021 - fic: if you love me, won't you let me know - arthur/morgana
if you love me, won't you let me know. a merlin fic, g. 928 words.
morgana is no stranger to nightmares. in fact, she's all too familiar with them. almost as well as the loneliness of childhood. but relief might just come in the form of arthur pendragon.
Sleep has never come easily to her. The hours between when she slips between the sheets and carefully climbs out are the longest of each day, spent turning restlessly, almost afraid to succumb to the blankness of mind that eventually envelops her. Because when it does, it never lasts long. The black disappears, instead filled with vivid and haunting images that jar and affront, so incredibly real that she could reach out and touch them, as a solid, substantial being.
She wakes, gasping, shaking, shivering, trying to assure herself that the wall of her chambers is reality, not the monsters pent up inside her head. Sometimes, she can't even tell the difference.
---
She complains to Arthur, coming to him in the middle of the night. The passageways are dark, the stone walls cold, and she stumbles through, collapsing on his bed, whispering softly about the monsters, about the things she saw. How they won't go away. As he wakes, his eyes slowly opening from his own, slightly more peaceful slumber to meet hers, they carry an age she hasn't seen about him before.
Instead of being irritable, annoying, he comforts her, holding her hand and walking her back to her room. Quite gentlemanly, she thinks. For once, she can see why the cocky little prince is that - a prince.
The next morning, however, she finds herself drafted off to the old white-haired physician, Gaius, on the orders of Uther. As the guards wait for her to rise from her chair, after the morning meal, she pouts angrily, hissing to Arthur, you told. You told, you told, you told. He shrugs, looking down at the table, knocking his feet together, breaking the bread on his plate into little portions. Uther stares strangely at the two, but says nothing.
It's for your own good, Morgana. Maybe the dreams'll go away. He says. She doesn't listen.
She comes back with a sleeping draught, and takes a swig, before her small, childish form presses into the mattress. She does this every night, from there-on in.
---
It works, for a while. When it doesn't, she refuses to travel the journey to Arthur's chamber. He'd just tell again. Eventually, they pick up on it. Back to Gaius' she goes, and back she comes with something stronger. Arthur looks on, concerned, his boyish complexion framed with things beyond his years. But she doesn't notice.
---
Months pass, the moon wanes, the sun waxes. Leaves fall from trees, tears drip from eyes, but the nightmares continue. She is silently convinced they'll never go away, and silent during the day. She no longer talks to Arthur, at least not often. The occasional greetings exchanged, the two keep their eyes down most of the time. She is lonely. He plays with the other children, whereas, she only used to have him. Now, she has no-one to keep her company.
No-one, except her nightmares.
----
She wakes from a fitful sleep, her breath carrying her ribcage up and down in jolting motions, hysteria creeping. Rain pitter-patters, she can see the fat drops splashing on her window. It's cold, and she scrunches up some of the sheets, in vain, to keep her warm in the darkness. Everything seems so much more real, the images haunting her sleep almost seem transplanted into her chambers, surrounding her from all sides.
Her breath grows more uneven, grip on the sheets grows tighter, her knuckles whiten. Her eyes flicker around the room, trying to find something, and she's not sure what. She's terrified, drawing her knees in to her chest, assuming a half-fetal position. The room suddenly seems so big, and her so small.
Her heart pumps through her chest, beating louder and louder, they're coming closer and closer, breathing in faster and faster. And suddenly, she cracks. Her bare feet pitter-patter loudly down the hall, slapping against the cold tiles. Her hands are still gripping the sheet, which she tore from the bed, and it drapes around her body as a strange cloak.
She bursts into the room, collapsing at the foot of his bed, resting her head on the corner the mattress makes. She takes a moment to slow her breathing, and the darkness entreats.
Morgana. She hears, and jolts upwards. But it's just Arthur. She's suprised at his calm demeanour. They haven't talked properly for months now, but he's smiling at her, his blonde hair messy from sleep. Are.. you alright? He peers at her, the gentleman inside him arising once again. It seems awfully familiar to last time, or rather, the first time.
Nightmare. She whispers, and it's enough. He understands, pulling her into his grip, suddenly standing up at the foot of his bed now.
If it's... not too much to ask, what did you see? He enquires, as she rests her head on his shoulder, and her breathing slows, ribcage moving normally. He's very comforting.
She shakes her head violently, as if to exclaim that she would most definetly not be sharing her nightmares with him. But he curls his index finger up, and hooks her chin as he presses it in the little indent at the bottom of her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his. Tell me, Morgana.
Camelot.. falling. Everything... burning. Uther dying... He shares a panicked look with her. And... you. kissing me. She looks awkwardly down at her bare feet.
He seems almost offended, dropping her from the embrace. Why... why's that so bad? He accuses.
And then, quite simply, he presses his lips to hers.
I... guess it's not.
Please, please, please. Let me know what you think! It would be much appreciated :)
morgana is no stranger to nightmares. in fact, she's all too familiar with them. almost as well as the loneliness of childhood. but relief might just come in the form of arthur pendragon.
Sleep has never come easily to her. The hours between when she slips between the sheets and carefully climbs out are the longest of each day, spent turning restlessly, almost afraid to succumb to the blankness of mind that eventually envelops her. Because when it does, it never lasts long. The black disappears, instead filled with vivid and haunting images that jar and affront, so incredibly real that she could reach out and touch them, as a solid, substantial being.
She wakes, gasping, shaking, shivering, trying to assure herself that the wall of her chambers is reality, not the monsters pent up inside her head. Sometimes, she can't even tell the difference.
---
She complains to Arthur, coming to him in the middle of the night. The passageways are dark, the stone walls cold, and she stumbles through, collapsing on his bed, whispering softly about the monsters, about the things she saw. How they won't go away. As he wakes, his eyes slowly opening from his own, slightly more peaceful slumber to meet hers, they carry an age she hasn't seen about him before.
Instead of being irritable, annoying, he comforts her, holding her hand and walking her back to her room. Quite gentlemanly, she thinks. For once, she can see why the cocky little prince is that - a prince.
The next morning, however, she finds herself drafted off to the old white-haired physician, Gaius, on the orders of Uther. As the guards wait for her to rise from her chair, after the morning meal, she pouts angrily, hissing to Arthur, you told. You told, you told, you told. He shrugs, looking down at the table, knocking his feet together, breaking the bread on his plate into little portions. Uther stares strangely at the two, but says nothing.
It's for your own good, Morgana. Maybe the dreams'll go away. He says. She doesn't listen.
She comes back with a sleeping draught, and takes a swig, before her small, childish form presses into the mattress. She does this every night, from there-on in.
---
It works, for a while. When it doesn't, she refuses to travel the journey to Arthur's chamber. He'd just tell again. Eventually, they pick up on it. Back to Gaius' she goes, and back she comes with something stronger. Arthur looks on, concerned, his boyish complexion framed with things beyond his years. But she doesn't notice.
---
Months pass, the moon wanes, the sun waxes. Leaves fall from trees, tears drip from eyes, but the nightmares continue. She is silently convinced they'll never go away, and silent during the day. She no longer talks to Arthur, at least not often. The occasional greetings exchanged, the two keep their eyes down most of the time. She is lonely. He plays with the other children, whereas, she only used to have him. Now, she has no-one to keep her company.
No-one, except her nightmares.
----
She wakes from a fitful sleep, her breath carrying her ribcage up and down in jolting motions, hysteria creeping. Rain pitter-patters, she can see the fat drops splashing on her window. It's cold, and she scrunches up some of the sheets, in vain, to keep her warm in the darkness. Everything seems so much more real, the images haunting her sleep almost seem transplanted into her chambers, surrounding her from all sides.
Her breath grows more uneven, grip on the sheets grows tighter, her knuckles whiten. Her eyes flicker around the room, trying to find something, and she's not sure what. She's terrified, drawing her knees in to her chest, assuming a half-fetal position. The room suddenly seems so big, and her so small.
Her heart pumps through her chest, beating louder and louder, they're coming closer and closer, breathing in faster and faster. And suddenly, she cracks. Her bare feet pitter-patter loudly down the hall, slapping against the cold tiles. Her hands are still gripping the sheet, which she tore from the bed, and it drapes around her body as a strange cloak.
She bursts into the room, collapsing at the foot of his bed, resting her head on the corner the mattress makes. She takes a moment to slow her breathing, and the darkness entreats.
Morgana. She hears, and jolts upwards. But it's just Arthur. She's suprised at his calm demeanour. They haven't talked properly for months now, but he's smiling at her, his blonde hair messy from sleep. Are.. you alright? He peers at her, the gentleman inside him arising once again. It seems awfully familiar to last time, or rather, the first time.
Nightmare. She whispers, and it's enough. He understands, pulling her into his grip, suddenly standing up at the foot of his bed now.
If it's... not too much to ask, what did you see? He enquires, as she rests her head on his shoulder, and her breathing slows, ribcage moving normally. He's very comforting.
She shakes her head violently, as if to exclaim that she would most definetly not be sharing her nightmares with him. But he curls his index finger up, and hooks her chin as he presses it in the little indent at the bottom of her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his. Tell me, Morgana.
Camelot.. falling. Everything... burning. Uther dying... He shares a panicked look with her. And... you. kissing me. She looks awkwardly down at her bare feet.
He seems almost offended, dropping her from the embrace. Why... why's that so bad? He accuses.
And then, quite simply, he presses his lips to hers.
I... guess it's not.
Please, please, please. Let me know what you think! It would be much appreciated :)