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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

"That makes sense," Morgan whispered, and of course it did. Because those words about preparing herself for the worst? They mirrored her own ideology so perfectly that, under different circumstances, she could imagine saying them herself. Who would have guessed that the cheerful Guinevere thought like this as well? (Once, Morgan had considered her demeanor to be a weakness, but maybe, maybe it was the exact opposite of that. Any fool could preserve faith in others when shielded by ignorance, yes, except that what Guinevere did-- well, it was choosing optimism while knowing exactly how fucked up the world was. And didn't that require strength? The kind of strength that Morgan just didn't possess?)

"It can serve as a powerful armor, that much is true. Take care not to overuse it, though. In certain situations, it will do nothing but slow you down." People, after all, needed a semblance of hope, as fake as it could be at times. If you didn't believe in your goal on some level, how could you possibly achieve it? You couldn't, obviously. As usual, balance was the answer-- living somewhere on the border between naivety and hopelessness, doing your best not to land too far on either side. And, yeah, Morgan may have failed in that endeavor more than once, but so what? You could always pick yourself up off the ground and try again, provided it hadn't killed you.

Unsurpringly, her cryptic remark didn't fail to capture Guinevere's attention. Well, duh. Implications of committing treason, no matter how gentle, tended to do exactly that. Her reactions being so predictable was good, though; it meant everything was going according to the plan so far. No point in being nervous, really. She only had her head to lose, and honestly, if Guinevere turned out to be that untrustworthy, Morgan deserved that fate. Mistakes of such magnitude had to be punished somehow. "Well," Morgan chuckled, trying to sound nonchalant even as her heart threatened to jump out of her chest, "who knows? Maybe my brother will become an entirely new person. Perhaps you shall transform him through the power of love, and then he will realize what is truly important in this world. I mean, it's not entirely impossible." It was as close to impossible as it could possibly get, though. Almost as likely as carps growing legs and becoming the next dominant life-form on the planet. Yeah, technically that could happen, but would you bet your money on that outcome?

"Or," Morgan looked up to her, her eyes suddenly more alive than they had ever been, "if you don't want to spend the rest of your life praying for that to happen, you can help me with my little side project. Me and my colleagues-- well, let's say we don't agree with Arthur's methods. And we also believe that if we demonstrate to others at Camelot just how incompetent he truly is when it comes to protecting them from possible threats..." Morgan paused and her smile only got wider; even in the darkness, one could see her teeth were showing. "... they might be more inclined to let a someone capable lead them. What do you say, Guinevere?" Somehow, she managed to keep her voice from shaking, but the nervous, slightly manic energy that surrounded her-- that gave her fears away. Could anyone blame her, though? Morgan had just handed Guinevere a knife, and plunging it right into her heart would be the easiest thing in the world. She didn't think that the other woman would do it, of course, but Julius Caesar had presumably also trusted Brutus. Trust was, after all, the soil in which betrayal could take root. So, what would it be for her? Life or death, win or loss? Soon enough, Morgan would find out.
 
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Guinevere doesn't suppress the way her expression twists at the mention of the 'power of love' and simultaneously relishes in the fact that, with Morgan, she's free enough to express herself that way. Recalling the countless days she had to play the role of Arthur's lovely damsel and knowing she'll have to go back and uphold the act... but right now, in this moment between just the two of them, she's free. And what's more exhilarating than that? Well-- apparently Morgan has more to offer. More than she could have ever anticipated as she continues to explain. Guinevere listens, struck silent with awe and wide-eyed.

"--Wow." Breathlessly, that's the only word she can say at first. This whole night has been one bombshell after another, hasn't it? But this one -- well -- what can she even say? It shakes her to her very core, asks her to rearrange the pieces of how she thought her future would unravel. In a place like Camelot, she always suspected there were some unhappy people hiding behind the disguises that all the rules forced them to don, people who might advocate for change if they felt they could take it within their grasp. But she never expected that Morgan had a whole group of her own, rebelling from the shadows! It's impressive. (And so damn attractive--) She blinks slowly, fading from surprise to an air of deep consideration. Her gaze flickers in the darkness as she stares searchingly at the ground.

And -- god -- she doesn't want her hopes to skyrocket, she only just admitted how she feels about that but... could she change her fate, if they were to succeed?

Guinevere's been quiet for a while, though, and considers all of the impenetrable walls she sensed Morgan held around her, how much it must have taken on her part to trust her with this. She's got to say something, damn it! She looks directly at Morgan, eyes somehow bright and alive with the sense that they're conspiring.

"Of course. Of course I'll help you." For once, she listens to her heart and takes Morgan's hand in hers, her grip gentle and firm. She's still got to be careful not to let it consume her too quickly, but -- the idea that there's another path she can take, a way to support her gang and simultaneously keep her freedom, it's-- "This could change everything. I..."

It nearly sounds too good to be true. But is the concept of success so far out of reach? Based on experience, her decision to rely on Arthur cost her far more than she received in return. Relying on Morgan, however, has brought forth tools she needed for survival, a sense of comfort, a... friend. Deceit and empty promises can only take a man so far, especially if his actions disproved all the flowery words he spoke. If the people of Camelot were made to face the truth, then it isn't so unreasonable to think that they could actually pull this off. It might be dangerous to hold onto too much hope, but she trusts Morgan far more than she trusts Arthur. That has to count for something.

"You mentioned threats. Is something about to happen to Camelot?" Guinevere doesn't sound particularly concerned about it, just inquisitive. Like she's trying to gauge just how much she'll be able to help. If she knows Morgan, there's a structured plan and the events will unfold eventually -- but she wonders if this threat is orchestrated, or if it's something that might incidentally happen at any moment. And she wonders what the timeline is. In fact, she's starting to realize that she has a thousand questions that probably won't all get answered tonight. if they want to get any sleep in preparation for tomorrow.
 
Waiting for Guinevere's answer was quite possibly the most stressful thing she had ever experienced in her entire life. It felt like jumping off a cliff, really. The decision to jump had been made already, the step had been taken as well, and now-- now Morgan could do nothing about the outcome. Whether she'd survive the fall wasn't up to her anymore, and that was the thing, wasn't it? The helplessness. The sense of doom that came from relying on another, because her experiences with that had been less than great in the past. It crushed her lungs with an iron fist, and for a moment, it legitimately felt as if she was going to choke. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale, she reminded to herself. It was so simple, after all. Even the greatest idiots alive knew how to breathe, so why did it feel so impossible now?

Except that none of her fears were justified. Of course they weren't, because Guinevere said 'yes'. (Gods, Morgan didn't think she had ever heard a sweeter sound. That promise of help? It was a future, the kind of future she could look forward to instead of dreading it, and that-- that terrified her almost as much as it pleased her. People dreaded what they didn't know, after all. And this situation? Every single thing about it felt unfamiliar. This was what the sailors of old must have felt like when they had set out to discover new lands, Morgan supposed. Hopelessly lost, but also full of expectations. What a funny, funny combination.)

"Thank you," she said, relief written all over her face. "You won't regret it. And no, I don't think so. It is possible given the newest trends with the disturbance zones, but it's not what I had in mind. Mind you, I have no desire to endanger those who live within Camelot's walls." The same people likely wouldn't have extended the same courtesy to her, Morgan knew, but that didn't mean she had to stoop to their level. No, her own integrity was more precious than that. Petty vengeance on people who had most likely been brainwashed into following all those rules-- that just wasn't her style. Arthur should suffer, not the ones who had been caught in the crossfire of their pointless family drama. "I was hoping to be able to run a few magical simulations," Morgan shrugged with a smile. "That is why we were looking for weaknesses in Camelot's defenses. Me and Caelia, I mean. I just wish to show Arthur's subjects how their beloved king would react in the face of actual danger." Well, okay, it was more complicated than that, but yeah, that was what Avalon had been shooting for. Partially, anyway. "Don't you think they have the right to know?" Morgan smiled. "This is important, after all. Having a monarch who won't take care of you in a time of crisis is a problem, no matter how you spin it. I doubt they will be as willing to kiss his boots when they learn who he is. Especially when there will be other, more capable candidates for that role. Someone like you, for example." Morgan had originally planned to seize the power for herself, but honestly? Guinevere might be the better choice. People of Camelot didn't love her yet, sure, but they also didn't hate her, which couldn't be said about Morgan. And wouldn't it be poetic justice if Arthur's puppet became the puppet master? It was like something straight out of a novel, really. A plot point so beautiful that only life itself could write it, and Morgan was a fan. (Besides, if she involved Guinevere more directly-- well, the girl would have little incentive to betray her, right? Not that it seemed likely at this point, but still. Having more assurances had never killed anyone while the opposite had. As such, the choice was quite obvious.) "What do you think?"
 
"...Right. Nothing good would come of endangering the people deliberately." Guinevere nods along with her explanation, thoughtful. It makes sense. Because orchestrating an event with real dangers to the people of Camelot would likely backfire -- if someone were to suspect that there was a group putting them in danger purposefully, it wouldn't reflect well on them at all. (No one would want a leader who deliberately endangered the people to prove a point, either.) Magical simulations with harmless effects, however, would only serve to reflect on Arthur's actions as a ruler. When the effects wear off and the people realize they were safe all along, they'd still be armed with that knowledge on what could be. It could work, if executed correctly. She thinks on how Arthur tried to 'explain' everything for her when she woke up after the night of the banquet, wonders how he might try to explain himself. Would he try to convince the people they were all collectively 'bewitched'? And would they just take his bullshit? Or would it stir waves and wash away everything he had built like a drawing in the sand?

And even if they sought out a new leader, would it be possible to convince them to share their precious resources with the rest of the world? Would they allow it, or would they protest? She suppose she doesn't know the people of Camelot well enough to know how they might take it in the moment. She falls a bit deeper into her mind, considering the different possibilities, when suddenly Morgan's suggestion yanks her out of it. Wait. What? Her?

"Someone like... me? Really?" Guinevere echoes, pressing a hand to her chest as if to clarify whether or not she really means that. But she gets the sense that Morgan's not joking. Okay, sure, she's the leader of some ragtag gang out in the wastelands, but this is a whole other brand of responsibility she'd be taking on if she were to accept. If -- if the people would even accept her. It's strange, too. It reminds her so vividly of that night. The deep-rooted feeling that something beneath Camelot tethered her to a responsibility greater than following Arthur and his rules. And it starts flowing back through her. All the magic she doesn't understand yet, the way she feels like she's failing her girls, still clumsily finding her footing in Camelot, and -- well, then there's Adrianne's worries to consider, and the missing girls, and -- now this. "I-- I don't know. I'll consider it. But I need time. Time to think it through."

Having a say in how the resources were used would be nice. But stepping into such an important position, when she's so unsteady and uncertain? Over time she might find her footing, it's true, but... it's not a decision that she can make lightly. Especially not right now. From the sound of it, Morgan has been building this movement from the beginning -- perhaps it'd be better for her to step into that position? She can trust her to vouch for her gang, after all, considering the fact she toted a bag of supplies here as well. She cares.

"I could see you being a reliable leader, Morgan." She smiles naturally at the thought of it. The people of Camelot who fear her, those who favor Arthur, they really don't know what they're missing. But some people don't like to take on a role of leadership, though, and she can respect that. Heavy is the head that wears the crown... that's how the saying goes, right? "You've been there for me in a way that Arthur hasn't been. And never will be."

Guinevere gives Morgan's hand a final squeeze before pulling away and climbing back into her sleeping bag, resting her head back and staring at the ceiling. With so many gears turning in her head, though, she doesn't know how she's going to manage to get any sleep.

"...Don't get me wrong, it means a lot that you'd even consider me. This is just so important, and--" She swallows, "Right now, I have a lot on my mind."
 
"And you shall have that time," Morgan agreed, clasping her hand tighter. To be frank, though? The mere fact that Guinevere didn't accept her offer immediately proved that she was right with her assessment. That Guinevere wouldn't be in it for the glory or self-interest, but genuine desire to do right by those people. It would have been so, so convenient for her to say 'yes', after all-- being the sole ruler would grant her the access to all those resources, and that would, in turn, ensure the survival of her loved ones. And yet, yet she didn't. Despite everything they had subjected her to, Guinevere actually cared for people under Arthur's protection. (How utterly mind-boggling. Surely there had to be a point at which altruism turned into full-blown stupidity? Because there was no logical reason for Guinevere to not want to strike back. They had belittled her at every turn, treated her like a decoration and stolen everything she had ever deemed precious away from her, and still, still she clung to her precious ideals. How did she even do that? Morgan didn't understand. There were so, so many things she didn't understand about this girl, but it mattered not. A terminal case of kindness was better than inclinations towards cruelty, after all. Kindness, at least, responded to reason, and if the need arose-- well, Morgan was sure she could convince her of benefits that came from being firm in certain situations.)

Guinevere's suggestion that she should be the leader, though? Alright, that made her laugh openly. (Another thing that hadn't happened in ages, but how could she not roar in laughter now? Oh, how naive the future queen could be. More than anything, this proved that Camelot was still a foreign territory to her. A place whose rules she didn't grasp, or at least not fully.) "Guinevere," Morgan said when she calmed down a bit, "you don't understand how this game is played, do you? My personal qualities don't matter. To them, I will never be able to cross my own shadow. I could be the best ruler in the entire history of mankind and they still wouldn't want me because, well, I am me, and nobody wishes to see Morgan le Fey on the throne. You can't undo years of propaganda in one fell swoop," she explained with a tiny smile on her lips.

"Originally, I did want to seize the power for myself, but I was apprehensive about it," Morgan admitted. "You can't rule without the consent of those governed, at least not for long, and-- well, even if they reject Arthur, that doesn't mean they'll accept me. You, on the other hand?" Morgan looked at Guinevere directly, unafraid to hold the weight of her gaze. (With her, it seemed, there was no reason to be scared. That alone terrified her on some level, but it also just felt... nice? Like being able to take a breath after spending an eternity underwater.) "You shall be his wife soon. Which is no reason to celebrate, yes, though there is a silver lining. If nothing else, it will lend you some legitimacy to rule in the eyes of the masses. Not too much of it since you're a woman, but if you earn their love, if I work on your reputation from the shadows-- it might just happen that the power will fall into your lap on its own when the time comes," Morgan shrugged. "It's honestly the better option since it would destroy any suspicions that I'm just trying to depose my brother because I'm power-hungry." Which wasn't even true; Morgan didn't desire power per se. No, she just wanted Arthur to suffer, and gaining political capital was a byproduct in this scenario. A byproduct she wouldn't mind giving up, really. And if Guinevere sat on the throne? She wouldn't even be giving it up entirely, since the other woman surely wouldn't forget who had helped her to get there in the first place. Feelings of loyalty could get you far in life, after all.

"I understand it's a big decision, though," Morgan concluded her speech. "I shan't force you to give me a definite answer. I only said what I said because I want you to know that I have thought this through and that you taking Arthur's place is-- well, logical. That you're a more suitable candidate than me."
 
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"...I don't understand the game. I don't know if I ever will." Guinevere admits sheepishly. Perhaps it's a reason why she wouldn't be as suited to this role as one might think. But maybe that's precisely why. Maybe she could end the game itself. Or turn it into something different. Convince the people that it wasn't virtuous to grab power solely for themselves and persuade them to instead use their hands to give back to a world who needs the all the help it can get. Help Camelot can provide. The concept of being able to do that, however, it almost makes her shiver. Isn't it delusional to see herself in a position of actual power, after she's committed herself to being... Arthur's plaything for the rest of her life? "I wasn't giving Camelot's opinion, though. I was giving mine. And I think you'd be a capable leader. It's their loss if they can't see that." She manages a rueful smile, despite the way her heart aches.

"Besides. If the entire narrative changes, if people start to rethink everything they knew as true from the past... then who knows what might happen?" Well, it's a nice thought, anyway. She knows her naivety might get her laughed at again, but -- isn't that what ambitions are for? To reshape the world, to change it? And the concept of the people of Camelot seeing Morgan in such a warped way stabs into Guinevere's heart repeatedly with pain on her behalf. Perhaps Morgan has her group to rely on, so she's not entirely alone in a sense, but... she can't even imagine what that must be like. She has her own version of Camelot. A different version. They're both difficult in their own ways, but Morgan's had to put up with it for far, far longer than she has.

"If I had that kind of authority, I could execute anyone who falsely accuses an ambitious, beautiful woman of being an evil witch. That'd really change the narrative, right?" Guinevere laughs. Because a joke is exactly what she needs now, when the world weighs so heavy on her chest. Of course, 'beautiful' slips out so naturally that it escapes her attention entirely. Women are beautiful. (...Morgan is beautiful.) The smile she wears is silly, the gleam in her eyes mischievous. "Obviously, I'm already drunk with power. Are you sure this is a good idea?" Drunk with power. Yeah, right. That's probably the last thing she is, right now -- but perhaps the contrast is what makes it so funny. Maybe bolstering herself with a little fake confidence will help her wear it when the time comes to actually make a choice.

"It is a big decision. And jokes aside, I do intend to take it seriously." Guinevere says softly when her brief spell of amusement wears off to reveal the tiredness underneath. She eases back into her pillow, closes her eyes. "Just need to focus on one thing at a time. We've got to find those missing girls."
 
"Who knows?" Morgan echoed her words, but she didn't sound convinced. Not at all. It would have been one thing if people changed their opinions according to facts they were presented with, though that wasn't the case. A lot of them clung to their old judgements, scared of having to admit that - gods forbid! - they might have been wrong for once in their miserable lives. How were you to take off their blindfolds if they loved wearing them? If they were fused into their identity? Hell, Morgan was worried whether her Arthur-related scheming would work, nevermind fixing her reputation! (Hopefully the shock of it all would knock some sense into them, though. Being faced with the possibility of dying because of their precious king's incompetence-- yeah, that should make them see the light. Maybe.)

"I'm not holding my breath, however. Once your image is soiled, it is difficult to make it pristine once again. And since I have worked on appearing to be this scary, mean witch quite diligently, I suppose I have nothing to complain about. I got what I wanted." Morgan didn't regret it, at least not entirely. Yes, it had complicated her life in some ways, but mostly, it had protected her. Without her reputation to fall back on, Arthur surely would have married her off years ago, and that would have been the end of it. (In Camelot, marriage wasn't much better than death sentence. All those futures stolen, wills overridden-- one couldn't help but notice the parallels.)

Guinevere didn't let the topic go, though. No, she continued to shower her with praise, and Morgan had to smile. "Thank you. I'm not sure about that, though. People don't seem to gravitate towards me, and that's an important quality for a leader to have." That sort of thing couldn't truly be taught, either. Too bad that Arthur possessed it in spades! It was the one, one thing he truly excelled at; inspiring blind loyalty within his subjects.

Morgan wanted to suggest for them to go to sleep because, really, they were wasting the energy they would miss sorely tomorrow, except-- beautiful. Wait, what? Did Guinevere refer to her? It made no sense, but seeing as nobody else could have been the subject of that sentence, it... kind of had to be true, didn't it? Um. Well. Morgan would have loved to think something, anything of it, but that would have required a functioning brain. Something she just didn't have, apparently! (So, Guinevere thought she was beautiful. Wow. How-- how could Morgan just go to sleep after that? No, scratch that. How was she supposed to exist? And was some sort of response expected of her? It did seem like one of those situations, but damn her, Morgan wasn't at all sure what would be appropriate here.)

"Umm. Good. Yes," Morgan said, quite obviously distracted. For some reason, looking Guinevere straight in the eye seemed downright impossible, so she focused on her own hands instead. They were... hands. How philosophical. "That's a good place to start. I suppose we should, uh, try to fall asleep? To feel fresh tomorrow." No, no, no! She had to address it somehow, otherwise this would be awkward and terrible and the trust between them would be shattered, possibly forever. Damn. Why couldn't conversations be paused for her to return to them later? Morgan needed more time to figure this riddle out, for gods' sake. "... just for the record, I think you're beautiful, too." And, okay, at that point, she felt like she was about to die. Wasn't this supposed to make things less awkward? Because it sure as hell wasn't working!
 
Guinevere tilts her head to the side, glances over at Morgan quizzically. Is she all right? Because she seems nervous. Or awkward? Was joking about execution of all things a touch too dark? There are some people who don't find jokes about death very funny in any capacity, so she considers apologizing for it, if only to clear the air between them before they go to sleep. But wasn't it Morgan herself who cultivated the rumors about... what was it again? Sacrificing babies to a dark lord or something? So that can't be it. She doesn't have to puzzle over it for long before she realizes exactly what she'd said. Beautiful. Oh. She did say that, didn't she? (Careless! She'd just spoken her mind without thinking. All these thoughts of a future where she didn't have to follow Arthur's lead and suddenly she's wandering off the responsible path she set for herself.) What is she supposed to say, now? Does she explain herself? Say that she's a disaster? A hopelessly gay disaster?

Describing Morgan as she is, as beautiful, it didn't occur to her as anything unusual. Not in the moment.

If the realization of her own words didn't hit hard enough, however, the fact that Morgan reciprocates absolutely disintegrates her. 'I think you're beautiful, too.' Spoken in Morgan's voice, no less, her words swirl around in Guinevere's mind and repeat until she's red in the face. At least it's dark and the cover of night rescues her from being seen. Maybe it's a manners thing? Paying back another compliment in return as a courtesy? But somehow, it touches somewhere deeper than that, deeper than just the surface level of those first few lessons they hated to attend. Subconsciously, she brings her fingers up to the tip of her nose, where she'd kissed her the other night. All of these little moments between them accumulate, add fuel to activate her imagination. She remembers what Tamara said to her, about being in trouble the first time they visited camp together. Shit. She is in trouble, isn't she? A nervous little laugh flutters out of her, as if to try and fill the silence with something.

"Oh. Well... thank you." She doesn't stutter, thank goodness. Her tone is sincere but soft with caution, as if they're still in Camelot and it's supposed to be a well-kept secret between them. (From all the way out here, they could technically get away with screaming their intentions if they wanted but -- no -- that's just not possible right now, all things considered.) And it's still not like her to get so flustered over something as tame as being called beautiful. She's heard it plenty of times in the past and never took it this seriously. Maybe it's amplified simply because it's Morgan? Because she never thought she'd see the day where Morgan called anyone -- let alone Guinevere herself -- beautiful? She disappears a little deeper into her sleeping bag, like a turtle into her shell. "Um... so, you brought up a good point just now. About sleeping. So goodnight, Morgan. Sleep well."

And she closes her eyes tight, as if that might help end this whirlwind of a day at last and give her a chance to restart in the morning. But sleep, of course, doesn't come right away behind her eyelids. Not with her heart practically beating out of her chest! Seriously, what was she thinking, letting that slip?
 
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'Thank you,' Guinevere said, and in that moment, it hit Morgan that that was what she should have done. Thanked her and shut up, as opposed to making things about million times more awkward! Gods. How come that her manners never helped her in cases like this?! The answer had been so, so obvious, and yet it had managed to elude her somehow. She-- she must have been tired, Morgan supposed. Yeah, exhaustion made your brain work in funny ways. That had to be it! (Surely there was no underlying reason behind her strange behaviors in the past few weeks, nooo. Correlation didn't equal causality, and so on and so forth. Just a bunch of hilarious coincidences. Once this stressful period passed, she and Guinevere would laugh about those episodes over a cup of tea. And as for why her brain had chosen to depict that scene with the two of them holding each other-- well, yet another unsolvable mystery! Maybe they should call Sherlock Holmes or something. Hahaha. Haha. Ha. ...gods, she was screwed, wasn't she?)

Well, at least Guinevere didn't dwell on it. The whole fiasco probably felt embarrassing to her as well, and so she suggested for them to go to sleep. A great escape route, really. Once Morgan fell asleep, she wouldn't have to think about any of that, and that honestly felt like the only way to survive right now. Not that morning would be any kinder to her, but she would take just about any relief at the moment. (Something about beggars and choosers.) "Yeah. Goodnight, Guinevere."

Sleep didn't come to her easily, with Morgan tossing and turning for what seemed to be ages, though eventually, her body did give up. She closed her eyes just for a second, and when she opened them, the sun was already high in the sky. Huh. Too bad you couldn't get a refund for your night's rest, really, because Morgan felt as tired as if she had never gone to bed in the first place. Like so many things lately, it just wasn't fair. Life wasn't exactly known for being fair, however, and so she crawled out of her sleeping bag nonetheless. There were so many things to do, after all! The monster wouldn't wait until it was more covenient for her; it was a monster, not a freaking door to door salesman. "Good morning," she told to Guinevere, and-- gods. Guinevere. Guinevere who had called her beautiful yesterday, and shattered the last remnants of her sanity in the process. Guinevere who had reacted to her own compliment with a mere thank you, which acted as a perfect shield. What did she even think about it? Morgan didn't know, and that drove her crazy. (Perhaps-- perhaps she had expected more. Expected her to wrap her in a hug and kiss her tenderly, because that small peck on her nose hadn't been nearly enough. Oh well. Morgan rarely got the things she wanted, so at least this situation felt familiar? And maybe she was overinterpreting what had happened between them anyway. Guinevere still knew next to nothing about courtesies, after all, so it was entirely possible she had just been... polite, in her own way. Better not to think of it, really. Instead of that, shouldn't she be focusing on the missing girls?)

Right, the missing girls. That was more important than her relationship drama. The gravity of the situtation became more apparent once they stepped out of their tent, too; the camp was already buzzing with activity. Every single girl seemed to have something to do, and they moved in such an organized way they reminded her of ants. Was there even a place for a newcomer in such a structure? That remained to be seen.

"So, uh. How do I help?" Morgan looked around. "I have to admit I have never built a trap that wasn't rooted in magic. I suppose I could do that as well, but I'm not sure I'd handle keeping it up in addition with trying to disable the boosters. As such, I, uh, wouldn't recommend it. Is there something else I can do?" Despite her inexperience, she had a pair of working hands, and following instructions couldn't be that hard. Right?
 
"Morning." Guinevere returns her greeting, still bleary-eyed, running a hand through her mussed hair to comb out some of the knots. Though she did sleep, her dreams kept her restless. Wasn't necessarily a nightmare, like usual, but... stress. Everything from yesterday piling over her, burying her in it. But now's not the time to dwell on any of that. Sam, Camilla, and Fallon come first. She nimbly ties her hair back into a ponytail and follows Morgan out of the tent. The girls are already hard at work, setting things up. Though she was technically their leader before, she'd told them to hand the reins over to someone else when she left for Camelot. It... isn't her duty to oversee these things anymore. (Even watching from the sidelines now, it... hollows her out, a little. On the outside, she's not a part of it all the same way she used to be. She tries not to dwell on it often, but she does miss it. Miss them.) Adrianne, Sam and Tamara take responsibility for everyone, to a certain extent, though it seems they haven't chosen any one of them in particular to take over officially.

"They're fencing off a perimeter a safe distance away from camp. After we met that huge monster last time, we discussed some strategies on how to deal with them." She admits, recalling the conversations they'd had by the fire after Morgan had gone to sleep. Their usual traps weren't going to work on oversized monsters the same way they worked on typical mecha beasts. Kara sketched some designs and they sent some girls off on a mission effective immediately to gather supplies. Watching them from here, she already knows what they're doing, toting around rope and sharp, metal parts they'd hacked off of monsters they defeated in the past to use as sturdy skewers. (They used to sculpt tools out of wood... but they got creative over time, repurposing the monsters own defense mechanisms against them when supplies run low.) "Our normal traps won't be effective. Considering they're difficult to cut through, it doesn't leave us with a ton of options. They've prepared two oversized nets since then, made with the strongest materials they could get their hands on."

They. In a way, it excludes her from the procedures, too. Guinevere takes a breath. Can't let this shake her. She's got to be steel today if she wants to stand a chance against that monster.

"We got a formation worked out last night. Gonna flank the beast once we pin it down with the net." Adrianne continues the explanation. It seems like she overheard them as she was passing by. She hands them each a piece of bread, pauses briefly when she looks at Guinevere in particular. "Formation C, Gwen. Anyway, we can't fight on empty, right? Make sure to eat. And I appreciate that you want to help with preparations, Morgan, but there's no need. We've got almost everything set up. This is our part... and you're already doing so much for us."

"Right." Guinevere nods, glancing down at the bread in her hand. She doesn't have much an appetite, but she won't let it go to waste. She'll eat it soon. "...Who's in charge of the kids?"

Adrianne narrows her eyes slightly, as if to say 'I still think it should be you'. Guinevere mirrors her expression, as if to declare her own opinions on the matter are set in stone. "--Tamara. She's still got a limp, but she's strong enough to handle any threat that might approach camp while we're away. Kara's staying behind, too, as backup. She's shaken up after last time, but she can still fight. The rest of our usual fighters are coming with us."

Adrianne motions for them to follow her, after that. They weave around a few scattered people still hurrying back and forth with materials, but it seems most of them have finished up by now. Adrianne's on breakfast duty, it seems, as she hands bread to those who haven't had anything yet along the way. Most are finish with their preparations, giving hugs and saying their farewells to prepare to head off. A decent amount of them will actually be staying behind -- while most of them know basic self defense, not everyone is equipped to handle battle -- especially with these new monsters. They've got their hunting girls and then those who carry their weight in different ways. There are some who are better suited to foraging for materials, some who take care of and teach the kids, and others who take care of their injured. Then there are those who craft things -- for instance, traps. Everyone's got an important role in some way. Guinevere responds to those who speak to her along the way and gradually finishes her bread in small bites.

Adrianne finishes her rounds and makes sure Guinevere and Morgan are prepared to leave camp before she leads them towards their setup.

"If we can keep the body still, then the only thing we've got to worry about are the arms slipping through the gaps. Three of 'em are already damaged. If we all take off in different directions and each of us focuses on one, we should keep it preoccupied. Since we're the targets, it should take the bait." Adrianne explains the plan while they walk. "The net's sturdy, it should hold fine. Only problem is if it it activates those boosters, it could tear through. We've learned from experience that it won't activate them until it grabs one of us. So the goal here isn't to fight the arms. It's to buy time, keep them away from Morgan long enough for her to do what she's got to do... and to evade capture ourselves. As long as nobody gets caught, it just might work."

"Wow." Guinevere stares in awe at the oversized, springing net trap they set when they arrive. They've really been hard at work out here and it's clear this thing wasn't constructed in just one day. It's a project that's been weeks in the making, a project that they've only had reason to execute now. She notices the backup net they have nearby -- a tool they'll have to improvise and throw over the beast manually, if the first one doesn't work for some reason. "I know we discussed building one like this, but seeing it in person... it's really incredible. You guys did good." More than good, really, but the adjectives are escaping her sleep deprived mind.

"Thanks." Adrianne's cheeks turn a little pink and she smiles at the praise. "This trap's been in the works for a while... we just didn't have a set purpose for it until now. Hopefully it'll do its job. You don't even want to know how long it took us to build one this big." Guinevere can imagine, honestly, and she feels a surge of pride at her girls and their hardworking nature. They're survivors, that's for sure.

"So we've our fastest girls scouting ahead, right? And they'll lure the monster into the trap?" Guinevere inquires to confirm. Adrianne nods. "In that case, we should get into position soon... and then it's just a waiting game from there."

"Yeah. We just gave them the okay to set off, so it should still be a while before they turn up. Morgan, we want to keep you out of harm's way, so you should take your position a safe distance from the rest of us. How much space will you need to use your magic effectively?" Adrianne asks. A few of the other girls, noticing their arrival, come to gather around as well, to make sure they're all on the same page. "The monster should get stuck approximately where the net is now, if that gives you an idea."
 
"Thank you," Morgan said and took the piece of bread. Her stomach was tied in knots, as it tended to be before an important battle, but that didn't mean she could avoid eating. Quite the contrary! Magic, after all, required fuel, and if she went to face that monster without proper breakfast-- well, she'd be about as useful as if her right hand had been mutilated. And how would she justify that? 'Hey, sorry, didn't feel like eating?' Yeah, no. Absentmindedly, Morgan started to break the bread into smaller pieces and stuff it into her mouth. (It was tougher than the bread she was used to in Camelot, but also somewhat tastier. Richer in flavor. Which... was a fitting metaphor, she supposed. Life, too, tasted sweeter here, from what Morgan could tell. Maybe it was because of the hardship, not in spite of it? Joy could be found in persevering, and Camelot with its walls took that away from you, too. It enveloped you in bubble wrap, basically. How were you to treasure the protection it provided if you didn't have to earn it? Fight for it? You just didn't, duh. That was where all that boredom and gossip came from; people were bored, and when no conflict existed, they had to create it. Even all the Camelot's ladies, supposedly oh so gentle, followed that ancient principle.)

Speaking of perseverance, though, those traps were amazing. That intricate design? Never in a million years would Morgan have come up with it. Not that she doubted her intelligence, but her mind just hadn't been trained to work like this, and this was very obviously a result of years of experience. (If Arthur banished her from Camelot right now, how long would she be able to survive in the wastes? A week of two, perhaps? For all her confidence, Morgan relied on magic entirely, and that was exhausting. Downright draining, even. It would likely kill her before the monsters ever got to her, demanding more and more from her body until it could take the abuse no longer. Some strength she possessed! Strength of a future corpse, really. A dead woman walking.)

"Very impressive," Morgan said as she watched the mechanisms. Not that meant anything coming from her, a total amateur, but her manners shone through nonetheless. A good job should be appreciated, right? The least she could do for her image here was to not seem like an ungrateful brat. To not seem like her brother's clone, in other words. (At least she could use her brother's behavior as a manual of sorts-- think of what Arthur would have done in her position, and then do the exact opposite of that. Truly, what a reliable moral compass! No wonder they had made him a king.)

"I need to be as close as possible," Morgan said, her eyes focused on Adrianne. "The more distant I am from my target, the more difficult it is to follow the thread. So, in other words, if I am too far from it, it will take me ages." Obviously, though, she couldn't be standing next to it. That would have been a suicide, and Morgan wasn't nearly suicidal enough. Noble sacrifice? No, thanks, she would much rather stay alive. "Three metres sound like a reasonable compromise, I think? Close enough for me to be able to focus, but hopefully also far enough not to get in your way. Hopefully."

"Alright," Adrienne nodded after a while of thinking, "that'll do. We'll have a couple of girls protecting you specifically, too, while others fight. It is vital for you to disable those boosters as fast as possible, so I doubt anyone will mind." And in that moment, it hit Morgan-- they really did depend on her, even if she still was a stranger. A stranger from behind the enemy line, specifically. How did they find the courage to do that? (Guinevere had said something about other people being the only thing you had in the wastes; perhaps that was why they trusted so easily, so openly. Morgan still couldn't decide whether it was a strength or a weakness, but the responsibility weighed heavy on her shoulders now.)

Once the preparations wrapped up, there was nothing left to do but wait, and so that was what they did. There was nothing easy about inaction, though. The air itself felt heavy with tension, too, and the girls whispered something among themselves. Words of encouragement or doubt? Morgan didn't know, and didn't care to know. While the gang had to wait, she could use the spare time to fine-tune her connection to the spirits. Reaching crystal-clear quality could be difficult with chaos disturbing her concentration, after all.

And so Morgan sat down, closed her eyes and looked inwards. A universe within universe, that was what she was. A beacon of light in the darkness, burning bright and attracting the spirits from all corners of the earth. All other thoughts had to be purged. It was just her now, and a vast emptiness that had to be filled. (And wasn't that why she was so good at these things? Because the understanding of that concept came so naturally to her? Emptiness, after all, was her oldest friend, her only companion.)

When the monster approached, Morgan knew it sooner than the scouts did. She rose from her spot and opened her eyes-- they were strangely empty, almost as if she was comatose rather than fully awake, but oh, did she see. Free from the usual constraints, Morgan finally saw everything. The way the energies flowed and intercepted one another? A thing of beauty, really. Only the spirits could arrange something as symmetrical. The trace of that humongous beast stood out among them, too, and was it just her, or did it seem-- unnatural, somehow? As if its patterns had been tampered with? Hmm. So someone, rather than something, had been involved. Interesting.

There was no time for such speculations, though. At least not now. Morgan-- Morgan had to stop it first. That was the objective here, wasn't it? (In this state, it was so easy to forget-- so easy to let herself get lost in that stream of color that called out to her, oh so sweetly. She couldn't, though. Memories were the only barrier separating her from the spirits; without them, Morgan may as well have been dead.) So, right. The missing girls. The missing girls and the boosters. They were related somehow, weren't they? Morgan didn't understand the connection now, but she remembered it being there-- remembered it being important.

And so she took a deep breath and focused, truly focused on the energy source. What was it that consumed the most of the machine's resources? That would lead her to the boosters-- they required raw power, and raw power always left behind a trail. Ah, of course. There it was, practically begging for attention. Except that, once Morgan touched it with her mind, the machine flinched, and suddenly those long arms were flying towards her.
 
Naturally, Guinevere assigns herself to a role where she can protect Morgan. She has a promise from the night before to uphold, after all. ‘You’re not dying on my watch.’ After hurting her by accident with magic, the incident the night of the banquet and -- the scene with her hands around Morgan's throat, there's no way in hell she's letting any harm come to her this time around. She's determined to stay silent while waiting it out, but this task just so happens to position her near Liv, who takes the opportunity to continue their talk from the night before.

“I just don’t think Camelot’s worth it, Gwen.” Liv starts digging into the very heart of the issue as she adjusts her crossbow. “I think you should come home. Then we could move on. Go somewhere else, somewhere... less dangerous.” (Like where? Guinevere wants to ask, but doesn’t want to argue when they’ve got an actual fight to be concentrating on.) She’s quiet, considering this, with her gaze focused unwaveringly ahead for signs of danger. A moment’s distraction can be death out here. Death to her and death to those she loves. Liv’s words linger with her, though, and they begin to bother her. Considering these advanced monsters are running rampant near Camelot... is this plan to secure resources for everyone going to end up doing more harm than good in the long run? If there’s no one left to feed, is it even worth it? But armed with the knowledge of Morgan’s plan, now, she has reason to believe they could actually stand a chance. Morgan, who is going out of her way to help them right now. Morgan, who she needs to focus on, to protect. No way is she going to let her down.

“You said you would hear me out.” Liv presses when she doesn't get a reply. Guinevere knows she’s coming from a place of concern. For her, for their missing girls, for everyone involved -- but she really wishes she would take a hint and pay attention. “And I’m not the only one who feels this way, you know.”

“And I will hear you out. I always do.” Guinevere finally tears her eyes away to look at her, grits her teeth. For as long as she’s been their leader, she’s taken everyone’s thoughts into consideration. (One significant way in which she and Arthur differ; she knows the importance of actually listening to her people. Especially when they had valid concerns.) But dredging up everything she’s been so stressed out about now, while they’re supposed to be focused on an oncoming battle? It sharpens her voice with an uncommon edge. (Might as well have cut her, too, because she hates having to use it.) “But now’s not the time.”

It seems the vague hurt flashing in Guinevere’s expression finally convinces Liv to back off.

Not a moment too soon, either. Their runners appear and the monster follows close behind. (Yikes! It’s even bigger than the first one, isn’t it?) It becomes a touch less frightening when it triggers the net, unleashing a horrible mechanic screech as it’s pinned down to the ground. Trap worked like a charm. But it doesn’t take long after that before the arms start flailing free and zipping purposefully after their fighters. It proceeds how Adrianne said it would, really. With everyone more focused on weaving around obstacles in their paths and avoiding capture, it can’t seem to grab ahold of anyone. No... this monster isn’t so focused on the killing anyone as it is taking one of them alive. Guinevere understands now, if they focused more on damaging the arms in past fights, how it had managed to take three girls. In the time it’d take to stop and focus an effective attack, it could easily just sweep someone off their feet.

Morgan’s still in the clear and the girls are doing their parts well. Everything's going as planned thus far. Until, of course, it doesn't. The monster flinches. It’s so sudden, the way all of the arms swivel in unison, like snakes turning their heads to listen to a siren’s song. And that song is coming from Morgan. Her magic, like a beacon, guiding them. No amount of distraction is going to pull them away, it seems, even as girls try shouting -- some fire their arrows and weapons to try and get them to turn, but nothing works.

With eyes zeroed in on her specific task, it's fair to say that Guinevere reacts to this turn of events faster than anyone else. The two goals overlap, now: protecting Morgan and evading capture. If both aren’t possible at once, then Morgan's life obviously takes priority. In a way, it is the logical choice, because they're relying on Morgan’s magic to take out those boosters. It's not like Guinevere would do any good in her place, trying in vain to hack at them with her sword or something.

But despite the ‘logic’ backing this choice, not a single one of those thoughts is actually running through her head right now. There's just her heartbeat rushing in her ears as she rushes into action at the same breakneck pace. Because Guinevere’s sprinting on pure instinct and her instincts tell her to dive in front of Morgan before it’s too late.

“--Sorry.” Guinevere says breathlessly, managing an apologetic smile as she pushes Morgan out of the way. The arms snatch her up before she can do anything else about it and she’s airborne. The wind whips too violently in her ears to hear anything down below and the sheer velocity of it all causes her blood to rush. Though she wants to thrash around and free herself from their grasp, she stays still. Because, well, if she slipped right now the fall would undoubtably kill her. (Holy shit-- she's so high up.) And then she drops and everything screeches to a halt when she’s shoved inside the steely belly of the beast, slammed so hard on her side she knows it’s going to leave her with some nasty bruises later.

Takes a bit for her breathing to go back to normal, for her to actually register what happened.

Okay. It could be worse, all things considered. She could be dead. Or it could have grabbed Morgan instead. (And thank god she got there in time.) But being trapped in enclosed spaces like this, with no visible escape? It invites an intimate form of panic and vivid, intrusive memories from her past that cause her hands and heart to tremble. It’s so dark in here, with the exception of a small pinprick of green light blinking from... somewhere over her head. She can hear the interior humming to life around her and clicking like it’s pleased with its find. Activating the boosters, maybe? Guinevere tucks herself into a ball, like she’s a little kid again, and squeezes her eyes shut tight. She relies on a gentle mantra to cope, that she will get out. Even if it’s the monster letting her out to kill her in it’s lair, at least she won’t die in here, in captivity.
 
The energies flowed around her, each of them like a small constellation, and Morgan read the movements. Just like they had guided sailors centuries ago, they guided her now-- called out to her, screamed, whispered, everything at once. Not all of the voices were true, of course. Some tried to lead her her astray, to make her get lost in the sea of lights, but she knew which trail to follow; that, at least, wasn't difficult. The boosters, Morgan knew, ate most of the machine's resources. And what did that mean? Why, one simply had to focus on the brightest light!

...which posed its own set of problems, such as the light in question being positively blinding. It was just-- uh. How were you supposed to see anything with the whiteness burning itself into her eyes? Morgan blinked, but it was like trying to put out a fire with a drop of water. 'Futile, futile, futile,' a voice whispered into her ear, and it filled her with a dread so sharp it cut the haziness that was her mind. The enemy. It had noticed her, didn't it? Oh gods, she was so screwed. (They had promised to protect her, yes, but they were slow, so, so slow. Morgan saw the breach in their defense-- it shone almost as brightly as the energies swimming in the air, and there was no dount the monster saw it, too. That was why it headed that way! Quick, she told to herself, dodge! And she would have, really, except that her body didn't obey her anymore. Input lag, probably. The spirits shared the control now, and her own voice ended up drowned among theirs. Huh, so that was how she was going to die. Interesting. Still better than Arthur's catacombs, Morgan supposed.)

Feeling strangely disconnected from the situation, Morgan at least braced herself for the impact. That was the only thing she could do in that situation, really. Not that it mattered much because the steel would cleave her in half whether she did that or not, but it wasn't her habit to do nothing at all, you know? So, even if she was just lying to herself, Morgan would respond somehow.

Except that the impact just... didn't happen. Instead of that, the arms seemed to run into some obstacle? A human-sized obstacle, as she realized. An obstacle with an eerily familiar aura. It took her a second to decipher all those signs, but then understanding came, and it shattered everything. Guinevere. The beast had taken Guinevere. No! That thing couldn't have her. Anyone, anyone but her. Morgan wasn't ready to give her up! Her future queen, her chance at a happy existence, her-- her-- friend? (It didn't feel right, or at least not entirely, but she didn't have the time to look for the right label. Not now, and possibly not ever. The boosters. The damned boosters! There was still hope. The blinding light obscured it, but dammit, Morgan would sooner eat her own arm before giving up. Before letting the monster do whatever it wanted to her Guinevere.)

The girls around her succumbed to panic, one by one, though Morgan didn't see them. In that moment, nobody but her and the monster existed. Once again, the whiteness assaulted her eyes, except that it didn't matter. Not even remotely. (What was pain, after all, in comparison to losing her?) And so Morgan continued to search, ignoring the blood that streamed down her mouth, and-- oh. Oh, there it was. The weak spot. At that point, it only took one small push. One small push, and Morgan saw stars. The monster probably did, too, because it roared in something terribly similar to agony. Yeah, what she had done couldn't have been too pleasant. Not that the machine had the ability to feel pain, but still. It shook, suddenly unsteady despite its size, and then-- then the boosters fell off and exploded. Wow, okay, that surprised even Morgan. Who could have known it had relied on those stupid things so much? It had seemed structurally important, but not to this extent. Oh well, she wasn't about to complain.

When the dust finally settled down, the beast was on its knees, its mouth open. And within? Within was Guinevere, curled up and small, but safe. Ah. Ah, so she hadn't failed in that at the very least. Good. (The world looked strange to her, with its spiritual twin still superimposed on it, but Guinevere-- Guinevere was distinctly Guinevere. Still as beautiful as ever. How come it had taken her so long to notice that? It was so, so apparent. Oh, how she longed to kiss her, and to do it properly. To finally taste her.)

"Umm. You're safe," Morgan said, still in a haze. Her legs were made of jelly, and they buckled against her weight immediately, though she felt nothing. The connection to her body, it seemed, was still weak. Maybe that explained the weird thoughts? Definitely, that had to be it. "Good. Great, even. Now, if you'll excuse me--" and with that, Morgan fainted outright, allowing the gentle darkness to embrace her. It had just all been too much, okay?
 
Guinevere doesn't see or hear a thing, but she certainly feels it when the monster sways and shakes. From inside, the movement jostles her around from side to side. She presses her palms against the cold floor, abandoning the innate desire to hold herself for comfort in favor of keeping steady. Is the monster on the move or are the efforts of everyone fighting outside causing this? (Morgan's magic, maybe?) Trapped in the dark belly of the beast, she can only guess. (And -- god -- what agony it is, to be this helpless.) If it's behaving as it has in the past, then it shouldn't be hunting anyone else right now. No. Because it got what it wanted. One of them. Her. She repeats that to herself a few times over, that the rest of them aren't in any danger out there, relying on that knowledge like a shield to defend herself from all the anxieties that threaten to consume her.

If there's one thing that can cut through all the voices swarming in her head right now, it's the explosion. A loud, angry sound ripping through her skull, shattering every coherent thought to pieces. When the monster drops Guinevere drops with it, slamming against one of the inner walls hard enough to leave another bruise. A moment of stillness follows. Guinevere blinks, slowly lifts her head. Brightness from the outside bursts through in a contrast that's so startling she has to squint against it. (Well, that, and there's so much dust.) Her ears are still ringing from her proximity to the explosion, but she catches a warbled 'you're safe' from outside. Doesn't take long for her to place the voice. Morgan? She... did it?

Heh. Of course she did it. She's Morgan le Fay!

Even in her dazed state, Guinevere recognizes the pride swelling within her on the other woman's behalf. She's free. And Morgan's responsible for that. The gratitude is... well, she could almost kiss her. Almost. A wistful word. Because she knows she can't. (There are so, so many reasons why she can't and -- god -- is that blood spilling past her lips? That's never a good sign.) The drawback of using such powerful magic. Every time. It hurts her every damned time and simultaneously rips Guinevere's heart in half. Especially when she starts to fall-- "Morgan!"

Unfortunately, she isn't fast enough to rush to her side this time. No, she's still curled up within the monster and not entirely confident that her legs will hold her own weight when she tries to stand on them again. Fortunately, her fighters are close. Liv, despite all her complaints from the night before, is the one who catches Morgan and softens her fall. (Maybe humbled by the display of her effort?) Everyone gathers around to make sure they're all right -- but out of experience with situations like these, they don't all crowd in one place at once. Some of the girls check around the monster to make sure it's really out for the count. (The trap, as impressive as it was, is in shambles, now. But hopefully after this they won't need it anymore.) Some circle around Liv and Morgan with water and medical supplies while some approach Guinevere.

"Jesus, Gwen. You okay?" When Adrianne holds out her hand, Guinevere accepts it to climb out. Nice as it is to stand on solid ground after being tossed around like a stone in a maraca, she finds herself needing to lean more heavily against her for support more than she expected. (And there's still a dull ringing in her ears.) Despite everything she's feeling right now, what she wants most of all is to check on Morgan right now-- but the familiar brush of Adrianne's palm on her cheek keeps her from going to her right away. "Hey. What is it? Panic attack?"

Guinevere overhears bits and pieces of the conversation around Morgan nearby, that she's got a pulse, which comes as an immediate relief.

"I'm fine." Though she can't turn her head away, she avoids Adrianne's eyes. It's a flimsy lie, especially directed at someone who knows her all too well. Guinevere looks at her directly, then, and makes an honest effort to assemble a smile that might convince her. "Really." Just a bit nauseous, if anything... she's about to add, but... she doesn't get the chance when Adrianne kisses her on the lips. Modest and careful and it's-- it's like trying to light a wet match. There's no spark. It died and hasn't been relit for nearly a year now. With the swift mercy one might apply to rip a bandage off, Guinevere pulls away to make her feelings (or lack, thereof) clear.

"Sorry. I thought I was going to lose you and I--" Adrianne shakes her head, visibly grappling with herself. "Sorry."

Somber and quiet, Guinevere watches her. She considers saying she's not hers to lose, but decides against pushing the knife in any deeper. No. Judging by the expression on Adrianne's face, she already knows it was a mistake. The other women around are courteous enough to spare them some privacy, pointing their attention elsewhere. "I'm glad you're not dead." Adrianne quips at last, to alleviate the heavy atmosphere between them. Because they both know this is not the time or place to start digging into the past.

"Yeah. Me too." Guinevere manages a small, genuine smile this time. Then she takes a step back, and then another, and at last makes her way over to where Morgan is. The women looking after her have cleaned the blood off her mouth, but she still appears sickly in a way that makes her stomach drop. "...We should go back to camp. Em will know how to take care of her."

"But wasn't she going to lead us to the missing girls? We can't wait another day, Gwen. Three days go by and someone in Camelot is bound to notice that you're missing." Liv speaks up, frowning thoughtfully. It doesn't seem like she's complaining just to complain, though, just bringing up a point. And a valid point, but...

"I know. But I won't ask her to use any more magic right now. She needs rest." Guinevere's point isn't up for argument, really, as the proof is lying right in front of them. And there's no denying that Morgan had effectively taken down the beast that had given them so much trouble to begin with. That she pulled her weight and suffered for it. For them.

"--We'll split up, then. Corrine said she saw the direction the monster came from when she was scouting ahead. The bastard's dead now, so that's one less thing to worry about. We can search and scope the place out if we find it." Adrianne supplies an idea, calm and clear once more. "Gwen... you and anyone else who needs a breather can take Morgan back to camp."

Guinevere appears a bit conflicted at this, but eventually concedes when those who chose to go along promise to be careful. Besides, what other choice do they have? As much as it might pain her, not knowing the fate of the missing girls before they return to Camelot... they do need to go back as soon as possible. Otherwise everything they've worked for will go up in flames. If they want to survive the journey, rest is essential.
 
Where there had been overwhelming light before, Morgan could only see darkness. Kind of like back in those catacombs, and yet also completely different; this darkness was smooth and gentle, similar to a starless night, and she wanted to wrap herself in it. And why not, really? The danger was gone-- that much, at least, Morgan understood. The monster had exploded quite spectacularly, and Guinevere had escaped unscathed. Didn't she deserve to rest now? To let her eyes recover? Surely she did. Magic, after all, was about balance. Without its restoration, she would be useless, and that obviously wouldn't benefit anyone. No, she would-- she would let go. Of everything.

Whatever was happening outside, Morgan couldn't tell. Some part of her knew she was moving - or rather, someone else moved her - but as for where she was going or why, that remained a mystery. The rhythm felt pleasant, though. Almost like a lullaby. Or did her tired mind just interpret it like that? Eh, none of that mattered. The whole world was made of interpretations, and besides, she had no energy to deal with-- well, thoughts in general. (Thoughts were for people whose brain hadn't been turned into mush, you see? And since Morgan didn't belong in that group right now, she'd pass on that, thank you very much.)

Time was a funny thing, really. Usually, it raced, but now-- now it had the viscosity of caramel, and Morgan couldn't tell whether hours or days had passed. She kept waking up and falling asleep, stuck in this strange limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness. Sometimes, she heard voices in the distance, but it wasn't at all obvious if they were real or just in her head. (Not that the voices in her head weren't real, but-- you know. They were real just in the same way dreams and visions were real, not like other people. A different realm of existence.) She was pretty sure someone must have been taking care of her, though. That sudden sense of something cold and wet against her forehead? The way gentle hands opened her mouth at times and made her drink? All unmistakable signs of care. It was... almost nice, actually. Morgan could get used to this. How often had it happened that someone had tried to help her with her fever? With the wounds she had sustained? Morgan didn't remember. (She wanted to thank her caretaker more than once, but her tongue was heavy and her grip on her thoughts weak, and whenever she tried to do so, the 'thank yous' slipped beneath her reach. Oh well. Later, then!)

Surprisingly, that later happened sooner rather than later. When Morgan opened her eyes next, it was-- different. More grounded in reality, somehow. Exhaustion had sapped away most of her energy, so she was still as pale as a ghost, but she still tried to sit up. Successfully! It was her lucky day, it seemed. So, first things first. Where was she? Some kind of... tent? Yeah, of course she'd be in a tent, considering the fact that Guinevere's friends had nowhere else to live. Judging by the various vials resting on the table and other equipment Morgan would likely label as 'alchemical,' along with the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, it seemed to be a medical tent, too. Huh, why not. After dealing with the mission, she sure as hell deserved to be pampered a little bit. Right? And then it finally, finally hit her. What about the missing girls? The mission hadn't been dealt with at all! She was-- she was supposed to lead them to the monster's den, wasn't she? Damn. Morgan had promised, too!

"The girls," she said, and it surprised her how raspy her own voice sounded. The insides of her throat felt somewhat bruised, too. Just what had the magic done to her this time? "I-- uh. I feel good enough," Morgan lied through her teeth. I can lead you to them. The trail is still fresh, isn't it? Give me a few moments to recover and I can take you there. Promise. It's-- it's not as bad as it looks," Morgan pointed to herself vaguely. (Not that she knew how it looked, but considering the way it felt, as if some vampire had drained all of her life force out of her-- yeah, it couldn't be good. Not at all.) "If I take some of my enhancements, I can go right now." 'Enhancements', not 'drugs'. One had to be careful with the terminology here; both were technically true, yes, but something told Morgan her new friends wouldn't have liked the other term. Too much stigma associated with it, really.
 
“--Ah, ah. No one’s going to hear a single word of that.” Emily, their specialist in treating wounds (and specifically those induced by magic) warns in a voice that’s simultaneously soft and stern. She's experienced with every possible form of resistance from her patients and, being the only one who can hear Morgan's words at the moment, is the only one to deliver the news of what happened since she had fainted. Despite opposing her suggestions so quickly, it does make quite an impression on her, that Morgan's first thought upon waking were their missing warriors. “We’ve lost one too many friends out here, from pushing themselves past their limits. I recommend you lie back down... you still need to rest. Especially if you’re going to leave for Camelot by daybreak.”

Though it can’t be seen from the interior of the tent, it’s already evening. Guinevere is sitting upright a few feet away, but her chin is tipped down, her chest rising and falling slowly with every breath. She’s asleep.

“I’m Emily. I don’t think we’ve met... officially.” She introduces herself while busying her hands with something behind her. Then she swivels around and offers Morgan a cup of water. “For your throat. Drink slowly.”

Emily glances at Guinevere for a moment and then turns back to Morgan with a shy smile.

“I should probably start by thanking you. You saved her life and killed that horrible beast. Morgan, we’re all tremendously grateful for everything you’ve already done. So try not to get too worked up, all right?” Emily decides to explain things in a little more detail, knowing that Morgan might not appreciate all the preamble in her current state. She’ll want to know what happened. “The group decided to split earlier. Adrianne’s team is covering the search for our missing girls as we speak. It’s dark out, too, so no one stationed at camp is allowed to go anywhere right now. We’ve survived this long by adapting to situations like these, so rest assured we can handle this. And... you two need to go back to Camelot as soon as possible, before you get into any trouble for sneaking away.”

And that particular subject was discussed in great length throughout the afternoon, while she was taking care of Morgan. Inquiries about whether it was really worth it for Guinevere to even return to Camelot. As to whether or not it seemed like a better option to move their camp elsewhere. Guinevere, however, seemed determined to go back. Considering how much time she sacrificed there already, working on finding a way to make things better, it all seemed... too sudden to make such a permanent decision. Though they've barely received everything Arthur had promised, the supplies she was able to deliver have been making enough of a difference to matter. So she would go back. But it was also decided in this time that they would move their camp to a new location, further out from Camelot, as a precaution.

Emily chews her lower lip reluctantly, glimpsing between them again. “I promised Gwen I’d wake her when you came to, but...” She sighs, “You two seem close. I guess you know how she gets when it comes to these things. So restless.”

Even so, Emily shakes her gingerly by the shoulder, rousing Guinevere from her light slumber.

“Gwen, wake up you sleepy head.” Emily’s voice is airy and bright. Her words are all practiced in delivering news, especially as the one who’s responsible for gauging injuries from battle. And this particular tone brings generally good news. “She’s--”

“--Morgan?” Guinevere blinks groggily before snapping to life instantaneously, clambering over to the sleeping bag Morgan's in to get a better look. Her heart pounds so violently that she can barely speak. As close as she can get while still being respectful of her space, without passing any boundaries or overwhelming her. Okay, okay. Her eyes are open, there's no blood on her face... still pale as a ghost, but that’s only to be expected. (It had to have taken a horrible toll on her, to fell such a large monster.) After a moment, her shoulders physically slump with relief when she releases the breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding. “Oh, thank god. How are you feeling?”

“Yes, yes. It's Morgan.” At being cut off and ignored so quickly, Emily rolls her eyes but wears a small, knowing smile. She pulls herself up and moves to leave. “I’ll give you two a minute.”
 
Morgan frowned. Who said they were leaving for Camelot? She still had work to do, dammit, and Morgan le Fey did not leave her work unfinished. Camelot, Arthur and all those clowns who followed him could wait; the girls could not. Who knew what conditions were they in? And what if there were more of those monsters in this den? The smaller beasts formed colonies, after all. The big ones could very well use the same strategy, and if so, they would be screwed, and it woud be her fault, and-- wow, did that glass of water look appealing. Alright. Alright, she'd drink it. That wouldn't slow her down too much, so there was no reason not to do it, really. It would-- it would improve her combat abilities.

"Thank you, Emily," she said before taking the glass. "For everything." That was roughly the moment she noticed Guinevere-- who happened to be sleeping on an uncomfortably-looking chair. Wow. Had she been waiting for her to wake up? That, too, was new, and it made her feel strange. Hot and cold at the same time, with tiny needles pricking her skin. Something akin excitement, but not quite? Whatever it was, it stole her breath away. (Maybe it wasn't some anonymous 'it' that caused it, though. Maybe it was just Guinevere. Because the way she looked when she slept, seemingly free of worry? Morgan almost, almost understood her brother in that moment. That he had chosen her out of all people-- that was perhaps the most relatable thing he had ever done. Not that Morgan wanted her, of course. It was just, uh, a theory. A thought experiment! Understanding other people's thought patterns was important, for... reasons. Various reasons, yes. And didn't the best strategists agree you had to know your enemy? As such, Morgan clearly had to understand her brother's desire for Guinevere!)

Her own thoughts didn't really make much sense, but thankfully Emily was there to distract her from that. With... praise, was it? "Ah, well," Morgan stumbled over her own words, so obviously unused to compliments. "It wasn't all that great. Had I been more efficient with my energy usage, I would have been able to lead them to that den, too. I'll-- I'll find a better way next time." If they had indeed left without her, then pursuing them would be pure foolishness; not only did they have a head start, but they also moved faster than she could possibly manage in this state. Improving her skills, though? That would actually be meaningful. Because, once they asked for her help again, Morgan would be able to fulfill her promises for once, you know? "I wish them success, though. Adrienne and the others." Right now, there wasn't much else for her to do. (Morgan could pray, she supposed, but considering how the gods had reacted to her past prayers-- yeah, no, she would save her breath.)

'You two seem close,' Emily said, and immediately, blood rushed into her cheeks. Did they? (A few weeks ago, Morgan would have said that she was mistaken-- that they weren't close, and would never be. That too many obstacles stood between them. Now, though? She wasn't as sure. There were so many thing she had told her, and things Guinevere had told her in return. So many touches, light and yet absolutely devastating. That stupid kiss, too. What were they if not close?) And so, instead of denying it, Morgan kept silent, which was the next best thing. It allowed her to stay in the comfort zone of not labeling their relationship just a little bit longer, after all.

She didn't keep silent for long, though. "...hi," Morgan said, weakly, in response to Guinevere's enthusiasm. How did she never get tired? "I'm fine. I really am. Or, okay, maybe not entirely, but I will be." Morgan looked her up and down, her lips curving up in a gentle smile of their own accord. "More importantly, you're fine. That's good to see." It must have been the fatigue that made her speak so honestly, really, because normally, Morgan would have been more subtle about that. Right now, though? Screw subtlety! She'd shout her relief from the rooftops if the camp had any real roofs to speak of. "It was... scary to watch," she admitted after a while, her eyes set firmly on her blanket. "Seeing it swallow you, I mean. I don't think I would have been able to dispatch it that quickly if it hadn't been for that shock. Just goes to show I wasn't trying hard enough before, huh?" she chuckled, though her eyes-- they seemed suspiciously moist. They were burning, too, as if she was about to cry, and wasn't that ridiculous? Guinevere lived, so what was her problem? Morgan blinked in an attempt to mask it, mostly unsuccessfully. "What about the others? Are they alright? And how long have you been waiting for me to wake up? Gods, you look so tired I almost want to offer you a place in my bed." ...wow, that came out ridiculously wrong. Okay, at least it was distracting enough, Morgan supposed.
 
After spending the entire day suspended on the precipice of disaster, the sight of Morgan's smile wraps Guinevere up in a feeling of comfort, like a warm blanket over her shoulders. She can fill her lungs with air and release each breath with ease. Morgan's going to be okay. Despite everything that happened today, they're still here. Maybe it's not exactly where either of them would have predicted seeing themselves this same time yesterday, but all things considered... it could have been worse. So, so much worse. It's not worth it to lament over a mission that hadn't gone exactly as planned, is it? (Besides, how often does anything ever go exactly according to plan out in the wastes? The world is unpredictable and her ability to improvise has saved her skin more than once.) To cope, she tries to abandon the past before she can overthink. Learn from it, don't dwell on it. Fixate on the present, or on the future instead.

Try as she might, however, the past has a way of haunting her when she leasts expects it. The darkest corners of her mind are inescapable, like a prison cell, and she still keeps getting thrown back inside... even now. Thinking back, it was scary. To be in the same position as the missing girls, however briefly, to truly empathize with that moment of terror they must have felt in the very same position. But... there were the intrusive thoughts, too. It wasn't even the monster itself that frightened her so much as the small, enclosed space it kept her in. She's not about to discuss this here and now, though, when Morgan's looking at her like that.

There's a mist in her eyes that Guinevere has never seen before (And the implication-- that she was this concerned? For her?) and while it has her heart thumping in a rhythm of absolute disarray, she knows then that she's got to be steady, an anchor. "The monster came after you because you were trying, right?" It'd be a joke for Guinevere to call herself an expert on the subject of magic. But based on experience and everything she's learned thus far, she understands at least that much. Her eyes seek out Morgan's, her fingertips are feather light as she reaches and brushes a few stray strands of the other woman's hair back behind her ear. "I'm only okay because you were there, Morgan. Thank you, by the way. For saving me. To be honest it... kind of scared me, too."

Saying it outright like that makes her a little sheepish and her cheeks turn pink. Guinevere's hand drifts down to rest over Morgan's. Oh, how she aches to see her smile again.

"You probably saved countless others, too, just by killing the damned thing. Everyone else is all right. Adrianne--" A touchy subject right now, she glosses over it the best she can, "She took a group out to look for the missing girls. They might not make it back before we leave for Camelot... but I trust her judgement."

Guinevere's about to answer her other questions, too, but then -- a place in her bed? The pink in her cheeks darkens to a vibrant shade of red. If they were in Camelot, they would have plenty of space to spread out on a bed but -- here? It's so small that they'd practically have to hold onto each other as not to fall over the edge. (And oh, does that evoke some intimate mental images involving proximity and heat blooming between them... and good god she definitely needs to those push those thoughts down right now if she's going to survive.) She laughs gently, breathlessly, because she simply doesn't know how else to react.

"Th-- that's nice of you. But it's okay. I'm thinking the dark circles under my eyes will convince everyone back in Camelot that I was... uh... sick." She smiles, then, as if trying to make light of it. It's exhaustion, yes, but also stress. There's just too much going on right now. Probably too much for one person to carry alone. (It's almost funny, how there can be so much on her mind and yet an ironic portion of those thoughts are dedicated to ways she can pretend to be empty-headed for Arthur.) Someone's going to notice the pattern, eventually. The way she disappears every time Arthur leaves. She might not be able to come back right away next time around. (It wouldn't be this damned hard if Arthur would only grant her permission to see them.) And... that's right. He won't let her see Morgan, either. Meaning she'll be isolated with all of this when they return. Until they can find their precious, fleeting moments to sneak around. The concept of her future self's loneliness strikes her with such an icy chill that she nearly feels compelled to take Morgan up on her offer. (Or, no. She said almost. That's not really an offer, is it? God. Why is she latching onto the smallest things, when she knows this can't happen? At least... at least not now.)

Guinevere can't falter or break apart. Not here, not now. Not when Morgan needs her rest. She tugs absentmindedly at her hair, deciding to distract herself by answering her question. "Um, we held a pretty long meeting when we got back, but... I waited basically all day after that. Couldn't really focus on anything else." And it's true. While there's so much noise crammed in her head right now, her concerns for Morgan eclipsed all else.
 
"... that's true," Morgan admitted, "but there are ways to reduce the monster's interest in you. I didn't manage to pull it off-- that's the problem here." Maybe she was too critical of herself, but honestly? Still better than Arthur's attitude. He had been born into praise, which had made him into a perfect case study on what being the golden child did to you. Stagnation, that was the answer. How could you improve, after all, if you had never had any weaknesses to begin with? If your presence alone forced men to fall on their knees and ladies swoon? No, Morgan would much rather look at her failings directly instead of pretending they had never been there. And if it resulted in her being too overzealous at times-- well, so what? At least it was her own hand that wielded the whip above her back. Not everyone, as she knew, had that privilege.

"You saved me as well, though," Morgan pointed out. "So it was only fair of me to save you in turn." Now that she thought of it, that was beginning to turn into a tradition between them, really. With Guinevere, every favor, every little help was repaid tenfold. (She could see why other people followed her so easily. Reciprocity, after all, inspired true loyalty. Unlike her brother, Guinevere wasn't all smoke and mirrors; leadership flowed in her blood, and it was becoming more and more apparent with each passing second. Did Arthur know? Was he aware just how much his bride-to-be outshone him? Somehow, Morgan doubted it; his ego wouldn't have survived such realization. Well, all the better for them, really. At least he wouldn't see the coup coming. A deer in headlights, that was what he'd be reduced to. And Guinevere-- her Guinevere would be a queen in her own right, wielding both the crown and the sword. ...ugh. Why was that thought so overwhelmingly attractive?)

Camelot. Why did Guinevere have to mention it? The name shattered her fantasy easily, mostly because it reminded her what going there would be like. They did have a future to fight for, yes, but as of now? Morgan would have to retreat to her room again and Guinevere-- Guinevere would be his to play with. A phrase that got a new, terrifying meaning when she remembered how fast their wedding approached. How many weeks from now on? Four? Gods, the time raced so, so fast, especially when you didn't want it to. Why was there no stop button? (And to think Morgan had once not cared about that cursed wedding! That it had been just a part of the background, kind of like all those turneys and banquets and lavish feasts. Now, though? She could only see Guinevere's grief, and Arthur's hands all over her, and-- no. No, that wasn't the mental image she needed, now or ever. Besides, they were together here, weren't they? A fleeting, ultimately meaningless moment, but they shared the same space, and could do so openly. It should be savored, not spoiled by thinking of things like that. Of all that hiding, and tears she'd probably shed.)

"A day," Morgan repeated as she settled back into her pillows. "Great. So much time lost." There was no real fire in her voice, though; just exhaustion. If there was a way to postpone their return to Camelot, she would do it in a heartbeat, but for all her disgust, Morgan knew they couldn't afford to do it. Not when Arthur's spies had likely noticed their absence already. Would they connect the dots between the witch and the future queen disappearing at the same times? And more importantly, which conclusions would they draw from it? Most likely something about her enchanting Guinevere again, as ridiculous as it was. (She wasn't a monster who had to take her against her will, unlike certain someone, but had truth ever stopped rumors from spreading? Not once in the entire history of mankind, sadly.)

"I don't wish to go back," Morgan admitted. "I feel so tired. Right now, I can't even imagine getting on my feet, much less walking back to Camelot." Having a motivation would help, but considering the fact it would mean not being able to breathe freely again-- yeah, it was hard to find a single reason for that. And the separation from Guinevere that hung over them like a dark cloud? That certainly wasn't helping. "Let me rest a little longer, Gwen," Morgan said. ...huh, Gwen. Where had that come from? From the other girls, probably. They had called her 'Gwen' so often that, sometimes, it was hard to remember what her full name was. Apparently she didn't mind, so she wasn't being impolite by using it, right? Right. "Tell me a story. Something pleasant, about you and your friends." Staying in the reality was just too depressing right now, okay? Maybe, maybe Morgan needed a proof that things could be alright, too; that it wasn't just a construct her mind came up with to sweeten her ordeal just a little bit.
 
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"Neither do I." Guinevere concurs with a heavy sigh. If they lived in a world where she could afford to act on selfish whims and desires, she would ask Morgan to run away with her right then and there. But they don't. There's no point in humoring a fantasy like that... if anything, it'll make it hurt all the more when reality sinks back in. They have to go back. Considering they both know it to be true, she decides to hold her tongue rather than saying it outright. If only for just a few more hours, they have the freedom to look at each other, to speak to each other. Morgan has the right idea, trying to think of something other than Camelot for a little while. And it occurs to her how much things have changed since that first dance lesson. Recalling the way she asked if she wanted to know anything about her life, just hoping she'd get the opportunity to focus on something -- anything else-- and... the subject turned to those fabricated rumors circulating about her and Lancelot. Back then, she'd never imagined seeing them where they are right now. Hand in hand, inside a tent at camp, expressing gratitude to one another for saving each other's lives. If anything good has come from Camelot, it's... this. What she has with Morgan right now.

Wait. Wait a second. Did she just... did she just call her Gwen? That's it. Guinevere's done for. The flush in her cheeks makes a striking reappearance and she screams internally at her heart to calm the hell down. The sound of her nickname on Morgan's lips? It's utterly mellifluous. God. She's taking this just about as well as she took to being described as beautiful the night before. (Only this time she can't sink under the covers, can't close her eyes and wait for a new day to recuse her.) What was it she asked, again? To tell a story? It'd be great if her mind hadn't just gone blank, if she hadn't immediately thought back to prominent desire she'd felt earlier that day, to kiss her out on the battlefield. She's. In. Trouble.

"A-- a story. Right. Let me think." She sputters, twisting one of the small braids in her hair around her finger. (...Because of Mia. That child would climb into her lap and braid her hair all day if she let her.) Maybe that's the direction she ought to go in. Something with the kids. Something that doesn't involve Sam -- who's still missing. Or Adrianne, who she doesn't really want to think about right now. Those two were there since the beginning, they occupy nearly every moment but-- she's sure she can find something that won't dredge up one of the concerns circulating her head at the moment. "There're a lot of us, so we've met in all sorts of unexpected ways. When you envision meeting a couple of starving kids out on the streets, you'd expect it to be a pretty sad story, right?" A rhetorical question, so she continues, "But that's not how it was. Not exactly. Me and a few other girls were searching this old building for some scraps. Before long, some beasts showed up and surrounded us. 'Course we were all ready to fight, but..." the smile that crosses her face comes so naturally she doesn't even notice it, "Then these three kids climb out from their hiding places with revolvers. Needless to say, we were all shocked. Then they pulled the triggers and it turns out they were these old party favors. Shot confetti everywhere."

"And it might not sound that impressive, but... surprisingly, they were. Those things make a really loud noise when they go off. Pop! Those mecha beasts were still animal enough to follow their instincts, so they all ran away from the noise. So damned clever, those kids." Guinevere shakes her head, thinking back on it. "They got there first. But they took one look at our weapons and told us we could take all the food. Probably more scared of us than the beasts, honestly. Some bastards out here might have taken advantage of them, but we wouldn't. In fact, Tamara insisted that we adopt them on the spot... uh, unofficially adopt them, I guess? Never expected to take any kids in, but we couldn't just leave them."

"Thankfully Tamara and Em are good with the kids. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'll tell stories and teach them how to fight, but... everything else?" Guinevere feels a sort of tightness in her throat, all of a sudden, and realizes that she inadvertently struck something she'd been trying very hard to avoid. It's pretty blatant, though, when Arthur rambles on about baby names. After the wedding, he'll want his heir. That's her sole purpose, in his mind, isn't it? Not what's in her head or her heart, but what her body can provide. Ugh. She's never even met her own mother. How is she supposed to be one? She realizes belatedly that her hands are shaking and gingerly pulls her fingers away from Morgan's, as though to try and cover it up. (Maybe Morgan's plans would rescue her from that fate but -- who's to say what will happen? Because they don't have much time before...) She might need some air in a minute. For now, she tries to smile. She wasn't going to fall apart. She told herself she wasn't. "The-- the party poppers were Mia's idea. She's a tough kid. Smart as a whip."

Determined to push even further away from the subject, she continues on. "We still use that sound tactic instead of fighting, sometimes. Came across some fireworks once and lit the night sky up in silver and gold. Looked like hundreds of wishing stars, raining down... it was really pretty."
 
Morgan settled comfortably on her pillows, allowing herself to get lost in the melody of Guinevere's voice. Yes, she definitely should have been a songstress. That soft and yet deep quality? That couldn't be taught; you had to have been born with it, just like you had to have been born with affinity towards magic. The world had been robbed by having such talent hidden away within the walls of Camelot, really. (But wasn't that what Camelot did? Stealing people, lives, resources? An existence built on taking, taking and more taking. It was far from sustainable, Morgan knew, but some lessons weren't transferable-- Arthur and his ilk had to learn from experience, not from her. And when that time came? She'd be there, with a smile on her lips, to say the sweetest words known to man. 'I freaking told you, idiots.')

Back to Guinevere's story, though, because what she told her was downright hilarious. Even through her fatigue, Morgan couldn't help but smile. "Remind me not to antagonize those children of yours," she chuckled. "They seem like a force to be reckoned with." It would have been so, so sweet to stay longer and pull more stories out of her, but that would have been a folly. A tremendous mistake, even. Camelot was waiting for them and they needed to return, as much as she loathed the idea. Soon enough, it will all have been worth it. It will be mine rather than his-- ours, Morgan thought. Mere placebo, maybe, but it did give her the strength to get up. To continue, no matter how treacherous the path. "Thank you, Gwen. That was delightful. Perhaps, if it doesn't bother you, I shall ask for more stories in the future."

When it was the time to say goodbye this time, it felt very different. Like a day and night, really. Some of the warmth that had once been meant for Guinevere only was miraculously transferred to her, just like that, with ease that seemed downright surreal. A few girls even came to hug her, which honestly floored her. Did they value her help that much, despite the fact she hadn't fulfilled that promise? Apparently. (Morgan didn't really know how to react, so she just kind of stood there and let it happen. It wasn't that she minded human contact, but-- well, touches hadn't exactly carried positive connotations in her life. Mostly, people had touched her to cross a boundary; to hurt her, to make her afraid or both. Well, people aside from Guinevere, and now these women as well. If anything, it made her want to leave even less, but they had to. They really, really had.)

And in the end, that was what they did, too. The journey back felt-- even more exhausting than usual, really. The usual burden of returning to her gilded cage weighed even more with her injuries, and she had to stop to rest for a while from time to time. Not that she actually got to relax during those periods-- not with the wastes surrounding them, grey and vast and merciless. What if some of the monsters decided to attack them now? And what if Guinevere ended up overpowered? What then? Morgan would be far from useful in her current state, with every bit of her energy burnt from dealing with that giant! Except that, this time, the luck seemed to be on their side. Even if she had slowed them down considerably, they reached the gates of Camelot without a single encounter-- that was where their luck ended, though. And why? Because Arthur himself was waiting for them at the entrance, surrounded by his faithful knights. Merlin stood by his side, too, and he gave her a glare that was positively chilling.

...oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit. Why so soon? Arthur was supposed to return for three days at least! Something told her, however, that her brother would not appreciate being reminded of that. Oh gods, he really was going to kill her this time, wasn't he? With her so weakened and every bit of evidence pointing against her and-- no. No, Morgan couldn't give up without a fight. The victory was so close; she just had to have an opportunity to reach out and grasp it! (She would build that opportunity with her own hands, no matter the cost.) "Dearest brother," Morgan said quickly, "it is so good to see you. We had... an emergency situation to deal with. Since you and your valiant knights were gone, it was up to me and Gw-- my future queen to take care of it. We, uh..."

"Enough of your prattling, Morgan," he cut her off. "I am not interested in your excuses. Go back to your room. We shall talk about this later."

Morgan shot Guinevere a worried glance, but then she turned around and did as he said. In this situation, there really wasn't anything else for her to do, was there? And if there was, it eluded her. Uh. Well, at least he wouldn't hurt Guinevere? Her position in relation to him protected her to same extent-- it would be unsightly, after all, for the king to beat his future wife. That was a line he just wouldn't cross, because no amount of good PR could make him appear not monstrous after a deed like that. And since Arthur did love his reputation, everything would be fine, right? Right. (She hoped so-- prayed fervently for it to be true, in fact. Because leaving Guinevere in a time of need just to save her own skin? Morgan wasn't sure whether she could ever forgive herself if that was the case.)

"My dear Guinevere," Arthur said when Morgan was out of earshot, his voice low and dangerous, "... you disappoint me. Did I not tell you that my sister is dangerous? You might not be aware of the extent of her treachery, yes, but you should know by now that you are to follow my advice." That his word was the law, more precisely. That she was to obey, because she was the wife and that was her function. Having an opinion of her own, by contrast? That counted as a failing, a mistake to be rectified. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
 
Guinevere's heavy heart only weighs heavier in her chest when they near Camelot and discover Arthur waiting for them. (With... some man she's never met before. Why is he glaring at Morgan like that? Her first impulse would have been to glare right back at him, but hastily throws a bucket of ice-cold water over her fire before it can get them in trouble.) Maybe it was her gut, yesterday, warning her to prepare for the very worst. That told her though she ached to find her missing girls, that they couldn't afford to stay in camp for any longer than they did. Her hands take a light tremor as he dismisses Morgan, she wrings them together to unsuccessfully ease the nerves as she watches her walk away. That's... the last time she'll see her for a while, isn't it? Oh. This lightheadedness... she could be sick right now. All she wants now is to collapse in her bed and throw a pillow over her head. But, no, she's got to focus on playing her part. (Oh, did she disappoint him? How sad. How tragic. If only she could point him to a goddamn mirror.) Focus, focus. That 'we'll talk about this later' sounded ominous enough to send a chill down her spine. Morgan's safety depends on her performance, doesn't it? Well, fuck.

"I... I apologize. It's all my fault." Guinevere sounds genuinely sincere and then looks at her feet. Reverting to the child who got caught snooping in her old man's things. Technically it is her fault. She was the one who invited Morgan to come with her, so she'll tell her story with enough truths mixed in to be believable. No way is she painting a narrative that might convince Arthur to throw her in a dungeon again. He twists so many things, though, she worries even her most valiant efforts might not be enough this time around. This is a worst case scenario. "Although Camelot is truly wonderful and I'm sure I'll learn to call it my home in time... I still miss the outside. My friends. And when you're away, my love, that feeling becomes all more apparent." She brings a hand near her throat, like it's giving her an emotional response. Inwardly it's more like she's trying not to gag on the words 'my love'. Ugh. Gross, gross, gross. But she needs to protect his fragile masculinity, doesn't she? That's her role as his bride-to-be. In some way, after all, this has got to be about him.

"I only wished to get some air. Morgan feared I might get hurt on my own, so she followed me from a distance to make sure I was all right. None of the knights were around to accompany me, so..." Guinevere shakes her head, heart racing, hoping she's doing enough. "I believe she was concerned that she would be blamed if I were to fall in your absence. As you can see, I'm still standing. And it's all thanks to her. You'll see that she's exhausted when you speak to her later... it's because she protected me from a monster."

Oh god, she's not sure how she's going to fare, or if she's butchering this horribly. But adding these truths to her story does make her words ring with authenticity. Morgan saved her life out there. If she hadn't been present, Arthur would have had to find himself a new queen. (And somehow, Guinevere finds it in her heart to pity this imaginary 'new queen' who might be sought out to take her place. No, she wouldn't wish this position upon even her worst enemy.)

"They've become rather frightening, haven't they? The monsters... I worry so much for my friends that I can't stand it." Guinevere bites her lip. Arthur wants to talk about disappointing behavior? He hasn't touched on the promises he made since they've stepped through these very gates. Her people are dying. It fills her with a righteous anger that she has to force down. The pent up frustration builds to moisture in her eyes and... and as much as she loathes to cry in front of him, she realizes they'll make her appear all the more a fragile, emotional woman to comfort from his perspective. (And oh, emotions make women do things men just can't understand sometimes, don't they?) So? She swallows her pride and lets a few slip silently before reaching to swipe them away with the back of her hand. They're coming from a place that's true, hardly the overzealous crocodile tears one might expect from a performative standpoint. "I understand it's no excuse. And the fact that I've disappointed you breaks my heart. How can I make it up to you?"
 
Arthur gave her a long, hard stare; this was no longer the man who had peppered her forehead with kisses and opened doors for her. No, that had been a front. Now she got to see him as he was, and it was both terrifying and pathetic in equal measure. Who could, after all, respect a control freak? Someone so weak he had to micro-manage every aspect of other people's lives just to feel secure in his? When Guinevere started apologizing, though, his expression melted somewhat. And when she called him her love-- yeah, that was the moment he had lost officially.

"Ah. I see. Please, don't cry, my lady. You did act foolish, though you didn't know better. It was my mistake, truly, that I didn't leave behind anyone competent enough to guide you. Sometimes, I forget just how vulnerable you are." Right, vulnerable. The tone he had used suggested he meant 'stupid' instead. Wasn't that what he wanted from her, though? It certainly seemed like that, for he sounded pleased rather than critical. Intelligence in a wife, after all, was an awful tragedy. A character flaw, even, or at least that was what Guinevere's new teacher had said to her. Yeah, there was no doubt that Arthur subscribed to that ideology.

"Worry not, my love. You will learn in time, and I will be there to steer you while you're still helpless. I shall protect you, too. There's no need to be afraid of the corrupted ones with me by your side," he promised, blissfully unaware what Guinevere had been getting at. To him, her gang may as well have been just air. People who weren't even worthy of his recognition, much less his protection. "And as for making it up to me-- you don't need to. You shall be my wife, and that is the greatest prize. But," he added almost immediately, his eyes burning with a strange fire, "since you are offering, I'd like to demand your attention for a while. I need to show you something. Something that will hopefully make you understand how important my mission is, and how crucial it is for you to bear my cross with me instead of undermining my efforts."

"My king," the man standing next to him, "with all due respect, are you sure that this is a wise decision? She is--"

"--my beloved, Merlin," Arthur finished the sentence. "Of course it is. How can I expect her to understand if she doesn't know the full scope of what we're aiming for?"

"... I suppose," Merlin agreed reluctantly.

"By the way, my beloved," Arthur turned back to Guinevere, "this is Merlin, my magician. Unlike my unfortunate sister, he chose a better path to follow with his magic. Without him, the Camelot wouldn't have been what it is."

"My king is too kind," the mage smiled, though his eyes didn't. Did he not like Guinevere or was he one of those serious types that practically didn't smile? Who knew.

"Nonsense. I am only describing the truth. Now, Merlin, would you break the seal for us?"

"Most certainly."

And so they walked back inside Camelot together, and everything was shrouded in an aura of mystery. What, exactly, were they planning to show to her? What could possibly be so perspective-shifting? It didn't take long for Guinevere to realize that they were, in fact, heading towards the cellar-- the ceiling whose exploration had led to Morgan's inprisonment. There was no earthquake this time, though. Instead, Merlin just placed his hands on the door, and they opened quietly.

"Go ahead, my king. My queen. Excalibur awaits you." 'Excalibur.' For some reason, the word sounded like fate personified-- heavy like a yoke, and about as comfortable, but also magnetic. It sang to her in the same way flame might sing to a moth, or a drug to an addict.

The corridor was much more spacious than one would expect before entering it, and the walls were covered in millions of luminescent runes, but other than that, it was empty. They walked for minutes, it seemed, and even though it was hard to notice at first, they seemed to be going... downwards? Yes, yes, definitely. The air there had that particular stale quality to it, though there was also something else present. Electricity, maybe? It seemed as if lighting a single match could cause the whole cellar to blow up, really. Arthur, of course, didn't bother to explain anything. He walked and walked, right until they reached a massive wooden door that opened before them.

The room they entered was dark, except that it wasn't; certainly not with the large, glowing sword in its centre. It was-- resting in the stone? Alright, why not. "Behold," Arthur said, "Excalibur. The sword of the ancient kings. It is said that the one who wields it will usher in a new era of prosperity-- that he will rebuild the world anew from the ashes. At the moment, it protects Camelot from certain doom, but once I truly come into my power, that's what I intend to do. Cleanse the realm of the impure magic, and restore the old order. That shall be my legacy. And you, my lady? You will be there to watch me do it."
 
Vulnerable. Helpless. Though Guinevere would have cringed to hear herself described this way before, hearing them now tells her that-- miraculously-- she's succeeding. If she has to sacrifice her pride, the tough ego she fought tooth and nail to build in the wastes, to keep herself and Morgan safe... then so be it. The time may well come when they can speak their minds freely, when Morgan's plan comes to fruition. But they need to wait patiently for the opportunity. Until then, she'll endure this. Take his condescending words as success instead of failure. (And he's not even going acknowledge the fact that she misses her friends? Worries for them? Bastard.) She doesn't have much time to analyze what his reaction might mean for herself and Morgan when the subject takes an unexpected shift. Oh. So now he wants to let her in on a matter of actual importance? For the first time since she's been there? Well, she's tired from the journey back but she won't argue. In fact, she's curious, now. (She is... what? What was Merlin going to say? Why are they acting so cryptic and mysterious all of a sudden?)

Guinevere assembles a polite smile and nods her head at Merlin upon his introduction. She doesn't particularly care whether or not he likes her, because she doesn't like him either. The glare he'd pinned Morgan with when they arrived? That alone left a sour taste in her mouth. A magician, huh. That's... interesting. For Arthur to be so revolted by the concept of magic and yet employ someone to use it -- well, that doesn't make much sense, does it? There's no way she's going to figure out what it all means just standing there, though, so she follows when they usher her back inside. The... cellar door. Sweat beads at her temple. The last time she was here, she was --

Possessed. Oh god. It happens once more the very instant that the seal breaks. Only this time she's ready for it. There's still an overwhelming pain that accompanies it, but having braced herself, she doesn't drop to her knees the way she did the first time. Considering she's already standing so close, the presence rushes inside of her right away. The searing pain dissolves into something gentle and inviting. Very much like the sound of 'Excalibur' lingers sweetly in her mind. Familiar. So familiar it physically hurts. The door opens and Excalibur beckons. So close, so close. Come forth. She recalls Morgan's advice. Accept it, don't struggle. So she tries to coexist with whatever spirit has taken hold of her, grapples with keeping her own mind present as she falls into step behind Arthur.

"...It's beautiful." She's breathless.

The sword. Excalibur. When it appears in her field of vision, she can't pull her gaze away. The light reflects in her eyes like stars, her light hair glows gold in her proximity to it. The trance it puts her in is utterly hypnotic and Arthur's voice nearly fades away, little more than white noise in comparison to Excalibur's siren song. This is yours. Take it. The voice wants to force her to reach forward and take the hilt into her own hands but -- this is where she finally thrashes and struggles against it. (Despite all Morgan's warnings about how dangerous it could be-- Arthur is standing right there, for god's sake! Babbling about 'his destiny'. She can't just take it for herself when he's standing right there!) She tries to plead that now's not the time, that this is going to get her in so much trouble... but it doesn't seem to understand the concept. Instead, it retaliates against her refusal with a searing, bright light behind her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to what it's showing her. The wastes? But then the scenery shifts and changes, like time speeding forward and the world gradually repaints itself in the most majestic shades of green.

It's just as Arthur described. A new world rising from the ashes, bountiful and brilliant enough to bring tears to her eyes. But... he's wrong about quite a few things, too.

Like, for instance, Guinevere's not meant to just stand by and watch. No, quite the opposite. Because this is... this is her responsibility. When that registers with her and the presence knows that she understands, the connection snaps abruptly and she drops into a heap on the floor. Her ears ring and the world turns pirouettes around her. Feeling nauseous, she coughs into her hand and discovers she hacked up... some kind of liquid? Moves her palm away from her face to find-- oh. That's blood. Great. And is it her imagination... or did the sword just become significantly brighter than it was before? If that's even possible?

"I... I'm sorry. I don't know what just came over me." Guinevere doesn't know how to explain, but her half-lidded stare is glued to Excalibur with unshakable wonder. Wearily, she curls her fingers around the blood and hides her hand in the folds of her skirt. Her breathing is labored. That... took far more out of her than she would have expected. Perhaps because she strained so vehemently against taking the sword into her hands? Morgan warned her of the consequences, but she couldn't just --

It really is magnetic, isn't it? The way it continues to pull on her. Her refusal only causes it to escalate until it becomes too much for her to bear and... she passes out.
 
When Guinevere woke up, she found herself tucked in her bed, safe and far from away from the mysterious sword that had tried to claim her. (Or make her claim it? The details were more than a little fuzzy.) Either way, Excalibur wasn't the only thing that was distant; in the following days, Arthur only visited her once, and he acted-- well, strange. Cold, almost. For once, there were no kisses, no caresses, no physical proximity at all. No, he merely asked her how she felt, and then he forbid her from leaving the bed for the next week. For health reasons, of course! Right. Curiously enough, though, her isolation didn't just involve freedom from the king himself. The staff seemed to avoid her, too, with the maids basically just handing her her meals and then disappearing as fast as physically possible. Had Arthur told them that whatever she had fallen ill with was contagious? Because it sure as hell looked like that.

Thankfully, Marietta didn't believe the rumors, and at some point managed to get close to Guinevere. (Something about her wedding dress, apparently. A good excuse, even if the affair itself was the source of such overwhelming grief. At least it went to show that everything had a silver lining?) Either way, since nobody seemed to be paying Guinevere that much attention anymore, arranging meetings between her and Morgan wasn't all that difficult-- both of them had slipped from Camelot's radar somehow, it seemed. Why? That much Morgan couldn't tell, but she certainly wasn't going to complain. Not when the inner mechanics of Camelot finally, finally worked in her favor! Examining it too closely would jinx it, no doubt.

And so Morgan began to visit Guinevere in her own room, hidden under the guise of darkness. What? If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must come to the mountain, and since everyone did their best to give the future queen as much privacy as humanly possible, it would have been stupid not to take advantage of that. (Well, alright, Morgan may also have had another motivation. It was Guinevere's freaking room; the place where she slept, dreamt, lived. Sharing it with her just seemed appealing, okay? Probably because, uh, it would help her understand her better. People who didn't fold their clothes properly were untrustworthy, and shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a job with any amount of responsibility, much less a throne. Right. Morgan was just vetting her! It wasn't because the room smelled like her, or because she planned to steal one of her handkerchiefs so that she could put it under her pillow. Haha. Unless?)

This night, Morgan, too, headed to Guinevere's place. It had become their small tradition that she went to the kitchen first to bring her some treats. ("So that you can focus properly," Morgan had told her the first time. "Sugar is good for mental work." It-- wasn't untrue, not exactly, but maybe, maybe she also enjoyed the way Guinevere looked when her eyes filled with joy. They way they sparkled, like stars on the night sky? A sight to behold, truly.) And so, when Morgan let herself in, she sat on the edge of her bed and handed her a plate full of cupcakes. "I hope you like bananas. It's hard to get them, even in Camelot, so when a shipment arrives, people in the kitchen go crazy and put them everywhere." And by that, Morgan really did mean everywhere; once, she had been forced to eat a particularly, uh, interesting variant of fish and chips that included banana topping. It did make sense, sort of, because the fruit spoiled fast and they had gotten large amounts of it back then, but-- yuck. Never again! Had it been up to her, the one who had come up with the unholy combination would have been thrown into the dungeons.

Fortunately, these cupcakes looked much more appetizing, with its banana dough and soft chocolate filling. (Some lady who had ordered them would miss them, but so what? Most of them also missed their common sense, and that was a much more pressing issue than stolen sweets.)

"Did you do your homework? Hmm?" Morgan smiled and took a bite out of one of the cupcakes. It was-- wow. The explosion of tastes caught her unprepared, and for a moment, she felt at a loss for words. "I hope you did, because if not, I'll have to eat all of this myself. As a teacher, I shouldn't encourage bad habits, you know." The homework, of course, related to magic; most of their lessons revolved around it now, and Morgan had shown her a few techniques for channeling her inner strength a few days prior. Now, had Guinevere practiced them? And if so, how diligently? That, Morgan supposed, would be revealed to her very soon.
 
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