Gwen had never seen Morgana drunk before, and it was truly a sight to behold.
Often, of course, there were now and again instances in which Morgana would soothe the dullness of political feasts by hiding her face in the fanned rim of her goblet and her lips would emerge red stained and brimming with giggles. On those nights she would return to her chambers tipsy; a stumble marring her step and a splotchy flush speckled across her cheeks. Sometimes she would fall asleep in the bath, and when Gwen had to wake her and transfer her to her bed she felt more intrusive than she usually did seeing Morgana bare—not when it was in such a childish way, unlike the mornings she would pull layers of velvets and beads over Morgana’s curves and let herself ignore the urge to touch the sun dappled skin even just chastely.
Still, Morgana had always possessed the good sense to never immerse herself in full inebriation. She was all too familiar with the lords and duchesses that would prance into gilded halls that they filled with their puffy sleeves and skirts, tittering and kissing Uther’s ass, drowned in potent wine and ancient ales—Gwen having to refill their goblets so many times her arms would tire from filling and pouring—an hour into the dinner, and Morgana hated them. She spoke to Gwen with a disdain for feeble, flippant drunks who wasted the pleasure of a good thing and released themselves to the sloppy claws of the foolish acts of drunkenness.
That’s why Gwen was so thoroughly taken aback when she watched Morgana, surrounded by knights and nobles chatting solemnly with one another and nibbling stingily at their thinly sliced steak, throw back gobletful after gobletful of rich red wine. She wasn’t even savoring it like she usually did when she slipped into hazy tipsiness, revelling in every slow, deep swig, taking the time to swirl the dark liquid in its gold haloed goblet and licking her lips to chase the remaining sweetness. Tonight she was fast and aggressive, throwing back her head and slamming the empty goblet on the table, frowning and softly demanding another. Gwen hurried to grant her request, leaning down to whisper a, “You may wish to slow down, my lady.”
Morgana’s glare was already heavy lidded, the present being her fourth drink that night. “Why shan’t I continue? Uther isn’t slowing his filthy mouth.”
Gwen used the end of her sleeve to dab at the smear of sticky plum lipstick that painted the rim of Morgana’s goblet, sneaking a glance over to Uther at the head of the table. He was on another relentless tirade about the looming threat of sorcerers still lurking in Camelot, recanting his worn tales of dangerous magic that had ravaged the kingdom. He was almost done, he promised, Camelot was nearly cleansed of those past horrors. “Just be wise, my lady.”
Later, Gwen doubted if Morgana even heard the last chide through the buzzing that was no doubt filling her ears with the fluffy cloud of intoxication that had formed within her head, because she did not take Gwen’s advice. By the end of the night, she was leaning into a solid but embarrassed looking Arthur’s side, arm slung around his shoulder and head looking merrily.
“She’s clean gone,” he shook his head in the disapproving way Uther had, dragging Morgana through the doorway of her chambers and dumping her—as gently as he could manage, assumingly—on the bed.
Morgana struggled to sit up, reaching toward them. “Arthur!” She gasped. “Hugs!”
Eyes widening with what Gwen could only describe as sheer terror, Arthur backed away. “Night, Guinevere. Take care of her.”
He left, and Morgana’s attention was averted. “Gwen! Hugs!”
“We need to get you cleaned up, Lady Morgana. Let me go draw your bath.”
When Gwen returned to the bed, Morgana’s legs were tangled in the length of her boot laces, copper heels thudding against one of the bedposts. She looked up at Gwen, pouting. “M’stuck.”
Suppressing laughter, Gwen knelt forward and gently looped the laces out from around Morgana’s calves and slid the boots off of her feet. She helped Morgana stand, leading her to the steaming tub. The tangy scent of cinnamon and persimmon—Morgana’s favorite smelling salts—wafted into the air as Gwen detached Morgana’s dress from her body and folded it neatly aside.
Gwen was careful as she unlaced Morgana’s corset so as not to jab her in the ribs or pull tightly as she worked it off. Moving to face Morgana she began to wiggle her out of multiple layers of silky chemises.
“You’re so lovely, Gwennie,” Morgana slurred, patting the top of Gwen’s curls with a heavy hand and sliding it down to stroke her cheek. Gwen focused her gaze on the string of cerulean beads she was unraveling from Morgana’s midnight locks. “Loveliest I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Gwen murmured, reaching behind Morgana’s hand to pull a pin from its fastening in a circlet of hair at the nape of her neck.
“Love you.”
“What?” Gwen blinked upwards. Morgana’s eyes were wide and watery, the slightest bit reddened and smudged around the corners by the penciled liner she had used to accentuate her lashes. In them, Gwen saw no trace of falsehood.
“I love you,” Morgana repeated, a hazy smile forming on her mouth—pink corners of her lips like the intricate wings of a butterfly flitting down to perch on a rosebud. “Have for ages. Oh, Gwennie, how I agonize over the empty expanse of your feelings, the question I can never ask.” She giggled. Apparently drunk Morgana was keen on random poeticism. “Countless are the—the nights I spend…” —a cough— “...spend wondering if you feel the same.”
It was ridiculous. Morgana was drunk off her ass, and there Gwen was, letting her heart flutter and her cheeks heat at the sound of the broken ramblings. They were meaningless, mere hallucinations and fragments of jokes told whilst inebriated. To believe them was to take advantage of the noble woman before her. Gwen was no fool, she wouldn’t give in to the stirring in her stomach the mocking confession elicited. Only fools believed the words of another whilst under the influence.
Gwen cleared her throat, winding the beads around her wrist so she could return them later to their rightful place in Morgana’s jewelry box. “You’re very kind, Lady Morgana. For now, let’s get you into the bath.”
Once she had safely slid Morgana into the hot water, velvety bubbles and luxurious scents, Gwen slipped away to place Morgana’s discarded garments in a basket to wash once Morgana was asleep. She leaned against the wall for a moment, the stone stark cold against the thin, scratchy material of her sleeve, and closed her eyes. Once she had successfully collected herself, she returned to Morgana, who was happily immersed in futile attempts to catch and cradle handfuls of the bubbles that surrounded her. When she noticed Gwen, she extended a hand and Gwen recognized the tiniest of shimmering bubbles on the end of her index fingertip. Morgana grinned shyly. “For you, my sweet.”
Gwen’s chest clenched in an obscene lack of breath at the delicate, innocent gesture. Then she picked up a cloth with a grip that turned her knuckles white, kneeling by the edge of the tub. “Thank you, my lady.”
“‘M’ I clean yet?”
“In a moment,” Gwen hummed, dipping the cloth in the water and soaking it with suds, lifting Morgana into a sitting position and beginning to scrub gently across her soapy porcelain skin.
Morgana settled into the water, sighing and closing her eyes contendly as Gwen bathed her as quickly as she could without being rough or lacking thoroughness. When she was finished, she drew Morgana up and out of the tub, patting her dry with a towel and wrapping her in it before she rushed to retrieve a nightdress. Morgana was loose and fluid as she stepped into the silk garment, shaking her hair across her shoulders and scrunching her nose.
She allowed herself to be steered towards the bed and climbed in willingly, snuggling herself beneath the covers with closed lids. Gwen thought she had the chance to escape and had turned around to sneak out when Morgana caught her forearm and tugged her weakly backwards. “Stay.”
Gwen let herself be pulled towards Morgana, who wiggled far enough to the side to make room for Gwen to perch on the bedside and lean over the other woman. Warmth and the nearly undetectable scent of cinnamon radiated from Morgana’s body, and Gwen scoured her brain for an excuse that would persuade Morgana to release her. “Lady Morgana—”
“Hush, Gwennie,” Morgana persisted, and with that she took Gwen’s hair in her free hand and captured Gwen’s mouth in her own. Gwen gasped against Morgana’s lips, but they were stubborn and the kiss was hot and tasted of red wine. Gwen let herself go for a moment to feel keenly the curl of Morgana’s fingers in her hair, tongue across her bottom lip, mingling of her breath with Gwen’s own, then broke away and gritted her teeth. This wasn’t— Morgana wasn’t in her right mind. Drunken actions weren’t to be trusted, and Gwen couldn’t take advantage of the moment like that. Not when it wasn’t truthful. Not when it could never be truthful, even if she tried .
“You’re tired, my lady.”
“I’m not,” Morgana shook her head in protestation, but Gwen could see her struggling to remain conscious. “I’m not, I—”
A gentle nudge was all it took for her to be pushed sleepily back onto the mattress. “Don’t leave, Gwen,” she groaned, pulling at Gwen to lower herself as well. “Don’t leave me, I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you...”
The words began to blur together but Morgana continued to murmur them until they lulled her into a drunken slumber. Her features smoothed out and lit up in the moonlight, ebony locks dancing across her pillow, curve of her nose highlighted in dreams, dimpled chin the foundation for the incomplete formation of a smile across ghostly pink lips. In that moment, Gwen wished Morgana had meant the drunken confessions so desperately that it ached, and she wished that the next morning their wine tinted, moonlit kiss would be the first thing on Morgana’s mind when she awoke.