Pairings: Morgana & Uther, Morgana & Arthur
Spoilers: through 4.03 "The Wicked Day"
Word Count: 621
Summary: She feels it.
And the father who must be killed
Is the blight upon your blighted life
(Morrissey, The Father Who Must Be Killed)
She feels it.
When she was eleven, she threw a goblet at Arthur’s head and did not miss. She suspected that Uther would lock her in the dungeon for that; instead, he chuckled. At last, someone to keep the boy on his toes. Arthur didn’t speak to her for days. When he finally stepped into her chambers, she was certain it was to tell her that she had been banished, and would have to fend her way through forest living, fighting bandits and woods witches at every turn. Instead, he asked her (or the floor, to be more exact) whether she would like to train with him. Everyone else plays it safe, he said. They don’t want to get thrown in the stocks for giving the prince a scratch. Morgana would not play it safe, and told him so. He smiled at her (or the floor, to be more exact).
They practiced outside every morning with wooden swords. She wore breeches and tied her hair back impatiently, and felt much better than she had cooped up inside for months and months. Arthur was good, but she was quicker. She gave him scratches and bruises aplenty, tempting the stocks at every turn; she did not make it out unscratched or unbruised herself. She loved it, and loved Camelot for the first time. At home she was never allowed to run free, and had no brothers to beat.
One morning, she knocked Arthur to the ground – it was mostly luck, but not all – and had her wooden blade to his throat. It would not draw blood, of course, but it made the same promise.
You’re dead, she said, grinning.
You wish, he scowled, but he knew it too. She could tell.
And then – laughter, and two hands clapped together. She looked over and there was Uther watching them, not striding with purpose down the corridors or holding council in the hall, doing whatever big boring serious-faced things kings did. Her cheeks went hot in spite of the cool air. She could not help smiling.
There, you see, Arthur, he said, coming to them, You’ve finally met your match. And then, quieter, with a smile just for her, Well done, Morgana. One gloved finger brushed her cheek, easy and thoughtless and affectionate, and for a moment she forgot her father was dead.
She leant a hand to her opponent; Arthur took it, though he grumbled all the while. The three of them walked back to the castle together.
And so of course she feels it. She’d known she would. She’d counted on it. But she had not known it would be like this, and if she had known—
The door opens. Agravaine again. She wonders if the day will ever come when it is anyone else.
“Uther’s dead, isn’t he?”
“How did you know?”
“I felt it.” Well done, Morgana. “I felt his pain.”
“I thought Uther’s death would be cause of celebration.”
So did I, so did I, so did I.
“Arthur will replace him.” There, you see, Arthur. You’ve finally met your match. “There’ll be no celebration until I take my place upon the throne.” You’re dead. (You wish.)
“That may be sooner than you think. Arthur is young. Untested. He will look to his trusted uncle for council, and I will ensure that he fails.”
She thinks of bending down to give Arthur her hand. Pulling him to his feet, so that he might stand beside her. Can you feel that? she wonders, stupidly, and ought to hope he doesn’t.