odette_river | replaces what once was love

Title: Replaces what once was love
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Pairing: Morgan/Arthur
Rating: PG to PG-13
Word count: 428
Summary: In another world, this would be the moment when she looks up and meets his eyes.
Written for

comment_fic.

She is different when she returns to Camelot. Her hair is longer. That’s the first thing he notices. It’s well past her shoulder blades now, brushing at the small of her back. He remembers running his fingers through that hair. He remembers how they’d catch amongst the thick strands and how she’d sigh, somewhere near the back of her throat.

He remembers all this in the space of the few seconds that it takes her to curtsy to him and turn to find a place beside Lancelot to sit. She doesn’t look back at him. In fact, she turns completely away from him and starts talking to Lancelot. She laughs at something Lancelot says, and when she reaches out to touch Lancelot’s arm all he knows is that she will never, ever touch him like that again.

In another world, this would be the moment when she looks up and meets his eyes. They would share a look full of anguish and longing over something that can never be. Then she would squeeze Lancelot’s hand and mean it for someone else. None of this happens.

He looks away and closes his hand into a fist.

He doesn’t see her again for three days. He asks Guinevere to have a few of her ladies make sure she is comfortable. Guinevere just rolls her eyes and tells him that she already has.

Of course she has. Guinevere is a good queen and a good wife. She doesn’t deserve him, especially when he can’t even think of her and his sister at the same time without feeling guilty. And his sister doesn’t deserve him either. She is obviously stronger than he will ever be.

On the fourth day, they meet in the stables. He plans to ride far away from Camelot and pretend that he is not the king, at least for a few hours, until he has to turn around and come back to a world of half-truths and half-promises and half-magics. Then she comes in. She is unescorted.

“I’m glad you’ve come back,” he says.

“It was time,” she says.

“Are you going for a ride?” he asks. “It would be my honor to accompany you.” He is remembering a field of wildflowers, the color of undyed linen, the beams of sunlight through her fingers.

“No,” she says. “Not today.”

He is remember his palms against the curve of her hip, the red gown she had on the day she left, the fact that she will always and forever be his sister. He is remembering why he should forget.