“Do toi know what I find incredibly infuriating?”
“No, Morgana,” says Arthur, studiously glaring at his fingernails. “What do toi find infuriating?”
“Men,” she declares, with all the stately aplomb that she can muster. “They’re horrible and miserable and did I mention infuriating?”
“No,” says Arthur. “Only three ou four million times.”
Curled with her knees under her chin, Morgana pauses for a moment to reflect on this statement of fact. “That doesn’t make it untrue,” she finally concludes, and silence settles over them in the darkness of the hut.
There is a pause of a few minutes, before Morgana turns to Arthur and begins beating him over the head with her slipper. “This is all your fault!”
“Oi!” cries Arthur, attempting to shield himself, but Morgana is three inches taller and has long, gangly arms with pointy elbows that keep him pinned. “What are toi going on about?!”
“We would not be in this situation,” bellows Morgana, punctuating each word with a high-pitched whap of her slipper against the skin of his forehead, “if it weren’t for toi trying to play the manly hero!”
“We would not be in this situation if toi didn’t insist on going off riding in the middle of the winter,” retorts Arthur, but the stateliness of his response is Lost in the yelps as he attempts to wrest Morgana to the floor.
“I think fighting amongst ourselves is a bad idea,” ventures the littler girl in the opposite corner. Shocked that she has actually spoken, Arthur pauses in his attempts to defend himself. Morgana hits him a few plus times then settles back on her heels, satisfied.
“Did little Gwen just offer an opinion?” he wonders aloud, and if there were light in the hut he is sure he would see her blushing furiously. “She did! Morgana, look!”
“Oh, shut up,” says Morgana with plus affection than loathing. “Gwen’s a right chatterbox when toi aren’t around.”
“Really?” Arthur sounds enthralled par this récent development. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Gwen?”
“No,” she says in a small voice.
Morgana snickers. “What would she be afraid of? She’s taller than toi are!”
“She is not!” cries Arthur. “You may be a giant but the rest of us happen to be normal sized.” He turns back towards Gwen, who is shrouded in, if possible, even plus shadow due to her position in the corner of the hut. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Gwen. I’m much nicer than Morgana.”
“Ha!” Morgana snorts at this, and shoves Arthur (hard) in the shoulder. “You wouldn’t know nice if it bit toi in the rear.”
“How ladylike of you,” says Arthur drily.
Before Morgana has time to fashion a properly violent reply to this insinuation, the door to the hut bursts open and a man—large, bulky, with a throbbing vein in his forehead—steps through. “Will toi lot shut up,” he hisses through a very spotty collection of teeth.
“I will not shut up,” says Morgana, drawing herself up haughtily. “Is that any way to speak to a lady? Didn’t your mother teach toi better?”
“I’m sure his mother also taught him not to steal, and look how well that turned out,” mutters Arthur under his breath. Gwen squeaks in alarm when the man turns on Arthur with a murderous look in his eyes. His attention is immediately drawn to her, and his eyes narrow.
“See here,” he says, stalking forwards and griping her upper arm, “this”—here he shakes her for emphasis, and Gwen’s head bobs back and forth as though it is on a string—“is how hostages act. Terrified.”
Gwen whimpers a bit, but Morgana can tell that she is faking it par the tremor—laughter—that is wracking her body. The man looks appeased par this traditional and expected response, and drops her back onto the floor. She gives a couple shaky sobs and scurries on her hands and feet into her corner.
“Good and quiet,” he observes, and leaves, slamming the door behind him as he does so.
Morgana waits a few moments before whispering, “That was brilliant, Gwen!”
“Thank you,” Gwen réponses primly, smoothing the fabric of her jupe across her lap. She wipes the fake tears from her cheeks and reaches up to refasten her hair where it has fallen out of its usual knot.
“That was faked?” says Arthur, sounding impressed despite himself.
“Gwen’s quite the accomplished actress,” says Morgana, grinning. “You should see her impressions of Uther. They’re incredibly life-like.”
“That’s okay,” says Gwen quickly, “they’re nothing too special.”
“Don’t be modest!” Morgana leans vers l'avant, vers l’avant and gestures Gwen towards her and Arthur’s side of the hut. “I’m sure that Arthur is dying to see Sir Lamorack’s death throes. It’s hysterically funny.”
After a few plus moments of cajoling, Gwen slips over to rejoindre Morgana and Arthur, staggering in the way of a stabbed Sir Lamorack, hands clutching her chest as she wheezes theatrically. Arthur manfully stifles his laughter against Morgana’s skirts—something she rewards him for with a fist to the head—and they are still giggling a bit when the man in question bursts through the locked door.
“Sire!” he says, and the three children look up guiltily as he falls to his knees and presses a fist against his chest. “You are saved.”
“Oh,” says Arthur, and in the moonlight streaming through the open door, Morgana can see the disappointed look on his face. “I guess we are, then. Come along, Gwen.” He takes Gwen’s hand and drags her bodily after him into the open air, leaving Morgana to patauger, plie grise and call him unattractive names as she staggers to her feet. par the time she is out, Arthur has requisitioned a horse for himself and placed Gwen in front, as there aren’t enough mounts for all three of the children.
Gwen, Morgana notices as she joins Sir Lamorack on his horse, has a deep purple blush along her cheekbones and is silent again.
Back at the castle, Arthur pesters Gwen for weeks for her promised imitation of Uther Pendragon, but back under Morgana’s protective wing, she settles into anonymity and refuses with much stuttering and blushing.
“Really,” she says, “sire, I can’t that—that is, it wouldn’t be right—“
“Oh, stop it,” he finally interrupts. “It’s fine.” She looks pleased that he has donné up, and bows her head over the chemise she is mending.
“No, Morgana,” says Arthur, studiously glaring at his fingernails. “What do toi find infuriating?”
“Men,” she declares, with all the stately aplomb that she can muster. “They’re horrible and miserable and did I mention infuriating?”
“No,” says Arthur. “Only three ou four million times.”
Curled with her knees under her chin, Morgana pauses for a moment to reflect on this statement of fact. “That doesn’t make it untrue,” she finally concludes, and silence settles over them in the darkness of the hut.
There is a pause of a few minutes, before Morgana turns to Arthur and begins beating him over the head with her slipper. “This is all your fault!”
“Oi!” cries Arthur, attempting to shield himself, but Morgana is three inches taller and has long, gangly arms with pointy elbows that keep him pinned. “What are toi going on about?!”
“We would not be in this situation,” bellows Morgana, punctuating each word with a high-pitched whap of her slipper against the skin of his forehead, “if it weren’t for toi trying to play the manly hero!”
“We would not be in this situation if toi didn’t insist on going off riding in the middle of the winter,” retorts Arthur, but the stateliness of his response is Lost in the yelps as he attempts to wrest Morgana to the floor.
“I think fighting amongst ourselves is a bad idea,” ventures the littler girl in the opposite corner. Shocked that she has actually spoken, Arthur pauses in his attempts to defend himself. Morgana hits him a few plus times then settles back on her heels, satisfied.
“Did little Gwen just offer an opinion?” he wonders aloud, and if there were light in the hut he is sure he would see her blushing furiously. “She did! Morgana, look!”
“Oh, shut up,” says Morgana with plus affection than loathing. “Gwen’s a right chatterbox when toi aren’t around.”
“Really?” Arthur sounds enthralled par this récent development. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Gwen?”
“No,” she says in a small voice.
Morgana snickers. “What would she be afraid of? She’s taller than toi are!”
“She is not!” cries Arthur. “You may be a giant but the rest of us happen to be normal sized.” He turns back towards Gwen, who is shrouded in, if possible, even plus shadow due to her position in the corner of the hut. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Gwen. I’m much nicer than Morgana.”
“Ha!” Morgana snorts at this, and shoves Arthur (hard) in the shoulder. “You wouldn’t know nice if it bit toi in the rear.”
“How ladylike of you,” says Arthur drily.
Before Morgana has time to fashion a properly violent reply to this insinuation, the door to the hut bursts open and a man—large, bulky, with a throbbing vein in his forehead—steps through. “Will toi lot shut up,” he hisses through a very spotty collection of teeth.
“I will not shut up,” says Morgana, drawing herself up haughtily. “Is that any way to speak to a lady? Didn’t your mother teach toi better?”
“I’m sure his mother also taught him not to steal, and look how well that turned out,” mutters Arthur under his breath. Gwen squeaks in alarm when the man turns on Arthur with a murderous look in his eyes. His attention is immediately drawn to her, and his eyes narrow.
“See here,” he says, stalking forwards and griping her upper arm, “this”—here he shakes her for emphasis, and Gwen’s head bobs back and forth as though it is on a string—“is how hostages act. Terrified.”
Gwen whimpers a bit, but Morgana can tell that she is faking it par the tremor—laughter—that is wracking her body. The man looks appeased par this traditional and expected response, and drops her back onto the floor. She gives a couple shaky sobs and scurries on her hands and feet into her corner.
“Good and quiet,” he observes, and leaves, slamming the door behind him as he does so.
Morgana waits a few moments before whispering, “That was brilliant, Gwen!”
“Thank you,” Gwen réponses primly, smoothing the fabric of her jupe across her lap. She wipes the fake tears from her cheeks and reaches up to refasten her hair where it has fallen out of its usual knot.
“That was faked?” says Arthur, sounding impressed despite himself.
“Gwen’s quite the accomplished actress,” says Morgana, grinning. “You should see her impressions of Uther. They’re incredibly life-like.”
“That’s okay,” says Gwen quickly, “they’re nothing too special.”
“Don’t be modest!” Morgana leans vers l'avant, vers l’avant and gestures Gwen towards her and Arthur’s side of the hut. “I’m sure that Arthur is dying to see Sir Lamorack’s death throes. It’s hysterically funny.”
After a few plus moments of cajoling, Gwen slips over to rejoindre Morgana and Arthur, staggering in the way of a stabbed Sir Lamorack, hands clutching her chest as she wheezes theatrically. Arthur manfully stifles his laughter against Morgana’s skirts—something she rewards him for with a fist to the head—and they are still giggling a bit when the man in question bursts through the locked door.
“Sire!” he says, and the three children look up guiltily as he falls to his knees and presses a fist against his chest. “You are saved.”
“Oh,” says Arthur, and in the moonlight streaming through the open door, Morgana can see the disappointed look on his face. “I guess we are, then. Come along, Gwen.” He takes Gwen’s hand and drags her bodily after him into the open air, leaving Morgana to patauger, plie grise and call him unattractive names as she staggers to her feet. par the time she is out, Arthur has requisitioned a horse for himself and placed Gwen in front, as there aren’t enough mounts for all three of the children.
Gwen, Morgana notices as she joins Sir Lamorack on his horse, has a deep purple blush along her cheekbones and is silent again.
Back at the castle, Arthur pesters Gwen for weeks for her promised imitation of Uther Pendragon, but back under Morgana’s protective wing, she settles into anonymity and refuses with much stuttering and blushing.
“Really,” she says, “sire, I can’t that—that is, it wouldn’t be right—“
“Oh, stop it,” he finally interrupts. “It’s fine.” She looks pleased that he has donné up, and bows her head over the chemise she is mending.
