Chapter Text
"I volunteer!"
The words ring out like a shot and Arthur feels his blood freeze in his veins. He thinks for a moment he must have heard wrong, but then he sees a flash of dark hair as she pushes through the crowd. His chest tightens, and he suddenly regrets asking that they call the boys names first this year to commemorate his volunteering. If only he wasn't already up on the damn stage, if only Morgana wasn't so ridiculously stubborn-- but no, it's been done. It's too late.
As the guards escort Morgana onto the platform next to him he wants to rip their arms off. He wants to scream at her, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she takes back those two horrible words.
How dare she, how dare she. This was supposed to be his games, this was supposed to be his moment of glory. Doesn't she realize what she's done? As his eyes meet hers over the bowls filled with hundreds of names on tiny strips of paper, he knows that she does; she knows exactly what this means.
The crowd watches in silence as Arthur and Morgana are led away, off to the gallows. Almost everyone's mood is somber, the shock of the two volunteers stifling their excitement for a few brief moments. Arthur was expected, he was practically destined to win the games, but Morgana was Albion’s darling and the sister of a highly celebrated victor; no one thought she would ever enter the arena. Uther's expression is stony, but as he catches Morgause's eye in the crowd, her grin is nearly enough to make him falter.
Arthur and Morgana don't see each other for several hours, until the goodbyes are over and they are hurried onto the trains. Uther doesn't bother visiting either of them, though Arthur is sure that he can hear Gwen wailing through the walls that separate their rooms as she visits Morgana. Morgause stops by to see him as she's leaving her sister's room, with nothing for him but a glint in her eye and the reminder that the malice that runs through her veins is in the same blood Morgana shares.
He had been so ready for all of this, he had trained for years for this moment-- but this, her defiant scream echoing in his head, choking the life out of him, was something he had never expected.
When he finally sees her on the train, despite the fact that he knows he should stay calm, he explodes. He barrels towards her, roaring, "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?"
Morgana rolls her shoulder casually, lifting her eyes to meet his. "Just giving them the entertainment they want."
He nearly growls at her, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You do get how this will end, don't you? This isn't some battle of wills between you and my father; you won't force his hand this time." His voice lowers, his anger simmering as he mutters on a soft exhale, "Only one of us can go home."
"Afraid I'll show you up?" Her words are teasing, but her tone is flat, her eyes dull and lifeless. There is no spark to her now, nothing Arthur is used to.
"Morgana." He grinds out the word, his teeth near to cracking as he clenches his jaw. "You don't understand, this isn't like the games we played as children."
Her head tilts and she trills, "Isn't it?" Behind her eyes she can see the deaths of the past tributes playing out on a big screen, their screams drowned out by the deafening cheers of the viewers all around her. "Your father will sit and watch, laughing at the blows I deal you, just as he did then."
He wants to contest her point, but he can't find the words. Instead he huffs angrily, "Oh please, as if you've ever beaten me."
A wry smile crosses her lips. "I suppose we'll see."
---
She vanishes most nights at the start, but he finds her eventually, tucked away on a corner of the roof. She's staring at the stars and she startles when he approaches, his bare feet muffling the sound.
She tells him to leave, she doesn't want to see him. But he sits down next to her, leaving ample distance between their bodies-- though he's still close enough to feel her warmth.
"Why'd you do it?" he murmurs.
"You know why." Her voice is still completely flat, like it has been since they boarded the train, as though nothing matters anymore.
Arthur tears his eyes away from the side of her face, his head falling forward to his chest. He remembers seeing Guinevere’s terrified face when her name was called and he sighs heavily. "Yeah. I do."
"He did it on purpose. He wanted to teach me a lesson. He would've killed Gwen just to shut me up." She laughs humorlessly, and for a second he can hear emotion in her voice as she murmurs, "Guess he'll get his wish after all."
Arthur's hand twitches next to hers, and he nearly grabs her fingers, but stops himself. He can't comfort her, can't promise to bring her home. They sit in silence for the rest of the night, just watching the stars and waiting for what's to come.
---
The other tributes are wary of them--afraid of them, to be truthful. Arthur and Morgana are royalty, trained from birth to kill. Ever since Arthur came of age, the people have been waiting for the moment he would enter the arena. There is no doubt in anyone's mind that he'll be the one going home.
Yet, as their eyes catch on Morgana, with Arthur's arm tightening around her waist as he steers her away from a particularly vicious looking tribute from District 4, they see the slight chink in his armor. They are each other's weaknesses, and it escapes no one's notice.
---
Arthur insists that they train together, that they be allies in the arena, but Morgana is resistant.
"I won't do it," she snaps, for what feels like the hundredth time.
"We fight well together, we're stronger that way."
"You just want me to save your sorry ass," she grumbles, which causes Arthur to explode yet again.
"You'd rather fight alone? No one else will want to be your ally, not yours or mine. Not unless it's to stick a knife in our backs when we aren't looking." His hands are shaking, and he balls them into fists to stop the tremors.
Morgana picks up her dinner knife and throws it at the wall, smiling in satisfaction when it sticks in the wood paneling near Arthur's head. She can hear a disapproving noise coming from one of their stylists, or trainers, or whoever, but she ignores it. "I don't need anyone's help."
Arthur can see past her bravado-- he knows it's all an act. Sometimes he wonders if she even plans on coming home. Straightening his back, he crosses his arms and smugly declares, "Well, I'm not giving you a choice. I'll protect you whether you want my help or not."
Morgana huffs angrily at him, "You just don't get it, do you?" She shoves her chair back as she stands and storms off to her room. There are words stuck in her throat, explanations and rationales, but none of them sound right wrapped around her tongue. She knows it all though, deep down. If they are allies, there will come a time when it is only the two of them left. Once all their enemies are dead, what will they do then?
She tries not to think of how her body will lurch and her head will reel each time the cannon sounds. It'll be better, she tells herself, seeing it written in the sky instead of having his blood soaked into her skin.
Yet no matter what she tells herself, her nightmares that night are still all of Arthur dying at her hand, and she wakes screaming.
Arthur can hear the sound vibrating through the walls and swallows the bile rising in his throat.
---
They both score 11's on their evaluations, which comes as a surprise to no one. They're skilled in almost every area of weaponry, so no matter what they chose, it would undoubtedly make an impression. Arthur attempts to congratulate Morgana when the scores are announced, but she shrugs him off, slamming the door behind her as she shuts herself away in her room.
The stylists keep them both busy after that, fussing over their outfits for the interviews. Morgana's dress is a deep emerald green color with glittering diamonds cascading down the sheer sleeves, and as Arthur glimpses her during a fitting, his breath catches in his throat-- if only for a moment.
Morgana's interview goes well, though she is slightly more hostile than she should be, slipping in the odd snide remark about her distaste with the games when she can. However, despite her occasional brusqueness, she still manages to be ridiculously charming, and the crowd all adores her.
When they mention her volunteering, she simply states, "Guinevere is my best friend." She flips her hair over her shoulder, smiles quite viciously, and stares straight into the camera as she finishes, "What choice did I have?"
The crowd all fawns over Arthur when it's his turn. He's treated as a bit of a celebrity-- which he is, being a royal and all. The interviewer is practically drooling over him, asking lots of questions that Arthur feels are quite frivolous, but he smiles and answers them anyway. Eventually though, they get around to asking about Morgana, and his smile all but vanishes.
"You two practically grew up together, did you not?"
Arthur swallows, desperately attempting to coat his suddenly dry throat. He nods stiffly. "I've known her all my life."
"How does it feel to be here with her?"
The room feels too small, and Arthur wants to jump from his seat and run off the stage. Yet again, he finds himself cursing Morgana for ruining everything-- but then he sees a flash of his father's face in his mind, and he remembers. Morgana is not to blame; she never was. Straightening his shoulders, he responds, "If I had my way, she'd never have to enter that arena."
The interviewer stares at him oddly for a moment, and Arthur bites down on the inside of his jaw before continuing with a smirk, "And trust me, after she's done with them, the other tributes will wish she had never entered it either."
The interviewer eats it up and the crowd laughs loudly, while Arthur forces a smile onto his lips. Morgana watches on a screen backstage with her nails biting into her palms.
---
Before they know it, they're going in the arena. The night before, Arthur hovers outside of Morgana's door, debating all the things he could say, but his hand slides off the knob and he lets her sleep.
They're prepped and sent off their separate ways, Arthur's eyes following Morgana until she disappears.
Morgana shuts her eyes as the tube takes her up into the arena, holding her breath. As the rush of air hits her, she finds herself gasping, unable to keep her eyes closed any longer. The arena around her is a frozen tundra, the air biting as it whips across her face. There are a few sparse areas of fields, though the plants look dead and withered. Mountains litter the skyline, with one reflecting in what appears to be a large lake. In front of her, nearly 50 yards away, is the cornucopia. It's shaped more like a dome this year, the walls appearing to be insulated and the entrance narrowed.
The countdown starts, ringing in Morgana's ears as it echoes across the empty expanse of land. Suddenly it all becomes too real, and her eyes rapidly flit from one tribute to another as the numbers dwindle. Her gaze finally lands on Arthur, finding his line of sight already locked on her position. It should be comforting, but her heart beats louder in her chest, and when the last number is called, she ignores him completely, barreling towards the cornucopia.
The wind rushes past her ears as she runs, and she can barely hear the muffled screams of a tribute as they fall somewhere behind her. She's faster than most of them--less preoccupied with the slaughter, and she slides through the opening in the cornucopia seconds before anyone else. She grabs an axe and shoves several small throwing knives down her boots, along with a long dagger. Before she can grab anything else, she hears scuffling behind her as someone else enters. In a split-second decision, she throws her elbow back, hearing a sickening crack as it hits it mark. Using the tribute's momentary disorientation to her advantage, she grabs a bag of rations and a skin for water before running out again, axe held high.
There are bodies strewn all around her feet, and Morgana only has a fraction of a second to choose which direction to run. The sun is blinding outside of the cornucopia, but she blinks twice and takes off in the direction of the mountains, hoping to find some kind of shelter there. As she moves, she senses more than she sees the boy from District 7 as he comes from behind. Steeling her nerve, she spins on her heel, both hands gripping the handle as she swings her axe. Through the curtain of hair flying into her eyes, she can barely make out the blade as it slices a long red line through his stomach. The boy splutters, shocked, before sinking to his knees.
There's no time to process what she's done, and she finds her feet moving again before her brain even registers it. There are barely any trees save for the swathes of towering evergreens, and nowhere to effectively seek cover, so she keeps on running. Her blood is rushing in her ears, the sound of her heartbeat blocking out anything else. Yet she imagines the sounds of footsteps all around her, and as she nears the closest mountain, she stumbles over a tree branch, crashing to the ground. She isn't hurt, but she can't seem to force herself up to her feet. Rolling onto her back, she stares up at the sky, her chest heaving as her adrenaline wanes. For the first time, she lets herself think of Arthur, and wonders where he is, if he's still-- She shakes her head, perishing the thought. Night is coming, and she'll know soon enough.