ficlet: Dark Places For Remembering
Mar. 2nd, 2012 01:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
leashy_bebesTitle: Dark Places For Remembering
Pairing: Arthur/Morgana
Rating: PG-13
Summary: During her short reign, Morgana sleeps in her brother's bed. Written for a KMM fill here.
Content notes: Incest in the form of a couple of kisses before they knew the truth, and incest-flavoured thoughts.
Word Count: ~500 words
Sometimes she feels that she could raze Camelot to the ground and it would still be tainted by their presence.
Throughout the castle, she has had all signs of them both removed. The hated Pendragon crest, mocking her with its bold colours and rampant dragon, is gone from sight. It pleases her to know that a couple remain, shredded to rags for cleaning, or dirtied by animals in the stables or kennels.
She wears a crown that was never Uther's, and certainly never Igraine's (that paragon of womanhood who preserves her perfection only because she died for a madman's whim). She has the servants bring her food Uther disdained, wears clothes that he would have pronounced unsuitable.
Arthur's defiant knights linger in her dungeons and she looks forward to breaking them, one by one. It is just another way to ensure that her brother (hers, hers, her brother) is utterly gone.
Everywhere except here, in his room. Her room now. Just like everything that was once his is now hers. The remains of the last bath he took here are still in the tub and sometimes she dips her fingers into the cool water, imagining the way it touched every vulnerable place on his body. A pair of his muddied boots stand by the doorway. They will stay until they turn to stone, a suitably humble reminder of a fallen, failed king.
She remembers the times they kissed. They were both young, but she was always his elder, always the one to push him away and laugh at his impassioned attempts. She didn't want him, then. Not really. There were things she needed to know, and he was simply the best person with whom to learn them.
She remembers the way his blunt fingers snagged on her hair, how his mouth was wet and devouring, greedy and conquering. How he never intended to hurt, but managed it anyway, in small, clumsy ways. In memories like that, angular and vivid, she almost laughs for how obvious it is. Of course, of course they are kin. What other man could sire two such children?
Arthur's bed is still hung with red drapes, still made up with sheets that smell of him, and she sleeps peacefully there. She remembers a time, before all this, when she thought she would marry Arthur. Thought that, as far as men went, he was bearable. Once, she thought she would need him. She doesn't. She doesn't have anyone, and she doesn't need anyone.
She never will.
At night, she delivers her own climaxes again and again until the bed smells of them both, smells of a union that never was.
Pairing: Arthur/Morgana
Rating: PG-13
Summary: During her short reign, Morgana sleeps in her brother's bed. Written for a KMM fill here.
Content notes: Incest in the form of a couple of kisses before they knew the truth, and incest-flavoured thoughts.
Word Count: ~500 words
Sometimes she feels that she could raze Camelot to the ground and it would still be tainted by their presence.
Throughout the castle, she has had all signs of them both removed. The hated Pendragon crest, mocking her with its bold colours and rampant dragon, is gone from sight. It pleases her to know that a couple remain, shredded to rags for cleaning, or dirtied by animals in the stables or kennels.
She wears a crown that was never Uther's, and certainly never Igraine's (that paragon of womanhood who preserves her perfection only because she died for a madman's whim). She has the servants bring her food Uther disdained, wears clothes that he would have pronounced unsuitable.
Arthur's defiant knights linger in her dungeons and she looks forward to breaking them, one by one. It is just another way to ensure that her brother (hers, hers, her brother) is utterly gone.
Everywhere except here, in his room. Her room now. Just like everything that was once his is now hers. The remains of the last bath he took here are still in the tub and sometimes she dips her fingers into the cool water, imagining the way it touched every vulnerable place on his body. A pair of his muddied boots stand by the doorway. They will stay until they turn to stone, a suitably humble reminder of a fallen, failed king.
She remembers the times they kissed. They were both young, but she was always his elder, always the one to push him away and laugh at his impassioned attempts. She didn't want him, then. Not really. There were things she needed to know, and he was simply the best person with whom to learn them.
She remembers the way his blunt fingers snagged on her hair, how his mouth was wet and devouring, greedy and conquering. How he never intended to hurt, but managed it anyway, in small, clumsy ways. In memories like that, angular and vivid, she almost laughs for how obvious it is. Of course, of course they are kin. What other man could sire two such children?
Arthur's bed is still hung with red drapes, still made up with sheets that smell of him, and she sleeps peacefully there. She remembers a time, before all this, when she thought she would marry Arthur. Thought that, as far as men went, he was bearable. Once, she thought she would need him. She doesn't. She doesn't have anyone, and she doesn't need anyone.
She never will.
At night, she delivers her own climaxes again and again until the bed smells of them both, smells of a union that never was.