Vanity, valor, veracity

Chapter 9

Birdsong woke him up the next morning, the sun just starting to rise. They had switched positions in the night and he now held her, her back against his chest, his face nestled in her neck. His body curled around her like she was the only source of warmth in his world—which she was, in reality, he thought. Up until now, he had told himself he didn't need that warmth, that it would only make him weak. That it would only be a painful distraction.

But something about coming to her last night, her unequivocal acceptance of him despite the horrors he had perpetrated that day, was, he now realized, a source of strength, not weakness. Her quiet comfort, her compassion, her soothing—it all added up to him not being a monster. If someone could care for him, see past his sins, like she did, he could maybe live with himself. Maybe even rise above the horror to carry on. Not sink into despair.

No, she did not make him weak, he thought as he looked down at her peaceful face in the early morning light. She could, in fact, be his rock.

But could she? It suddenly came back to him that she was still bound to the hateful tyrant who had sent him on that woeful campaign and had nearly crippled her. She was not free.

The thought pained him more than he realized and his hold on her tightened and he leaned into her neck, drawing in the lovely lilac scent that always seemed to waft from her hair. His movement caused her eyelids to flutter open and she turned to look up at him with tenderness, bringing her hand to his unshaven cheek, stroking it gently.

"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.

"Much better," he said, placing a kiss on her forehead. "Thank you—thank you for taking care of me."

"Of course," she murmured. "I wish I could always take care of you," she said with a wistful smile.

"Me, too," he responded. They simply looked at each other for a few heartbeats. "But how are you? Millie said you've recovered?" he finally asked, stroking her hair affectionately. In the intervening two months Morgana had indeed healed, bruises faded, her sprained wrist mended. While she was thinner and a bit paler, she looked sound—especially compared to how he had found her that last time in the hospital.

"Yes," she told him. "I'm well..." He then leaned down and kissed her lightly on her lips. He was surprised to see desire flair in her eyes as she pressed her body up against his. His own body immediately responded in kind and he took her mouth in a deep kiss.

He pulled away slightly as he felt his length hardening. "Are you able? I don't want to push anything ..."

"I'm fine," she whispered as she reached down and lightly stroked him through his trousers. He moaned as his eyes closed, his hands moving to pull up her cotton nightgown. It was so plain and modest and he loved that he could see her as she typically slept, almost as if there was something normal about their completely abnormal situation.

His fingers trailed up her body as she helped him lift the gown over her head and then she was naked except for her underwear, her bare chest against his. For a moment he simply wrapped his arms tightly around her, relishing her softness and warmth.

"Gods, you just feel so good," he murmured, his eyes closed, burying his face in her hair.

Their lovemaking was tender and slow, as they reacquainted themselves with one another's bodies. They had been battered and beaten both physically and spiritually since they last came together. Now it was more than desire between them—they were seeking comfort, healing.

When they had last been together, Morgana had told him there was no need for him to worry—that she couldn't get pregnant with his child. He now knew she had meant she was already with child—and that today he needed to be more careful, pulling out just before he climaxed. "I'm sorry," he apologized after he released himself on her stomach, "for the mess."