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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

When circumstances make a turn for the worst, Guinevere searches for the positives, so she can make the best of a bad thing. Though the implication that Arthur has grown cold to her calls for some concern-- at least he stopped touching her, with his hands and his lips. With their wedding growing closer day by day... it's honestly a relief. A week passes in her bed, though, and she can feel that the world still turning on outside her window. Captivity in luxury is softer and kinder, perhaps, but it's still captivity. At least before she had some freedom to roam around outside, to breathe in some fresh air from the gardens. Now she's practically shackled to her bed, like she's some fragile thing on death's doorstep. As though Arthur is trying to convince her with each day he keeps her helpless and idle that she doesn't have a purpose beyond just belonging to him. As if to erase what she saw that day. Excalibur. No longer ignorant to its existence, she can still feel it tugging at her even now... albeit lighter than before. The defenses have been locked back around it and she can tell that it doesn't like it. Being hoarded and contained. Just like her, actually. Neither of them are free. (God, she's empathizing with a sword now -- is she going stir crazy in here? Just like that time she thought maybe she'd start talking to the flowers Lancelot brought her?) Speaking of which, he stopped by and brought her a few potted plants. To 'liven up her room', he'd said. She smiled plaintively and told him he was a good friend. Strong emphasis on the word 'friend'. Still seemed to make him happy enough, so she can only hope it didn't give him the wrong impression. With his fleeting visits and Marietta attending to her wedding dress, she supposes not everyone in Camelot is susceptible to Arthur's tales. But the visits she anticipates the most are... well, Morgan's, of course. Who else can make her heart beat quite this fast? If she truly wants to look for positives in a terrible situation, all she has to do is look in her eyes and--

Morgan steps inside and Guinevere beams at her, as bright and warm as the summer sun. It escapes her notice entirely, how the flower at her bedside opens up it's petals up ever so slightly with her reaction. She doesn't necessarily have to go out of her way to bring all the treats to get this sunshiny reception, really. (Not to say they haven't been a nice plus! She's tasted so many delicious things she never even dreamed she'd try before now.) These displays of thoughtfulness add a whole new layer to the Morgan she's been getting to know, showcasing a certain softness she keeps hidden behind all the defenses and walls. Guinevere can only consider herself honored whens she realizes that Morgan's allowing her to witness it. But her presence alone? That's what's been keeping her sane. Providing her with something useful to work towards, it doesn't make her feel so useless trapped in Arthur's gilded cage. Because the vision Excalibur gave her? It simultaneously provided hope for a better future while also pushing the soul-crushing weight of the earth on her shoulders. With Morgan at her side, though, she doesn't feel so alone in this.

"I don't know if I've even tried a banana before." Guinevere admits sheepishly, blushing when she realizes she's envying the cupcake for its' proximity to Morgan's lips more than she is Morgan for tasting it. (As delicious as it looks, tasting it on her lips would be so much more-- okay, no, she needs to stop herself right there.) Camelot supplies all sorts of fresh foods she'd never had the chance to taste before, but bananas? That's actually a new one. She wrinkles her nose slightly as she attempts to remember. "Might've found a banana flavored candy once?" It was stale, tasteless, and rock-hard. Based on Morgan's reaction, she's certain it isn't quite the same as that.

"Of course! You'll find I'm a very dedicated student when I'm actually learning something useful." She boasts playfully, bringing a hand to her chest. Then she scratches her cheek a bit awkwardly, thinking back on it. "Okay... to be fair, everything you taught me before turned out to be useful, too. I just didn't take it seriously enough back then."

"I was really fixated on swords as a kid, you know. Had these... recurring dreams. My old man noticed and taught me most of what I know." Guinevere admits. She'd been thinking about that a lot, lately. Especially since she has a lot of time to think, confined to her room. Why Excalibur was so familiar to her. Part of it she still can't quite put her finger on but... there are bits and pieces from when she was a little girl. It's still a big puzzle to her. Why does Arthur have this thing she's so intrinsically connected to? Why did he choose her specifically for his bride? It must be connected somehow. He's acting really weird about it, though, and... she hasn't been able to shake the feeling that, despite her isolation, she's being watched. Though they seemingly have their privacy in here, that's why she hasn't been able to confide in Morgan about it outright. No, can't risk bringing it up until they're safely outside of Camelot's walls. "I mean, he always called me a punk ass kid because I'd joke around and stuff. But I'd practice for hours and hours. All night, sometimes, if I couldn't fall asleep."

"--Anyway." She sits up a little straighter, despite the way her body protests against it. (Well, speaking of practicing for hours... she has been. And oh is she feeling it. On the outside, she seems as energetic as ever, masking the exhaustion well. Morgan's presence really inspires a sort of vivaciousness from her.) "What should I start with, teach?"
 
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"Oh, you're going to love this, then," Morgan smiled gently. "Remind me to steal a fresh one for you later, too. Not that it isn't good in cupcakes, but the taste is more prominent when you eat it alone." Okay, when had she become so nonchalant about stealing? Morgan had no idea, but she blamed Guinevere. The other woman had been such a bad influence! Before meeting her, Morgan wouldn't have dreamed of-- well, of none of this. Neither of smuggling out Arthur's precious supplies to feed some hungry mouths, nor of seeing his fiance behind his back. As much as she resented needing to hide in the shadows, Morgan had to admit there was something appealing about it, too. Something thrilling. Sharing a secret with Guinevere allowed her to glimpse a side of her nobody else could, and that made her feel things. Indescribable, self-destructive things that set her mind on fire. And the worst part? Morgan enjoyed it. She wanted her self-control to burn until it was reduced to ashes, and then-- ah, then they'd have a more juicy secret to protect. Because teaching her forbidden magic? That was nothing, nothing in comparison her heart yearned to do.

Except that Morgan's heart had been trained to deny its wishes. That was, after all, what she had done throughout the entirety of her life, in one way or another. And so, even if she would have loved to find out just how serious had Guinevere been when she had called her beautiful, Morgan buried the thought. It was, uh, probably just a whim anyway. A result of her loneliness, really. Nothing deep about that; despite Arthur's propaganda, she was human, too, and human had-- needs. Embarrassing, embarrassing needs. (Gods, why did she have to look at her like that? With that soft, inviting adoration that made her think it would be fine if she reached after her and claimed her lips, consequences be damned? Because it would not be fine. Nothing about this would be fine!)

"Finally some recognition," Morgan chuckled, doing her best to conceal her chaotic thoughts. If Guinevere guessed what she was thinking about right now-- yeah, she would never live it down. Not without changing her identity and moving to a different continent, which seemed distinctly impossible with most of the planet being a grey desert now. Bummer. "I have to admit, I rather enjoy that. It's a pleasant change of perspective. Perhaps, when we're done here, you can tell me what other things you appreciate about me." ...um. What? Where had that come from and why did it sound suspiciously like flirting? Gods. Morgan should probably install some sort of lock over her mouth and only communicate through letters. That would probably filter away some of that stupidity!

"Anyway," she continued, aware of the pink that colored her cheeks, "I don't doubt your dedication. I just hope that you also know when to rest, as I said you should. You remember that part of my lesson, right?" Magic, after all, took a lot from you, and where it had nowhere to take from, it went right to your reserves. And those reserves? They should never, ever be touched. Mechanisms such as your immunity system depended on them, for gods' sake. Not treating your body with the respect it deserved was the fastest way to an early grave, and Morgan wished to instill good habits in her from the very beginning.

"But I shall not interrogate you about that now," she said, her eyes softening somewhat. (They always did when she looked at Guinevere. How could one stay grim in her presence when everything about her made her want to sing?) "Instead, let's see how much you improved. Hmm..." Morgan looked around, her gaze landing on one of the pots. Perfect. "I want you to lift this," she pointed at one of the plants, "and hold it in the air with your magic, for as long as you can. And when you feel that you can't handle it any longer, I ask you to put it back on the floor, gently. If you break the pot, you lose. Do you understand?" A simple exercise, really, yet it tested a lot of things-- primarily her ability to access the magic and its strength, yes, though also just how firm her grip on it was. Just how much control over it she had, in other words. And the threat of the pot possibly breaking? Why, that only raised the stakes.
 
Guinevere grins, because she has a long list of things she appreciates about Morgan. Like the shape of her smile, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's explaining something she's passionate about, and how her eyes get extra soft when they land on her. The implications of any next times they might have over the next few days give her something to look forward to. Nearly distracts her from the fact that the wedding she's dreading is crawling ever closer... And then? She won't have a room of her own, will she? Oh. She finds herself already missing these nighttime meetings between them, even though they've barely even begun. Knowing they won't last. (If anything, Arthur can't take the memories from her. So she'll hold onto them, keep them safe for when she needs a reason to smile.) Besides... she'll still find ways to see Morgan after she's married. After she's married. Yuck. It'd be nice if she could just ignore it all. Shove it to the back of her mind and make it disappear.

"--Okay. Got it." Guinevere nods with understanding as her gaze follows the line of Morgan's finger to the plant. After studying it, her eyes flit shut and she bolsters herself with a long, deep breath. Envisions it in her mind, tries to fill in each detail from memory. Then she imagines peeling it off the ground. Don't break it, that was Morgan's condition, so she imagines it as something particularly vulnerable to solidify that goal. Something to protect with careful hands, like a baby kitten or a bird with a wounded wing. It takes a short while before she manages to guide the potted plant into the air. It's hovers an inch or two above the floor, slightly unsteady -- but, hey, she's managing! In fact, she holds it in the air for longer than she ever has before. Though she's vaugely satisfied with her efforts, she knows better than to let that go to her head.

In a sort of trance, she inadvertently delves deeper into her subconscious. Brushes upon the stress that's been building under her surface. All the reasons why she needs to improve if she's going to live up to the version of herself that Excalibur portrayed, capable of bringing a dead world back to life. (How, though? How is she supposed to handle that--) Then there's everyone she wants to protect. Her gang and... and Morgan. With her eyes closed, she doesn't notice the way that the plant is growing taller alongside her thoughts. In fact, it weighs the pot down in a way she doesn't anticipate, thus sending it back down to the floor with a crash. Shit! The noise startles her out of her daze. Though her stomach immediately sinks, knowing she failed to do what Morgan asked, there's also a rising sensation in her throat that's been becoming all too familiar. She lifts a hand to her mouth and coughs violently, doesn't even have to look to know that she's going to find blood on her palm. "I-- I almost had it. I can try ag--" Another cough interrupts and tells her that... yeah, maybe she shouldn't.

"...Sorry." She apologizes as reaches for the handkerchief she has nearby, specifically purposed for wiping blood off her hands, and shyly cleans herself off. Bluffing is impossible when it comes to magic, isn't it? Of course she listened to Morgan's warnings. But the pressure's been -- well, it's been making her take risks. To protect the future and lives of everyone she cares about? She'd... probably give anything. Even her own life.

It's no excuse to be careless, though. Wearing a chagrined expression, she glances at her hands. It's just... difficult to force herself to rest when all she's done for days is rest. Arthur kept her bedridden for an entire week before she could have visitors. Is he planning on keeping her locked in her room until their wedding day? "I've been really tired lately. Even though I feel like I shouldn't be, in here." She confesses softly, silently wondering if it has something to do with Excalibur. The incessant tugging could be draining her, for all she knows. Either way, she doesn't have the energy she probably should, for someone who has a warm bed and all the time in the world to sleep. "But I don't know what else to do, Morgan. I need to do something, or..." Not knowing how to finish that thought, Guinevere bites her lip and then rephrases. "I guess I've never been good at it. At resting, I mean. I'll try to work on that."
 
Morgan's eyes widened in shock when she watched the plant grow, new leaves sprouting from the branches and all. What. The. Hell? Magic had its limits! You could only really move things from point A to point B, either on the micro or macro level. That was the basis of everything-- the key to understanding how all of this worked, and how your goals could be achieved. Except that Guinevere seemed to be doing something entirely different. Something even Morgan had no experience with, and wasn't that terrifying? Because, no matter how you looked at it, this was gambling with her very life. Even worse, they didn't fully understand the rules, and Guinevere-- Guinevere, meanwhile, failed to grasp the severity of the situation. The blood from her mouth was all the evidence Morgan needed to know that, really. The exercise assigned to her? It would not have caused this if not for her exhaustion. Exhaustion she had told her to avoid at all costs, dammit! Ugh. (Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it would have been safer for Guinevere not to know how to use her gift, even if it would lead to accidents at times. At least those wouldn't have been daily occurrences, unlike with her training! The girl really had no sense of self-preservation, not even a drop of it. Still, Morgan couldn't exactly go back in time and make her unlearn everything, could she? No, the only path to follow was the path forward-- the path to complete mastery. Only that would save her now. And as for self-preservation? Oh, she would teach her the value of that, alright.)

At once, Morgan found herself at Guinevere's side. She supported her, yes, and helped her sit down on her bed gently, but her eyes were hard. So boredom was an acceptable excuse for her to kill herself slowly, huh? Did that really sound like a solid line of reasoning in her head? Morgan certainly did not buy it. "Well, you'll have to find a hobby, then. I suggest reading. Camelot's library is full of rare books, and maybe you'd actually absorb some common sense from one of them." Whoops. That-- that was probably going too far, wasn't it? Morgan regretted those words the second they left her mouth, but it was too late. Just like her teachings, what she had said couldn't be taken back, either. Damned humanity! They had managed to cause an apocalypse, but inventing a time machine had somehow been too much for them? The species deserved to die out, truly.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered out. "I, uh, didn't mean that. You just scared me." Was that what it looked like from Guinevere's point of view whenever Morgan used her magic? Whenever she casted some advanced spell and fainted, possibly to never wake up again? The situations weren't the same, mostly because Morgan actually knew what she was doing, but-- well, it may have felt similar. Perception, after all, often meant more than reality. If Guinevere truly, genuinely believed that she was dying with her whole heart, then it didn't matter all that much that Morgan wasn't in any real danger. The pain cut just as deep.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself. And don't even try to lie to me-- I'll know, just as I know you disregarded my advice in the past few days. I... understand it's hard not to practice when you're stuck in your room, but this is not a fun thing to do while you're bored. This is dangerous. You have to train exactly what I told you, in the time frames I outlined, and never stray from that. Do you understand?"

Morgan looked her in the eye, her expression serious. "And if you're really that starved for to fill your schedule with something, you can-- I don't know. Read. Write. Draw. I'll get you all the supplies you might need for that, and Marietta will deliver them. Or..." What else was there, really? Handiwork? Somehow, that didn't seem to lie in Guinevere's sphere of interest. "I can get you a puppy. Arthur's men still keep hunting hounds, so it shouldn't be that difficult. I would just appreciate it if you stopped killing yourself, you know? Because, I'm not sure if you noticed, but you are important, to me. Gwen." And yes, maybe she shouldn't have said that, but it rang true, and Morgan treasured that moment of authenticity. Drunk by it, she leaned closer, closer and-- oh. Suddenly, she was kissing her.
 
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Guinevere takes every word without flinching, because she knows in her heart that Morgan's feelings are valid and warranted. In fact, it almost makes her feel like she's home-- to hear someone expressing the very concerns her gang would have intervened with in similar situations. (And not just someone-- Morgan. That? That's enough to make her stop and think, despite all the thoughts currently fighting for dominance inside her mind.) She needs that tough love, every now and then. Those reminders, however harsh, are part of the reason why she's still here today. She could argue, she could insist that she's not doing this for fun. Never would have considered learning to use her magic otherwise. But the reasons, the responsibilities? Will any of them actually matter to Morgan in the end if she actually died? Would they matter to anyone? Guinevere won't be able to help anyone if she's dead.

But then? Then Morgan softens with an apology and continues bringing up things she could do to help her and -- and every word patches up the open, bleeding wounds in her heart. (Then it flutters. Did she just say she could get her a puppy? That's... adorable. The thought of a puppy, of course, but also the sentiment of it! Come to think of it, having something to take care of, a living thing to talk to-- that would probably help.) Guinevere's cheeks are warm, tinged with a faint pink. Morgan cares, she cares, she cares. The meaning behind her intentions read loud and clear to her. But hearing them spoken outright solidifies it. You are important to me. Is there anything sweeter than--

Well... evidently there is, because Morgan's lips do indeed taste like those banana cupcakes. (And banana? Might just be her favorite fruit, now.) Feeling light as air, she makes a small noise of recognition in the back of her throat, the surprise causing her heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird inside her chest. Everything dissolves from her mind except for Morgan, sitting in front of her, so smart and thoughtful and breathtakingly beautiful. Guinevere's eyes flit shut as she melts into the kiss, leaning in just a little closer. Blindly reaching, her fingers brush lightly against the back of her hand. Her lips taste so sweet, they're so soft and -- and it occurs to Guinevere that her own probably taste metallic, like blood. Ew. That's not very romantic, is it? The rising sensation in her throat comes back to haunt her at that exact moment and it makes her pull away far too soon.

Reaching for her handkerchief, she coughs into it a few more times, shoulders trembling. The pain feels like roses with thorns blooming inside her ribcage, like something beautiful and dangerous all at once. In spite of the hurt, she glimpses Morgan again with a wobbly, cheeky smile. "I thought I wasn't supposed to get a reward for breaking the pot." A thousand emotions seem to shift behind her eyes at once, then, because -- god -- where do they go from here? All that self control from before, where the hell did it go!? But she couldn't tear herself away when she looked at her like that, so soft and sweet, but... but... she's about to get married. (To Morgan's monstrous brother, no less and--) It's so dangerous. Because all she wants to do right now is kiss her again. "Morgan, you're important to me, too." She means every word. And it's because she's important to her that she can't be this selfish. Though every fibre of her being tries to fight her on this, it takes every ounce of self control she has to pull her hand away, expression crumbling with grief. If Arthur ever found out about this? It'd be an understatement to say they'd both be in trouble-- but she's even more certain that Morgan could get seriously hurt.

Words fail her when she wants nothing more than to articulate her feelings properly-- but gets distracted when she notices in her peripheral the now fully bloomed flowers sitting on her nightstand. Did she do that while they were kissing? (Is that why she's coughing up more blood?) But... it doesn't make sense. "I'm sorry. I-- I've got so much on my mind lately and... I don't know what's happening to me." Guinevere's eyes bore into Morgan's, longing to tell her absolutely everything, but her mind's wrapped up in a haze. "I have something important I need to tell you. When we're outside."
 
Her lips tasted like metal, yes, but they were soft, oh so soft, and Morgan felt utterly lost in that sensation. It was-- um. She didn't know, actually. Perhaps her mind would have been able to come up with some sort of comparison if it hadn't been so sluggish, so hyper-focused on doing rather than thinking, but that wasn't the case. And when Guinevere kissed back? Yeah, that was the moment the last remnants of common sense abandoned her, possibly to never return.

She wanted her. Wanted her more than anything else in her life, really. Power, revenge, everything Morgan had worked so hard towards-- all of that felt hollow when compared with the woman in her arms, warm and inviting and hers, if only for this moment. (That was fine, though. How did that proverb go? 'Seize the day'? Something like that, probably. Well, Morgan intended to follow it. Guinevere was to marry Arthur soon, yes, but 'soon' wasn't 'now', and none of that mattered anyway with the two of them here, drowning in each other. Gods, her heart was beating so fast. And was it just her or did the room suddenly feel unbearably hot? Ideal for them to shed some clothing, really.)

Except that Guinevere retreated, and with the sudden supply of fresh air, the spell was broken. No disrobing, then. Okay. (Not that that wasn't the wisest course of action to take, but that couldn't suppress the disappointment spreading in her chest. She had been sensible for such a long time, and it exhausted her. For once, Morgan wanted to be reckless-- to take what she desired, and to take it now. To hell with plans that required five years to come to fruition!) Even so, Morgan touched her own lips, amazed at what had just transpired. She had kissed her. She, Morgan le Fey, had kissed Guinevere. Not for the first time, either, but this kiss-- well, it was miles away from the one they had shared before. The difference between water and wine, between rags and actual cloth. Where had she gotten the courage from? Or was it audacity? Gods, the concepts ran so parallel to each other Morgan couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"That wasn't a reward for the pot," she said quietly, her voice hoarse. "That was a reward for you being you." ...okay, definitely audacity. At this point, there was just no other way to call it. Still, Guinevere-- Guinevere had liked it, right? Why else call it a reward? Why else smile like this, as if prompting her to do it again and again? (Which was, uh, more than just a little tempting prospect. It would be so, so sweet to reach after her again and discover all the ways in which she could make her body sing, but-- no. No, she couldn't do that. Not with Guinevere looking so goddamn tired. Later, Morgan told to herself. Later. We'll have all the time in the world once Arthur bites the dust.)

"It's fine," she said, quiet and subdued. "It really is. Just rest, Gwen. Regain your strength. We can, uh, talk about this tomorrow. Or-- or whenever, really." And that thing Guinevere couldn't tell her now? It did rouse her curiosity, definitely, but Morgan decided not to pressure her. If she thought Camelot wasn't safe enough to speak freely in, could she really blame her? That belief, after all, rested on healthy foundations. "Hopefully we'll get outside sooner rather than later, then." Morgan stood up, straightening her skirt. "I shouldn't be keeping you up. It's late, and you really should sleep if you are to continue with your routine tomorrow. I'll-- I'll send Marietta to you as soon as I can. Goodnight." And then, with chaos still ruling her thoughts, Morgan headed outside. Processing all of this would likely take a while, but maybe it would be worth it. Maybe-- maybe this could blossom into something beautiful, too, she dared to hope. Into something that belonged to her only. And that it had all started with a woman that was to marry Arthur? A delicious, delicious piece of irony. Considering how much he had taken away from her, it was only fair of her to return the punch with interest. Nobody could say, after all, that Morgan didn't pay her debts.
 
“Goodnight, Morgan.” Guinevere says softly, watching after her as she leaves. Knowing that as of now, the she officially owns a piece of her heart. There's really no going back now, is there? If... If only she wasn't so stressed and the circumstances weren't so damned complicated. Then she would have told her that in no uncertain terms about her feelings, her concerns. They'll always have tomorrow. Or perhaps the next day. After a good night’s rest and a few hours to clear her head... she'll find a way to articulate herself properly. Still lost amidst her thoughts, she stays there on her bed for a while longer, gently brushing her fingers against the comforter where Morgan’s hand was resting just minutes ago. She waits for the fog in her head to clear before bringing herself up to her feet and approaches her wardrobe, seeking out a fresh night dress to change into... and then? And then she hears a noise. What?

Too tired to react the way she normally would have, Guinevere hesitates and... and it's a grave mistake.

Because before she can dodge, two arms snare tightly around her chest. Before she can scream to alert someone, a cloth is pushed over her nose and mouth. Guinevere knows from experience to hold her breath for as long as possible, tries to thrash and kick her legs out as she's dragged towards her open bedroom window. In her current state, she only manages to kick a chair over before she has to breathe and inhales something distinctly chemical. Whatever it is, it makes her see stars before her consciousness fades and she falls limp. Did anyone hear the impact of the chair hitting the floor? Well, it doesn't matter. Because her captors are quick to scale out the window and even quicker to approach Camelot's gates. And waiting just beyond them? There's a monster they somehow managed to puppeteer with magic for transport. By the time anyone notices the future queen is missing, well... she'll be long gone. Arthur's knights couldn't even hope to follow them on foot.

"--Just watch her, for god's sake. You don't want her to choke, do you?" It must be several hours later when Guinevere begins to stir. There's something in her mouth and her back is pressed to something flat and cold. A voice cut through the void of darkness her mind had become. A... distinctly familiar voice. But Guinevere sincerely doesn't want to be right. Because if she's right, then that means... "I recommend keeping the gag on, though. She'll bite if you're not careful."

Jennifer. Sluggishly, Guinevere opens her eyes to see that she's currently wearing the very dress she was in when she was taken. Her hair is styled precisely the same way and-- well, she appears to be an exact replica of herself from a few hours ago. (Like... like she intends to replace her. Oh. Oh shit. It had seemed so outrageous to her when Adrianne brought up the scar, but now--) And Guinevere? She’s stuck wearing a low-cut dress that only her sister would have the gall to select out in the wastes. And she's tied up thoroughly to... a table? Not that any of these restraints are even necessary right now. She’s far too spent to move, weak from overwork and whatever anesthetic they used on her. It’s... overkill, really. But maybe it's for the best that she's so numb right now. Otherwise the heartbreak she's enduring now would have killed her right then and there. Why? Why is she doing this?

“Oh, you're up. Where do I start with you, Gwennie? You can’t even begin to imagine my surprise when I heard you were getting married. To a man. A king, no less. I must admit, I'm hurt that I didn't receive an invitation to the wedding. To think you'd forget about your own sister.” Jennifer rests a dainty hand against her chest and shakes her head scoldingly. As if would have been oh so simple for Guinevere to just walk up and casually inform her about the wedding, despite the long two years since they had last laid eyes on each other. No, everything sounds like a deceptively simple affair when Jennifer speaks in this tone of voice, smooth, low and entirely too unconcerned... considering she might as well be stabbing a knife in her twin sister’s back. “And then my men tell me they’re an hour off schedule because there was a woman in your room. Having an affair when your wedding is only a few weeks away? How scandalous.”

Guinevere's trying not to react, as not to give Jennifer ammunition to use against her, but she narrows her eyes at that. Anger boils over on her own behalf, yes, but on Morgan's too. Those creeps were watching them?

“...Such a complicated life you've been leading.” Jennifer sighs with mock pity and yet the glare she wears in return is resentful as hell. Because from the outside looking in, a complicated life in a castle must seem like such a luxury compared to a complicated life in the wastes. The harshness in her expression disappears, though, as she smirks. “Fortunately, I’m here to take your place. I mean, you know as well as I do that I was born for this role. It should be mine... and soon it's going to be. But, hey. These guys I'm leaving you with? They’ll treat you like a queen, too, in their own special way. Because... well, this is what you were born for.”

Jennifer doesn't elaborate. She's guarded and expressionless as she tucks a strand of Guinevere's hair out of her face. Takes one last, long look at her as if to commit every detail to memory before she turns sharply on her heel to leave. She doesn't try to say anything else. No goodbyes, no apologies... nothing. Guinevere can’t convince her to come back, can’t say anything at all around the cloth in her mouth. (Yeah, Jen really saw to it that she couldn't talk back, huh? Probably doesn't want the guilt to smack her upside the head on her way out.) Unable to do anything else, she squeezes her eyes shut. Out of one prison and into another, it seems. And this one is... far too much like one she’s experienced in the past. A past her sister shares and knows all too well, so -- so how could she do this to her?

It takes three days before "Guinevere" is discovered by a small group of Camelot's knights. She's limping approximately two miles away from the castle gates and nursing a shallow stab wound in her side. Within the span of a few minutes, they come to realize from her failure to recognize them that she has a case of amnesia-- supposedly from whatever horrible trauma she endured when she was kidnapped. And when asked her who did this to her? She'd answered that she wasn't sure, just that someone wanted to send Arthur a message. (That inspires some low whispers and grave looks. And, okay, it's admittedly hilarious to see her bluff escalating into some matter of great importance.) As they recommended she come with them, she agrees. But not before stumbling against one of the knights and claiming to feel faint. And he's more than willing to carry her in his arms all the way back to Camelot. (Why bother using her feet, after all, when there are so many strapping men who are eager to be of good use?) One of them, though, Sir Lancelot, was it? He furrows his brow at her like it physically hurts him to think so hard.

He can't place it, but something about her is... off. (Wasn't the scar beneath her eye just a touch longer before?) But it must be Guinevere, right? Because who else could it be? Maybe it's the way she's leaning so close against the knight who's carrying her, like she trusts and depends on him. Maybe Lancelot wishes he could hold her like that. (How rich. Jennifer pities any man who has eyes for her sister. They'll all be better off with her, no?) It bothers her to evoke suspicion so soon, though, so she smiles wanly try and get him to stop staring at her so hard. It works. For now. If he stays on her radar, though... well, she'll find a way to get rid of him.

Before long, they arrive in Camelot. Where Arthur is waiting... and more importantly, her future title as queen. It's so close, now. So close she can nearly taste it.
 
So, all those thoughts revolving around them having all the time in the world? Yeah, not true. In hindsight, Morgan probably shouldn't have dared to think so because clearly, she had just been tempting fate. And fate? Oh, it rose to the challenge, alright. It did so in the cruelest way imaginable, too, when-- when it took Guinevere away from her. (Arthur had been trying to keep it secret, probably to prevent his subjects from panicking, but Morgan? Morgan knew right away. It was impossible not to, really, when Marietta ran to her the second she found out there was no bride to work with.) For a while, the shock left her feeling numb. She just-- sat in her room, studying her own hands as if they could provide the answers to all those questions that were swarming her mind. What could have happened to her? Was she alright? Had she perhaps decided to visit her gang in the wastes? Oh, Morgan would have loved to believe that, but somehow, it didn't feel right. Guinevere could be hotheaded at times, yes, but she wasn't stupid. Surely she wouldn't have risked everything with Arthur's watchdogs breathing on her neck? ...which could only mean, though, that she was in some kind of trouble. Fuck. Morgan had to do something instead of just sitting here, more useless than a sack of potatoes! (She couldn't lose her. Not now, not ever and definitely not after yesterday's, uh, events. The ghost of the kiss still lingered on her lips, soft and warm, but her heart felt cold, frozen. Had the gods allowed her to taste happiness just so they could snatch it away from her? Oh no, no, no. Morgan wouldn't let them! There was a limit to greed, even when it came to gods, and she had sacrificed more than enough already. So, no, they couldn't have Guinevere. Not a chance in hell!)

They seemed intent on having her, though. Morgan asked the spirits about her, but-- well, they only showed her broken, grainy images. Kind of like what old TVs did, really, except that even worse. Because in the darkness that surrounded her? Morgan could see no details, nothing that could possibly identify the place Guinevere was hiding at. Why did it look like that, anyway? Was there some sort of interference in play? From her strange magic, perhaps? Or-- or maybe she was dead, and the spirits gave her a glimpse into the afterlife. ...fuck. No. No, Morgan couldn't accept that. Something-- something clearly must have gone wrong with her spell! Divination had never been her area of expertise, so, uh, she was bound to screw up at the beginning. Right, that was the problem here. Which meant that Morgan simply had to try harder!

And so she spent days in her room, trying the same spell over and over, until she was drenched in her own blood. At that point, Morgan had no idea where she was bleeding from because, well, her entire body may as well have been one open wound, but she did not care. Guinevere had to be found, plain and simple. The rest of it could be dealt with later, when she was safe and sound. (When she was in her arms again, covered in kisses. When she was finally home, because wasn't home where your heart was?)

And then the knights found her. Normally, Morgan would have been amazed that they managed to do something useful for once in their miserable lives, but the relief was so immense it drowned out her usual sarcasm. Guinevere was alright. Gods. Gods, she really was. And that she had lost her memories? That hurt, alright, but they could always forge new ones. Morgan had to look forward, not back-- that would have brought her nothing aside from pain. (Maybe she could also make her remember somehow, though? The human mind was a curious thing, and memories that seemed to be lost were often still there, just... buried. Buried under an avalanche of shock, or at least the old books claimed so. A strong impulse could dig them out, surely. Or at least some faint remnant of them?)

That, too, had to wait, though. And why? Because Arthur, the glorious king, of course came to see his bride first. As if he meant anything to her! Gods, Morgan had never been so jealous of him as she was now, watching the scene in the courtyard unfold from her window. Going closer than that would have been most unwise, after all, and it wasn't just because of her brother's quirks. Not this time. Morgan just-- wasn't sure whether she could hold herself back, really. No, the two of them had to meet in private, without all those eyes watching their every step. They'd meet, talk, and everything would be fine. As long as there were some pieces to collect, Morgan would salvage them, and once again turn them into a thing of beauty. Wasn't that what she had been doing throughout the entirety of her life?

"Lady Guinevere," Arthur kissed her on her forehead, the old grievances forgotten. Once again, his eyes were kind and soft. "I was so worried for your safety, you have no idea. Whatever villain decided to kidnap you-- I promise before the gods, old and new, that they will pay dearly." He embraced her, oh so warmly; the perfect picture of a loving husband, or so it seemed. "I... heard of your condition, my beloved, and I weep for all that you have lost," he said, putting a strand of hair behind her ear gently. For someone who allegedly wept, though, didn't he look... almost satisfied with the outcome? No, that had to have been an illusion. Arthur wouldn't be glad that his future wife didn't recognize him, right? That everything they had built had been lost?

"It is my fault," Arthur said and clasped her hands in his. "I never should have listened to you when you didn't want my men to guard your bed. I merely wanted to grant your wish, but I should have understood you were too naive to know what you were truly asking for. Well, it goes to show that there is always a silver lining, eh? At least you know now that my advice is to be followed, not disregarded," he smiled kindly, as if he hadn't just accused her of being completely stupid. As if it was normal to treat your wife like this.

"Well, no matter. Should I serve as your guide? I can show you your home once again, to bridge the gaps in your memory. Or would you prefer to rest before we do that?"
 
So this is Arthur? The man her sister was going to marry? (Giving Guinevere rules? And expecting her to follow them? They're a match made in hell, clearly.) Jennifer would have laughed outright at the whole affair if she was't acting. And her role? Guinevere, yes, and a wounded amnesiac. So she doesn't bloom like a sweet little flower like she normally might have under the man's attention. No, she plays her cards very carefully. First impressions will make or break her, after all, and Lancelot's reception already has her on her toes. Maybe she even finds it in her to pity her sister, just a little, when she realizes he doesn't seem particularly aggrieved about her condition. (If one were bold enough to suspect their king, maybe they'd think he'd orchestrated the event himself. Now wouldn't that be messy?) It doesn't matter, the guises they might wear. Cool guys, tough guys, nice guys-- all men tend to be the same. Self-centered scum. In her experience, there has only been one exception to that rule. (And, well, he's buried and dead.) A sad, sad truth, really. Maybe there really is some twisted part of her that thinks she's saving her twin from a life that would clearly eat away at her until she was nothing more than a depressing husk of what she was before. Or maybe she just tells herself that to help her sleep at night. And she'll just brush the fact that she'd locked Guinevere away with a cult like a mess under the carpet.

Jennifer is the epitome of confused vulnerability as she glances from Arthur's hands around hers and then to his eyes. Wide-eyed, naive, maybe a little cornered by all the unfamiliarity she's surrounded with. Because even Guinevere would be a deer in headlights in this situation. Anyone would be. Without their memories, tossed into a world that seems rooted in the past... told she has a future husband waiting for her as well as a title as queen? (And the way he touches her incessantly upon her arrival, well... he doesn't understand the concept of respecting the boundaries of someone who's clearly out of her element, does he?) Still. It wouldn't be visible to anyone but Arthur, the way she grips a little tighter to him, as if planting seeds to secure the place she intends to take in his heart. She must do so slowly, as not to raise suspicions, but she also needs to stay in his good graces. If he thinks she's going to reshape her new life of Camelot by relying on him, well, she can't go wrong there can she? She's going to give him exactly what he wants. Something that her sister was clearly incapable of providing.

"I... I'm still a little overwhelmed." Jennifer plays with her sister's stutter, even goes as far as to twist her hair around her fingers the same way she does when she's nervous. "So you're Arthur. I've heard nothing but good things. And you seem to care so much about me, too..." She trails off, all tinged with hurt for all their lost, "precious" memories.

"I'd like to rest for now, but... maybe you could show me to my room? Tell me how we met along the way." She's curious, after all, and decides after a moment of deliberation to meet him halfway. Make Arthur feel useful and needed while securing herself some time to adjust to all the information she's taking in. It's a delicate balance, yes. Keeping him content while reflecting a near-perfect image of Guinevere. Guinevere, who has never had a single clue what to do in the hands of a man. Jennifer has her work cut out for her, doesn't she? Still. It seems Arthur might be easier to convince then that knight from before. (How well does the king know his bride, anyway? Evidently not very well. How the hell did this arrangement even come to be? Perhaps she'll find out in due time.)
 
Arthur gave her one of his most brilliant smiles-- the ones usually reserved for his admirers. "But of course! Anything for my lady. Come, it isn't too far. You may rest for however long you like, too. I imagine you don't remember that, either, but I actually ordered you not to leave your room before you were kidnapped. You had... an accident, let's say, and so I wished to keep you safe. Almost prophetic, don't you think? Oh, if only I hadn't been swayed by your pleas. Perhaps this is a sign from the gods that I should be stricter with those I love."

Not letting go of her hand, Arthur led her through the narrow corridors of Camelot. (He didn't bother to shorten his stride, so Jennifer had to make larger steps than she was entirely comfortable with, but hey, he was the king. Why should he have to adapt to those around him? No, kings were meant to lead, and others needed to follow.) "As for our meeting-- it was a rather romantic affair," Arthur began. "You lived out there in the wastes, with nobody but a group of fellow survivors to rely on. One day, though, they betrayed you. A particularly large monster attacked your camp and you were hurt, so they left you behind. A horrible, horrible decision, but eh, can you truly fault them? It's a cutthroat world out there," Arthur shrugged, oh so full of understanding. "You were lucky that I happened to ride by. I saved you from the beast, and it was love at first sight. After that, it didn't take long for us to engaged." ...okay, it might have been a slightly altered version of events, but so what? If Guinevere truly believed it, then it would only make her happier in her role. It would, if nothing else, give her a better story to tell to their children. Ultimately, wasn't it the only thing that truly mattered? To take care of his legacy and the woman through whom it would be created? Arthur then helped her into her bed and left her to her own devices, though not before kissing her on her cheek. Wives, after all, were made to be kissed.

For a few long hours, Jennifer found herself subjected to boredom. Knights stood next to her bed, watching out for the unseen enemy, and she-- she had nothing to do. Nothing aside from painting, it seemed, for someone had placed a canvas and some water colors near to her bed. (The knights didn't talk to her, either. If she tried to string up a conversation, 'hmmms' and 'yeses' was all she got. Either these men hated Guinevere with a passion, or Arthur wished for her to remain isolated. Isolated and dependent on him, her future husband. What a wonderful life to lead! Was the crown even worthy of all of that?)

When the night fell, though, the knights started to get-- sleepy. Exhaustion closed their eyes all at once and they fell on the floor, limp like marionettes who had lost their handler. What on Earth...?

Before she could get up and investigate, though, a young woman with copper hair slipped through the open door. She was dressed in simple, black dress, and in her hand she held-- wait, was that Guinevere's bear? "Um. I apologize for intruding upon you like this, Gw... lady Guinevere," Morgan quickly corrected herself. This Guinevere didn't know her, so it was only proper to use her title, right? (Gods, how she resented having to do that. It had been her armor at some point, a way to keep her from getting too close, but now-- now it acted like chains. Like chains trapping her in a nightmare of her own making.) "I would have requested a formal audience, but my brother is a bit overzealous about who gets to see you at the moment." Which, spoiler alert, translated to nobody but him. How typical! Did he think she would fall in love with him with nobody else available? Because it sure as hell didn't work like that!

"I am Morgan. Morgan le Fey. We, um, used to be--" Used to be what? Friends? Lovers? Something in between? As if dealing with the past tense wasn't difficult enough on its own, Morgan just... didn't know, really. Didn't know what exactly she had lost, and that hurt more than anything else. A knife in her chest? Even that would have been kinder. "--close," she finished her sentence with a small, sad smile. "I thought I could try to help you remember, somehow. Do you recognize this?" she raised the bear, feeling both utterly stupid and hopeful at the same time. Mementos, the doctors of old had said, could trigger memories, so maybe this wasn't entirely fruitless? (Gods, Morgan prayed it wasn't. Please, please, please!)
 
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Because a story involving a so called cutthroat betrayal from those friends Guinevere loved oh so dearly could be considered romantic. What an adventurous, clean-cut tale of love at first sight. Why, he might as well have ripped it straight from the pages of some shallow romance novel. Jennifer nods along with the story but, does she believe it? Hell no. (Because as much as she would have loved to laugh in her Guinevere's face and say 'I told you so' upon their betrayal -- she keeps enough tabs on her sister's gang to know they hadn't been taken out by any such monster. Unless, of course, he's referring the one she sent after them. But their "relationship" had already begun by then, hadn't it?) It seems the truth continues to elude her grasp. Really, it makes her all the more aware of the type of man she's working with. Liar, liar, liar. How does he intend to explain himself if she suddenly starts regaining her memories? Not that she can read Guinevere's mind and know exactly what happened, but... theoretically speaking. So he wants to paint himself the hero of her story? Maybe it'd be more convincing if he lessened his stride for her. (Was stabbing herself in the side going too far? Arthur would have probably thought her just as pitiful without this damned injury.) She's unspeakably relieved by the time he leaves her to her own devices.

In a bed far more comfortable than one she's ever laid in before and a meal delivered to her door, well, this day of relaxation and boredom is a price she can afford to pay. If Guinevere had done something to piss Arthur off, to deserve this treatment... then maybe Jennifer would find a way to rectify that eventually. (Really. How did she survive in this place for as long as she had? Because Jennifer's already contemplating ways to murder her future husband.) Though she picks up a paintbrush to occupy herself, she doesn't particularly focus on any particular picture. So it turns into something that looks like a blood-red sky. What would Guinevere even paint? Oh, duh. A sword, probably. She was always scribbling them obsessively when they were kids. And, yeah, Jennifer doesn't want to paint a freaking sword.

Jennifer expects the day to come to an uneventful end... but then she receives an unprompted visitor. Morgan, was it? Sneaking in without Arthur's permission? Well, well. That's interesting. And it quickly becomes even more interesting when she provides the information that they were 'close' (Perhaps the mysterious woman her men had spotted Guinevere with, then?) and even more interesting yet when she produces the bear. Interesting and, well something else too. It's a direct stab to her heart that she does not need right now. To think a dumb stuffed toy could haunt her like a ghost from the past! Not once had she allowed herself to feel guilty about this. Not once... until now. Guinevere honestly kept that stupid thing? Foolish... sentimental. Gwen. (And then she gave it to this woman -- to Morgan? Just how much did she tell her?) Jennifer's stare is glued to the bear for long enough to matter, emotions that distinctly belong to her racing beneath the skin. Shit. "I'm sorry. I... I don't know what to say." She grapples, attempting to restore her expression with a sort of vacancy. "Can I see it?"

Once Jennifer has it in her hands, she strokes her thumb gently over the scar. That scar that ruined all their schemes and marked the end of them working together as a team. (And only now is she willing to give herself scars of her own to make the illusion complete again.) Now that she thinks of it... what became of her bear? She'd left it behind the day she left Guinevere behind. Yeah, well, she probably threw that one out. Still. They're the only things they ever bothered holding onto growing up. So the fact that Guinevere gave it to... this Morgan le Fey. Well, that's really something, isn't it?

Jennifer looks back up at her, trying to gauge the other woman's intent behind her attempt to replicate one of Guinevere's softer expressions. "You said we were close...? How so?"
 
Morgan watched Guinevere interact with the bear, unsure of what to think. The way her eyes travelled over the toy, focused and almost captivated? It sure as hell looked like as if it sparked something within her. Recognition, perhaps? No, Morgan couldn't allow herself to cling to what could very well be false hopes. She had just given Guinevere the key to her past, after all-- maybe she was just staring at it in an effort to awaken the lost memories. That wouldn't be too strange. Not knowing anything about herself must have been incredibly stressful, so of course that she'd try her best to recover that knowledge somehow. Anyone would.

Unfortunately, though, it didn't seem to work, and Morgan's heart sank. 'How close?' she had asked. Such an innocent question, and yet it cut so deep. Guinevere didn't remember. She just didn't, no way around it. And considering how complex of a tool human mind was? Perhaps she never would, either. Everything they had gone through together could very well remain shrouded in darkness, forever locked away from her. (Who had done this to Guinevere? And why? No, scratch that, Morgan didn't care about the perpetrator's reasons. Not in the slightest. She just wanted to know who had dared to hurt her, because oh, how she would love to meet them in person. To meet them and explain to them why, exactly, touching Guinevere had been a bad idea. With her magic, of course. Wouldn't that be didactic?) Still, fantasizing about revenge would get her nowhere now. It certainly didn't answer Guinevere's question, did it?

Sighing, Morgan sat on the edge of her bed. How close, indeed. Just how much of it could she say? How much of if was true, even? Morgan's interpretations were her own-- only Guinevere had known what was in her heart, back before her memories had been lost, and now nobody did. Great, just great. What was she supposed to say? Clearly, she had to offer some sort of explanation, even if her mind felt empty. (Her heart felt empty, too. Everything about her did, to the point it seemed a single gust of wind could blow her away. Weightless, that was the word. Weightless and inconsequential.)

"I-- um. It's complicated," she finally said. "Friends, I suppose." Because that, at least, was unambiguously true. Whatever had happened between them that fateful night, they were still friends. Nobody could take that away from her. "I was your mentor, too. That's how it all began." Morgan looked downwards, unable to bear the intensity of her gaze. It was just... difficult, okay? Facing this Guinevere, who was no longer the Guinevere she knew. "I taught you manners. How to survive in this castle, really. I hope you'll forgive me if I say your skills were quite catastrophic, but thankfully, you are a fast learner. That was what saved you in the end." Morgan would have loved to say more, but really, just how much did this new Guinevere trust her? Would she believe her if she told her of their lessons, of the magic she had once studied under her tutelage? Gods, it seemed so long ago! Not even a week had passed, and yet the whole thing seemed like distant past. Like something from history books, in fact. Because the way she observed her? She-- didn't seem unfriendly, not necessarily, but the usual softness was gone. Guinevere watched her in the same was one might watch a stranger, and that was exactly what they were now. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Just-- how could she sit here, acting as if nothing had happened? As if her chest wasn't being ripped in half? In the end, though, Morgan did just that. She continued to sit on Guinevere's bed, her mouth smiling even if her eyes didn't. Her hands shook almost imperceptibly, too, but she clasped them to mask it.

"If I may be so bold, lady Guinevere, what's the last thing you remember?" Knowing that, at least, would help her determine what was safe for her to say-- where she should begin with collecting the pieces, really. And hey, reaching the rock botom would allow her to use it as a springboard, wouldn't it? Right. Morgan wouldn't let this destroy her, oh no. Tragedies larger than that had tried to do so, and she had always emerged from the storm stronger. This, too, would be no exception. She would persevere, just like she always had.
 
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"Oh. I... I see." Complicated. Complicated, indeed. It's becoming clearer to Jennifer with every passing second that this woman genuinely gives a shit about her. (Well, she gives a shit about Guinevere. But they might as well be one and the same at the moment, right?) And oh, isn't that delicious? Because she can use this weakness for her sister to her advantage. Hard to say what might be in this for her. Camelot's inner workings are something she's yet to understand. Morgan said she was her sister's mentor for survival, didn't she? And there's so much she still needs to learn about the stage she's just stepped onto. (If she can teach Guinevere of all people to pretend to be a lady, that speaks wonders of her abilities as a teacher.) An arrangement between them, even if it's only temporary, could serve to be beneficial in the long run. Arthur's already a proven liar, after all, and it seems she won't have the opportunity to speak to anyone else under his radar for the foreseeable future. Jennifer knows an opportunity when she sees one and she isn't about to let it go to waste.

The last thing she remembers, hm. Jennifer recalls the state Guinevere was in when they took her from this very room. (It doesn't help, really, that her sister's childhood bear is sitting on her lap. Staring at her accusingly. If it wasn't suspicious as hell, she'd have chucked it out the window by now.) She was in bad shape even before the anesthetics kicked in. Coughing up blood. Nearly choked on it, too, and she had to lecture the guy keeping watch to actually watch her. What, exactly, was her sister doing in Camelot that put her in that state? And why?

"I... remember waking up in the dark. I was coughing up blood and my head was pounding. Suddenly the roof opened up and a man in a mask pulled me outside." Jennifer wraps her arms loosely but protectively around herself, opening up with the same story she had told the knights. Consistency is key, after all, and she can't afford to get caught in a lie. In fact, she was extra thorough, because it would have looked that way to a real life observer, too. She had one of her men drop her off precisely that way. "That's when I realized I'd been inside a large monster? The man told me that... whatever just happened to me, it was a message for Arthur. Then off he went. The knights found me a little while after that."

...Now it's time to cook up a conspiracy theory and gauge the other woman's reaction. Because the difference between Arthur and Morgan's reactions to "Guinevere" as an amnesiac? Night and day. The difference between someone who's using her and someone who cares. Or someone who can actually pretend to care. (Guinevere likely trusts this woman without a second thought. And Jennifer? She's only being authentic by playing her part right now. But a future queen can never be too careful, can she?)

"It's strange, though. Despite all of that, Arthur seemed... almost happy that I lost my memories? He mentioned an accident I'd had recently, too, but didn't elaborate on it. Do you know what he meant by that?" Maybe it's ballsy to speak of the king this way, but she won't get anywhere without taking a few risks, now will she? And can one truly blame an amnesiac for having these concerns? (If she makes a mistake, after all, they'd likely be more lenient with her now rather than later.) In fact, it'd be far more suspicious if she wasn't suspicious of the situation she's been thrown into. Morgan seems sharp enough. It'd be insightful to know her opinions of Arthur. And if she's to take any control from his hands, she'll need to know him better, too. "Or-- or maybe it's all in my head. We're getting married, after all."

Jennifer shakes her head, wearing an expression that's downright lost and afraid. An attempt to yank on Morgan's heartstrings a little, to test her reactions. To see just how much she might be able to get away with going forward. The women who appear in her sister's life are always so tender, aren't they? (And Jennifer might have reaped the benefits from that more than once.)

"It's a lot to take in all at once. He... he told me all the friends I had on the outside betrayed me, too." She knows it was a lie, but she sells the fact that she's impressionable enough to believe him in her oh so delicate state right now. If Morgan knows the truth (And chances are she probably does.) then she might reassure her with it. Jennifer reaches gently for her hand, then. Seeking out companionship, an ally. "...Can I trust you, Morgan?"
 
"A message?" Morgan arched her brow. "Just a message? Were there no demands at all?" Maybe she was just being paranoid, but... didn't that seem kind of strange? Kidnapping Guinevere from her room, right under the noses of everyone who had guarded her, had been a risky endeavor. Far too risky, in fact, to waste all that effort on sending a message. If they had gone through all that trouble of stealing Arthur's precious bride, why not use her as a leverage? Why not demand, say, a year's worth of supplies? And besides, what was that message even supposed to communicate? 'You're not safe in your own home, so hurry and make it safer so that we cannot pull this shit anymore?' No, something just didn't add up here, and while Morgan couldn't tell what it was exactly, the discrepancy was blatant. Kind of like watching a water surface ripple, really. Somewhere, somehow, the basic principles of risk and gain had been violated. And as for why-- she'd learn that, eventually. The truth always emerged if you knew how recognize it.

And maybe it would emerge sooner than expected, actually. Because what Guinevere had just said about Arthur being happy about her condition? That-- kind of put the incident into a whole new perspective, actually. Of course the kidnappers wouldn't demand anything from Arthur if Arthur had orchestrated it in the first place! Gods. He had grown noticeably colder towards Guinevere in the past few days, likely due to her pesky tendency of, you know, having her own opinions and the like. Of being a person instead of-- instead of a doll in a pretty dress for him to ogle. Still, would he really go as far as to kidnap her and something to her memory? And how would he have done it? With Merlin's help, perhaps? The man had an access to a vast array of spells, so-- well, it wouldn't have been impossible, probably. Damn. Her freaking brother had really decided to reset her, as if she was a faulty computer! ...no. No, Morgan shouldn't jump to the conclusions here. Anger burned bright in her chest, yes, but anger wasn't evidence, and she would do well to remember that. Arthur thought like this, not her! Everything seemed to point to his involvement, though it was just as likely he was just being his opportunistic self. (The only difference between him and a hyena? Hyenas were actually cute, thank you very much.)

"That's... curious," Morgan finally said, her tone carefully neutral. "And you did have an accident, that much is true. You never told me the details, though. You didn't think it was safe to talk about it here, so you were waiting for a better time." A time that would probably never arrive now, Morgan thought bitterly. And then-- then Guinevere dropped the bomb about her friends supposedly betraying her. Wow. Arthur had just reached a new low, hadn't he? Just when Morgan hadn't thought it physically possible, too! Her brother always exceeded her expectations, one way or another.

"... what?" she asked, her mask of cautiousness falling apart. "That is not true. Not at all. We visited your gang last week, lady Guinevere. You and I. We can do so again once Arthur embarks on one of his ridiculous quests so that you can see for yourself how devoted they are." And didn't that sound like a good idea? The bear hadn't worked, but maybe Guinevere just needed additional stimulation. For her, the camp was full of memories, and so it only made sense it would spark something within her.

Something about this Guinevere put her on edge immediately, though. The fragility, most likely. It was just-- so different from what she was used to? The old Guinevere had joked about her wounds instead of looking this confused, this lost. That was what amnesia did to you, though, Morgan supposed. Coping with your entire identity being snatched away from you within seconds-- that couldn't be easy, not even for someone as strong as her.

"I understand," she whispered, accepting her hand and clasping it gently. "But no, you can't. You cannot trust anyone within these walls, and especially not those who claim to be trustworthy." That was, after all, one of the first lessons Morgan had taught her. To stay vigilant, wary of those who might wish to use her. "I would like you to trust me, but I cannot in good conscience advise you to do so blindly. Trust has to be earned, after all. And so, my lady, is there something I can help you with?" Because there was no better way to demonstrate your intentions than through deeds, really. Words were nice, but anyone could talk, and Morgan wished to show her that her loyalty went beyond that.
 
Does Jennifer realize that playing herself off as overly vulnerable isn't doing her any favors? Well, evidently not, because she continues to act... exceedingly frail. Almost like a mockery of everything that makes her sister who she is. Because in her mind, it all makes sense. Guinevere was always stronger, but she was always weaker, too. A crybaby. Too trusting. And she never could deliver the final blow on those who wronged them, always hesitating. Jennifer always had to pick up where she lacked, in that aspect. Guinevere might have kept her safe from the monsters, but Jennifer kept Guinevere safe from people. Who could be just as bad, if not worse. Besides, Jennifer spent hours perfecting her tears for this role. It'd be a shame if she didn't get the chance to use them eventually, right? ...Not now, though. She at least knows that much.

"Not safe...?" Jennifer muses softly, cradling Guinevere's bear in her free arm as if for comfort. That was one of her old habits too, wasn't it? She blinks a few times, as if coming to terms with this. A life in Camelot, a husband she doesn't trust, and this mysterious 'accident' she didn't feel safe enough to speak about -- well, it is all quite complicated isn't it? (What was this accident? Jennifer is nearly curious enough to ask her sister about it, but... she's a bit tied up at the moment.) Still. If someone or something was posing a threat to the future queen's life, then that makes it her problem, now. Incentive not to let her guard down, not even for a second. Not that she was ever going to. "I wonder what happened."

Morgan confirms precisely what Jennifer already knew. But the fact that she had traveled with Guinevere outside and knew the location of her precious camp? Well, even more incentive to believe that these two could be much closer than just friends. Does she just not want to overwhelm her, informing her flat out that they were having an affair? She nods hesitantly along with the suggestion, though on the inside she withers with a cold hell no. When the time comes, she'll find a good excuse to refuse. If she has to, she'll even tell Arthur. Because the instant one of Guinevere's pesky friends come into the picture, the stage will tilt and her entire setup would fall apart. (Ugh. And the thought of seeing that insufferable Adrianne? No fucking thanks.) Last week, though? That's interesting. That's about the time she picked up on Guinevere's signal. Right after that, she lost connection with the monster she'd sent after them. Had her men dump those unconscious girls off as far away from their base as possible. Probably should have killed them for good measure, too, but they just didn't have the time. The gang was hot on their trail and they had to cover their tracks. Besides, finding their girls alive and prioritizing taking care of them distracted them just enough to keep them away. Whatever happened to her monster, though? Perhaps... perhaps Morgan knows. If she's out traveling the wastes with her sister, she must have some way of taking care of herself, no?

"Right." Jennifer pinches her brow, to look a little wounded at the prospect that in Camelot she would have no one to trust. No, because an amnesiac can't even trust herself, can she? Without memories to arm herself with-- oh, she must feel so alone and scared, right? Then comes the offer and a sense of quiet satisfaction blooms in her chest. Yes, good. Her gaze flits from their joined hands then, to look Morgan in the eye. "Guinevere. You... can call me Guinevere. You said we were close before." Because she knows her sister, she knows she'd have hated all these fancy titles with a fiery passion. (To Jennifer, though? It makes her feel... important. So she'll relish it with everyone else. But she needs this connection more.) "And you also said you taught me how to survive, right? I want to survive in here. If it's not too much to ask... could you teach me again?"

Jennifer turns her attention to the bear once more. "This is an interesting toy. It has a scar, like... like me." She bites her lip, remembering the day she'd caught Guinevere scribbling it into the bear's fur with a permanent marker. It'd be more suspicious not to address it, right? Because she'd slipped. Her reaction before... it said something. She needs to seem at least slightly curious. And maybe she is curious about how this... Morgan came to possess it. "Can you tell me about it?"
 
It took everything Morgan had not to stare openly. Just-- damn. Guinevere looked so strikingly different! Or, well, not exactly. The woman didn't look different per se; her appearance was the same, down to the last laugh line, and Morgan would know that. (She, uh, may have spent an embarrassing amount of time watching her, taking in the smallest of details. By now, she could paint her face with her eyes closed.) The mannerisms, though? Those had changed, almost beyond recognition. Did memory loss go that deep? Morgan was far from a scholar on that topic, but it just seemed-- strange. Counterintuitive. Gestures and such had nothing to do with knowledge, after all. They were innate, based on your personality rather than memories, and surely personality wasn't impacted? (Maybe it was, though. What did she know, after all? Neuroscience was a complex, complex thing, and understanding it took years of intense study. Years Morgan just didn't have, mostly because Guinevere suffered from it now. And the fact that Arthur had likely burnt the books covering the topic because the big words made him feel small? Just he icing on the cake, really.)

And then-- then Guinevere told her to call her by her name, and joy spread in her chest. This, right there, was a proof that Guinevere was still Guinevere. That she still existed, somewhere beyond all that confusion and fear. And if Morgan was patient enough? She would return to her, just like birds of passage always found the way home. (The map was written in their DNA, and wasn't it similar with your personality? You always drifted towards certain qualities, no matter the environment. That, after all, was the meaning of fate; not some mysterious mark given to you by the gods, but the set of decisions you would inevitably make because, well, that was who you were.) "Gladly. Feel free to call me Morgan, too."

Right, the bear. "You-- gave it to me as a bribe," Morgan admitted with a small smile. "I asked for something in return when I offered to teach you certain essential skills. It was a joke, more or less, because I didn't expect you to actually pay me, but you took it seriously. I kept it, because why not." And the fact that she had slept with it ever since, letting the scent comfort her-- well, Guinevere did not need to know that. Hell, Morgan would rather go swear fealty to Arthur! "I'm afraid I don't know that much about its history, though. You just told me it was something precious you managed to hold onto."

Morgan took a deep breath, preparing herself for the worst. What she was about to tell her next likely wouldn't be received well, but it had to be said. If there was one detail Guinevere needed to be aware of, it was this, unambiguously. Not knowing, after all, could be downright deadly. "And of course I'll continue to teach you. A promise is a promise. Just one more thing, though. Manners aren't the only thing you're studying with me. Recently, you've developed-- a certain affinity towards magic, and I'm helping you to get it under control. You've had some magic-related accidents, too, so I advise you not to strain yourself until we can resume our lessons. You don't want to alert my brother to that."

Meanwhile, many miles away from Camelot, Guinevere woke up. She must have fallen asleep at some point because, well, she found herself in a bed, not on that table from before. Clearly, someone must have carried her there. And as for where she was? Difficult to say, really. The room had no windows, with the only source of light being the flickering flame of torches. She couldn't sit up and look around, either, because the bastards had tied her to the bed. (This prison, it seemed, was even more elaborate than the one in Camelot.)

For hours, Guinevere just lay there, surrounded by nothingness. Did they plan to leave her there, letting hunger and thirst get her? Was that Jen's idea of worship?

Apparently not, because the door opened and a short, balding man went inside. He seemed to be carrying something, though what exactly it was-- well, darkness kept it secret from her.

"Lady Guinevere," he squealed in delight. "It is so, so wonderful to finally have you there. To think you'd get to serve your purpose with us of all people. Such honor, such great honor." He got closer, and as he did so, Guinevere could notice that he was limping-- and that he was also holding a large, sinister-looking syringe. Wow, okay.

"I imagine you have questions. I'll let you ask them, provided you refrain from screaming. Not that anybody would hear you here, but my ears are ever so delicate. Do you promise to behave yourself?" he asked, his tone fake and saccharine.
 
"...I see." Jennifer's tempted to say that it must have been more than just a bribe that prompted Guinevere to give Morgan such a thing, but she keeps her mouth shut. There's still much to gauge when it comes to the nature of their relationship -- but with every passing moment, it convinces her more and more of the fact that her sister was having an affair. Why else suffer the presence of a man she obviously wouldn't have been able to stand (And one like Arthur, no less!?) if she didn't have a good reason to stay? Never wanting for food and resources the way they used to should have been enough, but she knows it wouldn't have been for someone like Guinevere. Leaving her gang out in the wastes like that? It was so unlike her sister. (Well, she still visits, though. That's already been confirmed -- without a doubt.) Jennifer found ways to provide when it was just the two of them... and maybe she didn't always take the moral high ground, but shouldn't that have been enough? Evidently not. Because then those "friends" turned up and they turned Guinevere against her! Still. Hearing it described as something precious causes Jennifer's eyes to become truly soft for the first time since she's been here. For the first time in a while, maybe. And oh, does she loathe the way it simultaneously stirs guilt in her. Because she had found those bears in the wreckage. Joked around and used them to make Guinevere smile for the first time since-- since they escaped that place. Ironic, that she'd be reminded of that so soon after...

The mention of magic, though? It cracks through all that emotional bullshit like a whip, shatters it, and the softness that was once there morphs into something distinctly hard. If something about her was off before, it definitely is now. Nothing about this expression is Guinevere-- it's all Jennifer.

"An affinity for... for magic?" Jennifer has to press down on all the things rising in her. Oh, this is... it makes her feel vindicated again. Guinevere was always so self righteous, wasn't she? But now? Now she's manipulating a man into marrying her for food and shelter. And using magic, on top of that! Hypocrite. She wants to mock in that pure, oh so innocent tone of hers that she would never ever touch magic. But she's not even supposed to know that about herself yet, is she? As an amnesiac? No, what she needs right now is to calm the hell down before she can say something careless. She doesn't notice she's practically strangling the bear in her hand. "Sorry. It's... this is a lot to take in all at once. I just need time to process. I'll rest, like you said."

Jennifer doesn't seem overwhelmed, though. She's a dead calm that hides a furious storm. She and her sister have the same face and the same fire, too. Yet it burns in them so differently. The same way their blood differs, really. One might think as twins, the blood flowing in their veins would have been just the same, but... they always wanted Guinevere's specifically, didn't they? Those men who kidnapped them all those years ago did research and experiments, sure, but they also sent those little vials of her blood somewhere. And in return? They'd get food, sometimes, and resources. Jennifer, though... They didn't need her quite so much. As another mouth to feed, she was eventually reduced to their errand girl. Learned plenty on the job, though.

"You can hold onto this, Morgan. Considering you're still offering to teach me, you might as well have it." Loosening her grip on the bear, she hands it back over to Morgan. Then she fabricates a sad smile and taps her temple. "The girl who gave it to you... she's just not in here right now."

And that's true in more ways than one. Guinevere's not there right now. No, she's far away from that room in Camelot, at Morgan's side where she so desperately wants to be. Locked away in the dark and tied down to a brand new bed. Considering she was numb before, she does her best to stay that way even as the anesthetics wear off and force her to feel the distinct ache of hunger and thirst. If she let thoughts of her sister's betrayal and hatred break her? If she cries about it, the way she wants to? Well, the tears would dehydrate her fast. That simple fact keeps her glaring in the dark, at the ceiling, staying strong in spite of her current position. The survival instincts are kicking in. It takes about thirty to forty days to die of starvation. And three without water. Considering they seem to be keeping her alive for some reason, she guesses it's possible they made her drink at some point while she was unconscious. (Right now, though? Her mouth is dry and she'd kill for even just a drop of water.) There's no concept of time in a place so dark... and isn't that terrifying? Is Jen in Camelot by now? If she wrapping Arthur around her little finger, the way she's done with so many men in the past? Fooling everyone? Everyone but...

Morgan's going to find out. Guinevere's confident in that. Oh god, Morgan. What's going through her mind right now? They were supposed to have more time, and then ...That was her first mistake, wasn't it? Thinking they'd have a tomorrow to sort everything out. She'd sworn off of that type of thinking out in the wastes, used to scoff when she overheard the ladies in Camelot discussing the years they'd have to live in the future, unawares that it was such a simple luxury. Camelot entails knowledge for survival in a different way, but it also made her forget some of the most basic things she'd learned on the outside! Things that -- that might have helped her avoid this situation entirely. On top of neglecting Adrianne's worries about it. Why was she so -- so stupid? To hell with Arthur, and the responsibilities, and everything... at her very core, she wants nothing more right now to hold Morgan and tell her how she's feeling. Let all the truths in her heart spill out before they can be buried forever. Tell her that she wants to kiss her again. That she'd love to continue working side by side as a team-- as partners for as long as humanly possible -- and for her to know that, at least before she dies in here and... and then the door opens.

Guinevere is still as death as the man hobbles in and approaches her bed. Lady Guinevere? What-- more fucking titles? Jen had mentioned... something about that, right? Her mind's still hazy, though. Where the hell is she? (And serve her purpose? What-- what purpose?) Oh, she has nothing but questions right now. And as much as she wants to squirm at the sight of the syringe, she's immovable. No fear. None at all. She shows any sign of weakness and they'll use it against her. She just stares, fixing him with a glare like daggers. Because this is a game she knows intimately. Helpless and only dependent on her captor for survival, the only thing she can do is 'behave' until she rebuilds the strength she needs to fight back. (Long enough and that develops into Stockholm syndrome. Adrianne taught her about it, when she confessed to crying when she found out Jen had poisoned the man who was responsible for giving them food and water in their hospital prison. He deserves to rot, he does, but -- well, it messes with the mind, doesn't it? When you start to associate safety with the very thing that's responsible for your pain? Especially as a kid.) And oh, Guinevere could take this man in a fight she's sure. But she needs to be patient for now. Behave. Ugh. She wishes she could spit and tell him to eat shit, but, well... the cloth's still in her mouth, preventing any noise from coming out. Loosening her grip on the intensity of her glare, as though to cave into the helplessness of her position, she nods slowly in response to his question.

And the man complies by untying the cloth around her mouth, allowing her to breathe a little more freely. It occurs to her even more now just how dry her mouth is... but it doesn't seem like he's brought any water for her. Just that... syringe. Fear has a vise grip around her heart, but she locks it all away. Guinevere's expressions, her voice... they're the only things she has control over right now. Oh wow, are his ears delicate? Is she supposed to give a shit? She'll just keep that in mind for later, when she's free of these ropes and can do whatever the hell she wants. If... if she has the chance, that is. No one can hear her scream, huh. She can't count on Arthur or his useless knights. And Jen's presence will prolong things, even if they do eventually figure her out. No, she'll have to be cautious and take any chances she can get to free herself. But as of right now? There... there are none.

"What..." Yikes. Is that really her voice? So raspy and brittle...? It's hard to talk. "What purpose? Where am I?"
 
"You do not need to know that," the man smiled, seemingly gentle. Perhaps the charade would have been a bit more believable if he wasn't, say, holding that giant freaking syringe. That kind of put it into a different perspective. "For you, this is just home now. You won't be leaving anyway, so there is no point in filling your mind with useless information." Did he-- did he just pat her on her head? Yeah, that really happened. "But don't worry, lady Guinevere. We will take care you, oh we will. Those fools back in Camelot had no idea what they had in you. It's better for everyone involved that you are here now, with people who know your worth. With those who know how you should be treated."

As he spoke, he pulled out a lighter out of his pocket and let the flame lick the tip of the needle. (His attempt at disinfecting the thing, probably. It wasn't much, yes, but both needles and alcohol were hard to come by in the wastes, so Guinevere should likely be thankful even for that token effort. Still, thinking about how many times this particular needle must have been used before? That would probably give licensed doctors nightmares, had they still existed in places other than history books. ...if someone had even bothered to record that history, that was.) "But back to your purpose, my lady, because that is important. You see, you were born with very, very special blood. One in a million, apparently. It has-- how to say it? The power to bring this scorched Earth back to life. To make it green once again," he continued, matter-of-factly, as if what he had just said wasn't completely unhinged. "It is a big, big responsibility, so we must make sure that you're using it wisely. Surely you'd agree that one person shouldn't be saddled with the burden of choice here? Which is where we come in," her captor smiled. (Something in his expression resembled the long-gone telemarketers who offered you three knives for thd price of one and threw in a cellphone for good measure. The fakeness of it all, at least, checked out.)

"We are here to save you from that burden, lady Guinevere. You will only be required to exist, and in turn, we will dress you, feed you, and yes, even love you, for you are the only thing holy left on this Earth. Our lady. Our queen." And then, without warning, he jammed the syringe into her arm. If he had done it that way for the dramatic effect, then he was probably cursing himself right now-- in the darkness, he missed the vein, so he had to do it again, again and again, until the vial attached to it finally began filling with blood. With her blood, of course.

"See how beautiful it is?" the man whispered, clearly enraptured. Feverish, almost. (In a better time, someone likely would have ensured that he would get a psychiatric help, but these decidedly weren't good times. Those were gone, drowned in the endless grey of the wastes.) "Red like rubies, but twice as precious. With this, my lady, we will rebuild everything we have lost. This world will be reborn, and you shall become its patron saint. Its wonderful, pure goddess."
 
Only required to exist? This is... it's like Arthur on steroids. He thought she was stupid, clearly, but at least in Camelot she was allowed to dress and feed herself! Of course she was capable of that much. (But that's the difference, isn't it? Her captors might not think her incapable... they just don't want her going anywhere. And they'll keep her tied her down and at their mercy if it means keeping her that way.) Still-- Camelot? It sure is starting to look like a fantasy compared to the hell she's found herself in, now. At least Morgan was there, at least they had their fleeting moments of respite. Here? She doesn't suppose she's going to be assigned a mentor here or see a friendly face every now and then. (Love her, he said and -- and it makes her cringe.) Morgan. She wants Morgan. If only magic covered, say, telepathy! A way to reach her, no matter how far away she was. But even if there was, she's in no state to be using any magic right now. No, she needs to regain her strength before she can even think of that. They intend to keep her alive, at least, if her blood is as important as he says it is. Which is... well, a few weeks ago it all would have sounded bizarre. Ridiculous. But the vision Excalibur gave her? The way she was making the plants in her room grow? Not only that... the signs were there even in that first vision she'd had. Her blood dripping into the dead earth and greenery springing up beneath. And the kidnapping from her childhood -- how it all feels so similar to this. One in a million, huh. Just her freaking luck. At least now she knows why those creeps sought after her blood like vampires.

If his words don't make Guinevere sick enough as is -- the syringe stabbing repeatedly into her arm honestly makes her feel like she could throw up. (Not that she has anything in her system right now to throw up.) It rips a few involuntary gasps from her lips, but she clenches her teeth around the pain, resolving not to cry or scream out. Her blood, he's cherishing it like... god, did he just compare it to gemstones? She, on the other hand, turns white as a sheet at the sight, and cranes her neck to turn her head away when it gets to be too much. She's so lightheaded she could pass out-- but she fights to hold on. How often -- how much do they intend to take from her to 'restore the earth'? Because if they keep taking and taking... she may not even have the chance to rebuild her strength and leave. What if she really gets stuck here and she can't save herself? What if no one ever finds her? (And the concept of forever -- the rest of her lifetime-- in a place like this? Fucking terrifying.)

Panic starts washing over her, each breath trembling out as her chest rises and falls rapidly against her restraints.

"I'm not a goddess... I'm a person." Guinevere hates the sound of her voice right now, so weak, like it could just break in half. (So weak and so human. Because she is human-- obviously! Not a holy thing, a queen, a saint or a goddess. And she can make her own damn choices, thank you very much!) Still. This isn't Camelot. She doesn't think she'll be able to negotiate or manipulate this bastard into letting her go free. No... he seems too unhinged for that. And if her sister was the one who handed her over? Well, she probably convinced them not to give in to her pleas. But all she has right now is her voice. She has to try. "--Please. I want to help as much as anyone. I'll do what I can. Just let me go."
 
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"And who do you think gods are, my lady, if not exceptional people?" he asked, his tone light and conversational. Was he even aware of how-- incredibly fucked up this situation was? Maybe, maybe not. With the Catastrophe destroying everything they had ever known, most people had reacted... uh, badly. Some had resorted to violence, some had taken their own lives and, yes, some had their sanity shattered. And honestly, could they be blamed? Not everyone was built the same way Guinevere was-- to withstand the pressure, to survive. "They are not some fairytale creatures spun out of sunlight," her captor continued, ignoring any and all signs of her discomfort. Charming. In that, at least, he would have gotten along with Arthur. "Even Jesus Christ was made of flesh, back when things still made sense. The flesh, I think, is what makes us godly. What makes us one with the Earth. Wouldn't you agree?" Clearly, that was a rhetorical question, for he didn't bother to wait for her answer.

"But I digress. I know that your role is a difficult one, and my predecessors haven't prepared you that well for it." Predecessors? What? Carefully, the man sealed the vial before turning back to Guinevere, and then he caressed her arm gently. "You never should have gotten away, you know. For your own good. It is-- easier to mold a child. If you had stayed with my friends back then, you would have understood your purpose now. You would have been able to walk among your faithful ones freely, too, because you would not have dreamed of leaving us. As it is, though? No, I'm afraid not," he shook his head, almost as if he was speaking to a child who demanded ice cream before dinner-- light, friendly, but also firm. No, he would not relent. Definitely not today at the very least.

"I want you to know, though, that this is not a punishment. Far from it. I am just keeping you where you are supposed to be, just like one would guard a precious jewel or a rare paiting. And perhaps, in time, you shall learn to love your role as well. How not? Your existence will bring joy to so, so many people," he smiled, revealing a set of white teeth. And his tone? It sounded so convinced, so sincere that most of her doubts were likely obliterated. If nothing else, this man truly believed in what he said. And wasn't that the scariest thing about this whole mess?

"And when that happens, perhaps you shall be awarded some degree of freedom. Not sooner, though." With that, he rose from her bed and headed outside, probably to do whatever he needed with her blood. (Her special, special blood that had gotten this into such trouble in the first place. Gods.) "Don't worry," he added, as if that could possibly change anything. "You will get used to it. It's what you were born for. And to understand that fully, you shall learn. Every day, a Messenger shall come to you, and you will receive the holy word. Hopefully your heart hasn't been hardened to the truth in the wastes-- it would be so sad if you couldn't accept the message." The door opened, and incredibly, Guinevere's room was suddenly filled with light. So, in other words, this wasn't some underground complex? Just a tiny building? ...perhaps escaping wouldn't be as complicated. Well, once she got out of the bed, that was. "Now, is there anything you need? I will be happy to serve you in any way I can."
 
"--Don't touch me." Guinevere's words are biting for the first time with the caress of his hand on her skin. With Arthur she forces herself to endure this treatment without complaint-- but here? No, no, she's not going to have it. At least with Arthur, she has the choice to decide whether or not she's going to stand there and take it. Not that Arthur's actions aren't bad in their own way, but for god's sake, she's tied up! She can't move, can't smack his hand away. And the way he speaks down to her like a child? If she continues to 'behave', he'll just -- he'll keep doing it. If acting difficult keeps his filthy hands off, she'll thrash and scream and bite if she has to. They have incentive to keep her alive, after all, so they won't kill her in retribution. Probably. (All she has to do is 'exist', right? Maybe she can use at least that as leverage to improve her situation here.) Hell if she's going to make this easier on them while they kill her slowly and she pleads like a good little girl to go free.

Guinevere's breath becomes steady with time, but her pulse doesn't. In fact, she can feel precisely the way her heart shatters into a million pieces when she begins to comprehend what she's being told. Not only is this man associated with the very same people who terrorized her as a child -- but Jen, presumably knowing this, had left her there with them. It burns at her skin. Eats away at her, like paper catching the end of a tiny flame slowly being consumed by it, withering and charring until it turns to ash. Their ties might have been severed, their relationship turbulent and rocky but -- she had never done anything so horrible to warrant this kind of hate, had she? Hell, it'd have been merciful if she'd just killed her instead! Then at least she wouldn't have to suffer like this, feeling like such a damned fool. That was the lesson Jen always wanted to instill in her, right? Burn others before you get burned yourself. Before she left, she'd accused Guinevere of not believing in her anymore. But, obviously, that wasn't true! Maybe she'd laid down some hard truths and confronted Jen about some of her choices... but she still saw her as her sister, as -- as a human being deserving of forgiveness and love. So this? It hurts. It hurts unlike anything she's ever felt before. Her heartbeat clouds her ears, making everything the man continues to say faraway, and her eyes are dark with understanding.

Now's not the time to be broken, though. The ache is raw, yes, but it slowly begins to harden her. Because that bit of information-- knowing the roots behind these people who tore her away from her father and placed her in captivity? It builds a fire in her that she can't extinguish. An inferno, bright and raging and unstoppable. (Or it might have been, if not for her current position.) Reason is warped within it and her fingers dig into her palms. She tries to move her wrists, but... no, the restraints still hold tight. Gone is the polite, behaving girl who tried to bargain just seconds ago. Sure, she'll pretend later, if she has to. But right now? Right now she's at her limit. She's fed up.

"--Fuck you." Guinevere lashes. She tries struggling again, harder this time, but it's still no use. Even that small amount of effort throws a dusting a tiny black stars in her eyes. "This is a fate worse than death. Why don't you just bring a knife and kill me now?"
 
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, my lady," the man shook his head. "Pray tell, why would I do that? You are our salvation. The ticket to the paradise. I would sooner kill myself, truly, than hurt you." If her insults managed to get under his skin, then he was an expert at hiding it; his features remained serene, almost void of emotion. (A zen buddhist would cry of envy, really.) "But as I said-- you will grow to accept your fate, one way or another. Either you shall do so gracefully, and you will be our beloved goddess, or you can stay here like this, a living blood bag. Your choice." ...oh. Well, now that was quite a different tune from before, wasn't it? Had his mask slipped, or did he somehow managed to believe both of those things at the same time? (A seemingly contradictory opinions, yes, but when had cognitive dissonance ever stopped anyone? It certainly wasn't an issue for Arthur, or his men, or anyone who lived in Camelot, really. Sometimes, people just had a wonderful ability not to think.)

"Please, do rest," he recommended to her as he was leaving. In the light of her not being to do anything but rest, it should have sounded mocking, yet somehow, it didn't. No, the man was being entirely sincere. "The next few days will be trying for you, my lady, so take this time to gather your strength."

In that, at least, be didn't lie. The concept of time itself stopped existing for Guinevere, with her days shrunk to three events-- feeding, drawing blood and sermons. Out of these, the food was probably the least offensive aspect. It didn't taste great, especially not in comparison with Camelot's cuisine, but it also wasn't terrible. Some of it, in fact, suggested that her captors were no ordinary survivors, because being able to afford canned fruit out of all things? Yeah, that suggested they had some friends in very high places. Well, it was either that, or they yearned to impress her so much they gave her the best food they had collected over the years. Still, despite that, the feedings were a quiet affair. Someone always came, their face covered, and fed her with a giant spoon as if she were a helpless baby. No words were exchanged during that time-- even if she screamed obscenities at them, they remained silent.

Collecting her blood was always quiet, too, though much less pleasant. One would think her body would get used to it, but the opposite seemed to be true-- the more they prodded at her with their needles, the weaker she felt, to the point even a shadow could beat her in a fist fight. Why, though? Was this some weird magic thing, too? Were they draining her strength along with her blood, using it for their fucked up purposes? Not really, as it turned out. During one of those rituals, Guinevere noticed a faintly chemical smell, and suddenly it was obvious-- they weren't just content with taking her blood. No, they were drugging her, keeping her nice and pliant. ...well, at least she knew? Not that there was something to be done about it, but still.

And the sermons? Those were probably the worst parts of her day, and considering how terrible the rest of it was, that really was saying something. A woman with her face covered came every day, and she filled her head with stories of human hubris-- hubris that had supposedly been punished by the Earth being taken away from them, with the caveat it would be returned once they learned some humility. (This, of course, was why she needed to learn humility as well. A saint had to lead by example, you see?) Sometimes the stories were short and sometimes they went on and on for the entirety of the night, but they all ended with blood, blood, blood. ('Blood was the beginning,' the woman had said, 'and also the resolution. Remember that.')

Either way, the days quickly morphed into one amorphous blend, and it was difficult to tell how much time had passed. Meanwhile, though, in Camelot...
 
In Camelot, "Guinevere" the amnesiac is far more invested in her wardrobe than she ever was before. Occasionally a passing maid might even catch her humming a pretty tune as she runs her index finger along the dresses inside, surveying each one with a careful eye. Could it be that she has a keener fashion sense when it comes to choosing outfits that accentuate her curves and the color of her eyes? Not only that, but her hair is always neatly combed-- not so much the wild, wavy mane it always used to be. Isn't that... strange? (Okay. Jennifer might be pretending to be her sister, but she sure as hell isn't going to dress like her forever!) She'll be a queen, for god's sake, so clearly she has to look the part! The clothes are all part of the appeal... and that alone isn't damning evidence, is it? It'd sound awfully ridiculous to confront someone of not being true to who they are based on the way they dress. Arthur clearly notices. (Not in a bad way, either.) No, he doesn't question it at all, just appreciates the effort. Isn't it convenient? She looks so pretty like this. She's finally starting to take her role and their wedding seriously!

Because her little condition is not a good enough reason to postpone the wedding, is it? "Guinevere" may not know exactly who she is or where she comes from, but she's still meant to become Arthur's wife on the day they have scheduled. Jennifer is eventually consulted about flower arrangements, music, and food, and-- well, if anyone paid enough attention, it might even seem like she's enjoying it? Taking her sweet time filing through her options where her sister might have just picked something at random to get it over with, searching ever so diligently for the most aesthetically pleasing options.

In fact, Arthur appreciates these thoughtful little changes in her demeanor so much that he gives her permission to explore Camelot again. And isn't that wonderful? She's allowed to reacquaint herself with her surroundings to her heart's content, no longer succumbing to boredom in the confines of her room... as long as Sir Lancelot remains by her side, as her chivalrous bodyguard. (Which, ugh, seriously? He's like a thorn in her side!) Most of these fools eat right out the palm of her hand, but his eyes seem to linger on her for longer than she's entirely comfortable with. She can't rest for even a moment. He's always furrowing his eyebrows whenever one of her reactions don't align exactly with something her sister might have said or done. But no amount of acting can change the fact that she's neat where Guinevere was messy... and sharp where she was soft.

Jennifer also has the privilege of dining with the ladies of Camelot again. Through their teeth, they seem polite enough the first few days as they accept her back among their circle. And then? They resume their usual antics, like piling food on her plate and snickering. Because not even memory loss changes the fact that she's a poor thing from the wastes, right? Lady Iphigenia is especially relentless in her jealousy, with the wedding on the horizon. At night, though shrill screams from her room became a reoccurrence... because she seems to keep finding dead rats and birds in her chambers? How mysterious. "I was wondering if you had a cat, Lady Iphigenia?" Jennifer had said the next day, smirking in an almost feline way herself as she contentedly ate her food. "I hear they reward you with prey when they're well fed." And suddenly none of them had the guts to mess with her.

All the while, Excalibur's brilliant light seems to be flickering and fading beneath Camelot. Little does anyone know-- as Guinevere becomes weaker and weaker on the outside, so too does it. The sword becomes more preoccupied with reaching out for the faraway soul it's tethered to than, say, bolstering the protection around the castle. And because of that, a few monsters slip onto Camelot's grounds in the daytime-- which is typically unheard of. One of them appeared in Lancelot and Jennifer's path, after he tried to get her to spar with him outside the way they used to. Yet another fruitless attempt to evoke lost memories. And she seemed... irate? But what he didn't know was that the whole time, Jennifer was contemplating stabbing him in the back to get rid of him once and for all. Except Camelot would surely hold her accountable for this kind of incident (Incident? It's murder!) in a way that people in the wastes just won't. (--Or can't.) No, she'll just have to bide her time and find some other way.

Either way, Jennifer's first instinct when the monster appeared was to drop the sword she'd been holding and duck behind Lancelot like he was her personal meat shield. To his credit, the knight actually managed to take care of the monster this time around. Promptly after this, the people of Camelot were forbidden from leaving the castle at for safety reasons while they tried to 'sort out the issue'. Lancelot was praised highly by all for his heroism. (For... for protecting Guinevere from a particularly small monster she used to fight all the time on the outside? Most don't think to question it, but, well... anyone who knows Guinevere would, wouldn't they?) It bothered Lancelot so much that he even went to Morgan with his concerns. After all, the three of them were together that day so long ago, when they witnessed her take down several of those beasts with a smile.

The most damning piece of evidence, though, is a seemingly simple request Jennifer makes about her wedding dress. It'd look prettier if it was cut to show a little more of her back, wouldn't it? But little does she know that Guinevere confessed to Marietta in confidence that she has several scars on her back that she would rather not show. Scars that even Jennifer doesn't know about. It was really a drastic oversight on her part to have her men do all the dirty work and change Guinevere out of her dress that day, wasn't it?

The other person Jennifer needs to stay on her toes around is Morgan le Fey -- who comes to her room in the evenings occasionally for their lessons. The first few don't seem to raise much alarm, but... well, over time it becomes quickly apparent that Jennifer takes learning formalities and manners oh so seriously. She absorbs them so well, almost like she was... already prepared for this? (She'll act out the occasional accident of course, because she's supposed to be 'Guinevere'. Chaotic and unruly. Whether these attempts are believable, though, is another story entirely.) And when the topic of her friends in the wastes or of magic rise to the surface, she becomes conveniently "tired" and asks to be left alone to rest. (Is this really the same woman who once said she was 'never good at resting'?) And that's not all, either. As things are now, they hardly know each other, but sometimes... doesn't it seem like she's flirting? Jennifer reaches for Morgan's hand all the time, almost seeming to initiate touch between them far more often than Guinevere had at this stage in the past. Was she just so lost and lonely that she needed a hand to hold? Well... the thing is, she doesn't seem so lost anymore, does she? No, she almost seems to be cherishing the luxuries of her new life when she thinks no one is looking.

That night when Morgan enters her room, Jennifer doesn't hear the door right away. No, she's too infatuated with an elegant, violet dress she spread out on her bed. She almost jumps out of her skin when she does notice, almost as though she just got caught with a dead body instead of a dress. "Oh, Morgan! Don't sneak up on me like that."
 
Morgan probably... should have been happy, right? No, scratch that 'probably'. She definitely, definitely should have been happy. After all those weeks, Guinevere started taking her duties seriously, and oh, what a sight it was. Both in manners and in the way she dressed, she finally started resembling a true lady-- lady born to sit on the throne, born to be the queen. And wasn't that a success? The very thing she had been striving towards since meeting Guinevere? It only went to show, truly, how good of a teacher she was, to be able to refine her like this. To shed the trappings of coal and reveal the diamond that had been hiding at its core. Surely that deserved a toast? (Except that, instead of celebrating, Morgan felt like crying. Somehow, somewhere between the layers of silk, her Guinevere had been lost-- lost to the masks she had been asked to wear, sewn into them so thoroughly nobody would be able to cut the stitches and get her out. How? How had this happened? Guinevere had never been like this! The things that fascinated her now, like pretty dresses and make-up? Those never would have blinded her so thoroughly before, back before that cursed amnesia. It was as if-- as if a completely new person had returned to her, not Guinevere. Not her Guinevere, at the very least.)

Those suspicions only grew the more time she had spent with her. Your life experiences shaped you, no doubt, but doing a complete 180 like this? Running away from a monster, as if she didn't love any excuse to wave her sword around? (Lancelot had told her himself. Gods only knew why he had come to her out of all people because they sure as hell weren't friends, but he had. Normally, it would have distressed Morgan to discover that they had been so obvious about their relationship that even Arthur's lackey knew to go to her when he was worried about Guinevere, but as of now? Yeah, she was too busy being distressed over the woman's state to worry about that, really. To Guinevere, her sword was a part of her identity, a part of what had made her who she was. The difference between life and death, both in the wastes and outside of them. Why abandon it now? Just to make Arthur happy?)

All of that just seemed incredibly suspicious, no matter the angle. And what was worse, the evidence continued to pile up. Guinevere only seemed to be Guinevere in name, right down to how she treated her. (And how she touched her-- oh, did that confuse her. A few weeks ago, Morgan had been starved for her touch; happy to accept breadcrumbs, really, and giddy whenever their hands had met. Almost like an infatuated schoolgirl, every bit as embarrassing as that comparison implied. These days, however, she had to mobilize all of her self-control not to recoil. Something about those touches felt calculated, cold even, and the joy they had used to bring her was replaced by panic. By repulsion, too, deep and visceral and soul-crushing, because-- damn. How come she had ever wanted this? Was she losing her mind here, poisoned by her own expectations? Still, though, Morgan was built to endure, so endure she did. Maybe, the sorceress thought to herself, this will pass as well. Maybe she's just confused, and once she settles into her new life, everything will start making sense once again.)

Needless to say, it didn't. It started to make even less sense, in fact, when Marietta came to her with her concerns. Because fucking scars didn't disappear along with your memory, did they? Morgan was far from the expert here, but that much she knew. And speaking of things she knew... A scene emerged in her mind, half-forgotten. A scene of Adrienne checking Guinevere closely, supposedly to distinguish her from her sister. Her freaking twin sister. Gods. Gods, how could she have been so stupid? Of course Guinevere didn't act like Guinevere-- for that, she would have to be Guinevere, duh. Anger rose in her chest, wild and unrestrained. If there was one thing Morgan hated more than her brother, it had to be people making an idiot out of her, and this woman had managed to do so quite successfully. Besides, where was the actual Guinevere? What had happened to her?!

Even so, Morgan swallowed her wrath. There was, after all, little to be gained from rash decisions. She couldn't afford to be fire-- no, she had to be water. Just as deadly, but more subtle, more careful. And so she went to visit "Guinevere" again, as if nothing had happened at all. (But gods, something would happen, and the fake Guinevere would not like it. Morgan guaranteed that.)

"Sneak up on you?" she curled up her lips in a smile. "You expected me to come, Guinevere. You can't very well sneak up on someone when you agreed on a meeting beforehand. Nice dress, by the way." Oh, how she would love to tear the fabric and strangle her with it, but that wasn't her style. Confronting her directly-- well, that likely wouldn't be wise, either. At least not right away. So, how to proceed here? Hmmm. Maybe, since the other woman had been playing mind games with her for days, she could repay her in kind. That would only be fair, after all. (She had no idea, this sweet sister of Guinevere's, but Morgan also knew how to make others dance to her tune, how to sow discord among her enemies. Now, though? Now was the time to use these skills to the fullest.)

"That's not what I wanted to talk about, however. I have... news," Morgan said quietly. Her expression was, of course, the very picture of concern. Not-Guinevere believed she was on her side, so why not take advantage of the set-up? (Oh, this would be so, so good. If not for Guinevere's uncertain fate, Morgan would be laughing her ass off. As it was, though-- gods, she had to bite the insides of her face just to avoid screaming at her.) "Bad news, I'm afraid. It's about your sister. My spies report that she's been sighted near Camelot, and apparently she's up to no good. It-- it seems that she is planning to kill you," she told her, her eyes large and innocent. "Would you happen to know why?" There, that should do it. The casual reveal of her knowing about her twin, the threat to her life, the actual Guinevere appearing on the stage; the perfect storm of chaos, really. (If she had killed her sister, then this wouldn't work, obviously, but if-- if Guinevere was dead, then none of this mattered anyway. Gods. Gods, she hoped that wasn't the case. And Not-Guinevere? She should hope so, too, because Morgan would rip her heart out of her chest in that scenario. With her own fucking hands!)
 
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--What? What!? If that simple start wasn't enough, Morgan certainly finds a way to terrify her further. Jennifer steps back as though to recoil, her heart pounding violently in her chest as her eyes snap to the other woman's to gauge just how serious she is. Oh. Oh she seems quite serious, doesn't she? One might have expected undisguised fear to emerge to the surface upon hearing such a gruesome revelation. But Jennifer seems... well, there are so many thoughts fighting for dominance right now that it makes the look on her face quite complicated to piece together. A strange, practiced calm with undertones of rage, fear, and confusion. A quiet storm of calculated thought that, if anything, implies she knows of this sister in question and is considering the possibilities of this scenario actually being true. (Guinevere wouldn't kill her. Too weak. She was always too damned weak! And she must be even weaker now, if she's right where she's supposed to be. The chances that she had escaped that place on her own? Unlikely. Jennifer had seen the ropes and the drugs herself. That cult, with their insatiable lust for her sister's blood, sure as hell weren't going to let her go a second time.) ...But, oh yeah, she's supposed to have amnesia. She spins around so her back is facing Morgan as she tries to cope with this information, to figure out what to say. Her fists are clenched tightly at her sides. Deep breaths. It's... it's ridiculous. Right? Guinevere couldn't have escaped... But if she had? Maybe she really would be angry enough with her to--

The possibility exists, doesn't it? But Jennifer knows her sister, the way her heart steers towards mercy like a compass. (A compass she has tried to break-- for Guinevere's own good, of course-- so many times.) Yet this Morgan le Fey seems to know her, too. Could... could they even be conspiring together? Has she already figured her out? Because no way in hell is she letting Guinevere and her lover take this away from her!

"That is... terrible news." Jennifer manages to breathe out softly, deciding that now is the time to unleash those tears she'd practiced. Burying every ounce of genuine emotion in her underneath this overzealous acting, even if it seems a touch over the top. It serves to muddy the waters and makes the truth behind her intentions... unclear. Still playing that amnesia card to her advantage, is she? "Why, I didn't even know I had a sister! No one has informed me of anything... about where I come from or who my family is. How... how in the world am I supposed to know why she would consider killing me?" She turns around to face Morgan again, her eyes wide and tearful and oh-so innocent.

Feeling more confident in her ability to swim through these treacherous waters she's suddenly found herself in, she takes a few steps to close the distance between them, taking both of Morgan's hands in hers without hesitation. She blinks through the tears, a certain sort of determination shining beneath in the face of adversity. "Thank you for coming to me with this, Morgan. I'm so glad we're friends." Perhaps Morgan was more loyal to Guinevere when she... provided more? Perhaps she's not being affectionate enough? ... When she finds the chance, she'll try to up her game. In the days she's spent inside Camelot's walls, she managed to arm herself with more information about its inner workings. Sure, she doesn't intend to stay pressed under Arthur's thumb forever, but it's undeniable that he's taken quite a shine to her. He'll be one of her greatest assets going forward, as her "beloved"-- because everyone in Camelot wants to stay in the king's good graces, don't they? "I... I should go to Arthur with the information you've given me right away. He'll find a way to keep me safe, I'm sure." Her tone has certainly changed, hasn't it, from spinning the kidnapping into being his fault before?
 
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