The sharp edge of the light blade lies against his naked throat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even try to. A knight doesn’t fear that easily for his life.
“How does it feel to be betrayed by the ones you love?” dark red berry lips whispers to him, dangerously.
He is mesmerized by the beautiful and full curves of those lips but not as much as by those piercing steel blue eyes, nearly the same liquid color as his sword.
“How does it feel to be back home?” he gently answers.
The sharpened dagger cuts through his skin bringing blood.
“This place isn’t my home!” she hisses.
The beautiful woman is furious, so passionate and true to her hate, to her resentment.
“Every girl dreams to be a princess” he jokes, a little smile on his lips.
“Not the girls of my kind” she answers far calmer drawing a line from his throat to his heart, the cold blade against his exposed skin.
“Royalty doesn’t mean anything to us. I could blow this castle with few chosen words and all your valiant knights wouldn’t be able to stop me. They didn’t stop me from coming in their beloved prince’s chambers. Sad.”
The Never Forgiving Enchantress, people of Camelot are calling her. Though she is the most merciful soul Arthur ever knew. She had run from Camelot one cold winter night when she couldn’t contain her magic anymore. She had run away from laws that would have her at the stake. She had run away from a king, from a man who called himself her tutor, her guardian, knowing he’d never forgive her for being what she is; a Sorceress. Not by choice, just by birth. The laws of men don’t imprison her anymore; she belongs to Mother Nature herself. But she is still the woman Arthur has always known. Though, she had run away from him without a glance back, without a good-bye.
“You’ll always have a room in Camelot’s heart, Camelot loves its princess” he whispers fondly.
“Camelot fears her” she spats.
“A man can only feared what he doesn’t know, what he doesn’t understand” he answers calmly, leaning a little more over her.
“And you think you know me?” she asks, the dagger presses harder against his chest.
“More than you would want to believe” he whispers to her, their breaths now entwined, his words, warm promises on her cold skin.
He tenderly kisses her mouth, gently brushing his lips against hers.
They feel like soft velvet from the petals of a royal rose.
“When I’m king, I wish you’ll come back” he whispered against her parting lips.
“I wish you’d never be the king” she answered him sadly, despaired, claiming his mouth with a passion he always knew slept deep into her.
He grunts against her hungry lips giving all of him to her, where it belongs.
He lifts her from the ground, her arms closing around his neck, keeping him close like she is drowning and only he could keep her safe.
The blade sings against the cold paving.
He gently lays her on the bed, barely believing her black curls are waving, wild, against the red velvet of his duvet. He never allowed himself to dream about that moment. Never.
His hands, respectful, are caressing the soft silk of her teal gown. Teal, a glowing color, which had always fit her worried eyes. He wants that color off her. She has always worn it when she was troubled, when she was scared for him. And now she doesn’t need to be scared, she needs to be taking care of, to be loved.
The fluid and purple stole is the only piece left of her clothes, tangled in her hair, flowing against her beautiful and pearly skin. Purple, the color she always wore when she wanted to ask something of him, when she always got her way with him. No magic ever needed for that, he would have always submitted to her wishes.
He gently kiss her cold feet, warming them between his strong and burning hands, never looking away, completely captivate by his snowy lover, a king-to-be kneeling down in front of a woman. Camelot’s prince at a Sorceress’ mercy.
“Arthur” she whispers between her dark red lips, holding out her hand to him. Red, a color she never wore. The Pendragons’ color. The color of her passion, of her love.
He takes her hand and gently brushes his lips against the spot where the blood is pulsing, vowing to her “My Lady”
Now his hands, impatient, are traveling all over her beautiful body, fighting against every enchanting hill, conquering every bewitched valley, grunting every time his campaigns are rewarded by her nails drawing bloody patterns on his back, on his shoulders, by her lips moaning prayers, moaning his name. He should have known that love with her would be as anything else, as everything they ever shared; a battlefield.
“Goddess of mine” he cried in the small of her neck like confessing a shameful crime.
They are lying in front of the fireplace listening the wood cracking and enjoying the warmth the fire is providing to their very naked and moist bodies. She had wanted Arthur on this shag rug of his like she has fantasized for years and he obliged. It was even better than it has been in this royal bed. Far more better. Arthur wrestled under her thin frame, whimpering with every roll of her hips, begging for more, more of her, fighting with her, softly surrendering, his manly hands on her hips, on her breast, on her face, in his hair, she totally overwhelmed by his musky sent, by his force.
She is now lying on top of him enjoying his strong and muscular body, caressing his face with fascinated fingers, kissing his skin with lovingly lips, rediscovering Arthur. The young man who will become a great king, a king everyone will love as a father, as a brother, as a son. The once and future king. A great destiny. A destiny that will have him killed without mercy, a wonderful man who will suffer the worst tragedies, the worst poisonous crimes of the human race.
He doesn’t need her darkness, her bleeding heart, her madness.
He tightens his embrace even in his sleep, feeling her fears, feeling her misery. He is keeping her in a warm and reassuring embrace, powerful arms around her but not possessive. He knows better even in his sleep.
She kisses his sleeping lips murmuring her vow “My king”
She knows she’ll have to run away again at the first sunshine, when the sky will show its first pink blossom but for now she is resting her head against his strong chest listening to his heart beating. The most beautiful melody.
She’ll run away from him, once again, but she knows she’ll be here, next to him when he’ll need her the most. Dying in a bloody battlefield, wearing her purple color and whispering her name.
“Morgana” he murmurs in his sleep.
“I’m here, Arthur, I always will be” she kisses his chest where the heart is beating peacefully “Forever”