Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

[Syntra]

Oh? Now that reaction was interesting, wasn't it? Because, in a split moment, Morgan witnessed the mask slip off her face, and beneath it, there was steel. Steel tempered by a different fire than Guinevere's, yes, but steel nonetheless-- just as sharp, just as dangerous. This woman was no crybaby, oh no. No, no, no. Every move, every gesture, everything about her served a purpose, and that purpose was reaching her goal. And if it meant leaving dead bodies in her wake? She would do it, Morgan knew. (Knew it very on a very intimate level, in fact, because for a second-- well, she saw a reflection of herself in that woman. A more twisted reflection, perhaps - one that had been marked by the life in wastes - but still. They were made of the same mold, she and her. Morgan's spiritual twin. Heh. What a delicious, delicious irony. Perhaps she would have been able to enjoy it more if she wasn't, you know, dying inside. Dying from worry, from not knowing whether Guinevere was at least remotely okay.)

The tears and what followed, though? Those antics told her more than Not-Guinevere planned to disclose, really. For one, she wasn't as great of an actress as she probably thought. Because, that performance? Yeah, it would only fool an alien who had never seen human behavior before. (Or Arthur, which wasn't really doing her any favors here. No, Not-Guinevere was dealing with the wrong fucking Pendragon sibling here, and she would know the difference very, very soon.) More importantly, however, it told her that Guinevere lived. She had to. Had her sister killed her, there would have been no reason to panic like that, right? Alright. Alright, so not all had been lost. What would be the best course of action here, though? Morgan sure as hell couldn't let her reach Arthur; the fool preferred the imposter, it turned out, and so it wouldn't surprise her in the slightest if he double crossed his real bride instead. Ugh. Her thoughts raced, stumbling over one another, and then-- then she decided to risk it all. (No risk, no gain. An ancient rule that was true in magic as well as other spheres of life, and Morgan had always lived by it. Why not now?)

"You mean the Arthur that orchestrated your kidnapping? Are you sure that is a good idea?" she raised her eyebrow. Her own mask slipped with that gesture, and suddenly her eyes were cold-- cold and calculating. The eyes of a she-wolf estimating whether the doe she had been hunting was exhausted enough, or whether she still had some fight in her left.

"Be so kind and stop fucking with me, will you?" Morgan asked, her tone still carefully controlled. (If anything, that actually made it more scary. Blind rage, after all, inevitably involved clouded judgment. In contrast, Morgan's mind was sharper than a knife, and twice as dangerous.) "I come to you as a friend, offering my help, and you reward that good will with deception? Tsk, tsk, tsk," Morgan shook her head. (She looked like a completely different person now, like someone much more imposing, and that was by design, too. Such a swift change between demeanors? Oh, that kept people on their toes, alright. Morgan may not have known how to wield a sword, but she did know how to wield fear.)

"I know you're not her, and I do not appreciate being lied to." Yes, that was the angle she had to go for here-- her wounded pride. Concerns about Guinevere? Those had to stay hidden, mostly because her sister could easily use her as a leverage in this scenario. No, Morgan had to pretend their parthership was just business, nothing more and nothing less. "Now, will you finally let me know what's going on?" she asked matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing weather. "I'd really enjoy that, thank you very much. Also, just so you know, one wrong move and I'll fry your brain. Wanna find out who's faster between the two of us?" 'Go on,' her eyes said. 'Try me.'

 

[ellarose]

Jennifer's eye twitches. She has to dig her nails into the very foundations of the composure she'd created over the years to keep from outright flinching in that moment. Those tears of hers sure dried fast, didn't they? Even though at first glance it seems like all her plans, everything she's built up until this point are on the verge of shattering all around her -- if she allows herself to act and thinks like that, then she might as well admit defeat. But, no, Jennifer didn't learn to survive out in the wastes by accepting failure so quickly. She's got to stay calm, her surface still as an undisturbed lake on a clear day. Now she's staring at Morgan with a sort of knowingness. That there's a kindred spirit in her midst. A spark of realization of just the type of woman she's dealing with flashes in her eyes. So? She brings her hand to her cheek and has the audacity to smile. It's no longer a mockery of one of her sister's cheerful looks, no... it's all Jennifer now. Perhaps she has already lost, if Morgan already knows enough about her as a person... but that isn't a surefire thing, yet. She'd managed to string her along for a little while, right? And if she plays her cards just right...

"...Clever, aren't you? But you have to understand, Morgan. I'm only doing this to keep her safe." Jennifer says this like she truly believes it. And maybe, in some twisted way, she kind of does. Wasn't it merciful? Instead of killing her sister, she'd left her in the care of those who would worship her and keep her alive for as long as possible. What is that, really, if not protection? "You told me yourself not to trust you, on the first day we met. I only followed your advice."

"...And that's the difference between me and her. How do you honestly think someone like Guinevere survived in the wastes for as long as she did? Don't get me wrong-- she is skilled with her sword, that much is true. But she's so... so naive. Too damn trusting. And I... I was always there for her. Until we got separated, that is. Two whole years apart... and you can only imagine my surprise when I found out about her position here." Jennifer's gaze has a faraway look. Her acting is more authentic, perhaps, now that she's allowed to be herself. Because this? This might as well brush as close to the truth as it can possibly get. "She never was attracted to men, you know. The whole situation was... strange. So I came to visit her. And she was so tired, Morgan. So stressed. Coughing up blood. I couldn't bear to see her like that."

To her credit, Jennifer manages to make herself look genuinely concerned now. The skilled actress in her really shines through when she's not relying on those crocodile tears, huh.

"There was that mysterious accident, of course, but she also told me that this horrible monster had been attacking her camp. That some of her friends had even gone missing. Gwen loves her gang more than life itself. I imagine you must know that if you've met them yourself..." Jennifer shakes her head, like it's such a sad story. Like she hadn't sent that monster there herself. The fact that she knows these little details, though? It makes it seem more and more like Guinevere could have just as easily told her about them. Like they were in on this together and had a conversation about it beforehand. Then she looks at Morgan, specifically to watch her reaction for the next part. Because she knows what her men had told her, what they saw before they had taken Guinevere. "And the concept of having an affair before her wedding, on top of everything else? It terrified her. So? I told her to go back to her friends. That I would take her place."

"I'm sure you've noticed by now that I'm better suited to these sorts of things. We argued for a bit, of course, but eventually came to the understanding that it was... for her own good, really. Gwen tries to take everyone's problems on her shoulders and sometimes it gets to be too much. She'll work herself to death if you let her." Jennifer sighs sadly, as if she knows this from experience. "Trust me, she was so upset that she didn't get the chance to say a proper goodbye. But we had to act quickly for our plan to work. Arthur was basically keeping her locked up in here and the wedding was fast approaching."

 

[Syntra]

Morgan didn't consider herself to be a violent person. She didn't shy away from it, sure, because the ones who did didn't tend to last long out there, but it also didn't bring her any joy. Right now, though? Oh, how she would have enjoyed wiping away that smirk from Not-Guinevere's face, preferably with her fist! 'What did you do to Guinevere?' something primal in her screamed. 'Where is she?!' Those questions never made it past her lips, however. No, Morgan would wield her anger like one would wield a scalpel, not a bludgeon. Because, this situation? It demanded surgical precision, and that was exactly what Morgan would deliver.

Except that, with Not-Guinevere's next words, the metaphorical scalpel fell out of her hand. "What?" she asked, uncomprehending. "Keeping her safe?" Now, Morgan didn't claim to be an expert on semantics, but kidnapping someone wouldn't exactly make it into most people's definition of safety, would it? If nothing else, the woman certainly had guts. As she spoke more and more, though, doubts began worming their way into Morgan's heart. What Not-Guinevere said... kind of made sense, didn't it? In a twisted, mean-spirited way. (Morgan, too, had wondered how someone as pure, as trusting had survived in the wastes, and now she had her answer. A sister who had once played the same role as her. Or did she, still?)

No! A whole bunch of nonsense, that was what this was. Guinevere resented Arthur, yes, but she had chosen to marry him for her friends. You know, for those people she wouldn't hesitate to risk her life for? She wouldn't leave them starve like that! (Except that Arthur had never bothered to hold up his end of the bargain anyway. Would it be that strange for her to cut her losses and run? To preserve her freedom if it couldn't buy her gang food?) There was a sinking, terrible feeling in her stomach, though Morgan willed it away. Guinevere would not have done that. Not without an explanation, or at least without saying goodbye. Right?

But oh, her sister had arguments, and each of them stabbed her right in her heart. Guinevere being tired-- tired from the responsibility she had put on her shoulders. Guinevere coughing blood-- courtesy of magic she had taught her. Guinevere slowly falling apart under the pressure, with her doing nothing but contributing to it. And when Jen mentioned the word 'affair'? It must have been obvious to her in that moment that she had hit the bullseye. The jackpot, really. Morgan's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came to her. In that moment, the she-wolf was gone; in her place there was a fish out of water, struggling desperately to get some air. An affair? That was how Guinevere viewed it, as something-- something dirty to be hidden? Well. Come to think of it, she had never confirmed anything, had she? Morgan had just sort of assumed, really, and taken what she had wanted. Damn. They truly were siblings, her and Arthur. By what right did she judge him if she-- if she behaved the same the second she got the opportunity? (No, not the same, actually. Too reductive. Given that Guinevere had turned to her at her lowest and trusted her like one would trust a beloved friend, Morgan was worse. A lowlife, a traitor, a user. Gods. She should have been an ally, not another boulder at her neck! Maybe-- maybe she would have stayed then. Wouldn't have abandoned her like everyone else. Didn't she deserve it, though?)

Tears stung her in her eyes, but Morgan blinked them away. She, at the very least, wouldn't grant Not-Guinevere the satisfaction of seeing her cry. No, she'd stand tall, talk to her like a civilized person and crumble in her chambers later. Her breakdown would be that of a fucking lady. "I see," Morgan said, even though her voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else. To someone who still lived. That couldn't be her, though, now could it? Because she didn't feel alive. The last bits of life force had been drained away from her and now she stood there, a soulless husk of her former self. A walking corpse, or perhaps a marionette. Like him, like him, like him, echoed in her head, over and over. (Perhaps there really was no escaping their rotten blood, spoiled by conquest and dark magic. Or maybe she was just making up excuses and managed to be terrible all on her own? Well, it wasn't like that mattered. Nothing did.)

"What do you intend to do with the fool of my brother, then? I hope you don't have any delusions about him ever letting you have a semblance of power," Morgan said, not caring about the consequences anymore. The cards had been laid out anyway, right? "Better get used to begging for the scraps from his table, because you will be doing that a lot."

 

[ellarose]

Jennifer suppresses a victorious, catlike grin when she sees Morgan take it all in. Isn’t it delicious? It's like she dines on soulless expressions for breakfast. This strategy never fails, does it? When she paints her sister as the perfect little victim, the women who care for her fall prey to it in an instant. And this? This is work to be proud of -- Morgan really put on her toes for a while there! (Really. What inspires her to ward those who care for her sister away? Well, Jennifer might not even know herself. She never cared to analyze her feelings that deeply.) Well, come to think of it, there was only one time it didn't work. But that's because Guinevere had walked in while she was antagonizing Adrianne and caught her redhanded. (And then Guinevere told her to grow up! The same Guinevere she always had to keep out of trouble, the one who used to practice her freaking roar as they traveled the wastelands as kids, thinking she might sound ferocious enough to frighten a beast!) Either way, Guinevere won’t be walking in now. Or ever again. And Morgan won't even question it. So it’s clearly a win for her.

“Oh, please. Don’t make me laugh! I’ve been begging for scraps my whole goddamn life. Why stop now?” Jennifer smiles plainly now, as though she’s simply talking to a friend about, say, the weather. The relief to have survived dancing through a minefield like this really has a way of making her feel alive. It's exhilarating! So long as Lancelot doesn’t give her anymore trouble, queen would without a doubt be her claim. And what is that, if not something to rejoice about? “What other choice do you have, when you're used to living in a bleak, uncaring wasteland? If the only difference is the change of scenery, I’ll take a castle any day. Shelter, good food and a warm bed are all luxuries I don’t intend to take for granted.” Not the only ones, either, if her appetite for fine clothes and jewelry is any indicator. But she's still trying to sound at least somewhat humble here.

People out there would kill to be in her shoes, she almost says. Shoes that... used to belong to Guinevere. Yeah, no. Considering the catastrophe she’d just sidestepped? She wisely decides against voicing that particular thought. Guinevere might not be dead, but she’s certainly not enjoying her freedom with her precious friends either. Morgan’s proven herself to be sharp, a dangerous force in her own right -- no reason to alarm her. No, in fact... it could still be beneficial to work with her. With her sister out of the picture, though... it's still hard to say how exactly she'll feel going forward.

“I’m obviously not just some vapid, one-dimensional centerpiece. I intend to make something of myself in due time.” Jennifer’s eyes flash brightly with what can only be described as her killer instinct. “I guess you could say I'm no stranger to toying with a man's emotions? Play my part well enough and before long they become putty in my hands. So soft and malleable. I can shape them into anything I want... or rip them to shreds.” Is she kidding on that last part, or is she being serious? She glides by it without a care, though, as if it isn’t meant to be some kind of drastic revelation.

“Only time will tell. Arthur certainly seems to like me well enough for now." Jennifer shrugs as if it isn't a big deal and turns to her bed again, running her fingers along the hem of the dress she'd set out without a care now that she's free to be herself. "Are you still going to offer me lessons, Morgan? Or... were those reserved for exclusively for Gwen?"

 

[Syntra]

"That makes sense, I suppose." Why was she even still having this conversation? It felt... downright surreal, standing there and talking as if her whole world hadn't been shattered to pieces. As if anything still mattered. (Shortly after the Catastrophe, had there still been people who insisted on waking up at six am even without a shift to go to, or whose first impulse after waking up had been to check their now dead phone? Because this was similar-- going through the motions, mostly out of pure momentum than anything else. Well, that, and also because Morgan had no idea what else to do. Cry? Collapse? Curse the heavens? Except that, after all was said and done, she would still be there, still be forced to live this life. Still be forced to bear the guilt, really, since tears would not wash it away. No, she didn't have the luxury of grieving. Noble ladies of Camelot did, and some bard would probably even compose a song about how tragically beautiful they were in their sorrow, but Morgan was no lady. She was a witch, and witches? Witches had to take care of themselves to survive since nobody would do it for them. That, at least, was becoming increasingly more obvious. How had she even forgotten this lesson? Oh, right. Guinevere had blinded her to that universal truth. Well, since now her existence would serve as an eternal reminder, Morgan would never forget that again. Silver linings and all, was she right?)

"Oh, I wouldn't suspect you of that," Morgan said, and it was true. For all her love of shallow things, Not-Guinevere definitely wasn't shallow herself-- an empty vessel wouldn't have fooled her so completely, so perfectly. (Maybe, in some other version of her life, Morgan would have sympathized with her. A competent, ruthless woman taking what she wanted? Yes, please, more of that and fewer men like Arthur. Given that in this case, though, she had taken away something from her, Morgan found it hard not to be at least a little bit biased. More than a little bit, actually.)

Nevertheless-- "I offer my lessons to anyone who seems worthy of working with," Morgan said, pointedly ignoring the implications hidden in her comment. The romantic connotations, really. (Gods, this truly was a nightmare. Morgan had hardly come to terms with her feelings herself, and now this woman was rubbing them in her face. Were they that obvious to an outside observer? Pathetic.) "I am not a one-dimensional figure, either, you know," she said, slow and deliberate. "There's a goal I have in mind as well. A goal that might align with yours, even. Be the queen-- I don't mind. That works for me." Honestly, if Guinevere resented it that much, then Morgan would rather see her sister on the throne. (Why hadn't she told her? Had she-- had she known, she wouldn't have incorporated her into her plans. Wouldn't have done so many things, really. Well, it only went to show that their relationship probably hadn't been that important to Guinevere. And why did that come off as a surprise? It wasn't like anyone had ever hesitated before cutting her off. It was just-- a continuation of that old pattern, really. A sign for her to harden her heart.)

"I just don't want that idiot to rule." Yeah, all of her subtlety went out of the window on that now, didn't it? Still, since Not-Guinevere had talked about ripping him in shreads, Morgan doubted that any great love bloomed between them. Besides, if her hunch about her was right-- well, she would jump at any opportunity to earn more power for herself. "Marry him, and then I'll get rid of him for you. Camelot will be yours. In return, I only ask to be left in peace. I have magic to research, and frankly, all this politics is starting to become exhausting to me." Everything was starting to become exhausting at a rapid pace, though Morgan didn't feel like describing her ordeal to her. Or to anyone, really. Loneliness was the only cure to her condition, and so she had to return to it. "That is the payment I require for my lessons. What do you say?"

 

[ellarose]

Jennifer smiles pleasantly upon hearing Morgan's reply. She'll get rid of Arthur for her? And would even prefer to see her on the throne? It's like music to her ears. God, it's like she's being handed everything she wants on a silver platter! Needless to say, it's a feeling she could get addicted to. And with her title of queen right at her fingertips, that very well may be the case. She'd be a fool not to reach out and snatch it, to claim it for herself and never let go. No excuse to let her guard down, though. It's often when things seem to be going eerily well that they dismantle at the very last second. What if this is a more elaborate plot than it seems? What if Morgan intends to take power from her -- what if she was trying to manipulate Guinevere into the very same thing? (Perhaps the disappointment she senses doesn't come from a place of affection-- but resentment! Maybe she needed someone easy to manipulate, like Guinevere, and suddenly -- suddenly she's stuck with the sharper twin. Oh. Is Jennifer trying to spin this so she's somehow 'saving' her sister, again? Yeah, sure seems like it.) "Well, well. You know, Morgan... I had a feeling we were kindred spirits." She sounds ever so friendly, however, not a single one of her thoughts rise to the surface. "Gwen would have been in over her head. I think she acts strong because she's always wanted someone to rely on her but... she's actually the sort of person who can't survive unless she relies on others, you know? She's too soft. You and I, though? We can hold our own."

So Jennifer would build herself a luxurious life in Camelot and all the while Guinevere would just... exist, relying on her kidnappers for absolutely everything. Right. Sound logic. As long as Guinevere's not in sight, she can tell herself it isn't so bad. That really, it's fine. It's fine. Guilt can't plague her-- what's out of sight is out of mind! Her sister can just... gradually fade away into the background, much like her presence in Camelot was erased overnight. "Arthur must have really made her miserable. He's not even the slightest bit suspicious, you know -- you'd think he'd have noticed by now if he really loved her." Jennifer sighs sadly, "He hasn't elaborated on that mysterious accident, either. Seems pretty content that I don't remember it, too. He didn't cause my 'amnesia', obviously, but isn't that kind of... fishy? Well. Whatever happened between them, I'm so glad I got her out. I mean, I've dealt with my fair share of shitty men. I'm equipped to handle this in a way she wasn't." Wow. Doesn't she sound like such a caring, considerate sister?

"Solidarity between women in an outdated place like this isn't something I intend to take for granted, either." Jennifer nods her head, all seriousness, all business. "So you have my word. I won't turn my back on you."

Speaking of someone Jennifer supposedly hasn't turned her back on... Guinevere is still locked in a timeless haze. After a while, she tried small rebellions in the only time she really could. During feeding. She started closing her mouth to refuse food. The first time she'd done it, the man held her nose to force her to open her mouth to breathe. The next time she held her breath until it felt she was going to pass out-- so he panicked and struck her with a backhanded blow, forcing the food in when she cried out. She started spitting it out and they retaliated by cutting her food small enough that she wouldn’t choke and holding her jaw shut. She'd bite when she could and got struck for that, too. 'Don't like it so much when it's your blood being drawn, do you?' She'd retaliated. (Yeah, so much for worship. Blood bag it is.) How many days have passed, now? Or weeks? It might as well be an eternity. It doesn’t even matter anymore. Guinevere might as well be dead to the world. Any time any small amount of fight seems to seep back into her, she’s coaxed back into submission with the drugs. Maddeningly helpless and at this point just wishing for the solace of a quick death. Because it's apparent now after so much time has passed that no one’s going to find her. Jen will manipulate everyone and replace her in Camelot. And no one will ever know what happened. Long enough and she even wonders if it's better that way. The thought of her gang -- or god forbid Morgan finding her in this state? It makes her skin drain of color with shame.

Not to mention she's lost all feeling in her arms and legs. Even the ability to say, roll over on her side would have been a relief. But, no, she's not even allowed to do that. At a certain point, she appears to give up. The fire extinguishes behind her eyes and she stops talking or moving at all, her eyes glassy and unseeing. This compliant change in her behavior might have seemed like a relief for her captors at first... but eventually it turns into the exact opposite. In fact, they're starting to panic.

There’s the constant sense of tiny needles piercing her skin that persists even when her captors aren’t present and sticking her with their syringes. Her forehead's slick with sweat. One moment she’s overwhelmingly hot, or the next she’s cold as ice and it eventually occurs to her that she’s sick with something. (It figures that death would rescue her from this fate sooner than it would take Arthur to even realize that he was being deceived.) Life is an even darker haze for her from that point on -- she only gets bits and pieces. Wet cloths pressed to her forehead. Prayers? (Fuck them all.) At one point she thinks they lifted her from her bed to bathe her and change her into something clean. Unfortunately she was too far gone to take that narrow opportunity to escape. Seems they aired out her bedding, too, which was getting embarrassingly filthy, considering she never left it. In her state, they mercifully give her a break from all the syringes and drugs-- instead forcing to swallow down water and something... bitter. Some sort of medicine? Someone was always stationed at her bedside to watch her, so Guinevere keeps her eyes shut and pretends to sleep. Because while she's might be sluggish with fever, she can feel her own thoughts are beginning to come back to her with a sort of clarity, too, for the first time in so long... memories of what Morgan had taught her about magic. And maybe, within them, a way to escape.

 

[Syntra]

"No," the Morgan in her head chuckled. "You're doing this wrong, Gwen. You're still-- still too much." Yes, that was the correct descriptor for Guinevere. Too much of energy, too much of kindness, too much of everything, really. (Perhaps that was what had attracted her to the woman in the first place, like a moth to the fire? Because Morgan had always loved things grander than life, grander than death. Not that Guinevere was a thing, of course, but the same principle applied. She wanted everything-- and the woman striving to grasp the fundamentals of magic with her was all that, and more.)

The two of them were sitting in Guinevere's chambers, surrounded by candles. (An unintiated observer might read romantic undertones in the situation, really, since they were both in her bed, but that was only because Arthur had failed to provide chairs. There weren't meant to be visits, after all. No, in his mind, Guinevere would wait for his attention like a faithful hound, never leaving her designated spot. Yet another thing he had never quite understood; people weren't dogs, for one, and not even a damn dog would welcome him with loving enthusiasm after giving him no food for days. And wasn't that what he had been doing with Guinevere? Not depriving her of food, but of other essential resources?)

"You have to purge your mind of all of your thoughts," Morgan advised, which was, of course, easier said done done. People usually trained these things for whole years, but Guinevere did not have that much time. She had, what, weeks? Days, maybe? Hmm. Morgan had to think of a clear, concise way to make it all a bit more comprehensible to her. When you had never done anything but fill your head with thoughts, after all, the whole concept of being a blank slate must have seemed intensely foreign. Downright stupid, even. "Look," she began, "the spirits are empty, and like attracts like. They seek to fill that emptiness, but ironically, they are only drawn to that which is empty as well. As such, you need to not think." Morgan rose from her spot and put her hands on Guinevere's shoulder, gentle like summer breeze.

"I have a technique for you," she said, smiling in her typical, lop-sided manner. (In her honest manner. Lately, only Guinevere managed to bring it out-- before her arrival, Morgan had almost began go think that she had forgotten how to do so. That she had forgotten so, so many other things as well.)

"Think of a color. White, blue, green-- it doesn't really matter which. Just pick something calming, so no shades of red. Focus on it with your whole being, and hold that thought for as long as you can. Allow nothing to distract you. And then, when your mind is full of that color and nothing else, let go if it as well. If you do it correctly, the spirits should flock to you on their own." And yes, what Guinevere did still lay beyond her comprehension, but there were shared aspects as well. Magic, after all, was about cooperation-- about making other entities work for you, with you. Guinevere herself had admitted to hearing voices, too, which counted as another point in favor of her theory. Now, would this work? Morgan sat back on the edge of her bed, her breath bated. Show me what you're capable of, Guinevere. I know you can do it.

 

[ellarose]

Well. Guinevere's had plenty of time to practice emptying her mind in the position she's been in. In fact, shutting down had even become a defense mechanism of sorts. Now that her thoughts are her own again and despite the pleasure thoughts of Morgan bring her -- she breathes softly and reins her state of consciousness towards productivity. Because as sweet and comforting as the memory of Morgan is -- it would be nothing -- nothing compared to the satisfaction of actually holding her, of feeling the warmth of her hand in hers. And it spurs her on with confidence to see this through. Like hell is she wasting a chance, like hell is she throwing her shot away. Morgan is there, yes, and she becomes the source of inspiration to keep living. To keep fighting. (And wouldn't it be so nice? To be kissed again? To be held like she matters... for just being Guinevere? To receive something other than the false love she got for being a pretty bride or a distant deity? Morgan... Morgan gave her something that felt real.)

The only problem, though, is finding a color. Everything comes up in shades of red. Red like the fire she's always carried with her. Red like the cursed blood flowing in her veins. She tries to reach beyond it for something else. What color had she imagined that day? Ah, yes. It was the healing, white-blue glow that Excalibur emanated. The presence was indeed there -- she felt it and heard the voices, but at the time she hadn't managed to accomplish much-- certainly not enough to get her out of this place. (Excalibur itself, perhaps, brushed far too closely to the responsibilities and thoughts that had been piling up to be truly effective.) Guinevere hadn't done anything impressive, and... and though she was only just a beginner, it had inspired her to overwork herself when Morgan had gone. Because she had wanted nothing more than to make her proud. To do it correctly. (Which was counterproductive, really, only crowding her mind with more thoughts!) Now, though? She can't afford to have any doubts. Perhaps after becoming numb to the concept of even death freeing her from this place, she can push every issue, every worry that bothered her before to the very back of her mind. None of those things will matter if she dies here. Take it one step at a time, right? If she gets out, she'll confront her problems straightforwardly, as they come. For now they must be nonexistent. They have to be for this to work.

So Guinevere settles on something simple. A pale yellow. The... the color of bananas, really. What she had tasted on Morgan's lips that night, a symbol of her hopes for the future, that promise of actually trying the fruit if she ever manages to make it out of this hell she's found herself in, now. Slowly, she filters even those little things out. Right. Relax, for once. Yellow. Just yellow. So soft and comforting she could drown in it. She lets it surround her like sunlight, with patience and time, almost as though she's lazing in it. Then when she's still enough and all her thoughts disappear, she does exactly as Morgan said and lets go of the color as well. --And the spirits? They respond.

"What am I supposed to do when the spirits reach me?" Guinevere had asked back then, leaning towards her eagerly. Trusting every piece of advice, listening with her undivided attention. Simultaneously admiring the way the candlelight brightened Morgan's eyes. (They lit up all on their own, though, didn't they? When she talked about magic. And anything else she was passionate about.) Maybe... maybe that's part of the reason why Guinevere wanted to impress her with it so badly, to see her smile, to show her that their efforts were paying off.

 

[Syntra]

"Don't you think you should care about succeeding first, hmmm?" Morgan teased, light and open and, yes, even cheerful. The exact opposite of what she was usually like, in other words. (It seemed that, under Guinevere's warm gaze, she bloomed. Like a flower deprived of sunlight, Morgan now absorbed every ray of sunshine cast in her direction, and used it to grow. She... didn't actually recognize this version of herself, either, but wasn't that what growth was about? And maybe, maybe she was interested in knowing where exactly it would take her.)

"But no, I'm jesting. You should know, so listen, and listen carefully." With those words, Morgan clasped her hands, almost as if wishing to anchor her. "First things first-- it's not going to feel pleasant. You will get used to it, yes, and learn how to tolerate that feeling, but you will never love it. It's just... strange?" An understatement, really, but no words that could describe it properly existed. "Your body wasn't meant to house more than one passenger, so to speak. So, when the spirits do come, do your best not to panic. They sense your emotions, and you can even drive them out accidentally if you feel too much. To them, it is like-- like electricity. Small doses just tingle them, but large ones? They can kill." Okay, that may have been an exaggeration, but so what? Morgan didn't know for sure what being exposed to strong emotions did to them, but she did know it had adverse effects, and it very well could end in death. Better safe than sorry, really.

"So, my first advice is to remain calm. Remain as empty as you can, too. If it helps, think back to your color. Since you thought of it before anyway, there will be a faint imprint of it in your mind, and so it won't alarm the spirits too much. And now, how to control them?" Morgan's smile widened now, which revealed a set of white teeth. "Why, you sacrifice a baby to the dark lord. A boy, ideally, because they're so full of energy." She tried to keep her expression serious, but it only took a second or two before she erupted into laughter. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. No, just ask them, really. That's the basis of magic-- cooperation." And wasn't that the reason why Arthur and his ilk hated it? Because you couldn't really issue commands to a spirit, or at least not from the position of power. No, you had to make yourself vulnerable first, and then you asked. The very concept of that must have been unimaginable to those who could only ever think in hierarchies.

"If they came to you, it means they like you. That, in turn, means they will want to help you." Malicious spirits existed, too, but that was a can of worms Morgan didn't want to open now. Besides, the method she had just described? It only attracted the spirits who already had been interested in you, and the spirits you could classify as 'uncooperative' at least had the decency to stay away. "Keep your requests simple. Don't explain why you want something-- just state what you want, in few words. They will try to communicate with you, but you need to ignore them. It's not true communication; they will just be repeating your words back to you, more or less. And oh, pay attention to your own body," Morgan added quickly. In that moment, her expression truly did lose some of its playfulness.

"Your pain threshold will be much higher than usual, so you can hurt yourself in pretty drastic ways and not notice until after the spirits leave you. Nosebleeds and such are fine, but if you ever start coughing up blood? Stop. Stop immediately, or I will kill you myself. It will be a more pleasant death than what you'd get from overexerting yourself anyway," Morgan laughed quietly. "And when you want it to end, just tell them to go home. Easy, right?"

 

[ellarose]

--Oh. Inadvertently, Guinevere's breath shudders out of her when it happens. (Even with her eyes closed, she can hear the woman on watch turning around to check on her. Oh fuck. But, no, she's got to stay calm, stay calm. Can't be anything but calm.) This might be her only chance. She needs to be empty. Open herself up to it, accept it. Can't succumb to the pressure now that she's so close. Reaching for a small remnant of her color, that soft yellow, her breathing calms once more, deep and slow, fooling her captor into thinking she'd only been stirred briefly from a nightmare. Oof. Morgan might have braced her for this with a description, but experiencing it informs her firsthand why it'd be difficult to articulate with words. Indeed, it is seizes her in a way that's almost jarring... but she sets her trust in Morgan's capable hands and calms herself to endure. As long as she follows Morgan's advice, everything will be okay. Everything will be okay.

As a girl, the moment before enacting an escape was defined by sheer terror. A pounding heart, a trembling lower lip and shaky hands. But she's not that little girl anymore, is she? She's grown and changed since then. In the present, every ounce of Guinevere's being is still and blank, accepting the spirits and their presence within her mind. Up until this very moment, she's been shaped by of all the mistakes and the experiences that failed to kill her in the past. Adapted as the world changed around her. She can do this. Now, what's next? Ask questions. Yes... that's not so stressful, is it? Just ask.

Will you make her sleep? Guinevere is humble and patient. Because patience will help her escape. Although her first impulse would have been to rise from her bed and run as fast as her feet could carry her, it's smarter take care of her guard before anything else. If she severs the ropes first, the woman at her bedside might see alert the others -- overpower her-- and it'd undoubtably make her panic and alert the spirits. Yeah, better to avoid that. The word sleep echoes over and over. She knows not to respond. And then suddenly... there's a distinct thump of a body falling to the floor. Yes. Eyes snapping open, she sees it for herself. God-- oh god, it worked! Gratitude for the spirits and their presence flows through her in response, but she fights to keep it contained. (In response, though... it almost seems as though she's given a gentle dose of energy?) No, don't question it. Don't react. She needs to move from one task to the other, run through them like a checklist. Even though her desire for her next request could honestly bring tears to her eyes. She holds lightly to that shade of yellow again to brave through it. Calm, calm, calm. Nothing but calm. Please. The ropes. Will you untie me?

Soft echoes of ropes, untie, please-- and miraculously, the ropes start to fray before snapping entirely, falling limply around her. Guinevere cautiously tests the movement in her fingers and toes. (Her circulation is definitely... messed up.) The ropes have left deep, purplish indents on her wrists and she imagines her ankles must look the same. Still feverish and weak, realistically she probably shouldn't have been able to fight against the stiffness and vertigo to sit up in bed the way she does-- but she does. (Perhaps the spirits are helping? Lending her strength, working side by side with her?) It's so simple, but so beautiful. She can move again. And view her prison from a whole new perspective, it seems... she recalls catching glimpses of light as the door opened and closed, but she still has no idea what to expect on the outside. The unpredictability of it makes it all the more dangerous, she knows, but -- no way in hell is she giving up now. Eventually she manages to stand on her feet, holds the bed as she tests her balance. Then she tries walking a few steps. (Unsurprisingly like a newborn deer at first... but with every step it gets easier and easier. She doesn't buckle and her body is strangely light -- Morgan had said something about that, right? About her pain threshold?) Well, it's for the best. Because she might need to run once she gets out. Run as fast as her feet can carry her. For once, it works to her advantage that the room doesn't have any windows. Anyone standing around outside will be none the wiser about what's happening in here... But she can't waste more time. Who knows when someone might check inside?

Guinevere prepares in a sort of trance as she maintains her connection with the spirits. It seems her supposed 'worshipers' dressed her in a white nightdress of some sort... with lace and short, flowing white sleeves that expose her arms, which are all bruised and bloodied from the incessant stabbing of their syringes. (She looks like a proper virgin sacrifice, really. How charming. Well, she supposes she should be thankful that she's fresh and clean. Might look like a reanimated corpse, but at the very least she won't smell like one too.) Glimpsing the unconscious woman sprawled out on the floor, she kneels down beside her and carefully checks her person for materials. Takes a syringe (potential weapon) three vials of her blood (because it's hers, not theirs!) and she also removes the brown cape she's wearing for good measure, tucking her new belongings deep inside the pockets. She throws it on over her shoulders, pulling the oversized hood over her head. Though her skirt peeks out at the bottom, if she keeps her head low and moves quick enough, then maybe...

After tying the sleeping woman up and steeling herself, Guinevere opens the door as wide as it takes for her to slip through discreetly. She squints against the now unfamiliar light of the outside world and, as calmly as possible, urges the spirits to guide her in the safest direction. Don't notice me, don't notice me--

 

[Syntra]

And, at the beginning, they didn't. Ironically, the dress they had stuffed into might have helped her in that regard; everything was blindingly white there, even the houses, and so the clothes provided decent camouflage. (Huh. Did they want her to fit the color scheme? Why? Some stupid religious reason, probably. Cultists had never been known for the clarity of their thinking, after all.) When her eyes finally got used to the sun, Guinevere realized she found herself... in a village of sorts? Yes, a village. A proper one, too, with buildings instead of tents. 'Nothing lasts'-- that was the motto most survivors had adopted along with their nomadic lifestyle, but these people had gone into the opposite direction. Hell, they had even built a giant fence around their settlement. (Who cared for fences these days? As if there was anything left to protect! Ashes, bones and debris-- that was the heritage left to them by the previous generations. Well, that, and the occasional radioactive factory. Such treasures, really!)

Either way, nobody seemed to notice Guinevere at first. Or maybe they did, but did not know who she was? Because people did pass her by from time to time, except paid her very little attention. Hmm. Well, it did make sense, probably. Very few people had visited her back when she had been tied to that terrible bed, and those who had done so certainly weren't low-ranking members. Why would they recognize her now? (Thwarted by their own elitism-- almost satisfying, truly, though it would likely be even more enjoyable once she actually got out of there.)

The sun was merciless and searing, practically burning itself into her skin, and Guinevere happened to stumble her way into what had to be a square. ...which, okay, was quite a sight. A giant statue stood in the center; a statue of a long-haired woman cut from white marble. Her smile was kind, her arms outstretched, and-- wait, was that supposed to be her? Probably, judging by the flowers that sprouted from the ground near her like the softest of carpets. And those flowers? They were real. Mere weeds, people from the past would have probably said, because no roses grew there. No, just daisies, dandelions and the like. Still, the flowers were not just alive, but also thriving, and the sheer burst of color among the sea of greyness was enough to make one weep. Huh, so their outlandish experiments actually worked? And it had been her blood from which this beauty had been born? How-- how unexpected.

"Hey! Isn't this lady Guinevere? What is she doing here?!" Quickly, the square began fo fill with people-- some of them were bare-handed, though some of them held weapons, and every single one watched her with eyes that were hungry. Hungry, as well as unforgiving.

And then, as if prompted by the question, another memory flashed through her mind.

"What to do in case of danger?" Morgan smiled, a hint of nervousness creeping into her expression. "Well, hopefully you won't need this for a while, but it's better to be safe than sorry. So, my first advice-- run. Really, I mean it. It's always better to avoid a confrontation if you can afford to do so." Especially if you were as inexperienced as Guinevere, truly, because magical fights could get very ugly very soon. In one moment, you could be fine, and then you were suddenly lying on the floor and gasping for air while your lungs filled with your own blood. Morgan's early days, too, had been punctuated with such accidents. Oh, how she would have loved to spare her of it! Unfortunately, though, those experiences were valuable as well. Learning moments, so to speak.

"If you cannot run, though, let the spirits handle it. Make yourself even smaller," Morgan said and caressed her hand with her thumb, oh so gently. It was almost, almost as if she tried to calm her with that simple touch. "It's scary, I know, but they will want to keep you alive and they are aware of your limits, probably more than you are at this point. There are-- more hands-on ways, too, but that's a lesson for another day. For when you learn how to control your powers." Because, at the moment? Teaching Guinevere how to do these things would be the equivalent of handing her a scalpel and wanting her to perform a surgery when she barely knew how to cut her bread. 'Dangerous' didn't even begin to describe it. No, Morgan would just instruct her on these matters later. They had all the time in the world, after all, didn't they?

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere stares at the statue, forcing herself to be a blank slate even as raw emotion nips at her heart. Because this depiction of her standing tall in the grass, smiling serenely with her arms wide open? It's like she's there to offer her life to them willingly, like she was free to choose this path, like she wasn't... who she truly was. Hidden from the sun and shackled to a bed, forced to bleed out for them. If she had withered and died in that sad, dark little building and anyone who knew her came upon this from the outside-- not knowing the truth-- well, they might be deceived into thinking she was taken care of in a place like this. Worshiped and loved like a goddess, even. But the reality is not the deceptively clean, pristine white of everything in this place. No. No, they should paint those pristine, marble arms of hers in red. Tie ropes around her wrists and ankles. Carve out that pretty face of hers. Guinevere's obviously not a person to these people, so she might as well not even have one! Not a single one of them showed remorse for the absolute hell they put her through. That fire reemerging in her, though, it's starting to disturb the spirits and she can feel it. Calm, calm, calm. There'll be time to process later. When she's free.

If she -- if she can really bring life to the dead earth, though? If that patch of green at her feet is any indicator? She'll sure as hell use it for as much good as she can. She wants to change the world for the better as much as anyone else! Guinevere had said as much the first day she had woken up in this place, when she tried to bargain for her freedom. But she wasn't given a choice, was she? They might as well be treating her the way Arthur treats Excalibur. Hoarding her, as though they intend to keep whatever she provides for themselves. Why not teach her about herself instead? Tell her how she can help!? (They don't want her to run away, don't want to lose any precious resources, they want an easier life. She can't blame anyone for that, really, out here. But the means they're going through to secure those things for themselves? Atrocious. Where do they get off, filling her head with stories of human hubris when what they're doing is--)

Voices. Shit. Guinevere backs away slowly from them, her eyes darting around the gathering crowd like a fox surrounded by hunters. Panic swells inside her, the spirits squirm in response and -- and she reaches for Morgan's advice. Danger. What does she do if she's in danger!? Run? But it's in that moment that another presence embraces her from behind like an old friend, making room for itself among the other spirits. The familiarness of it quells her racing heart and eases her into a newfound state of calm. Excalibur? Incredible power flows through her veins and she becomes something... otherworldly. As though responding to her anger and her thoughts from before, some of the greenery at her statue's feet emerges taller yet, vines wrapping tight around her marble counterpart's ankles like the restraints that held her down just minutes ago. And they only continue to grow and wind around it.

The sight should have alarmed her, probably, but she's in too much of a magic induced trance to register it. The people around her, though, they react. They're distracted, now. But she's not paying attention to them anymore. Breathe, she reminds herself. In and out. This is fucking unreal, but she's still human, in spite of it all. If she makes herself anything other than that, then she's just as bad as these people. Guinevere is still in there, somewhere, among all the voices and spirits. But she makes herself small, like Morgan suggested, allows them take over for her. That statue. Bring it down.

Down, the spirits echo. Down, down, down. Guinevere turns and takes one step, then another, and suddenly she's running before she can see what becomes of the chaos she just wrought. Through her heartbeat and the voices of the spirits, she hears it collapse, the shattering, the screams. Keep running. Don't look back. Allowing the spirits to steer her, well, it seems there's an internal compass of sorts that intends to guide her closer and closer to the source of that power. To Excalibur.

 

[Syntra]

The wedding, Arthur had said, was meant to be the greatest event Camelot had ever witnessed. And Morgan? Morgan believed it, for multiple reasons. The first reason was almost devastatingly pragmatic-- despite what her brother spouted, Camelot just didn't host that many events. The Catastrophe had hit them all, regardless of ideology, and not even the king could afford to waste the precious supplies on lavish feasts. Admittedly, though, the celebration everyone was preparing for likely would be grand, despite the lack of proper comparisons. Jen's charm had taken care of that. The cooks had been working for days now, filling the castle with scents that made her mouth water. Meanwhile, the musicians had been composing songs celebrating "Guinevere's" beauty, and Camelot's corridors came alive with hundreds of guests. (Did Arthur really have that many allies? He must have, clearly, but it still took her breath away. Wow. So many idiots! At some point in the past, Morgan had come across a statistic that said more than half population had an IQ lower than 100. Ever the optimist, she had rejected the bleak outline, but apparently it had been right all along. Gods have mercy on their souls, truly.)

The most magnificent thing, though? All the flowers. Morgan had no idea how Arthur had managed to get them, but miraculously, they filled every corridor, bright and fragrant and beautiful. 'A symbol of the new hope,' Arthur had said. 'Of the love that shall bloom between me and my betrothed.'

Morgan would have laughed, mostly because his beloved bride had zero issues with him outright dying, but lately, laughter didn't come to her easily. Few things did. Just as a new hope bloomed for Arthur, hers had withered, and a piece of herself had died along with it, too. Had it been foolish to tie her heart to Guinevere so soon after they had met? Well, yes. Morgan saw it now, but knowing that couldn't rewrite the past. It had happened already, and now she paid the price. The tax for her foolishness, really. (Her life, it seemed, could be divided into two periods; before Guinevere and after. Before her, there had only been a wasteland in her soul, and afterwards-- afterwards, there was earth scorched. Everything, everything tasted like ash. Was that to be her life now? Frankly, Morgan didn't even have the energy to think about that. Earth scorched was also earth deprived, after all, and so there were no reserves for her to use-- just vast, terrifying emptiness.)

And so, just like that, Morgan had faded from the public life. She had never participated much, at least not directly, but her shadow had hung over the whole place like an ominous curse-- well, no longer. She stopped leaving her chambers almost entirely, which likely caused the inhabitants of Camelot no small joy. Well, at least someone was happy, Morgan supposed? Silver linings, you know. Silver linings.

Jennifer, of course, was the exception to her self-imposed home prison. (Jennifer, who looked so much like Guinevere her heart hurt. If she squinted, she could see her sister's ghost in her features, and then-- no. No, Morgan shouldn't be doing that to herself. Just like a recovering addict, she had to cut herself off entirely if she ever hoped to destroy the habit. To destroy the habit of clinging to her, in this case.) To her credit, however, Morgan managed to keep her distance. She had promised to teach her, yes, but she hadn't promised to be her friend, which she had no intention of becoming. The woman had still lied to her, after all. She was no Guinevere version 2.0-- and considering even Guinevere had betrayed her, the very idea of replacing her had been idiotic from the beginning. No, Morgan simply had to get used to loneliness again. In this (and every other) scenario, she could trust in herself only. Well, herself and Jen's thirst for power. That, at least, seemed to be real enough.

If nothing else, Arthur appreciated her lack of-- doing anything, really, and so he allowed her to help Jen with her wedding dress. 'It is a tradition, dear sister,' he had said. 'I am merciful, so I will allow you to experience our joy with us.' Pfft, yeah, right. As if Morgan could feel such things anymore. Nevertheless, she found herself in Jen's room, tying the numerous straps on her dress. Gods. Who had designed the stupid thing? Because it certainly didn't look like Marietta's usual style-- her friend focused on style as well as matters of practicality, thank you very much.

"So, how do you feel?" Morgan asked even if the answer didn't interest her in the slightest. As far as she was concerned, Jen could choke. Still, this wasn't how these games were played, and so she followed the established rules. "This is your big day, after all. Are you nervous at all? You look marvelous, by the way."

 

[ellarose]

“It’s strange, really. I never envisioned myself being a bride before.” Jennifer answers thoughtfully, as though she really believes Morgan is genuinely curious about what she has to say. Blooming under the compliment like a flower (Or a poisonous plant, maybe.) she coils a blonde curl around her finger, admiring the way it springs perfectly back into place when she releases it. She’d damn well better look marvelous-- it’s taking her hours to prepare! “You know, there’s this part of me that wishes Gwen was here. Our little family was torn apart when we were so young... but we were always together.” Well. Jennifer should probably be careful what she wishes for, but in her mind she’s already won. She’s wearing the freaking wedding dress, for god’s sake! And to think all this luxury would have been wasted on Guinevere, who always sat backwards in chairs and threw things when she was pissed off. (But, uh, maybe that's not so bad compared to what Jennifer does when she's angry--)

“I’m not nervous, though. Not now.” She grins, recovering maybe a little too quickly to seem entirely authentic. Jennifer has this way of appearing friendly, but there’s also something... dangerous lurking beneath the surface. But she's really trying, here, trying to get Morgan to open up to her. But nothing-- nothing has worked yet! Still, she keeps working on it. There's a light laugh tucked inside her next words. “Oh. You missed it the other day, Morgan. Lancelot tried to warn Arthur about me. I just about lost my mind!” Since she's still sitting pretty here, though, it appears that 'losing her mind' didn't end with blood on the floor. For once.

“No need to worry, though. Arthur didn’t believe a word he said. And I took care of him afterwards. Sent him on a wild goose chase, off into the wastes. Good riddance.” She sighs, inadvertently releasing something perhaps, a touch too honest along with it. “...Lancelot’s hopeless. What he even saw in my sister, I have no idea.”

Did that sound... slightly vindictive? That can’t be right, though. After all, Jennifer’s only going through with all of this to protect Guinevere. Right? She's only in Camelot because she's such a loving sister!

“Oh. No offense.” Jennifer’s apology is saccharine. Is she innocuously slipping up or is she just being mean on purpose? She's such an overdramatic actress that it can be hard to tell the difference sometimes. She turns her head to look at Morgan, her eyes soft and knowing. Reaches to caress her cheek. “Come to think of it, Morgan. I still don’t know much about these grand plans of yours. I'd really like to know. I can... you know, provide whatever she did in return. And more, if you know what I mean.”

 

[Syntra]

Morgan continued to work on her dress, pretending to listen. Since Jennifer pretended to answer, that only made it fair, right? (In all honesty, she wanted to stick her fingers in her ears and sing loudly-- maybe that would have prevented her words from reaching her. Her words about Guinevere. Could she not refrain from talking about her sister? This was supposed to be her day, dammit. Had it been Morgan who was getting married, she sure as hell would not have been wasting her breath on Arthur. So, why this? Was she trying to hurt her intentionally? To show her who the boss was in this relationship? Perhaps, perhaps not. Not everything was about her, after all, and twins tended to be closer than regular siblings. Just endure it. One, one day, and all of this will end.)

"You did what?" she asked, baffled, when the mention of Lancelot's name broke her little trance. Wow, okay. That was-- uncalled for? Morgan didn't love the man, of course, but as far as Arthur's knights went, he was decent. (And probably sharper than most of them, too, considering he had noticed. Something that couldn't be said about Arthur himself, now that she thought of it!) "A good strategy. Very bold," Morgan added quickly, so as to not rouse any suspicions. Maybe she would attempt to locate him in the wastes later because, honestly, she couldn't see him surviving for long, but right now? Yeah, arguing with Jennifer would only get her in trouble. An ego boost was likely what she wanted from this conversation, so an ego boost she would get. Easy, right? And as for the extra bit of poison she spat on Guinevere's name-- well, Morgan would just ignore that, too. Her own familial relationships were too complicated for her to have any energy left for those of other people, and besides, she was trying to forget Guinevere. Thinking of her would do her no favors, obviously.

Except that Jennifer made that exceedingly difficult, mostly because she couldn't stop herself from talking about her. From talking about her in the most demeaning ways, to be precise. "Provide?" Morgan asked, her voice shaking with barely restrained anger. (She may have pulled on one of those strings harder than necessary, too, and so Jen was left gasping for air.) Provide, provide, provide. As if what they had had had been transactional! And yes, Morgan may have blown it by being her despicable self, but never, never had she demanded something of Guinevere in return. Especially not what Jennifer was implying! (Ugh. The very idea of kissing her, being intimate with her, made her want to barf. She was nothing like Guinevere. Nothing! Just-- a ghoul who wore her face.)

Morgan inhaled sharply. "I seem to remember," she finally said, her voice low and dangerous, "that I asked you to leave me in peace. I still wish for that, and only that. In fact, I insist. As for the plan, you shall learn the details when I deem it is appropriate. Right now, there are too many variables. You would gain nothing from knowing something that may very well change tomorrow." And also, did she expect her to tell her here? Really? Oh no, no, Morgan knew better than that.

 

[ellarose]

Jennifer moves her hand away and clutches it into a tight fist at her side, her friendly mask finally falling to reveal the frustrated glare hiding underneath. She'd thought she timed that perfectly... but evidently not. Damn it! What was it, then? Because Morgan had seemed so-- so different back when she still thought she was her sister. Almost gentle as she showed her that dumb bear, attempting to help her find her lost memories, saying they were close. Reciprocating a sort of warmth when she held her hand and asked whether or not she could trust her. But the moment she'd confirmed that she wasn't her, Morgan had locked that part of herself away. (Closed off every part of herself, for that matter -- and wasn't that frustrating? How else is Jennifer supposed to know if she intends to double cross her?) What was so special about Guinevere, anyway? Figures. It was her 'specialness' that ruined their lives in the first place, so it only makes sense that it would get in her way now, too.

But, really. What was it then, if not the kisses they must have shared -- the intimacy? In Jennifer's world, that's just how these things worked. Not this time, though. She wants to ask Morgan what she even saw in Guinevere... but that'd make what she's trying to do all too obvious. They're twins-- people never seemed to care one way or the other about their personalities! People like... like Arthur, for instance. (...But there were always some exceptions to that, weren't there? Perhaps she just has to accept that Morgan is, too.) "Too many variables? Is that right?" Through her teeth, she tries not to lose it. The wedding's so close, now. So close she can taste it. She just needs to stay cordial, stay on her guard. Straightening her posture, she fluffs her hair and turns around. Pretends to be fully unbothered when she's anything but. "...Fine, then. Suit yourself."

This is a game, after all. She might have lost a battle, but that doesn't mean she'll lose the damn war. For now, she simply has to play along -- play nice.

"...Just forget about it and keep tying my dress, okay?" Jennifer snips, staring at her shoes. Prettier than anything she's owned before. A reminder of what kind of future is in store for her. As long as she's careful. No more slip ups like that, though. Morgan le Fey is not to be toyed with -- the message reads loud and clear. She might resent that, but... for now, there's nothing more she can do. Not now, at least. But she'll still have plenty of time after the wedding. "I'm still your ally. If I asked a maid to finish the job, I'm sure Arthur would take notice. He might ask what you did to me. And we don't want that, now do we?"

 

[Syntra]

The threat didn't escape Morgan's ears-- which was, of course, the entire point. Jennifer had made it exceedingly obvious, no doubt in an attempt to frighten her. Which, really? Morgan wanted to laugh, laugh until she could no longer breathe. Did she really think she could scare her into obedience using Arthur? The same Arthur she had been dealing with for ages? (Yes, he could kill her if he so desired, but that had been true for so, so long that any horror Morgan may have felt once had worn off. You just... couldn't exist in a state of being terrified out of your wits for days, much less years. Too exhausting. At some point, you sort of accepted it, just like people before The Catastrophe had acknowledged that, yes, they might indeed get run over by some mad driver once they stepped out into the street. It was a danger, but a constant one. Nothing to get excited over, truly. This incident only really revealed what she had known already-- that this Jennifer couldn't be trusted.)

"No," Morgan said, "that we wouldn't. It is impressive that you can see the dangers of Camelot with such clarity despite your inexperience. I would advise you to remain this vigilant-- as talented as you are, some of the dangers are very well hidden." There, that should do it. Just as Morgan had recognized the poison in Jen's question, she, too, should be able to read the words behind words. (And yes, maybe it was dangerous to antagonize her like that, but at the moment, Morgan didn't care. What was future, even? More opportunities to think about the things she could have done differently? ...yeah, it might be kinder for Jen to get rid of her somehow eventually. Morgan didn't intend to make it easy for her, of course, but if she found a way? That final loss could be her ticket to peace.)

Either way, Jennifer was as ready as she would ever get, with the whiteness of her dress practically making her glow. (Virginal white, of course, as was suitable for the king's bride. The color of innocence. Given that she had tried to seduce her on the very day of her wedding, Morgan found it downright hilarious, but oh well. Gotta keep up the appearances, right?)

"Beautiful," Morgan repeated, and it was true. She did wear Guinevere's face, after all, so there was no point in trying to make her ugly in her mind. Just as she could admire a paiting or a statue, she could acknowledge her beauty in the same impersonal way, too. "Let's go. Since you don't have a father to lead you down the aisle, I will do it for you." (This really was a blessing in disguise, wasn't it? Because Morgan would have had to do the same for Guinevere, and-- well, she would have crumbled. Watching Jen march to her beloved husband, however, did exactly nothing to her. They were rather evenly matched, weren't day? A liar and a backstabber. What a romantic, romantic pairing.)

"Are you ready?" She had to be, because the music started playing and Morgan took her by her hand. (Had it been Guinevere, the touch might have electicized her, but now, Morgan felt nothing. Nothing but a vague sense of dread.) Together, they entered the Camelot's chapel-- it was full, full of people Morgan had never seen before, and Arthur waited for them by the altar. (That smug smile on his face? Oh, Morgan would wipe it away soon, alright. That was the only thing that kept her from blowing up at this point-- knowing that the time for revenge would come. That his joy, too, would turn into ash.) A priest stood there as well, beckoning for them to come closer. When they did so, he started spouting some nonsense about the sanctity of marriage, and-- yeah, no. Morgan couldn't handle listening to him right now. With her gaze fixed firmly on the altar, she just... tuned him out.

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere can't believe she did that. Tore a statue from the ground -- god, her statue, no less. The magic, the flowers, her blood. That she escaped all on her own. She's alive and she's free and-- she can't believe she even made it to Camelot, really. Her bare feet are dirtied and sore from all the running, which at some point turned to walking when she realized she was no longer being followed. The spirits had taken care of her, just like Morgan promised. (And Morgan -- Morgan's inside those walls right now! And the very thought could make her burst into tears for the first time since her capture. But no, not yet. Because she still has something to take care of.) If there's a time limit for how much her body can endure holding onto her connection with the spirits, she might be in trouble. She hasn't let go yet, concerned that the moment she does, the fever and the pain is just going to smash her like a train and cause her to collapse. And she can't very well do that, now can she? Not until she sorts this mess out. If she's going to be any match for Jen, she's got to be prepared for anything. And so a match for Jen she becomes. She smooths her shaky breaths into something deceptively composed and approaches the knights standing guard, which goes... okay, actually. He's a good friend of Lancelot's. She's even filled in on some things there. Like, for instance, that today's the day of the freaking wedding! Holy shit. This timing is catastrophic but-- she doesn't have a choice, does she? She thanks him and he allows her to run inside.

Guinevere navigates through the castle so quickly that she doesn't have time to take in the excessive decorations. No doubt the work of her sister and her love for the finer things. She fooled the fool into marrying her! (And her mind, in the state it's in, fails to come up with an adjective to describe Arthur other than fool. Goddamned fool. Tool.) Is some of the greenery around the flowers growing a little longer as she rushes by, or is that just a trick of the light? She stops right before the doors and catches her breath. Maybe it'd be proper to do this in some other fashion, really, or to check herself in a mirror or something... but fuck proper. Anything that happens behind closed doors in this place gets twisted around. And if Arthur and Jen worked as a pair against her? No doubt it'd end badly. No, she's going to make everyone watch. Everyone will see and know. Because for too damn long, she was trapped in that place fearing she'd simply vanish from this world without a trace. Without hesitating, she pushes her way through the doors.

A few people stir, at first, until she comes about halfway down the aisle and pulls the hood down from her head. Revealing her face. And everything goes completely silent, even the priest. Which, uh... she's definitely seen better days. Her skin might as well be paper thin, the purple of her veins and blooming blue of the bruise around her right eye where she was struck for refusing food standing out in contrast to the ghostly pale of her skin. She's a dead girl walking, really. Despite how broken she looks, however, the glare on her face emanates pure strength. It doesn't escape her that this really would have been the perfect opportunity to say something dramatic or funny, like 'yeah, I lived bitch.' But, alas, she's in Camelot. So she glides in on her dirty bare feet with the composure of a fucking queen.

"Wow. It's really a beautiful ceremony. Sorry I'm late... I was tied up." Guinevere talks and keeps her eyes pinned determinedly on only one person. Not Jen. Not Morgan like she so desperately wants to-- but Arthur. Because Arthur might as well be the axis on which the world turns in Camelot. (And if she looked at Morgan now, she probably-- no, definitely wouldn't have been able to hold herself back. There will be time later, if she plays this just right. She has to keep a cool head, because that's how Morgan taught her to survive in Camelot.) The look in Guinevere's eyes? They're not soft or compassionate. They're hard. Almost accusing. "It seems the gods were on my side, today... so I could save you from marrying a backstabbing impostor."

Hah. Turning Arthur into the damsel, here! It would've been funnier if this situation weren't so terrifying.

Holding tight to the reins of the situation before anyone can interrupt her, she approaches the altar. Most the knights are close to Lancelot -- they seem willing, somehow, to let her speak. "I don't know what she told you. But ask me anything about the events of the last few months and I will have an answer." She states her case with admirable grace. Doesn't even stutter. With each word, she turns to steel, sharp, knowing even. "...I even know of the cross you have to bear, my love. And I'm here because I fully intend to bear it with you." The word Excalibur takes a slow and deliberate shape on her lips, but she doesn't let a sound out. The recognition appearing on Arthur's face on response, in front of all his precious subjects? Priceless. Jen clearly notices this recognition pass between them, too, because... well, she's officially losing it now. In only an instant, everything she wanted, everything she had worked so hard for simply vanished from her fingertips in a puff of smoke. She doesn't stand a chance against Guinevere's memories. What else does she have to lose but her rationality? She was so damned close! And if she's going down, they might as well go down together, right?

"You self righteous bitch!" Jennifer shrieks. Yeah, the way her face is twisting now really isn't befitting of a bride-- let alone a true queen. Guinevere finally glances at her. But for once, she doesn't match her sister's fire. Because at some point, in that timeless haze, she had turned it into ice. Devoid of passion, of love or hate. Just a, empty dead look. And that only provokes Jen's fire to burn brighter in turn. (Because wasn't Guinevere supposed to be the overemotional one? Wasn't she supposed to be weak?) "You ruin everything!"

"If you didn't want me to come back to haunt you, Jen..." Guinevere's tone is lethal and yet oh so calm, almost like she's talking to a child. That's exactly what it takes to press her twin's buttons. Jen was always trying to play the mother figure between them, to use her as an excuse to justify the awful things she did for the sake of 'protecting' her. When the tables turn, however... "Then maybe you should have had the guts to kill me yourself."

Needless to say, Jennifer doesn't take it well. She tackles her sister down from the altar and suddenly the two are rolling on the floor... perhaps fighting in a way one might expect two siblings who roughhouse on occasion but jarringly rougher. Like two girls who were shaped by a life in the wastes and weren't held accountable by their parents for how nasty things got. Arthur's knights approach now... but even they're kind of useless in this case. They hover around but can't seem to get close enough to touch either them without risking taking an elbow to the face. But considering Guinevere's current state, Jennifer manages to get the upper hand eventually. Guinevere keeps staring at her with that apathetic look, though, and it only sends her into a deeper rage. "You were more than a queen to them! You were a goddess! I was doing you a favor, Guinevere!" Oh. Thinking she'd already lost, Jennifer truly slams the final nail into her own coffin.

Jennifer raises a fist over her head, prepared to strike and... it's at that moment that Guinevere tells the spirits to go home and her nose starts to bleed. And oh, does it hit her like nothing else. The pain is dizzying, out on full display, but... isn't it only fair for Jen to see exactly what she's put her through? (A fucking goddess! Right! She wants to spit that she was a blood bag, but doesn't say anything.) Jen just used her name. If anyone had any doubts before, well... it's official now, isn't it? They've grown still enough now that the knights manage to yank them apart. Jen still thrashes in a blind rage as they hold her arms behind her back. Meanwhile, the two at Guinevere's sides basically have to support her weight entirely to keep her upright. Shakily, she reaches and wipes her nose with the back of her hand and inadvertently exposes some of her arm in the process. The distinct imprint of the ropes around her wrists, the bruises. Feeling self conscious for the first time since this entire ordeal began, she swiftly hides it in the folds of the cape she's wearing.

As the dust settles from the chaos, all eyes eventually move from the scene they just witnessed to Arthur himself. Waiting for bated breath for how he's going to take all of this.

 

[Syntra]

...well. When Arthur had said this wedding would be unforgettable, he most likely hadn't imagined it to go like this. Hell, Morgan hadn't, either. She just-- stared at the scenario unfolding in front of her very eyes, her expression a weird mix of horror and elation. Guinevere. Guinevere had come, but why? Wasn't she supposed to be with her gang, wild and free and happy? To hunt with them like she was always meant to instead of slowly withering away within these grey walls? (Instead of suffering her advances?) And then-- then it hit her. The source of that information had been fucking Jennifer, for gods' sake. You know, the woman about as trustworthy as Arthur's vows of protecting the weak. How come she had ever trusted her? Had she-- had she donated her brain to the charity?!

The rest of the guests seemed to be about as dumbstruck as Morgan. They watched the two sisters with visible confusion, alternating between the glowing bride and the dead girl. (Both of them identical and yet, somehow, so different at the same time. Perhaps, in an attempt to differentiate them, the gods have at least given them opposing personalities? Still, damn. Guinevere was downright mesmerizing to watch, all fire and righteous fury. Morgan had never loved all those fancy titles, but that-- that was what the queen looked like. The queen of her heart, anyway.)

"What is the meaning of this?" someone shrieked into the silence.

"What a stupid joke!"

Those voices were in the minority, though. Everyone else seemed-- almost invested in the drama? The ladies of Camelot certainly wasted no time in whispering to one another, their faces hidden behind silky fans. And Arthur? The groom seemed to be utterly confused, looking back and forth like a child in candy store who couldn't decide what to buy. "Impostor? Guinevere, what do you-- Guinevere?" ...yeah, he didn't give off the impression of being the brightest crayon in the box right now. (Had he seriously not noticed something was wrong with his bride? Like, what? Morgan had thought not even Arthur could be this stupid, but apparently he found a way to lower the bar once again. Or-- or maybe he had noticed, but decided not to investigate. Wasn't "Guinevere's' change of heart oh so convenient, after all? This transformation into the porcelain doll he had yearned for so much? Indeed, that sounded like Arthur. Always taking the easy way out, no matter what.)

Morgan didn't even have the time to be amused by that, really, because then the fight broke out. "Do something!" the sorceress turned to the closest knight. "Can't you see? She's hurting lady Guinevere!"

"But-- but which one is lady Guinevere?" the man asked, possibly in the most pathetic tone she had ever heard. Gods. Did the fate of their nation seriously depend on these people? They were doomed. Doomed, dammit!

Fortunately, Jennifer conveniently made it easy for them. Good. Not so cool anymore, huh? (Morgan-- still didn't know what to think about this, really. Complex emotions stirred within her, happiness and anger and fear and then happiness again, but this, at least wasn't complicated. Jen's downfall was just plain fun. The thing that wasn't fun, though? The way magic cut through Guinevere's body, merciless and sharp. Curses. How long had she been keeping this up? The trance could be dangerous, especially for a novice!)

Without thinking of the consequences, Morgan practically ran to Guinevere. "She needs to rest. Can't you see? Gods only know what she's been subjected to!" (And, fuck, did that get under her skin. Whatever she had suffered, she had had to do it completely alone, with nobody to rely on. Just-- how come Jennifer had fooled her so completely?) "Carry her to her chambers. Now!"

Nobody listened to her, though. While Morgan may have forgotten about Arthur, nobody else did, and so they looked at him for commands. Of course they did! Except that-- "Do it. Carry her there. My queen needs to rest, as I'm sure you can see. And as for this situation, I have-- I have been bewitched! This fiend," he looked at Jennifer, "put her spell over me. Seize her! Throw her into the catacombs so that she knows what happens to those who defy the king!" Would he have done the same had the evidence against Jennifer not been so overwhelming? That was hard to say, but hypotheticals mattered very little. They certainly didn't matter to Jen, who was being dragged off to-- gods knew where, really. Maybe to the same place Morgan had been imprisoned in a few weeks ago? Possibly.

Either way, the knights took to accompanying Guinevere to her chambers, and Morgan tagged along. Nobody tried to stop her, mostly because Camelot didn't actually have a lot of healers. There were so few of them, in fact, that the evil Morgan le Fey had to care for the patients from time to time. What a nice paradox, right? (Camelot's whole existence was a paradox, though, so she supposed it only fit. Maybe they thought it to be some weird penance thing on her part. 'I'm sorry for still being alive, let me serve you in return.')

Once the knights made sure Guinevere ended up in her bed, they left them alone, and Morgan sat down next to her just like she had done so, so many times before. This time, though? Everything felt distinctly wrong. Her, Guinevere herself, the events that had transpired in the chapel-- just, damn. "I... I don't know what to say," Morgan admitted, feeling strangely distant. Disconnected from the scene, really. She had spent weeks trying to sever her bond to Guinevere and now here she was, possibly blameless. How did one even begin to approach that? With facts, maybe? Yes, that seemed like a good start. "Where were you? What happened?"

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere's gaze flits anxiously around her room, as though she's double checking to make sure they're truly alone within it. She'll probably have to start sleeping with a knife hidden under her pillow again just to feel secure enough to get a decent night's rest. Keep weapons strategically placed around her room, so she can be ready for anything. She'd left the cult behind but... but they're still out there. And on top of that, they know she's in Camelot. It wouldn't be realistic for anyone to be in here right now, not so soon after she'd escaped. However, she'll need to be ready if they come for her again. If-- no, even that sounds too optimistic. When. When they come back for her. (The idea of being in that bed again? No, she'd seriously rather die.) These are problems she can sort through later, though, because... somehow, she and Morgan actually have a moment to themselves. Sooner than she'd expected, really, so she's... grateful but wholly unprepared. She hasn't even begun to process the shit she's been through. How in the world is she supposed to explain it?

"I -- I can't believe I just did that-- ow." Guinevere giggles softly and a breath shudders out of her irregularly. It hurts. It hurts, but the pain's a reminder that she survived. So she smiles on through it, if a little sadly. Her skin's pricking with unbearable heat, though it's hard to tell if that's her proximity to Morgan or the sickness. Perhaps it's a bit of both. She'd really strained herself back there and... well, she's definitely feeling it now. Every inch of her is unbearably sore. Morgan warned her against it for a reason. And Morgan's advice... it had saved her life back there. "Sorry. I have a... a fever, I think? I promise I listened when you told me to be careful with magic, but... I didn't have a choice. I had to escape while I could."

Guinevere's herculean attempt to stay light flickers as she thinks about Morgan's questions. Fades and fades until her expression is as dark and hollow as the room she'd been locked in.

"Um. Someone was... hiding in the room that night. During our last meeting." She recalls the experience, her voice slow and thick. Her throat aches so badly it makes it hard to talk. That night seems so far away, now. The night they kissed. (And oh, how she longs to spill the truths of her heart and kiss her again. But now's not the time. Soon. After they catch up. Maybe later into the evening, when there's no risk of Arthur or someone else walking in on them--) She also tries not to think about the fact that Jen was involved. The same Jen who's probably being dragged down into her own prison cell as they speak. "Knocked me out after you left. I wasn't prepared for it at all. God, I was so-- so stupid."

Guinevere's voice breaks on that last word, eyes starting to burn with moisture. Jen was about to replace her. If she hadn't arrived today, then she would have really gotten away with it, too. (How did she deceive everyone? What was Camelot like when she arrived -- and what did Morgan think about all of it? Surely she saw through her.) The date of the wedding also gives her an idea of how much time had passed in the outside world, too. It's been weeks. She'd been dead to the world for weeks. "I was left with a cult and the rest is..." She blinks hard and rapidly around the unshed tears before biting her lip. "Hazy. They were drugging me. Taking my blood."

Morgan deserves the full truth and she'll tell her about it in more detail later, but... it isn't easy to open up about by any means. Instead, Guinevere pushes herself to sits up in spite of the dizziness, bearing with it for long enough to slip the cloak she'd stolen off of her shoulders so she can reach into the pockets. Evidence of the ropes and syringes might as well be written all over her bare arms and her skin tingles with a sort of shame as she exposes them to Morgan. Because she never wants to be seen the way she was in that dark room. Spoon fed and tortured and waiting to die.

Finally, she finds what she's looking for. One of the vials of her blood. Guinevere presses it into Morgan's hand, avoiding her eyes. "For your research." She stares at her hands. "I don't know how exactly they were using it yet. It might sound really weird, but... they were trying to restore the earth with it?"

 

[Syntra]

Before all of this had happened, Morgan would have reached out to her. Would have touched her and never let go, or at least for as long as they remained hidden in this sanctuary, away from all the invasive looks. As it was, though? The mere prospect scared her. Jen was rotting in some underground cell now, yes, but she could still sense her there. She could see her, even, in Guinevere's own face. Identical twins, huh. The whole thing just seemed so-- so bizarre that her brain hadn't fully processed it yet. (Because Jennifer? Jennifer was danger where Guinevere was safety, warmth, kindness, and the contrast made her head spin. Morgan knew she was looking at Guinevere now, of course she did, but-- damn. It just wasn't the same. And how could it be, really, when she had spent so much effort on recognizing her as the enemy? As someone to be wary of? Past and present bled into one another, and Morgan-- Morgan had no idea where she stood. Things moved too fast. Too fast and too slow at the same time, and she wanted nothing more than to hide in her room and finally cry in earnest, but she couldn't. Not with Guinevere looking like this. Not without knowing the answers, either.)

When the answers finally came, though, Morgan almost wished they hadn't. Just, damn. Being kidnapped by a cult and-- and used like a guinea pig? (It was her fault, too, which increased the weight on her shoulders thousandfold. How could she have been so stupid? Yes, she and Jennifer were siblings, though Morgan out of all people should have recognized that did not necessarily translate into any great love. Arthur, at least, had taught her that. And hadn't she correctly identified Jennifer as someone obsessed with power? One would have thought that would actually make her doubt the story, but no. For her, it had been hook, line and sinker. Gods. When she imagined Guinevere somewhere in a dark cell, drugged and waiting for help that would never come-- well, her eyes became suspiciously moist, too.)

Even now, though, Guinevere thought of her. Of her and the research that had once terrified her so much. How was this girl even real? She looked as if she had just crawled out of her own grave, and yet, yet she found the time to worry about samples. It was such a Guinevere thing to do, really, that Morgan had no idea whether to laugh or cry.

"I hope you didn't risk your life to obtain these," she said, her lower lip trembling. (Gods, her voice trembled, too. How pathetic! It wasn't her who had gone through hell and back, and yet she couldn't stop herself from feeling like this. As if-- as if some giant monster had chewed her up, then spat her out and messed up everything in the process. ...which, for the record, had also happened to Guinevere and not her. Fuck.) "Since, you know, I have the access to your blood anyway. If you give me the permission, that is." Not that that mattered at the moment, of course. No, Morgan wasn't even remotely interested in what the cult had found in her blood. Merely entertaining the idea felt wrong-- in her mind, it would put her on the same level as them. On the same level as those blood-crazed cultists. (Wanting to know things had always been her defining trait, but not like this! Not at the expense of those she-- those she cared for. Or even those she didn't, really, because for all those rumors that circulated around her, Morgan had never hurt anyone in her experiments. Well, aside from herself, of course.)

Pale as a ghost, she leaned closer. The admission she was about to make wouldn't be pleasant, but it had to be done. If nothing else, the woman deserved to know the truth. "Guinevere, I-- I'm sorry you had to deal with this alone. I had no idea. Jennifer-- I noticed she wasn't you, but she told me you were in on the plan. That you never wanted Arthur to begin with, so you swapped places with her. It, uh, seemed real enough. I thought you went back to your friends. Had I known, I would have come for you. I would have found you, somehow." (Except that she had never really searched for her, and it became blindingly obvious now. Gulp.)

 

[ellarose]

"I used magic to get them. Just wait till you hear about my escape, 'cause that's a whole other story." Guinevere manages a wobbly little smile at that. Maybe she was ashamed by the weakness that dragged her into that prison, ashamed by the fact that she'd been tied up and helpless to do anything about it -- but she freed herself with the very skills that Morgan had taught her. And that? That is something to be damn proud of. (In fact, it's that knowledge that has helped her navigate in Camelot, with Arthur, and even now. But more than that -- the memory of that honest, lopsided smile of hers... that's what helped her persist.) If she didn't put her trust in Morgan the way she did, she would have... would have just vanished without a trace. "...I don't want to see another syringe for a while. But I trust you with it, Morgan. And only you. Because I know you'll actually tell me what it can do. And I-- I fucking deserve to know."

The righteous fury in her sparks back up to the surface with that. Because of course she does-- especially if she's going to be hunted down for the rest of her goddamn life because of it! They didn't trust her to make the right choices with her supposed 'gift', but they never even gave her the chance to make a choice in the first place. (Easier to mold a child, that man had said, and yet they never informed her of anything. Just took what she had to give -- just used her.) The blood flowing in her veins... was that what always made her old man so paranoid? After all, it's the very thing that tore them away from him in the first place. Is that part of the reason why... why Jen resents her so much, now? So much that she would simply hand her over to them in exchange for a luxurious life in a castle? Maybe Guinevere was kept in the dark all this time under the guise that it was supposed to keep her 'safe' -- but, in her experience, knowing things has only made her stronger.

That steeliness in her softens, though, when Morgan speaks. The first thought that fills Guinevere's mind is just how much she missed the sound of her voice, the way it could lull her into a sense of warmth and comfort -- but then she hears the words she's saying and it becomes harder to take in. She bites her lip again, and hard, striving not to let the hurt appear in her expression. Oh. The tears sting even harder in her eyes and it takes everything she has not to let them fall. It's not that she was expecting rescue, or anything... her whereabouts surely would have been a challenge to locate. But Morgan -- Morgan doesn't trust her the same way, does she? Because if she did, then...

"Oh. So you thought I just... I just left you without saying goodbye?" Guinevere stares into her lap and fights the impulse to pull the covers over her head to hide her face. It occurs to her now, really, that she really would have just vanished without a trace if she hadn't saved herself back there. Jen would have married Arthur and been queen and all the while Morgan would have thought that-- that she abandoned her. On purpose. (And the thought of that? It shatters her.) After all those times she'd opened up to her, all those promises she made, and yet Jen had still managed to make her think that-- "After everything. After we..." Kissed? She can't say it, though, because she feels like she could choke. A tear starts to slip and she hurriedly presses the heel of her palm to her eye to stop it.

"But I-- I guess I can't blame you for that. It wouldn't be... wouldn't be fair, because--" It trembles out of her though, there's no hiding the raw hurt anymore. But it's not only that Morgan doesn't seem to reciprocate her trust in her. It's Jen, too. Isn't this what she's been doing her whole life? Pushing her away from the people she got closest to? And now she's pushed her even further over the edge by-- by trying to replace her altogether. "Because Jen played me for a damn fool, too. No-- no, she played me harder than anyone."

Feeling like she could cry harder with the admission, Guinevere sinks down against her pillows and rolls over onto her side so she's facing the wall to hide her face. It's too much to take all at once. All of this-- every single little part of it is too much. Curling up, wrapping her legs to her chest and at least relishing the fact that she's got the freedom to even do that. "Really saw to it that I would disappear without a trace, didn't she?" There's a humorless laugh shuddering in her words, "I guess I'm as stupid as she always said I was... because back before all this happened, I honestly believed there was some part of her that still loved me."

 

[Syntra]

It occurred to Morgan in that moment that, despite everything, Guinevere had remained strong. Captivity, cultists or her life being shattered to pieces? None of that had managed to phase her. Physically, she was a wreck because yeah, magic just did that to you-- magic and torture both, and it appeared Guinevere had enjoyed both in spades. In spirit, though, she had retained her usual resolve of steel. The same kind of resolve that marked her as a survivor tempered by the wilds, ready to take on the entire world if need be. Well, up until now, that was. Because what Morgan had just said? It seemed that it did what weeks of being reduced to a guinea pig couldn't, and her heart broke. She had never seen Guinevere this-- this hurt before, had she? (And to think that she had caused this! Gods, if the lump in her throat was to grow just a little bit more, Morgan wouldn't be able to speak at all. Perhaps that would be a good thing, however, considering the fact that her words only did harm. They were sharp and crude and thoughtless, and cut deeper than a sword. Wasn't that who she was, though? What they had made her into?)

"Guinevere, I--" Morgan began, but finishing that sentence was harder than it seemed. And why? Well, her assessment of her thought processes was spot on. She had thought exactly that-- that Guinevere had disappeared like smoke in the wind, without bothering to spare a word of explanation. Without having the decency to look her in the eye and say: 'I'm not interested anymore, bye.' Those were the facts. (Morgan could have lied about it, yes, or she could have blamed it all on Jen's oh-so-insidious manipulation, but that wasn't the real problem here, was it? The real problem, as much as it pained her, was that she truly didn't trust her. That she didn't trust anyone, really. And sidestepping it? That would only lead to more heartbreak in the future, Morgan was sure. She-- she had to talk about it, didn't she? Not in spite of the pain that threatened to tear her apart, but because of it. On the off chance that their relationship wasn't dead already, letting this issue fester would kill it for sure. The final nail in the coffin, truly.)

"It's not because of Jen," she heard herself say. (And, yes, her voice was weak and shaky and so damn pathetic, but Morgan forced herself to continue nevertheless. At least she wasn't a coward, huh? She would always have that, even if they took everything else from her.) Morgan inhaled sharply, bracing herself for what was to come. "It's because I truly do not trust you on some level. I'd love to, but I cannot. There's nothing to trust in." ...wow. That was kind of horrible, wasn't it? Now that those words left her mouth, though, something within her broke. It broke, and with nothing to hold her resentment back, it inevitably had to go out.

"You never told me anything. Not a word about-- about what happened between us, and no indication that your relationship with your sister is about as healthy as my relationship with Arthur. What was I supposed to think?" Morgan still didn't know, actually. Everything was strange and confusing and vaguely sharp, kind of like stepping on glass shards with a bare foot. Guinevere looked hurt, but why exactly? That remained shrouded in mystery.

"She came and told me you were scared of-- of having an affair so shortly before your wedding, so I let you go. I mean, it could have been true. Maybe it is. I have no idea. I just know that people always discard me in the end," Morgan shrugged, her tone... strangely composed, really. As if she was talking about spring inevitably following winter, or about wolves hunting deer. As if it was one of those universal truths everyone accepted in the face of all the overwhelming evidence. "So I believed it. It fit the pattern. I even understand why you'd want to do it, so I don't really judge you in case-- in case that specific part is true," Morgan looked down on her hands. (They shook, which she hadn't realized before. Then again, Morgan seemed to realize few things lately, so that probably shouldn't be surprising, either.)

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere stays still and silent and listens. It hurts, all of it hurts -- but all for various, conflicting reasons. It's everything she's suffered through up to this point combined with the fact that this... 'pattern' Morgan is describing might just be one of the saddest things she's ever heard. She'd always known Morgan to hold her walls around herself, but somehow she had allowed herself to think that maybe, just maybe she was beginning to let her in. To trust her in return. (Especially after they kissed, the way-- the way she told her she was important to her. And hadn't she reciprocated in at least that?) If it's not that easy for her, though, then she can't hold it against her. If this is all she's ever known, then why should Guinevere expect herself to be an exception? A life led primarily within the walls of a place like Camelot could understandably lead to that, with all the illusions and the backwards traditions that should have really been left to gather dust in the pages of history books. There's still a whole lot about Morgan that she doesn't know, too.

"...Fucking hell. That isn't--" Guinevere rubs her eyes furiously to dry her tears, flinching when she presses one of her bruises a little too hard, and then turns around in bed so she's facing Morgan again. She would have reached out for her hands, but... it sounds like Jen had turned her into a weapon. Doesn't that track? And girls have flinched back from Guinevere's touch because of things Jen had done. So she's too scared to risk it now, even though she so desperately wants to. (An affair -- Jen did say something about that, didn't she? When she'd taunted her before sending her off to that cult. Because the freaking creeps she'd been working with were watching them!) Guinevere doesn't reach for Morgan with her hands, because the idea of hurting her on top of everything else would... probably kill her on the spot. So she decides to try and reach her with words instead."Then let me teach you something new, Morgan le Fey. Because I'm shit at following patterns."

"...I like that little thing you do-- the way you tuck your hair back behind your ear when you explain things? And don't even get me started on your smile, or the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you're really passionate about. Not to mention it's so damn attractive when you speak your mind, like-- like that first time we fought one of those giant monsters and you threatened to kill me? That was amazing. Hah, sorry, I said I'd forget about that, didn't I?" Guinevere smiles gently, then, because she's finally making good on her promise from that night to tell Morgan the things she admired about her. She's alive, goddammit, against all odds and she's taking her chance! "I admire that you don't back down from a challenge. You've got the sharpest wit I've ever seen. But you're so thoughtful, too. I always consider myself lucky when I get to see that side of you, because... well, I do get it. Letting people in can be scary. You get-- you get burned sometimes and it feels like the world is going to end."

"I trusted Jen and... and you know how that turned out. She might as well have pushed me into hell." Guinevere's brow furrows, a breath finally shuddering out of her. The wound's still raw, but she's got to see this through. "But you know what? I only managed to climb out of the hell she put me in because I trusted you, Morgan. I trusted in your lessons and they helped me escape. I used magic, even though the idea of it used to scare the hell out of me! That's not all, though."

"Remember what you said about using a calming color to contact the spirits? Well, I imagined yellow. It-- it reminded me of bananas. 'Cause I tasted them on your lips that night and I thought, maybe once I got out I'd--" Guinevere blushes, then, fidgeting and suddenly feeling bashful about everything she's confessing in one huge wave. But-- the concept that Morgan has been deprived of this sort of affection for her whole life? Maybe it's about damn time someone stepped up for her. That thought alone is enough to keep going. "That maybe I'd get the chance to kiss you again. 'Cause um, I totally wouldn't be opposed to... to kissing you again."

Guinevere swallows hard, her own hands shaking now, and her expression turns slightly more serious.

"The fact of the matter is, I haven't left you. I'm here right now. And I didn't find the courage to escape a cult and crash my own freaking wedding just to-- to come back to Camelot. I did it to come back to you." Guinevere bites her lip, anxiousness aflutter in her chest, feeling more than ever now that her heart is out on display. "...I know I can't make you trust me and the fact that you don't, it-- I'll be honest, it hurts. But I'll keep giving you reasons to if you let me. Because you're worth it, Morgan."

"God, that was a... a mouthful I'm--" Why is she teary again? Christ. "I kind of thought I was going to die in there without getting the chance to tell you any of that and... and..."

 

[Syntra]

Morgan didn't know what she expected, really. An outright rejection, maybe? Or perhaps a storm of insults based on how cruel, cruel she was? (Because she definitely would have deserved that. With Guinevere so pale and weak, so obviously hurt, Morgan had no idea where she had found the courage to say things like that to her. Or rather, the audacity. Damn, couldn't she have at least waited until she recovered? Well, apparently not. Just like poison had to get out of the wound for the organism to recover, this, too, had needed to be said. And the cost? Oh, Morgan would pay it gladly.)

The cost, however, turned out to be... a bunch of compliments? Morgan's eyes widened. What? That-- that couldn't be true. Not after all the things she had said! (And did she even do those things? Gods, Morgan wasn't even aware of any hair tucking, or anything like that. Just how carefully had Guinevere observed her to know all that? To know her better than herself?) It didn't seem like Guinevere was about to end her little soliloquy, though. No, quite the contrary. She went on and on, and when the murder incident had been mentioned, Morgan let out an amazed chuckle. "Gods. Gods, I was really afraid back then, you know. I thought you'd run to Arthur with that threat." And now, it turned out she found it attractive instead. Okay. (In hindsight, that probably explained a lot. This entire goddamn relationship, for example? Because, at the beginning, Morgan had been nothing but mean. It had been a defense mechanism, a way to keep her out, in other words, but apparently it had backfired quite spectacularly. And Morgan-- Morgan couldn't even be mad about that.)

Every word Guinevere said was music to her ears, and Morgan melted. Melted faster than ice cream in the direct sunlight, really. ('What if she's lying?' whispered a traitorous voice in her head. 'Just like everyone else?' and Morgan... didn't have a good answer to that. Technically, it could be a lie, of course-- there was no damn polygraph in her brain, and anyone could be lying to her at any point. The thing was, Morgan didn't want this to be a lie. And didn't that make it all the more dangerous? All the more seductive? ...perhaps she shouldn't believe that such feelings could even exist, really, because it all sounded like one giant lie. Like a fairytale meant to distract her from the ugly reality. The issue with that hypothesis, though? Her own feelings towards Guinevere matched her descriptions, and those were real. So real, in fact, that Morgan was downright hypnotized by her lips-- the lips that sang praises of her, the lips that she had kissed. Maybe she should do it again?)

Morgan gulped instead. No, as much as she wanted to do that, they had to keep their distance. Kisses terminated all thought, and she still needed to talk to Guinevere, dammit! Wasn't the lack of communication what had gotten them into this predicament in the first place? "I, uh. That was a lot." Indeed, it was. "And I'm not sure if I can match it. I just-- I don't know if I can trust anyone, period?" Morgan giggled, and in that sound, there was all the sorrow of the world. Tears started falling from her eyes, too, but this time, she didn't even try to stop them. "I mean, I think I may be a little defective. I'd say paranoid, but it's not paranoia when it's actually true." All those things had happened, after all-- Morgan certainly hadn't dreamt them up. Hell, she still had the scars as proof.

"What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that I can't make any promises. But-- but I would like to try. Try to trust you. Because you are important to me, and I don't want to hurt you. And because you're beautiful and make bad manners look stylish and, yes, kissing you again seems very tempting." So tempting, in fact, that it immediately gave her other ideas, but Morgan suppressed them. Now wasn't the right time. Maybe it would never be, really, given how this conversation was unfolding, but that was a risk she had to take.

Clumsily, Morgan caressed her hair. (The sounds she had made? Gods, every sob felt like an additional knife in her heart. "I'm sorry for-- for being like this. I don't know how else to handle it." And then, after a few moments of awkward silence-- "So, the kiss. Was that even alright? I had never kissed anyone before," she admitted, her ears red. Why had she even thought saying that was a good idea?! Her mouth had truly begun to operate independently of her brain, it seemed. "I do know the theory, but I don't know whether it was, uh, satisfactory. Or at least not horribly bad. Both would do, I think."