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snippetage
In honour of new Merlin, have a snippet from a longer story that is currently undecided between being angst&doom or OT4 adventure. Gwen&Morgana, mostly pre-series.
When they were young, very young, twelve and thirteen and Morgana had tutors she passionately loathed and lessons she had little interest in—apart from weapons training, which she never missed—she once proclaimed, dramatically, 'I will not be stifled in this prison, Gwen. We must get away from here at once.'
The declaration was accompanied by a flourish of her hand, resulting in an overturned inkstand and a rapidly spreading stain on Morgana's pretty yellow gown.
Gwen spent the next few minutes hastily removing the old volumes on Morgana's table from way of harm—because Geoffrey would be extremely unhappy otherwise—and mopping up the spilt ink from the table and the floor. Morgana stood by in her ink-stained gown, impatience written in her posture, her face. 'Forget the dress,' she said irritably when Gwen attempted to ascertain the damage. It was an utter disaster. Head Laundress would not be pleased. 'Did you hear what I said?'
Gwen had been in Morgana's service for almost a year at that time: enough to recognise that stubborn tilt of her head. And so Gwen said, ever practical, 'Er, where to, my lady?'
Morgana appeared somewhat taken aback. Evidently it hadn't occurred to her to think of a destination.
She hesitated, just so, and then said firmly, 'To the end of the world, if necessary.' And, because Gwen remained silent, 'Will you come with me to the end of the world, Guinevere?'
It was, by all means, an order. Morgana's tone was as imperious as ever. She had drawn herself up to her full height—which, at that time, was half a head shorter than Gwen—and was standing very straight, lips pursed together in a manner that was uncannily reminiscent of the King.
It was an order, but there was a plaintive note underneath that made Gwen say, 'I will, my lady,' without so much as a thought.
Morgana's smile was like the morning sun. Gwen couldn't look away. 'Excellent! So that's settled, then.' To Gwen she sounded a little relieved. 'Pack our things. Only the bare necessities, you understand? Nothing more.'
They sneaked out through one of the back entrances—with Morgana throwing longing glances at the stables—and carefully made their way through the crowded marketplace.
'It looks like rain,' Gwen said, noting the grey tinge to the sky.
'We'll be fine,' Morgana said airily. There was a gleam in her eyes now, one that would become all too familiar to Gwen over the years.
Gwen wasn't so certain, but she kept her misgivings to herself.
Morgana was less cheerful by the time they reached the woods beyond the city gates. Gwen was exhausted and Morgana was hungry—as was evident to Gwen from her rising temper—and objected only slightly when Gwen proposed a stop by the stream.
They settled down on the grass and helped themselves to cold meat and bread, Morgana's spirits rising even as their supplies—the precious little that Gwen had managed to steal from the kitchens—dwindled. And, truth be told, Gwen was feeling rather cheerful herself, almost ridiculously so, as she watched her lady splash about barefoot in the water.
Morgana emerged from the stream a little while later, flushed, giggling, breeches half-wet. 'I love it here,' she said, collapsing on the grass. 'It smells like the sea.'
'It smells like rain,' Gwen said. 'Not that I, um, would know what the sea smells like. Or question your knowledge of the same.' Morgana, of course, had grown up near the sea, in the faraway west country.
Morgana merely hummed, content. 'You've never been to the sea, have you?'
'No, my lady,' Gwen said. Camelot had always been home to Gwen, and it was odd to think of Morgana now, in a land other than this.
Gwen tried to imagine the sea, wide and magnificent, enormous white waves crashing on the grey rocks. Morgana, barefoot on the white sand and laughing, in her element, at home. 'I'd, I'd like to visit, someday. If I can,' Gwen said, because she wasn't a very imaginative person.
'You'll like it,' Morgana said quietly. Her eyes were closed. There were bits of grass sticking to her hair.
The air had grown cool and damp, the sky a darker shade of slate. Gwen thought they should move, back to the town—which Gwen would prefer—or to the end of the world, if Morgana still insisted, although where that would take them Gwen had no idea.
'Just a little while more,' Morgana said when Gwen put forth the suggestion, eyes resolutely shut. 'Please.'
Her tone now was very similar to the one she employed when she didn't wish to be dragged out of bed in the morning. Gwen said nothing; ignored the cold droplet on her wrist and the next one, on her forehead.
The glade was quiet, save for the faint rustle of grass and the soft murmur of the stream.
After a while, it began to pour.
They were soaked to the bone when they reached the castle, brushing past a gaping Arthur on their way to Morgana's quarters.
The next morning, Morgana woke up with a cold, and Gwen had to bring her hot soup from the kitchens and foul-smelling potions from a disapproving Gaius.
Gwen thought of that day sometimes: the voices in the marketplace and the cool waters of the stream, the two small figures on their trip to the end of the world.
Mostly, it made her smile.
That summer she thought of it often, more often than she perhaps would, before. Smiles were in short supply that summer and it was an old memory, a worn memory, frayed around the edges. Familiar.
Perhaps, Gwen thought now, all Morgana needed was some fresh air. A day for herself.
*
When they were young, very young, twelve and thirteen and Morgana had tutors she passionately loathed and lessons she had little interest in—apart from weapons training, which she never missed—she once proclaimed, dramatically, 'I will not be stifled in this prison, Gwen. We must get away from here at once.'
The declaration was accompanied by a flourish of her hand, resulting in an overturned inkstand and a rapidly spreading stain on Morgana's pretty yellow gown.
Gwen spent the next few minutes hastily removing the old volumes on Morgana's table from way of harm—because Geoffrey would be extremely unhappy otherwise—and mopping up the spilt ink from the table and the floor. Morgana stood by in her ink-stained gown, impatience written in her posture, her face. 'Forget the dress,' she said irritably when Gwen attempted to ascertain the damage. It was an utter disaster. Head Laundress would not be pleased. 'Did you hear what I said?'
Gwen had been in Morgana's service for almost a year at that time: enough to recognise that stubborn tilt of her head. And so Gwen said, ever practical, 'Er, where to, my lady?'
Morgana appeared somewhat taken aback. Evidently it hadn't occurred to her to think of a destination.
She hesitated, just so, and then said firmly, 'To the end of the world, if necessary.' And, because Gwen remained silent, 'Will you come with me to the end of the world, Guinevere?'
It was, by all means, an order. Morgana's tone was as imperious as ever. She had drawn herself up to her full height—which, at that time, was half a head shorter than Gwen—and was standing very straight, lips pursed together in a manner that was uncannily reminiscent of the King.
It was an order, but there was a plaintive note underneath that made Gwen say, 'I will, my lady,' without so much as a thought.
Morgana's smile was like the morning sun. Gwen couldn't look away. 'Excellent! So that's settled, then.' To Gwen she sounded a little relieved. 'Pack our things. Only the bare necessities, you understand? Nothing more.'
They sneaked out through one of the back entrances—with Morgana throwing longing glances at the stables—and carefully made their way through the crowded marketplace.
'It looks like rain,' Gwen said, noting the grey tinge to the sky.
'We'll be fine,' Morgana said airily. There was a gleam in her eyes now, one that would become all too familiar to Gwen over the years.
Gwen wasn't so certain, but she kept her misgivings to herself.
Morgana was less cheerful by the time they reached the woods beyond the city gates. Gwen was exhausted and Morgana was hungry—as was evident to Gwen from her rising temper—and objected only slightly when Gwen proposed a stop by the stream.
They settled down on the grass and helped themselves to cold meat and bread, Morgana's spirits rising even as their supplies—the precious little that Gwen had managed to steal from the kitchens—dwindled. And, truth be told, Gwen was feeling rather cheerful herself, almost ridiculously so, as she watched her lady splash about barefoot in the water.
Morgana emerged from the stream a little while later, flushed, giggling, breeches half-wet. 'I love it here,' she said, collapsing on the grass. 'It smells like the sea.'
'It smells like rain,' Gwen said. 'Not that I, um, would know what the sea smells like. Or question your knowledge of the same.' Morgana, of course, had grown up near the sea, in the faraway west country.
Morgana merely hummed, content. 'You've never been to the sea, have you?'
'No, my lady,' Gwen said. Camelot had always been home to Gwen, and it was odd to think of Morgana now, in a land other than this.
Gwen tried to imagine the sea, wide and magnificent, enormous white waves crashing on the grey rocks. Morgana, barefoot on the white sand and laughing, in her element, at home. 'I'd, I'd like to visit, someday. If I can,' Gwen said, because she wasn't a very imaginative person.
'You'll like it,' Morgana said quietly. Her eyes were closed. There were bits of grass sticking to her hair.
The air had grown cool and damp, the sky a darker shade of slate. Gwen thought they should move, back to the town—which Gwen would prefer—or to the end of the world, if Morgana still insisted, although where that would take them Gwen had no idea.
'Just a little while more,' Morgana said when Gwen put forth the suggestion, eyes resolutely shut. 'Please.'
Her tone now was very similar to the one she employed when she didn't wish to be dragged out of bed in the morning. Gwen said nothing; ignored the cold droplet on her wrist and the next one, on her forehead.
The glade was quiet, save for the faint rustle of grass and the soft murmur of the stream.
After a while, it began to pour.
They were soaked to the bone when they reached the castle, brushing past a gaping Arthur on their way to Morgana's quarters.
The next morning, Morgana woke up with a cold, and Gwen had to bring her hot soup from the kitchens and foul-smelling potions from a disapproving Gaius.
Gwen thought of that day sometimes: the voices in the marketplace and the cool waters of the stream, the two small figures on their trip to the end of the world.
Mostly, it made her smile.
That summer she thought of it often, more often than she perhaps would, before. Smiles were in short supply that summer and it was an old memory, a worn memory, frayed around the edges. Familiar.
Perhaps, Gwen thought now, all Morgana needed was some fresh air. A day for herself.
*
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The show always gives this sense of warmth between the two of them, born out of years of friendship. I love it, and wish there was more of it on-screen.
Thanks for reading!