Her handmaiden. Could she get any more cliché?

It's hardly the worst secret she's keeping. In fact, it seems almost benign in the context of her magic. Being caught with you would perhaps warrant a slap on the wrist, as comparative to—hm. Execution, maybe?

However, it would most certainly mean Uther taking you away. And perhaps, execution would be a preferable fate.

Morgana is more than content to bask in the omnipresent comfort of your crooked smiles and wry candour. Relish the delicate manoeuvres of your hands as they unlace the strings of her bodice. She wishes you weren't so efficient—grasping onto the lingering warmth of your fingertips brushing against her skin is unbecoming of a King's ward—bastard child she may be.

It is much more in character for Morgana to demand. That is the beauty of having a handmaiden, after all. Morgana's job is simply to take, and yours is to give. Never once has she thought of you as a mere servant girl, though. She calls you her closest friend to all faces. It is hardly unheard of for a Pendragon to have an attachment to their servants; and she is more tactful about it than Arthur is with Merlin.

She is in love with you, yes. It doesn't matter. She is illegitimate—she need not bear a heir. Even if she is, in all respects, a Princess of Camelot—she will never be recognised as such. Besides, even if she is married off, you'll still be there for her. Such is the beauty of a lady and her handmaiden.

"Please may you finish the chapter?" Morgana stretches, sunlight streaming through the canopy draped above her bedspread. It is a beautiful day out. She mourns when you'll inevitably drag her out of bed and force her outside. It is summer, and the lakes shimmer, the grass an explosion of green—but all she wants you, in her bed; listening to the melodic thrum of your voice as you re-read her favourite book; gaze tracing over the perfect lines of your face, over and over. (Besides, Morgana does not rot, despite what you may claim).