The days blurred into each other after that.
Snow fell, melted, fell again.
Some mornings Morgan woke to silence so complete it felt like the world itself was holding its breath — and she lay there under her furs with her eyes open, wondering if she'd ever feel truly warm again.
Not the cold of the air.
But the cold inside.
The one that started the day she stood on that hill, her father's shadow behind her, and heard them say she would never be Queen.
The one that deepened when she knelt beside Jaune's broken body on the battlefield and realized she would burn Britain to ash rather than let it take him too.
Her tent was quiet now, save for the soft rustle of parchment as she traced yet another map by candlelight.
But she wasn't really seeing it anymore.
Her mind kept drifting to memories — unbidden, unwelcome — as if her own heart were betraying her.
Years ago…
Her first lesson with Merlin. The court gardens in bloom, his robes dazzling white and gold in the sun. The way he looked at her not as Uther's heir but as herself. The way he laughed when she tried to impress him, and told her, kindly, "You'll never bend Britain to your will by force, little one. It must choose you."
And how she'd hated him for saying that.
Because she thought, then, that the land owed her something.
The first time she met Artoria. So tiny. Swaddled and pink-faced and perfect. Morgan remembered bending over the cradle and thinking: This is mine. This is my sister.
And then—
the sharp, inexplicable recoil. The Will of the Island rejecting her even as she reached out to touch Artoria's cheek. The whisper in her mind: Not you. Not you.
It had taken everything she had not to burst into tears in that room.
And now here she sat, her fingers smudged with ink, her chest full of something she couldn't quite name.
Jaune's quiet words still echoed in her ears:
"You already have everything I care about."
What did that even mean?
She stood suddenly, restless, and stepped out into the crisp night air.
The camp lay sprawled before her, half-asleep. A few sentries marched the walls. A few low fires still burned, their embers crackling faintly.
And there — of course — was Jaune.
Sitting alone on a log, hunched slightly forward, his sword resting across his knees.
Even from here she could see the tension in his shoulders, the faint shimmer of his breath in the cold.
Morgan hesitated.
She'd never been good at this — talking without an angle, without a plan.
But she found herself walking toward him anyway.
He looked up as she approached, his face catching the firelight.
"You couldn't sleep either?" he asked, his voice quiet but warm.
"No," she admitted.
He scooted slightly to one side of the log in silent invitation.
After a moment's hesitation, she sat.
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
The only sound was the crackling of the fire and the faint sigh of wind through the trees.
Finally, Jaune broke the silence.
"You've been… different lately," he said softly.
Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Have I."
"Yes," he said plainly. "Less… sharp. Not that I'm complaining. But… quieter."
She stared at the flames, not answering at first.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low.
"I keep thinking about the hill," she murmured.
Jaune glanced at her, puzzled.
"The hill?"
"The day we took it," she clarified. "When the Saxons broke. When they started shouting my name like it meant something."
"Oh."
Jaune fell silent again, letting her continue.
"It felt… empty," she admitted finally. "Like I was just filling a space someone else left behind."
Jaune watched her quietly, his expression unreadable.
She laughed faintly — bitter, humorless.
"Would you like to know something pathetic, Arc?"
He raised an eyebrow at her tone.
"I don't even know anymore if I want the throne," she confessed. "For so long it was all I thought about. All I fought for. And now that it's… closer than ever, I can't stop asking myself…"
Her hands curled in her lap.
"…if it's worth it."
Jaune looked at her for a long time before replying.
"I think," he said slowly, "you've been carrying so much for so long… you've forgotten what it's like to put it down."
Morgan blinked at him, startled.
"I…" she started, then stopped.
"That hill? That battle?" he went on. "You don't have to decide what it all means tonight. Or tomorrow. Or even next week. You've got time, Morgan."
His voice softened on her name.
"You don't have to be Queen if it's going to destroy you," he said simply.
Her breath hitched — just faintly — and she looked away.
For once, she didn't have an answer ready.
Later, after he left to finish his patrol, she sat there staring into the fire until her eyes blurred.
In her mind's eye she could still see two paths ahead of her — one leading to the throne, the other to… something else.
But for the first time, she allowed herself to imagine what it would feel like to choose.
Not because Uther or Merlin demanded it.
Not because Britain itself whispered it.
But because she wanted it.
That thought — that she might still be allowed to want something for herself — stayed with her as she drifted to sleep that night.
The next morning.
Morgan found herself woken not by sunlight or trumpets but by laughter.
A cluster of village girls had gathered near the edge of the camp — clearly visiting to deliver bread and supplies — and there was Jaune, inexplicably in the middle of them, trying awkwardly to help them carry baskets.
One of them even reached up and tucked a sprig of lavender behind his ear, giggling.
Morgan froze, watching.
Something sharp twisted in her chest, and she hated how irrational it was.
When he caught her staring, he waved cheerfully — clueless as always — and she turned sharply on her heel and stalked off before he could catch up.
Later he found her in the command tent, pretending to review logistics.
"You're mad," he said bluntly, plopping into the chair opposite her.
"I'm not mad," she snapped, without looking up.
"You're mad," he repeated, with maddening calm.
She gritted her teeth.
"You were wasting time," she said instead.
"They were just being friendly," he protested.
Morgan's quill bit into the parchment a little harder than necessary.
"You are not here to play nursemaid to every passing milkmaid," she said icily.
Jaune blinked at her.
"Is… that what you think?" he asked slowly.
She didn't answer.
Which, of course, was answer enough.
After a long moment, he just smiled faintly and shook his head.
"I'm here because of you," he said simply, standing. "Don't forget that."
She stared after him long after he left.
That night, she dreamed of him again.
Not on the battlefield, not bleeding in her arms — but standing atop a green hill under a blue sky, smiling at her like he had that very first week.
And for just a moment, it was enough to make her forget the weight of the crown waiting for her.
The days grew longer, the snow giving way to mud, and then to green shoots of grass.
The Saxons stayed quiet for now — licking their wounds — and Camelot's messengers brought only polite silence, waiting for Artoria's recovery.
Morgan knew the quiet wouldn't last.
But she let herself enjoy it all the same.
Sometimes she and Jaune would walk the perimeter at dusk, neither of them speaking much, just listening to the wind in the trees.
Sometimes she'd catch him watching her when he thought she wasn't looking — that same quiet intensity in his gaze — and she'd pretend not to notice.
And sometimes, alone in her tent, she'd sit with her hands folded and think of that question she still couldn't answer:
If Britain itself demanded him in exchange for the crown — would she take it?
Her mind still offered no answer.
But her heart whispered no.
One evening, as spring finally broke through the last of the frost, she found herself standing outside his tent instead of her own.
She didn't even remember making the choice to come here — her feet had simply carried her.
When he opened the flap, his eyes widened in surprise.
"Morgan," he said softly.
She stared at him for a long moment, her voice caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.
Then — very quietly — she asked:
"…Would you stay?"
He didn't even hesitate.
"Always," he said.
And she finally let herself exhale.
For that one night — the night before the world came knocking again — she allowed herself to believe it might really be that simple.
But outside, the horizon still burned with distant banners — Camelot's golden lion and Vortigern's black dragon — waiting patiently, inexorably, for her choice.
And though she closed her eyes and leaned into the quiet for now, she knew that choice was coming.
One way or another.