tinyprat | (no subject)

WHO: Arthur Pendragon and Morgana
WHEN: Middle of the damn night, like two years after she arrived in Camelot
WHERE: Arthur's room

The prince liked his sleep. Everyone in the castle knew that. He'd never been one to get up with the sun, and almost always, a servant had to come and shake his shoulder an hour or two after dawn to draw him from his bed. Said servant never got any thanks for it but an earful of grumbling instead. He must have gotten it from his mother because his father was up every day before dawn without anyone having to wake him and Arthur could never understand how, since the king went to bed way later than he did every night too.

Arthur had started a game in the last year, played only against himself, to see if he could stay up as late as his father every night. He almost always failed, except for one night when a messenger had ridden in right as the prince's forehead was about to meet the table, and after a hushed discussion, Uther and a band of knights had ridden out an hour later. Arthur didn't sleep much at all that particular night.

But at least he stayed up longer than Morgana, which was the next best thing to matching his father's schedule. If he couldn't be his father right now (and that was a goal that he strove for every day) then he could at least be better than her. The king doted on his new ward and it had been a sore point for the prince for months until Gaius had shamed him for complaining. Morgana had none of her family left and couldn't even stay in her home. Arthur had his father and a kingdom and he might even have a friend if he got over his pride. It still made him sulk with jealousy and look for ways to beat her when his father paid attention to Morgana but the prince made an effort to be nicer to her.

So anyway, Arthur was sound asleep at the moment earlier than usual for him, turned on his stomach and snoring softly in his pillow. Training all day with the knights was a relatively new development in his life. He'd played with swords as a small child and had practiced against younger knights for a couple hours a day but ever since he turned ten, the king had demanded his training increase and the result was an exhausted ten year old, sporting a collection of bruises who was even more of an angry bear at being woken up than he had been before.

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Arthur instinctively clutched his blankets to him and yanked when he felt someone moving them, a decision that he wouldn't even be able to remember making when he woke up. It was just, those were his blankets and he didn't want to wake up and people should just go away. He was the prince of Camelot, he could do whatever he wanted because he was going to be their king someday.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled into his pillow, trying to pull the blankets tight around him again.

He was such a prat, she thought, and rolled her eyes a little at his mumbling. Fine, let him sleep, he was so stupid - but she did tug the blankets up to her chin, and then over, to just under her eyes. She was still afraid, the things she'd seen in her dreams were still just behind her eyes, and she hated it.

"Arthur," she whispered again, a little louder. She even reached out to poke his side.

Arthur swatted at her hand, like it was an annoying fly to smash and then he could go back to sleep. But he was awake enough at least to hear her, and maybe he didn't recognize her voice just yet but he answered her. "What?"

Morgana jerked her hand back, then reached out and jabbed him harder for that. He wasn't opening his eyes, but he answered. That must mean he was awake. But now that she had to tell him, she was shy about it.

"I had a nightmare."

Well, a servant would never tell him that. And the curiosity behind who would say that forced him to open his eyes and oh. That was Morgana that he'd smacked earlier. Great. He was kind of surprised that she hadn't run off to tell his father on him.

Actually, he couldn't figure why she was here in the first place and not crying to Uther.

"... I'm sorry?"

"A nightmare," she repeats, already exasperated, and tired, and she's still frightened, all right. Maybe she shouldn't have bothered waking him at all, only she just wants to hear someone say it will be all right.

"Can I - would you mind, if-- I'm staying here."

Have you ever thought that your nightmares were different than his? Arthur's bad dreams consisted of things like, letting his father down, falling off of his horse, getting beaten on the training field. He didn't see terrible things.

Arthur huffed at her, when she told him she was staying as opposed to really asking and it wasn't like he was going to kick her out but she could be a lady about it.

"Don't hog all the blankets," he told her snottily. Gaius's words rung in his head and a wave of guilt washed over him. "Was it really that bad?"

It wasn't going to make her feel better. She realized that with a sniff, her head down, and maybe she should have gone to Uther - only then she really would have cried, and it wouldn't have been just because she was said, it would have been because she hated him and having to go to him for anything.

When he did ask, she just nodded, pulling the blankets tighter around her because he was stupid and there were enough for the both of them. "It was awful," she said quietly, running her nail over a stray thread. "People were dying. I don't know why they were fighting, but they were."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, looking at her in the dark. One time he dreamed that his father died but he never really saw it. It was more of a still body, and a heavy crown but his father was okay and well and he was safe for a few more years.

"Do you have them often?"

Another nod, and she half buries her face under the covers. "Not every night, but a lot. Sometimes it isn't always bad. I dreamt I'd come here."

But that had been bad, too, hadn't it? her father had died for her to come here.

Arthur frowned, because that. That sounded like magic. Dreaming the future. And she didn't have magic because people with magic were bad and she was annoying, but he didn't think she was evil. Besides, his father wouldn't have brought her here if she did have it.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous." She still didn't understand, completely, how much Camelot hated magic. Soon she would, but now she fell silent. "My father used to tell me about Camelot." And she wants to cry, feels her throat go tight, but she swallows hard. "That's probably why."

It's what made sense to her, anyway, never mind the feeling of deja vu she'd had when she'd come here. "Don't you have nightmares?"

Yes, good. That made sense too. She dreamed about it because her father mentioned it and because if Gorlois hadn't die, then she would have come here eventually anyway for a visit. It wasn't because of magic. He wouldn't have to tell his father about this.

"No. Princes don't have nightmares." It was false bravado in his voice. "I don't really dream much at all." He was usually too tired for that, especially as of late.

"They do too," she shot back, "Everyone does." It couldn't be only her seeing these awful things, that wasn't fair. "You have to dream sometime. You probably just can't remember." She pulled a pillow over so she could lay on it better, hands clinging to the edges.

"Maybe." But if the alternative was having nightmares and crawling into someone else's bed for protection, then he was okay with that. He liked his sleep too much, not to mention the blow to his pride that would cause.

"Why did you come to me?" Because he thought she disliked him about as much as he didn't like her.

She couldn't quite look at him, fiddling instead with the pillow. "Where else was I supposed to go?"

Arthur sat up a little, so he could really stare her down because what? Where else was she supposed to go? Maybe to her maid, or to Gaius or how about the king since it was so obvious that the king loved her.

"You don't even like me, Morgana. And my father dotes on you all the time."

"I hate him." She scowled, snapped the angry words out at the pillow before she pushed herself up too, not content to be looked down on. "He killed my father. It's his fault." Her hands are in balls, nails digging into her palms. "Everyone says."