a total waste of effort. Such emotions should be reserved for-- for widows, orphans and those who had nowhere to go, not for powerful sorceresses. No, no, no. Morgan was just fine, thanks for asking.

"Right. But anyway, follow me."

The two of them went through various corridors, each of them more narrow than the one before it. At least this section of the castle was practically abandoned now; Arthur's banquet occupied the staff quite extensively, and so they didn't dare to leave the main hall or the kitchen in case their service was needed. That, of course, was the entire reason Morgan had chosen this particular day. They couldn't have anyone snooping around, now could they?

"How come you only noticed this now, though, lady Morgan?" Caelia asked. "If it's such a large security hole, then it should have been... I don't know. More visible?"

"It was concealed before," Morgan replied quietly. "Through some kind of magic I am not at all familiar with. Perhaps Merlin's work? Which would explain why I can feel it now. He's not here, so it only makes sense his spells would grow weaker and weaker." Magic with continuous effects, after all, required continuous upkeep. (Why Arthur had sent the man away if his spells guarded something down there was a mystery to her, but again, her brother wasn't exactly an expert on magic. Perhaps he didn't know? Didn't know and refused to learn? Yeah, that sounded just like Arthur.)

"Hmmm," Morgan hummed when they finally reached the door leading to the underground part of the castle. To the catacombs, really. (For some reason, it only seemed fitting that Camelot had been built atop of all that death and suffering. The idea of going down there didn't make her any happier, but she could at least appreciate the symbolism.) "There's still some residual energy in there, though. Curious. I didn't see that before," Morgan frowned as she lifted her hand to touch the entrance. When she did so, a thin, see-through membrane covered the door, and she retreated her hand just in time for it to not get swallowed by the matter as well. That... didn't seem too good. Morgan didn't know this particular spell, yes, but things like that were rarely harmless. A defense mechanism that did nothing would make for a pretty lousy defense mechanism, after all.

"Careful," she warned Caelia. "Let me find its weak point." Morgan closed her eyes, took a few moments to listen to the rhythms that permeated the barrier, and then just-- sent out a signal of her own. The typical procedure when it came to cracking such systems, really. Except that, in response, Camelot shook.
 
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Guinevere barely makes it outside of her room when Camelot tilts and rumbles, like something old and ancient is rising from a deep slumber beneath her feet. Though she normally prides herself on keeping her balance when the world is ripped out from under her, the impact brings her to her knees. There's a throbbing in the back of her head, a dull buzz, but she tries to shake it off, blaming it on the stress. An earthquake? But, no, she knows better than that. It must be magic. Her thoughts drift to Morgan, concern swelling in her heart. (And she said that she wasn't going to blow the castle up!) That might as well be the last coherent thought that truly belongs to Guinevere, though, as an unknown presence phases into her as naturally as slipping into a pool of water. The throbbing in her head builds into a pulse, an ache unlike anything she's ever experienced before, and she immediately presses her hands to the sides of her head, digging her nails into her hair, into her skin. An invisible string seems to wrap around her throat before she can cry out, and then around her limbs, tethering her to something -- a profound sense of purpose-- and it urges her to move. Move, move, move or the strings will cut into her, tear her to shreds and she will bleed all over the floor.

Lowering her hands, she slowly rises to her feet. Doesn't bother to close the door behind her, leaving behind the patch of moonlight on her bed, highlighting the wine-stained dress crumpled there. With every step forward, the fierce grip on her eases, the ache lessens, as if to encourage her on. As the winding halls begin to narrow, it starts to feel more like the hand of a familiar friend, guiding her along. It's okay, it urges, this is natural, this is yours. There's not a lot in this world that she can claim as hers... but even so, she doesn't question it. Either she's helpless to fend against this presence or she knows just as well as it does that this is right. As if she knows it the same way she knows how to breathe.

The responsibility she felt before is rewritten. It's still responsibility, that doesn't change, but it's a different responsibility. Because it's not the banquet hall she's headed for. Certainly not Arthur or any of Camelot's nobles. It's something else. Something more. Beckoning, beckoning...

She stands quietly behind Morgan and Caelia, present yet not fully present. In her current state, she isn't focused on anything but that door. The door is holding it back. But it's there. It's waiting. For... her? (And what-- what waits beyond it?) She thinks of those promises she made in the disturbance zone, to come back, to help, that sense that she was needed. It reemerges here.

She's meant to know, but she doesn't. The answers are there, though, beyond that door. And she wants so badly to understand that it physically hurts. Like a part of her soul is tethered to whatever's in there.

"I..." Guinevere's nose is bleeding, but she doesn't seem to realize it. "I need to get in there."
 
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"Lady Morgan? Lady Morgan, what-- what is this?" Caelia asked, horror etched on her face. 'I'd freaking tell you if I knew,' Morgan wanted to say, but she managed to swallow that answer. Wearing the mantle of a leader didn't just mean barking out orders, like many men in Camelot seemed to think. No, more often than that, it was about keeping your head cool while the world around you burned. About trying to transfer at least some of that tranquility on your subordinates, regardless how futile it may have been. "It's nothing," she said, doing her best to hide her own panic. Gods. Just what had she triggered? What powers had woken up from their slumber? "Just-- a slightly more explosive reaction than I anticipated, that's all. I'm sure I can get it to calm down." Well, okay, so maybe 'sure' was a bit of an exaggeration, but there were times when the truth would not help and this seemed to be one of them. "Lend me your strength, Caelia. It'll be easier for my voice to reach the spirits if it is amplified."

The stones continued to shake around them, vibrating in a strange rhythm, and Morgan-- Morgan sat on the ground, seemingly unbothered. Listen to them, she reminded to herself. Listen, just like you always have. Be the vessel they need you to be. The spirits were lonely, after all, and they would flock to her if she looked welcoming enough. And fear? Fear wasn't attractive. Warmth was, though, as well as confidence, so she put on another mask. Come to me. Come. I'm here, I'm warm, and I'm yours. Distantly, Morgan sensed Caelia placing her hands on her shoulders, but it felt impersonal, as if it was happening to someone who wasn't entirely her. (In that moment, it may as well have been true.) Your sister, your bride. Your only friend here.Yes, yes, come. And as always, they did.

The presence was hesitant at first, as if it feared it might scare her, but she beckoned it to go on, and-- damn. (Morgan would never get tired of that surge of power, of that voice that whispered into your ear that, yes, you could do anything. So what if it also made her feel like she wasn't quite herself anymore? As if she was both the ones who had come before her and those who hadn't been born yet, earth and skies and everything between it? Morgan was, after all, a mere drop in the sea. Who even cared about her?)

"Stop," she said in a voice wrapped in a thousand of echoes, and Camelot obeyed. Or, well, it didn't, but the spirits embraced the stones, keeping them in place. A temporary solution, but a solution nonetheless. It would do, Morgan supposed. Blood streamed down her ears this time, which honestly... should have been worrying, but it just wasn't. Not when that body wasn't really her. (What was her, though? Somewhere along the way, it had ceased to be important, but the information would probably be useful in the future. For when she had to return, you know?)

"Lady Morgan. Lady Morgan, are you alright?"

Ah, yes. Morgan. That was her name. Alright, good to know. Names were anchors, and that anchor would bind her to her harbor. "It's fine," she said, standing up slowly. Her legs felt weak and shaky, but they would carry her well enough. "Let's continue. I need to see what's inside."

It seemed she wasn't the only one who had that desire, though, because Guinevere emerged from behind the corner. Normally, Morgan would have tried to talk her out of it, but-- well, in her current state, it didn't seem like that terrible of an idea. Because Guinevere's aura? It tasted like she belonged there. "Why not. Join us, then."

"Um, lady Morgan, I am not sure whether lady Guinevere should do that. She's-- oh, she's bleeding!"

Morgan didn't hear her, though. The cluster of magical energy that was waiting ahead sang so loudly, so sweetly, that it drowned out anything else. (She had to have it, whatever it was.) The path opened in front of them when Guinevere approached and Morgan walked past her to lead the way, but she touched her shoulder as she did so, and-- oh.

Suddenly, Guinevere found herself... somewhere else. The place was dark and gentle, and oh so pleasantly warm. Like a summer's day, really. "What are you doing here?" an unfamiliar voice asked, its tone accusing.
 
It occurs as suddenly as a blink or the snap of her fingers. The door she needs to pass through is no longer there and she is tossed into the throes of a dark sea, sinking down, down, down, and away from it. That distance is heartache, the piece of herself she needed to find once more beyond her grasp. The threads binding her so tightly to it stretch to their very limits and snap. The sheer impact of it causes Guinevere's physical body to fall limply to stone, like an empty vessel. But she doesn't feel any of that, not now, because there's a conscious part of her that's trapped in this place. A place unknown to her. Warm, uncannily warm for being so dark... as though it intends to lull her into a false sense of comfort before swallowing her whole.

It occurs to her even before she even hears the voice. She knows is that she needs to leave. That she doesn't belong here. (No, she needs to see what's on the other side. While it's still open to her, while she still has the chance. No, she can't be here. Not when she was so close that she could taste it.) She would escape in an instant if she knew how, but... her surroundings don't give her much to work with. It's dark. And she knows from experience that the darkest places are always the hardest to leave. She remembers sharp flickering lights and feeling with her hands on a slick tiled floor for tools she could use to open the door. The... door. Speaking of which--

Guinevere doesn't see the source of the voice. She doesn't even try to look for it. Just stares ahead, like she did the moment before she was whisked away, still somewhat fazed.

"The door." Though she's not entirely present, she's surprised enough to hear the sound of her own voice echoing in this place, "I needed to go through it. But it's gone."

But why did she need to go through it? She yearns profoundly, yet she doesn't know the reason.

Guinevere blinks a few times, starting to come back into herself, if only a little. But she's still quite subdued, considering the situation she's in. "Or I'm... gone." She looks down at herself, around her feet, then at her hands. Well, technically she's still here, but... where is here? What is this place? "Where-- Shit. I'm not dead, am I?" She sighs softly, deciding to reach for the worst case scenario, if only to prepare herself for whatever answer she might receive in reply. Provided she even gets one. "The castle blew up and now I'm dead."
 
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"Gone, gone, gone," the word echoed in her head, over and over, until the syllable gradually lost all meaning. The sound reverberated in her very bones, and it deafened her. Still, for some reason, the dark felt comforting. Familiar, even, like that kind of darkness you returned to every night when you closed your eyes. "Door, door, door," another voice said, which slowly dissolved in the chantings of "place, place, place" and "dead, dead, dead." Did the voices only know repetition? No, that couldn't be. They had, after all, asked her a question before-- or had they? Memories flowed strangely here, layered atop of one another and blending and fading into the background. Even holding onto one's own thoughts seemed difficult, for they seemed as slippery as eels.

"Where are you?"

The scenery shifted. Instead of the darkness, there was a light so bright it blinded her, and so she had to give her eyes a moment to adjust. It looked like... the wastes? They were the wastes and they weren't, with the way the black and grey hues had been turned into shades of orange. A desert, that was what it reminded her of. Not that deserts existed any longer - not in the original sense of that word anyway - but if the old pictures were any indication, this appeared to be one.

"Where are you?" the voices repeated, slightly more insistent.

Once again, everything changed, and this time the world was shrouded in green. There were trees and bushes, growing higher than her eyes could see. The air smelled of a strange, unfamiliar sweetness; it clung to her clothes, to her hair, to everything she was and wasn't. Was this a paradise? It had to be. In a place like this, neither she nor her compatriots would suffer from hunger. But, sadly--

"Where are you?"

Just like before, Guinevere was yanked away. The scenery didn't stabilize so easily this time, twisting and changing like a kaleidoscope, before it finally settled on what looked like-- Camelot, maybe? Or not necessarily Camelot, but another castle. The room she found herself in was dark, with the only source of light being a half-burnt candle resting on one of the tables. For a while, it seemed Guinevere was alone, but then she looked into the flickering flame and-- oh, Morgan was there. She was sitting on the ground and hugging her knees, her arms scarlet with blood. (The scars from before? Was that how she had gotten them?) The woman looked up, looked right at Guinevere, but didn't seem to see her. Not really. In that moment, it also became obvious just how young she seemed-- perhaps "woman" wasn't the right word here after all. No, a "girl" felt much more fitting.

"Mother? When can I--?"

And then the image got shattered. Whatever had been holding her in check lost all its power, and Guinevere was suddenly faced with Morgan. The real Morgan. For some reason, both of them were sitting on the ground, as if to parallel the last vision. This time, however, there could be no doubts as to whether Morgan registered her. No, she was clearly watching Guinevere, her mouth slightly agape. And her eyes? They were horrified. "What did you see?" she asked. "Tell me."
 
"I..." Guinevere is held entirely still by the look in Morgan's eyes. It floods her with guilt for having seen anything at all, really, but this place tossed her around with the herculean pull of a tidal wave and she was helplessly taken along with it. And now that the thrashing has stopped, her thoughts slosh around in her head like water she had swallowed along the way. But rather than sort through them right away, Morgan is all she sees. The one she recognizes so very well. It registers with her, then, that they could very well be in Morgan's... mind? Because those were memories, right? But how is that even possible? She thinks of anyone getting a glimpse of her own memories this way and... she knows very well she'd have reflected Morgan's same expression in this situation. It's deep diving into her privacy, seeing things that aren't meant be seen. Especially not without permission. And judging by the mortification in Morgan's face? She got yanked in here by accident and not on purpose. "I don't know why I'm here, Morgan. I'm so sorry."

Now, what had she seen? She closes her eyes, furrows her brow as if to concentrate. "One moment there was a red sky... but it didn't last. Then there were trees, but they were alive and... and it was really beautiful." She opens her eyes and they're bright and practically sparkling at the thought. That must have been something she'd imagined rather than remembered, right? Otherwise, how... how was that even possible? It's strange, though, because she could practically smell the forest around her, feel the life within it. The sight evoked hope itself -- but then -- after that. "Then I saw-- I saw you, I think, but... you were younger. A little girl."

Calling for her mother. Blood on her arms. It was too much. She shouldn't have seen that. But it's too late to erase it from her own mind, now. Guinevere brings a hand to the side of her head, shakes it a few times. Either way, she doesn't want to be anything other than soft and safe with Morgan. She's never seen her like this before, so... so fearful. She'd reach for her, to offer some comfort -- but she's afraid her touch might make her flinch. No, being in her mind... if that's really where they are... that's invasive enough already.

"I'm sorry. I-- I don't want to pry. I'd make it stop if I could." Her eyes harden with a sort of practical seriousness, now. "How am I supposed to get out of here, Morgan? Do you know?"
 
Morgan took a deep breath. Everything-- everything would be fine. It really would. She had no idea how any of this had happened, but it mattered not. All the whys and hows could be solved later, when the voices stopped being so damn overwhelming and she belonged to herself once again. (Would that ever happen, though? Gods, maybe she really had gone too far this time. There were too many of them, way too many, and she was drowning in those voices, and-- no. Guinevere. Guinevere was here, too, and she was real in a way others weren't. Her guiding light. All Morgan had to do was to take advantage of it, really. To focus and hang on for dear life.)

Which, surprisingly, proved to be rather easy. Because the things Guinevere said? Yeah, it would have been harder not to pay attention to them. Just... why? Why was she here and why was she seeing things? Gods, the very idea of her witnessing scenes from her past made her feel sick. (Morgan had buried it all, put it so far behind her that it may as well not have happened. How could that still be true with Guinevere knowing, though? With anyone knowing? Since, well, once the location wasn't secret anymore-- the truth had the nasty tendency to claw itself out of its grave and tear down everything built atop of it.) Moreover, what was it that she had seen in the first place? Her being a little girl wasn't exactly descriptive, after all, so it could have been-- pretty much anything, really. Even one of the pleasant memories. Something, however, told her that probably wasn't the case. Had Guinevere seen her, say, buying cottoncandy, surely she wouldn't have made a face like that. As if-- as if she pitied her. And that? That hit her harder than anything else. Outright derision would have been kinder than this! (Maybe, just maybe that was because Morgan at least knew how to react to that. Mockery, after all, was familiar. A devil she knew. What to do when someone looked at her like Guinevere did, though? With eyes full of regret and compassion and something Morgan couldn't quite identify? To pull closer or to pull away, that was the question. Speaking in practical terms, there just weren't any other options, were they?)

"Yes, I'm quite sure of that," she ended up saying. Somehow, her voice managed to sound both sarcastic and serious at once, and Morgan herself didn't know what the truth was. Either way, pulling away seemed to be what she had gone with. The path of least resistance, which honestly wasn't all that surprising. Not when closeness had never lead to anything but more opportunities to get hurt, and Morgan certainly didn't need those. No, there were more than enough of them even without her contributing actively. She just had to... shut down. Shut down and not feel anything. If she felt nothing, then this wouldn't matter, either, and there would be no consequences for her to deal with at all. Solid logic, right? "But anyway, yes. I do know how to get you out of here," Morgan said, her tone carefully neutral. "Kill me." ...which probably didn't sound all that reasonable to someone who had no idea how these things worked, she supposed. Alright, a clarification was needed. "I won't actually die. It will make me wake up, though, and you'll be freed. So, do it."
 
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Do it, Morgan says, like it's simple, when it's anything but simple. As though she expects Guinevere to take her out with the same quick finesse she displayed when she had killed that beast in their path on the trip back to Camelot. She stares blankly, almost as though she hadn't heard her, in stunned silence as her heart sinks in her chest. Does -- does Morgan think she'd just kill her so nonchalantly? (It's not real, sure but -- it'll appear real and that still counts for something, doesn't it?) Needless to say, it disarms her.

"Oh." Guinevere rasps out at last, resolve flickering as she brings a hand to her throat and swallows. "Oh. So it's -- it's like a dream, then. It'll... shock you and..." A dream, right. Or a nightmare. This is a nightmare. A shared nightmare, between the two of them it seems. And the only way out is to do the one thing she'd never want to do. Ever. There she was, reluctant to touch Morgan out of concern, and now she'll have to -- to -- Her lower lip trembles and she blinks rapidly against the emotions welling up inside of her as her sister's words slither like a venomous snake into her mind. Weak. Crybaby. "...and then you'll wake up."

Makes enough sense. But she still doesn't move right away. Isn't eager. She does want to leave Morgan in peace, but she doesn't -- doesn't --

Guinevere looks down at the palms of her hands, lost in a temporary reverie as she grapples with the fear. She would rather ask Morgan to kill her than have to -- have to do this herself. But it's not real. In fact, in the same position, she's sure Morgan would have ended it practically by now. Wouldn't hesitate like this or prolong her suffering out of cowardice. This sort of killing is an act of mercy, isn't it?

Mercy. Yes, that's the only thought that will make any of this remotely all right. Besides, she's not really going to... to die.

"And... and this is really the only way?" Guinevere has to ask, has to be absolutely certain of it before she slowly places her hands around Morgan's throat. A gentle, careful act, really. She doesn't grip very hard at first, they just linger there, light as can be. There's a tremor in them, only noticeable because of how close they are, and she struggles to keep them steady. Soft skin, a fluttering pulse beneath her fingers, oh... now she's really feeling faint. (Coward Jen's voice hisses at her, unhelpfully.) "Right. I'll do it. But only because I want to make this stop. I would never really -- you have to know I would never do this if... if I had another choice."

"I don't want to hurt you." Guinevere doesn't explain that that the concept of harming Morgan hurts her inexplicably. That she'd barely spoken after the accident in the disturbance zone because she'd felt so guilty afterwards. Forcing herself to stop before she can back out, she shuts her eyes tight and turns her head away. Maybe it's a childish gesture, coming from a fearless gang leader from the wastes. But looking into her eyes would simply make this impossible. Killing packs of monsters is no issue, but people... soft, delicate, feeling people are another matter altogether. (And Morgan, of all people. Morgan who her heart is filled with so many varying emotions for at this very moment--) "I'm sorry." The apologies continue on from there, but her voice grows weaker and weaker as her grip becomes tighter and tighter...

And then it's finally over.

Curled up like an abandoned doll on the floor, Guinevere's eyelids remain closed, but they twitch a little, which is the first sign of life she's shown since collapsing. She's returned to herself, perhaps, but she's not coming to. Not yet. Blood has streamed down her nose and nearly past her lips, smearing them red.

"They're down here!" A man's voice booms down the corridor with urgency, followed with the heavy clamor of boots against stone. "Come quick!"
 
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"Yes, the only way," Morgan nodded, and it wasn't even a lie. With both of them so far gone, the shock of dying was about the only thing that could force her body to awaken. The basic instincts still applied, you know? Though, honestly, even if they didn't, she still may have asked her to do that. Making Guinevere do something that bothered her this much-- well, it only restored the balance, didn't it? Because Morgan didn't want her to be there, either. (And maybe some part of her welcomed the pain, too. Inadequacy had to be punished somehow, after all, and wasn't Guinevere's presence here a proof she had failed? A proof that her defenses just weren't good enough? Oh yes, she should suffer for that. Such was the way of the world-- if you didn't get hurt for your mistakes, you never learned from them, either.)

"I know," she said, "but get it over with. It'll be fine." Gods, that look in Guinevere's eyes? It almost, almost made her regret demanding such things from her in the first place. (Had Morgan been stronger, she would have done it herself, but, again, basic instincts. Killing yourself wasn't nearly as easy as it sounded, even in a dream.) Guinevere wrapped her hands around her throat, and for some reason, Morgan could only think of how pleasant they felt against her skin; how they made her shiver, and how she would also like her to touch her, uh, elsewhere. Gods, how utterly pathetic. Was she really this starved for human contact? Because Morgan sure as hell hadn't noticed such tendencies before.

"It's fine," she repeated. "It really is. Do it." And Guinevere didn't disappoint. The pressure on her throat began to build up, greater and greater and greater, and, gods, she couldn't breathe. That was, of course, the entire point, but that still couldn't stop the surge of panic. What if she really died there? Magical theory said otherwise, though it seemed much less trustworthy now, with her lungs in pain and the whole world becoming blurry around the edges, and--

With a jolt, Morgan sat up. She could still feel the ghost of the touch around her throat and she raised her own hands to protect it, but-- there was no attacker, of course. Just her, Guinevere and Caelia. Well, that, and also Arthur's knights? ...damn. They must have noticed the earthquake! Which, no shit they had, but the issue of Arthur had been pushed aside in her mind in favor of dealing with the damn castle falling apart first. Maybe that was a mistake, though. Everything about this seemed to be a mistake.

"You! What did you do to lady Guinevere?!" one of the men asked.

...yeah, that didn't look good. It didn't look good at all! With her awake and Guinevere still lying on the ground, beaten and oh so lifeless, it was easy to jump to conclusions. Not even Morgan would blame them for following that particular thread; didn't the explanation offer itself, after all?

"I can-- I can explain," she started, but an armored fist landed in her face, which promptly shut her up. Gods, her ears were ringing. And all that blood that got in her eyes? That wasn't making it any easier for her. Damn, damn, damn!

"As if we're interested in your excuses, witch!" the man spat out. "You've gone too far this time. Seize her!"

When Guinevere woke up, she found herself in a bed, large and soft and comfortable. Her own bed, maybe? It certainly looked like that. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, too, apparently engrossed in some book. When she opened her eyes, though, he put it aside immediately. "Lady Guinevere!" he caressed her face, careful and gentle. "I am so glad you are safe. It was a terrible oversight to trust my sister with you, and for that, I apologize. I just-- who would have thought she'd go this far?" Arthur shook his head. "But worry not, my beloved. Morgan won't hurt you anymore. I've arranged for someone else to take care of your lessons, too. Everything will be as if you have never met her at all."
 
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It seems as though Guinevere escaped one nightmare only to awaken in another. Once more, too warm. Too comfortable. Not right. Her eyes flutter open slowly and squint against the light. At first her pillow feels like an obstacle against her head and lower back, pinning her from moving, forcing her to endure Arthur's touch when her first instinct is to pull away from him... then she realizes she should be thankful for its presence. Otherwise she would have ruined the 'illusion'. For now, her lack of reception could easily be blamed on fatigue and the sharp pain still plaguing the back of her skull. She decides then against sitting up, still feeling heavy, her mind cloudy with ache and blurred memories from the night before. Her hands around Morgan's throat. It makes her want to burst into tears now, but she knows she'll have to wait until she has her privacy to unpack that particular nightmare. Probably because she's found her way into another one. And like most nightmares, it just gets worse and worse.

"No. Morgan... Morgan didn't hurt me." Guinevere's voice is soft with sleep, but sincere. It's a reason for concern, though, maybe even panic. Because she really doesn't... know exactly how to explain what had happened the night before. Or -- how long has it been? How long has she been out? And what's happened since then? Especially if the consensus is that Morgan hurt her and there's no one else around to speak on her behalf. Her heart pumps alive in her chest again, she can feel it beating and breaking simultaneously against her arms, through her blanket. "She wouldn't hurt me. Where is she? Is-- is she all right?"

All she knows is that there was some part of her that awakened, that she's connected intrinsically to something Arthur's keeping hidden away in his cellar. It led her there. It might be true that whatever Morgan was experimenting with had triggered the incident, but it wasn't her fault. Not in the way Arthur seems to think. She didn't go out of her way to hurt her. In fact, it's one of the few things she's actually sure of from last night. And it might not sound so eloquent in Guinevere's words, but... she won't stay silent if it means Morgan's going to suffer the consequences unfairly --

As if she never met her? His words collide with her directly and Guinevere's expression twists before she can stop it, as though he'd just slapped her.

"Wh-- what do you mean, as if I've never met her? We--" How is she supposed to finish that sentence? We were becoming so close? She's not sure Arthur wants to hear that, exactly. Not when those words will sound more genuine spoken from her lips about Morgan than they ever will about him. But... she can't just smile and play dumb, either. She brings herself up to sit and flinches as the weight of her pain presses against her. Regardless, she persists against it, clenching her hands into fists in her lap. "There's been a mistake."
 
Arthur raised his eyebrow and, in that moment alone, he looked almost like Morgan. The two siblings weren't actually all that similar, to the point that very few people would be able to tell they were even related at first glance, but that expression? That touch of incredulity mixed with suspicion? He may as well have been his sister's mirror. The impression only lasted for a second, though, before his eyes softened somewhat and Arthur looked like Arthur again. "Lady Guinevere," he said and caressed her once more, oh so casual. If someone else witnessed the treatment, they likely would have come to the conclusion they were-- well, exactly what they were. Lovers and partners. How sweet, was it not? "Lie down, please. The healers say that you should rest. Magic is a wretched thing, and it hurt you terribly. You were asleep for two nights. I was so worried you'd never wake up from your slumber!"

With that, Arthur stood up and walked across the room to pour a glass of water for her; he did so in complete silence, ignoring any and all questions Guinevere might have raised. Did he not want to respond or was he planning his next move carefully? Or was he perhaps too in love with his role of a caretaker to take anything that might destroy that narrative into consideration? Reading his expression wasn't an easy task at all. Actually, come to think of it, Arthur seemed-- a little lost. Confused, maybe, which didn't fit his face at all. Not when he had always been so careful to look composed and confident; to look like a king.

"You must be thirsty. Drink, my love, and I shall explain what happened." Pfft, explain. For someone who hadn't even been there, Arthur appeared to be awfully confident in his own judgment. But then again, hadn't it always been like this? "Morgan-- she must have enchanted you. That's why the healers found traces of magic in your body, and it's also why it took you so long to wake up. It explains why you seem to be so confused about the whole ordeal, too. Magic serves as a poison for the mind, after all. Maybe that is the reason my sister betrayed me," Arthur sighed. "She was always too ambitious for her own good, yes, but to attack my betrothed on the day dedicated to celebrating our love-- that is pure insanity. Well, not that I am particularly interested in her motivations," he smiled at Guinevere, as if there was anything funny about that statement. In his mind, perhaps there really was. "She'll be punished nonetheless, I promise. Not as harshly as she deserves because she is still my sister and kinslaying displeases the gods, but there are other possibilities. Camelot's dungeons, for example. They are vast and mostly empty, and she won't bother you down there. Or--" Arthur's smile widened at that, "do you have a different suggestion? You were the wronged party, after all, and so it seems only fitting that you should choose the punishment. What would you have me do with her?"
 
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Guinevere wants to draw back from his hand, to smack him away. She wants to knock that damned cup of water out of his hands and ask him to let her explain things to him for a goddamn change. Rather than unleashing that fire burning in her, though, she lets her insides burn up instead -- and her heart pays the price. Reduced to cold ashes in her ribcage, like there might as well be a dead and empty mannequin sitting in her place. This is what it is to be with Arthur. Holding back everything that makes her who she is. Because that's not what he wants, is it? He doesn't want the girl from the wastes who trusts her own eyes, her own gut, and who could take care of her own damned self long before he ever came into the picture. She's still finding her way in Camelot, it's true -- but even she knows that what Arthur wants matters more than anything else in this twisted place. If she thrashes and screams the way she wants to, things might become even worse for Morgan. So she sits still and lets him have his way, she accepts the cup when he offers it, and stares dully at her reflection in the water. Illusions. Camelot is all illusions. That's what Morgan taught her. She needs to come at this with a level head... which is difficult, considering... god, has she really been out for two days? It must be true, because the room is spinning just from sitting upright.

Where is Morgan, now? Is she all right? He never answered her question and her heart yearns for the answer, but she knows better than to ask again. The strain from the magic must have impacted her in some way, too. And on top of that she's being branded a criminal for something she didn't do. It's horrible. Why is this place so horrible?

How would Jen handle this? Guinevere thinks about the way she'd wrap men around her little finger and then bleed them dry. (God and she'd told her she was awful for it. Now she's going to look like such a hypocrite.) Well. It's worth it to be a hypocrite if it keeps Morgan safe. The tables are turning, her circumstances are different now, and she needs to adapt if she's going to survive.

"I... I still don't understand what happened." Guinevere downplays her intelligence to play her role for Arthur, ever the confused damsel, her eyes round and childlike. And it's true that she doesn't understand the magic that compelled her. But Morgan's not at fault. Her stance on that is firm and no amount of his blatant gaslighting is going to make her think otherwise. She hands him the cup of water when she's finished with it, resting back down against the pillows the way he advised before to make herself seem smaller, less in control. She tries not to furrow her brow with her thoughts, like she normally does. How can she make this work? How can she help Morgan? "Magic is very complicated, isn't it? It could have very well been an... an accident."

His smile all while he brings up the concept of punishment? It strikes a sharp, cold fear in her, for Morgan's sake. More fear than any monster could ever make her feel. And the worst part is that she can't raise her sword to defend her. She has to think of something else. Without surrendering herself, she needs to become a new element -- something other than her usual fire. You don't use fire to survive in Camelot. Think, think, think...

The gods, huh. A king can really only fear his god, right? And surely not the helpless woman lying in her bed.

"If her motivations are unclear... then what if it was only an accident? Wouldn't it be unfair, in the eyes of the gods, to punish her so severely for that?" Her voice shakes a little, because she's not sure this is going to work, but if anything it adds a touch of authenticity to the role she's playing. Swallowing to steel herself, she reaches tentatively for Arthur's hand, perhaps the first time she's initiated anything since they made this arrangement. "It's like you said. She's your sister. We need to forgive her." 'We', the word is manipulative, we, implying this is a choice they are making together.
 
Guinevere's admission of ignorance appeared to strike a chord within Arthur; this was, after all, who she was meant to be. A silly little girl who knew nothing. Someone easy to bend, easy to control, easy to love. (Things being easy, it seemed, was Arthur's priority. Because ultimately, wasn't Camelot also the easy way out? At least compared to braving the wastes?) "That is quite alright, my lady. Nobody expects you to understand the situation immediately. Not after you spent two days in a coma!" The care in his voice would have been moving, really, if it also didn't contain the unspoken 'don't worry, I expect you to act stupid'. Classic Arthur; so sickeningly sweet that it could give you cavities.

"Just rest, my lady, and I am sure everything will become that much clearer in the future. You will have as much time as you need." When the word 'accident' left her lips, though, Arthur furrowed his brow. "An accident?" he repeated, slowly, almost as if the word itself disgusted him and he didn't want to touch it with his tongue. "My lady, spilling a glass of wine on someone is an accident. Stepping on someone's foot may be an accident, too. Enchanting someone, however? Hurting them with your magic? I'm afraid not. And even if she truly meant you no harm-- well, she still caused you suffering, and her intentions don't make that any less true." Once again, Arthur stood up, this time to pace across the room. It was meant to be resolute, probably, but he just ended up looking-- undignified, really. Like a boy who visited a toyshop only to discover that his favorite toy was sold out.

"My lady," he said, "kindness is a good trait for a woman to have, but too much of it can be hurtful as well. Save it for those who deserved it. I have told Morgan numerous times to drop her unnatural crafts-- that is what infuriates the gods, not the justice I'm trying to get. Moreover, we need to show our enemies that those who dare to hurt my queen will not escape unscathed. Everyone knows what happened. Had Morgan had the decency to pick another day, it might have ended up differently, but as it is, all the guests learned of her insolence. A punishment is necessary, not just a whim of mine." Ah, so this, too, was one of Camelot's illusions. Even if Arthur didn't want to hurt his sister, he simply had to; not doing so would make him appear weak in front of his subjects. And since smokes and mirrors was all he had-- well, he couldn't afford to lose them, now could he?

"But why are you defending her so?" Arthur looked at her, suddenly a bit suspicious. Somehow, his glare felt heavier than usual. "I didn't think you were friends." The way he said that word - friends - made it rather obvious what he thought about the prospect of his sister sharing such ties with anyone. Preposterous. Preposterous and utterly stupid. "Lady Guinevere," he started, his voice lower than usual, "must I remind you that it is not wise to get too involved with her? Morgan is dangerous, apparently even more than I thought. How can I know she didn't also enchant you so that you would side with her?"
 
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