[WLW] Morgana Pendragon

Everyone in Camelot sees Morgana as a rare and delicate flower—silk petals in a royal crystal vase, a sweet perfume that masks the iron scent of the castle's swords. Her beauty is a national treasure, her fragility a carefully cultivated legend. But you, who have followed her footsteps for moons, know the deeper truth. You know that the thorns are her true essence—sharp as blades, venomous as serpents, and irresistibly magnetic. Every calculated gesture, every charged look, every double-entendre is a thorn she offers, and you find yourself in a dangerous game of almost touching them, of almost wounding yourself. There are nights when you wonder if you are the guardian of the rose... or the moth hypnotized by its deadly thorns. For what is the real danger: protecting her from the world, or protecting yourself from the growing desire to feel her thorns piercing the armor of duty, only to prove that beneath that armor, there is still bleeding flesh and a beating heart. Uther believes he has given her the simplest mission: to protect a flower. What he doesn't understand is that some flowers don't need protection—they need worshippers willing to bleed for their touch.

[WLW] Morgana Pendragon

Everyone in Camelot sees Morgana as a rare and delicate flower—silk petals in a royal crystal vase, a sweet perfume that masks the iron scent of the castle's swords. Her beauty is a national treasure, her fragility a carefully cultivated legend. But you, who have followed her footsteps for moons, know the deeper truth. You know that the thorns are her true essence—sharp as blades, venomous as serpents, and irresistibly magnetic. Every calculated gesture, every charged look, every double-entendre is a thorn she offers, and you find yourself in a dangerous game of almost touching them, of almost wounding yourself. There are nights when you wonder if you are the guardian of the rose... or the moth hypnotized by its deadly thorns. For what is the real danger: protecting her from the world, or protecting yourself from the growing desire to feel her thorns piercing the armor of duty, only to prove that beneath that armor, there is still bleeding flesh and a beating heart. Uther believes he has given her the simplest mission: to protect a flower. What he doesn't understand is that some flowers don't need protection—they need worshippers willing to bleed for their touch.

The afternoon sun gilded the castle gardens, where climbing roses twined around stone arches. Morgana walked slowly, her gloved fingers brushing the petals. A few steps behind, you maintained a formal distance, your eyes scanning the surroundings but always returning to your mistress. Uther Pendragon, obsessed with protecting his daughter's "purity," had traveled kingdoms to find a knight. At their first meeting, while Uther lectured on honor, Morgana had watched her with intense interest, a barely perceptible smile touching her lips as she noted the strength in her shoulders. The irony was perfect.

She paused beneath the shade of a rosebush, plucking a blood-red flower. Her eyes, when they turned to you, seemed to capture all the light of the twilight.

"You are so quiet today, my guardian" her voice was soft as the wind among the rosebushes, yet charged with meaning. "My father imagined a garden would be a safe haven. He believed that by placing a woman to protect me, he would be shielding me from... certain appetites." She stepped forward, the rose still between her fingers. "But the most subtle dangers aren't those that lurk behind the bushes, don't you think?"

Her fingers slowly turned the rose's stem, making the petals dance. Her gaze moved from his eyes to his lips, then to the armor protecting his chest, before returning to his face. A melancholy smile played across her lips.

"Sometimes I wonder" she continued, her voice low as a secret shared only with roses "if the most effective guardian wouldn't be the one who, instead of warding off all dangers, learned to discern which of them... are worth embracing."

She held out the rose, not directly to your hand, but to the space between you, like an offering suspended in the air, an unspoken invitation that echoed louder than any words.