Morgana steps into the river, crouching into the water. As she washes she notices the definition on her arms, her legs beginning to show. Her hands, over the blistering soreness of the first hazy days gone by, are starting to harden and callous. Like so much of me, she thinks, but not with bitterness. No; everything before this was but an interlude until her real life could begin. Rinsing off her limbs she steps out of the water and dries herself on the hem of her cloak.
“Just stay there, like that. Just for a moment,” a voice says softly from behind her. Morgause.
“It’s a little chilly,” she says, dropping the fabric, but staying perfectly still.
“I just want to look at you. “
Morgana shouldn’t blush, but the statement, the words out loud make the action take on a weight that just being there didn’t and now she is self-aware. She catches a rippled version of herself in the water and barely recognizes herself. At that moment she is filled with complete joy.
“Sit down then; I may as well make it worth your while,” she says, turning her face enough to see Morgause, and for Morgause to see her face, sultry through half-lidded eyes. Morgause spreads out her cloak a few steps up the bank and sits, resting her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. Morgana has her complete attention, as always.
It’s a new, strange and sometimes overwhelming sensation; to be the center of attention. Morgause listens to her, and in turn Morgana watches and listens, too. Morgause is like honey; the prize, the reward inside the bee’s nest. To get to her, to reach her, to taste her sweet upon your tongue, first there is the danger of being stung, then there is the nest, tough on the outside, impenetrable it might at first seem. But Morgana has seen her come undone for her, at her hand, her mouth, her caress.
Morgana has a sharp wit; one thing she can thank Arthur for. Her stomach does a little flip at the thought but she has to still that line of thinking. He is Uther’s puppet, and one day he will be in Uther’s place. No different, no less dangerous. More dangerous in a way; he knows her like Uther does not, his impression not clouded by guilt. But enough of that, Morgause is watching, just watching with the trace of a smile on her lips, her whole face aglow; deep brown eyes, so big, so wise, so beautiful.
Morgana keeps looking at Morgause over her shoulder, affording Morgause a view of her back, her ebony waves cascading like a midnight waterfall down the smooth line of her back, resting at the arc of her waist, to her hips, grown firmer, rounder with the passing weeks. She turns her head a little more, like a promise.
Morgause just watches, but Morgana sees her shift a little, her chest rise and fall as she takes a breath. The dress she is wearing, burgundy linen, snug across her shoulders, but hanging in soft folds about her legs, so only her feet are peeking out. They tap up and down; Morgause is never still, always anxious that the next moment might steal away from her if she should stop. Even as she falls asleep, her fingers wrestle with her hair, twisting and twisting it round her fingers, in her sleep she murmurs, tosses and turns until she is flush at Morgana’s side. Morgana thinks it curious and sweet, that this is the one thing, the only thing in which she is almost shy. So oftentimes Morgana wraps herself around her first, and waits for her to settle.
Morgana bends forward, at the waist, hair falling forward. She hears Morgause’s breath hitch at the view of her sex revealed so openly, and smiles to herself. She strokes her hands up her calves, lingering, spreading her fingers, pressing the flesh. Rising up slowly with the movement of her hands, Morgana presses her hands over the back of her thighs until they rest, palms spread over her buttocks. With her elbows bent she turns slowly around and brings her hands up over her stomach. One hand goes up, fingers grazing a nipple, making her gasp, while the other hand goes down towards the hair between her legs.
Morgause’s breathing deepens, her nostrils slightly flare, her lips part.
Morgana feels the weight between her legs, the heat spreading as her sex opens with arousal. She closes the distance between them. Dusk is fast approaching, and she shivers; not sure if it’s from the cooling air or the heat of her blood rushing to her skin. Morgause looks up at her, her dark eyes even darker; almost black with want. Morgana steps behind her, kneels down and whispers in the shell of her ear, “I want you so much my cunt is wet for you already; just from looking at you.”
With unhesitant motion Morgana leans forward and grabs at the hem of Morgause’s shift, pulling it up. “Lift,” she whispers again, and bunches the fabric under Morgause’s hips, then over her head.
Morgause looks round, eyes pleading, but saying nothing. These last few days she has tried to let go, to let Morgana find her own way. Morgana knows this, knows how hard it is for her, torn between always following her own purpose, and allowing Morgana to realise her own. Morgana is trying not to be a disappointment. She knows, right now, Morgause wants her, she can see it in the way her mouth has dried, her chests heaves, her knees have parted.
Morgana leans in and kisses her; slow languid licks just across her lips at first, then delving gently into her mouth. Morgause follows her lead, a dance more than a duel, a slow give and take of tongue and soft murmurs. All the while Morgana runs her fingers over Morgause’s shoulders, at first kneading, pressing slowly. Then pushing forward slowly down she finds the soft flesh of Morgause’s breasts and how they give beneath her caress, while she teases out the sharp relief of her nipples. Morgana feels Morgause tremble. Their mouths part as Morgana mouths down the gentle curve of her neck, bites and sucks her. Morgause leans her head back, resting against Morgana’s chest, baring herself. Her eyes are now closed and she looks lost in the sensation of certain hands, delicate fingers stroking, pinching softly, then rubbing in circles.
“By the goddess …” Morgause gasps, mewls, knees dropping apart to the floor. Morgana presses on down with her hand to the golden hair that holds a promise, the sweet promise. Morgause is wet with arousal; Morgana’s fingers slip easily into the smooth inside of her folds. Morgana touches and teases, with confident presses; she’s already learned by now the way to make her gasp for more.
Morgause turns toward her and Morgana smiles. She hadn’t expected her to last this long without pressing Morgana’s palm hard against her, pressing her hips against her hand. Instead, though, she pushes Morgana down, until they are lying side by side, the caresses exchanged with equal ardour.
Morgana slides her thigh between Morgause’s and pushes her hips, using her weight to press down and grind her sex into Morgause’s hip. Their hips pump in counter time, increasing in fervour, their breaths hard and needy. Morgause comes first; a high-pitched cry, loud even against the rush of blood in her own ears, her own gasps intermittent. Morgause’s back arches, her hip bone jutting up and pressing hard against Morgana. As she shudders, and slowly stills Morgana can feel the heat build up and down her spine, uncoiling in her belly, until the feeling breaks and crashes unstoppably through her. She comes, her face buried in the flowered scent of Morgause’s hair.
They wrap themselves in their cloaks and each other, there under the moonlight. In the night Morgause stirs and Morgana awakes. Her face, gone slack and soft in her slumber is so completely beautiful that Morgana feels choked, overwhelmed with a sudden rush of love and devotion. The tangle of their hair lays glistening ebony and silver in the moonlight, twining tangles of tresses. Morgana lifts her head, the light from above brushing across Morgause's cheeks. Morgana doesn’t want to wake her, just wants to watch this rare moment, Morgause sleeping soundly, untroubled in her slumber. She feels the roll of her tear tumbling from her cheek, but with her arm tangled in cloth and limbs, the other beneath Morgause’s neck, she has no choice but to let it fall. Then another, lands in their hair, fusing strands. Morgana smiles, the love pushing out from her more forceful than her tears. She places a fleeting kiss to Morgause’s temple. Morogause still does not stir.
As Morgana settles back down into the warm haven of skin and hair and breath she takes a last look up into the night sky. As she closes her eyes the image of Morgause, illuminated in silver white light, lulls her back to sleep.
Tomorrow they will be leaving. Their time alone over for now; there are others waiting to follow their call. And Morgana would follow Morgause to the end of the world.