gnimaerd | Fic: The Lady and the Blacksmith's Daughter (pt.3of 3)

Title: The Lady and the Blacksmith's Daughter
Rating: PG
Characters: Gwen, Morgana
Genre: Gen, friendship
Summary: The story of how Gwen became employed as Morgana's maid, and how their relationship progressed into friendship; third part of three. Part one is here, part two is here.

A/N: Written for the Gwen Battle fic challenge, beta-ed by clanne .

It was not that Morgana changed overnight after that point – more that, in looking back, Gwen recognised it as one of the bigger punctuation marks on the road to Morgana’s maturity.

Having acknowledged her unpopularity in the castle as the fact that it was, she began to tackle the issue as if it were some kind of puzzle to be cracked.

“I don’t need everyone to like me,” she told Gwen, “but they must respect me – I would rather respect than active dislike. And to be respected one has to be wise and generous and kind and if I am to be wise I must educate myself. They clearly aren’t going to tell me about the wider events of this nation so I must find out on my own…”

Here Morgana’s belief in her own will finally became of some use, for once she had set her mind to a task there was very little that could dissuade her from it – which was good, because those around her were far from encouraging.

But Morgana began insisting on spending set time in the library every day. She started by reading histories of the kingdom and those about it – taking great manuscripts back to her room and reading the more interesting parts aloud to Gwen as she tidied up about her mistress.

“Oh but they were so awful to her!” Morgana exclaimed, at one point, as she was going over the story of one particular ancient queen, “Rhiannon – they made her carry the men on her back because they blamed her for the murder of her son… but they had no proof!”

“Who is this?” Gwen quirked an eyebrow.

Morgana held up a manuscript, “women always suffer so in these histories. I mean – I know so much of this already – I had schooling until I was twelve, but… my tutors never bothered to illustrate what happened in the histories quite so graphically…”

She went back to reading, a critical frown on her delicate features.

Gwen shook her head.

It was interesting, though – these snippets of things that Morgana told her. In educating herself, the young woman was unwittingly educating her maid, also. Gwen had never learned how to read much beyond her own and her father’s name – and though she could certainly count well enough, and she knew everything her father did of armour and swords and good metal construction, her knowledge of Camelot’s history was limited to what was retold around the fire of an evening.

As well as educating herself on Albion’s past, Morgana made it her business to know something of the present, as well. She began attending court, much to Arthur’s derision and Uther’s bemusement, ignoring the disparaging glances her presence drew and stubbornly bearing witness to all the proceedings. Gwen came with her, of course, and marvelled at how well Morgana managed to pay attention. The language was dense and the subject matter often dull – although there were often arguments and conflicts that drew her attention, for they so often affected her, personally, or her father, or her neighbours.

She had had no idea of the complexities involved in Camelot’s tax system, for a start. Let alone the negotiations over boarders with neighbouring kingdoms; whether or not to accept aid for relief from the starvation caused by the quarantines across Camelot; the terrible strife caused by the marriages and deaths of the nobility.

In court, Gwen began to see how the Earth moved beneath the people in charge of her home. That so many hundreds of lives could be so drastically altered, merely by the utterance of a few mild words from one or other of these men, struck her as both terrifying and awesome. The power that reverberated in Camelot’s courts made her feel dizzy. It was intoxicating

Morgana was no-less affected – and this, Gwen later realised, was helpful in their relationship, as well – for suddenly they had something of consequence to talk about.

The first year or so of her employment with Morgana had entailed nothing but dull small talk about the quality of this or that gown, what areas of Morgana’s chambers the lady wished cleaned that day and how and in what style she wanted her hair arranged.

Now, Morgana wanted to discuss the plough tax, crime levels and, increasingly, the ban on magic.

“It’s not about safety any more,” she told Gwen, one night, as she was getting ready for bed, “if it were about that Uther would only execute those who had committed crimes with magic and exile anyone else. Perhaps a spell in the stocks for those who associate with practioners. But he has even those people killed – any matter, any crime, any controversy – the moment someone mentions magic Uther sentences them all to death. He’s paranoid, Gwen – that’s all he is. Paranoid and dangerous. It’s frightening. I think people are manipulating him. That courtier, the other day, who accused his wife of witchcraft? Everyone knows he only did it because she’s taken one of the knights as her lover – her husband just wanted his vengeance. But Uther wouldn’t listen to reason – it’s like he hears ‘magic’ and something in his mind switches off.”

Gwen had to agree.

The magic ban, having never affected her personally, bore little impact on her everyday life – but it came up so frequently in court that she could no longer be unaware of it. And increasingly it had become obvious that the laws being enforced as they were had far more to do with a personal vendetta on the king’s part than anything to do with justice and stability.

She was glad that Morgana had the sense to see it too.

Having so few other friends, the young woman used Gwen as a sponge for her ideas and grievances and theories, and Gwen found herself increasingly able to answer in kind – until they were talking almost like equals.

“There is going to be a war, you know,” Morgana told her, the winter of her sixteenth birthday. “Mercia is thrashing about like a fish in a net – I don’t see any way round it.”

Gwen, who was placing pins into Morgana’s hair, patted her mistress’s shoulder, “The King of Mercia must see how easily Camelot will crush them – he must back down soon, my lady.”

Morgana snorted, “he’s a man, Gwen, and his pride has been wounded. He is worse than an injured bear – and of course, Uther will pour his men into the kingdom just to prove that he can.”

“And hundreds will die and many more will starve,” Gwen finished for her, and Morgana managed a grim nod.

“If he would listen to a woman, I would tell Uther to take the more dignified approach,” she said, “all he has to do is close down trade routes into Mercia for a few days – they’ll starve much quicker than we will.”

Gwen quirked her head. “Why don’t you tell him to do that?”

“You think it would make a difference?”

“It can’t hurt to try.”

Morgana frowned, licking her lips – then sat up. “You know, I think I will.”

Uther did not listen to her, of course. But when Morgana, insolent as always, commented on the numbers of wounded men coming back from the ensuing war – and how such destruction could so easily have been avoided had he listened to her – he did not cast her into the dungeons for her cheek.

In fact, he began to invite her to dine with him more often.

***

A sickness swept the castle that winter. It was not, as King Uther had originally feared, the summer’s pestilence re-surfacing – for the illness was not life threatening so long as the sufferer was well-rested and ordinarily healthy.

Gaius, the court physician, declared it to be a particularly virulent strain of influenza, recommended that young children and the elderly be kept away from those suffering with it (for they were the most likely to be unable to fight the infection), but otherwise declared there to be no need for alarm.

This was not a sentiment that Morgana had much sympathy for, when she herself came down with it, a year and three months after Gwen first began working for her.

“I feel wretched,” she declared, muffled beneath her thick blankets, as Gwen straightened her pillows, “don’t look at me, Gwen – I’m sure I must be hideous.”

“You are no such thing,” Gwen told her, patting the lump of her shoulder beneath the sheets, “now – please – sit up – Gaius says it is important that you eat.”

“I shall be sick.”

“You will stay sick if you don’t eat,” Gwen pointed out, “the sooner you recover your strength, the sooner you recover entirely. A mouthful, my lady – just a mouthful before it gets cold…”

Morgana huffed unhappily but finally turned over and sat up, emerging out of her cocoon of bedclothes like some pitiful monster. She was deathly pale, her eyes bruised with dark, sleepless rings, her unkempt hair a wild exclamation mark about her head. She had to break off to turn aside and cough in a manner that sounded desperately painful, and then blotted her dripping nose on her sleeve, to little affect.

Gwen was caught between pity for her obvious discomfort, and amusement at how entirely out of character she appeared.

“Oh, my love…” she sighed, gently.

Morgana rolled her eyes. “I’m not dying, Gwen. Not that my body knows that…”

“Eat, then,” Gwen held out a bowl of warm broth, “just a little.”

Morgana rubbed her eyes, distractedly, and then leant back against the pillows that Gwen had arranged earlier so that she could prop herself up. “How’s your father?” She asked, tiredly, and Gwen raised her eyebrows.

“He’s… better – why do you ask?”

“Am I not allowed to show concern?” Morgana asked, yawning.

Gwen shrugged and smiled, “he’s better, my lady. Thank you. And you will be better too, if you eat.”

Morgana rolled her eyes again – but gingerly took the spoon that Gwen proffered to her, and swallowed down a mouthful or two of broth before her maid was satisfied.

Caring for the young woman when she was ill was a strange task. Morgana was much quieter, and in many ways more peaceable. Though her discomfort made her occasionally snappish and the lack of sleep certainly made her grumpy, there was a sweetness about her, too. She asked to lay her head in Gwen’s lap and have her hair stroked (‘like my nurse used to do’), and she appreciated the sprigs of lavender and sweet rosemary that Gwen brought her, the scent of which seemed to sooth her, and clear her blocked airways a little.

She slept fitfully and had bad dreams, and shook with fever and coughed a great deal. She was petulant and fussy, which was not so pleasant to deal with – but she seemed not to have the energy to be particularly argumentative. And she genuinely did seem to be at her happiest when she could put her head in Gwen’s lap and sleep.

Of more interest was the sudden interest King Uther took in her welfare. For the first time since beginning to work for Morgana, Gwen witnessed the king visit his ward in her chambers, and enquire of her personally how she was feeling.

For her part, Morgana was mortified to have Uther witness her looking so monstrously unpresentable – but she seemed pleased by his attention.

He visited her on and off during the week that she was ill – and had servants bring her food and flowers and trinkets.

Arthur too, much to Gwen’s surprise, shuffled into Morgana’s chambers and stiffly enquired as to her recovery. He had come down with the illness the week before and seemed to sympathise – though he could not bring himself to do anything so sensitive as to sit with her, he did proffer that court was much less entertaining without her.

The librarian asked Gwen how ‘the young lady’ was feeling, when she returned a few manuscripts that Morgana had forgotten to, and a number of the courtiers did the same thing.

“People have started to like you, you know,” Gwen remarked, handing Morgana a mug of cool water and feeling her brow.

Morgana managed a weary – but distinctly triumphant – smile.

But as her mistress recovered, Gwen found herself sickening in her place. Playing the noblewoman’s nurse had left her vulnerable to the infection – and the fact that her father, with whom she still shared a house, had also been ill could not have helped her body fight it.

The third day after Morgana first managed to get out of bed and take back on a semblance of her healthy self, Gwen awoke in the dark of the pre-dawn to the worst headache she could ever remember experiencing.

Upon managing to get up and stand, she found the world around her swimming alarmingly – made a grab for the wall to steady herself, missed, toppled over and found herself on the floor, completely unable to get up.

“Gwen?” Her father appeared in her room moments later, alarmed by the crash. He took her shoulders and helped her sit up, propping her against the bed, “what’s the matter?”

Gwen shook her head, her thoughts coming apart a little feverishly. “I… mm… my head…”

“You didn’t look particularly well last night,” her father felt her forehead, “you’ve got the sickness, Gwen – you must stay in bed.”

Gwen blinked, “…but – ”

“No buts,” and suddenly he was scooping her up as he hadn’t done since she was a very small child, his strong arms cradling her close to his chest, “you work too hard as it is – I will send someone to the Lady Morgana to say that you are unwell. Today, you will stay in bed.”

He placed her back into bed and pulled her blankets up about her, then brought her his own and his pillow, and tucked her in.

Gwen wanted very much to protest – if she missed work she would not be paid; if she was not paid, they would not have money for dinner that day. But her head pounded to the rhythm of her aching heart, and she could barely breath around the tightness in her chest and throat and lungs – her muscles ached and her stomach had knotted itself.

It was easier just to close her eyes and sleep.

When she awoke, it was light outside. She could hear the familiar clang and clatter of her father at work in the smithy next door, and the bustle of the town awake all around her. The quality of the light seemed to suggest the middle of the day, but beyond that, Gwen neither knew nor cared how long she’d been unconscious. She was shaking with fever.

“Gwen?”

Morgana miraculously appeared in her doorway, in a plain dress and cloak, with her hair tied back just so, carrying a basket.

Gwen blinked at her, for a moment rather disorientated. She sat up. “My… lady?”

“I heard you’d fallen ill,” Morgana’s expression mixed sympathy with unease at such unfamiliar surroundings, “I thought I should…” she trailed off, a little helplessly – then managed a bright smile. “I brought you something to eat.”

She pulled a rickety chair up to Gwen’s bedside, and set the basket on it, choosing to kneel on the floor to unpack it.

“My lady you… shouldn’t…” Gwen rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to clear her head.

“You can call me Morgana,” Morgana insisted, “you’re not my maid, today – you’re my patient.”

“My lady…”

“And you look frightful,” she informed Gwen, wide-eyed. “Gracious, is that what I looked like? And Uther saw me! And Arthur saw me! Oh, good Lord…”

She shook her head in apparent despair, and Gwen felt a mild flicker of amusement through the haze of her fever.

Really, though, she would far rather that Morgana leave her alone. It was very nice of her to come and see her, but she wanted desperately simply to stop shivering and go back to sleep.

Morgana produced an earthenware flask of some kind, and a bowl, and unclasped the flask to reveal hot, thick soup.

“You should eat,” she told Gwen, “keep your strength up.”

Gwen groaned. “You’ve come to take your revenge for me making you eat while you were sick, haven’t you?”

“No,” Morgana informed her, looking just a little too smug, “I’m being nice. Look – see? I can be nice and helpful. I can take care of people all by myself, just like you do.”

Gwen allowed herself a weak smile and rolled onto her side, licking her dry lips. “Are you alright without me, then?”

“I suppose,” Morgana was concentrating on pouring the soup into a bowl, “it’s very quiet without you, though. I’ve borrowed one of the chamber maids to keep my rooms tidy, but she’s ever so dull. Can’t talk about the plough tax at all.”

“Has the new reform gone through?” Gwen frowned in concern, but Morgana shook her head.

“No – Uther can’t get the southern lords to agree on the terms, thank goodness,” she produced a spoon, stirring the soup, “I’ve been trying to talk Uther out of it… but I can’t stay awake at dinner properly at the moment… still tired from being ill, I suppose.”

“You should still be resting,” Gwen pointed out, and Morgana snorted.

“This, from the girl who looks like Death himself may appear at any given moment in order to cart her off,” she impulsively put a hand on Gwen’s forehead, “and you’re burning up, poor thing.”

“You could get sick again,” Gwen protested, but Morgana shook her head dismissively.

“Then I’ll get sick again. It’s not as if Uther can’t afford my medicine. Here, I brought you some of that elixir Gaius made me – for the head ache, remember? It’ll help you sleep, too.” She held up a small glass bottle, half-full of clear liquid. “I warn you, it tastes awful, but it works well enough – and there’s some honey in here to help it go down easier – but you need to eat first.”

Morgana set about helping her sit up. She propped up Gwen’s pillows and fussed over her blankets.

“These won’t do,” she sighed, “they have holes in them – oh Gwen, you’ll freeze!”

“I do alright,” Gwen muttered, suddenly self-conscious of her own poverty.

Seeming to realise how she sounded, Morgana blushed, “yes, of course you do – here, um – eat.”

“I’ll be sick,” Gwen shook her head.

“That’s what I said,” Morgana pointed out, “but I wasn’t, and eating helped. Now, come along…”

“My lady – Morgana…” but Morgana looked so pleased to hear her use her given name, that Gwen hadn’t the heart to deny her any longer.

She grudgingly took a few mouthfuls of soup to keep Morgana happy, and, with the promise of sweet relief from the headache, she also swallowed down what was left of Gaius’ elixir.

Of course, it tasted fowl – but Morgan promptly put a spoonful of honey into Gwen’s mouth before she could gag, the rich, sugary ooze quickly drowning the bitter tang of the medicine. She swallowed, trying not to grimace, then coughed.

“Now you can go to sleep,” Morgana told her – an order that Gwen was all too happy to obey.

The last thing she really remembered was Morgana stroking her hair as she closed her eyes.

When she awoke again, it was dark. There was more food on the chair by her bed – and she was lying under something far softer and heavier than her normal blanket. Some bemused exploration later revealed velvet; silk; fine linen; thick wool.

The same sheets she changed every day: Morgana’s own.

Morgana didn’t say a word about it when she managed to return to work a few days later, bringing the fine bedclothes with her. Gwen didn’t ask how or why she’d done it and Morgana only looked pleased to see her.

But it was not a gesture that was easily forgotten, and as Gwen found herself slipping into the habit of calling Morgana by her name, omitting her title more and more often – as Morgana grew and matured and became the wittiest, kindest, most brilliantly stubborn woman Gwen had ever known – it became harder and harder to think of her as an employer, a mistress who gave orders to be obeyed.

For all Gwen tried not to get ideas above her station, she fancied that it was a fine thing, to count a Lady as her friend.

Current Mood: accomplished

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

heather11483.livejournal.com

Oh, this is a great take on how Gwen and Morgana started out. I liked seeing glimpses of Gwen's need to speak up for herself that we see in canon, developing from a young age. And Morgana being a terror is perfect, of course. XD Her development and growing awareness of the world was just lovely to read and very plausible. I liked the little things, like how Uther comes to see her as more of an equal and starts inviting her to dinner, and the fact that people used Uther's hatred of magic to get others killed (don't ask why that stuck out so much for me LOL, but it was a nice touch among many).

Just fantastic, really. Gwen and Morgana gen are my favorite thing to read in this fandom and it's just so hard to find.

One tiny thing - I doubt Gaius would have a name for the illness yet; influenza's an 18th century term (I think). Probably he'd have a different name for it -- 'sweating sickness', or something?

From:

another weird queer depressive on the internet

Fic: The Lady and the Blacksmith's Daughter (pt.3of 3)

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