The sky is cloudless, yet not a star is to be seen; even they are afraid, hidden deep in the depths of the night where no man can behold them. The moon is thin and ghostlike, as if it is doing its best to disappear from view. It leaves the night black as fear.
A lone figure glides through the ominous undergrowth into the everlasting darkness. She is dressed in a simple white gown that somehow radiates peril. It drags on the muddy ground but remains pristine clean. Night is pressing down on her like the walls of Camelot that had stifled her and her powers for so long.
Women do most delight in revenge.
The ethereal silence that fills the air means nothing to her, nor do the elongated fingers of trees and ghouls alike that scratch the skin off her cheeks like the harsh rule of tyranny. Her feet are lined where the twigs and leaves have cut them, the blood leaving tracks like sinister veins, oozing the dark crimson liquid – so dark it is almost black.
Revenge is sweeter than life itself.
She waltzes on; oblivious to the pull of nature that has disposed of many a traveller before her. Her dark hair flows down her back like a sorceress' cape. But most dreadful of all is her eyes. They are closed. She drifts on, passing impossibly through the thickets of nature that try to tug her back to whence she came. Once or twice her eyelids flicker and her eyes can be seen. But there is no one to see them: The forest has emptied for her presence. Were anyone there, they would not see the blue or brown or green eyes of a woman, nor would they see the gold of a sorcerer. For it is not common knowledge, but when a sorceress sinks so deep into evil – and this can only happen to a sorceress – her eyes lose their colour. They cannot be golden, for golden is the colour of warmth, and she has not a drop left within her. Therefore they have no other option but to be as black as her soul itself.
But where has such a creature come from? Well...
6 moons previously,
Stones clatter to the floor, as thick and fast as rain. Mortar tumbles and fills the air like mist, and the ground shakes beneath them.
They are being attacked.
The Knights of Medhir run from room to room, searching for the King. No armies stand to greet and fight them. The castle is asleep. Sorcery is the only possible solution.
Deep in the bellows of the great fortress, the fate of the kingdom rests on the shoulders of a young boy. His name... Merlin. He shouts into the blackness.
"Please. I need your help. The castle and all within it is falling to Morgause and her Knights. It must be saved!" His voice is full of pleading. He cares.
"I have told you before, young warlock." The tired boom echoes of the lichen-ridden walls, the despair evident. Despite the deaths and destruction, he seems not to care. "Must I really repeat everything? You must kill the witch."
"And I have told you before: Don't call her that!"
"Kill the witch and Camelot will be saved. Save her yourself, and she and you and Camelot will fall. Albion will never become. You have no choice, I think." And with that, he was gone, in a flurry of wings and angry fire.
Merlin stood on the overhanging rock, torch in hand, looking annoyed. A grim expression played his features. In an instant he turned up the stairs. Like the Kilgarrah – although the young warlock is yet to know his name yet – had said, there is no choice. Her blood will stain his mind forever, if not his soul, but better her than that of hundreds of thousands of them.
The steps, the cells, the staircases and wall and doors are a blur to him. His eyes finally focus only when they set themselves upon the Hemlock.
His fingers close around it.
Cool glass.
Sweaty palm.
Thoughts of death.
Heart pounds guilt.
Everything is a haze once again until he is in front of her, in the council chambers.
"Here, you have some before I finish it." It is his last attempt; she is so adamant in her refusal that me wonders if something in her magic is telling her not to. Suffice to say he doesn't want to do it. If she refuses this time, he will be able to tell himself that it was not his fault. That he did all he could. If she refuses again, it might be a relief, if only temporarily.
Her face softens. "Thank you." And the liquid death changes hands.
He tells himself it is for the greater good. But there, in the confined space with only her and him and the air thick with dread, it is hard to truly grasp that twisted concept.
She drinks. Her eyes are appreciative, their emerald depths naive. The anger has not sunk in. First she just coughs a little; pretty miniature coughs that make her seem even more feeble and good. She coughs and splutters some more. An elegant hand encloses the throat – just as Merlin's hand encloses the bottle neck. She is unaware, but as if trying to summon out of her whatever is in there. His hand grips until the knuckles are white cold. He wants to undo it; what has he done? Suddenly, wholly without warning, her face contorts and her pretty features are echoed with disbelief. She gasps, eyes wide and mouth open. Hand still clutches throat. His hand reaches to her shoulder. He wants to comfort her, tell her it will be okay, that he's sorry, that he had no choice. She shrugs off his hand. No, that is not what's hurting you. That won't do anything; just let him say he's sorry. But no words pass between them. His voice has gone with his morals. All he can do is hold her, like a daughter, or a sister, or a lover.
The splintering of wood I upon them as the door bursts open. A figure strides in, with blonde hair flowing onto steel armour, golden onto grey, light onto dark, good intentions onto evil actions. As her blazing amber eyes survey the scene, they grow fierce.
"What has he done to you?" Her sister's convulsing body is beyond the point of response.
"I had to." And it is true. He did. Didn't he?
Eyes grow as realisation dawns and they glare up in anger. "You poisoned her." There, it is said.
"You gave me no choice." She had committed such an evil. Do two wrongs make a right? Is this really the exception that proves the rule?
"Tell me what you used and I can save her." She knows he never wanted this. She knows his heart.
"First stop the attack." He knows she will do anything to save her kin: To save another magical being. What would she do if she knew?
"You are just a simple servant; you don't tell me what to do!"
A simple servant. Of course. Well, she would see. He could kill her now. Surely that would undo the magic. He could collapse a pillar onto her. He could suffocate her with an invisible hand. He could drive a silent knife into her heart. But of course, he cannot. The thoughts do not even cross his honest mind. He held all the cards without magic and he knew it.
"If you want to know what poison it is you will undo the magic that drives the knights." His voice in hard and cold but inside he is terrified.
"Tell me the poison or you'll die." It is a statement of fact – that is who she is. Those who fight, fall.
"Then she'll die with me." One look at the now limp, cold body in her arms is enough to see that he is right.
There is a different kind of cold that comes with death. It is colder than winter cold, colder then ice cold, colder even than the deepest depths of a frozen river. It is a kind of cold that will never be warm again. It hangs above a person in their last moments, filling the air with a chill that even smells of the dead. It cannot be stopped. It will ruthlessly choose and infect someone and stay there for all of time. It is inescapable.
This is the cold that is working its sinister wizardry inside Morgana now. Her face is deathly pale and the cold is spreading. When it reaches her heart she will die.
Merlin is sad. A single tear etches a mournful path from eye to cheek until it splashes onto his chest, flooding his heart in an instant. He stares down at the fairytale warrioress, her shocked eyes boring into his with a solemn realisation. She gently lowers her face to her sister's. Sister to sister, forehead to forehead, and a now determined onlooker wonders if they really are so very different.
"I don't want this anymore than you, but you give me no choice. Stop the knights, and you can save her."
Around the castle, faceless killers fall noiselessly to the flagstones beneath them. A bargain has been struck between good and evil. A single bottle exchanges hands and hope is restored, if not trust. Silence echoes off the sky.
A fierce whirlwind of magical strength.
A valiant prince aghast at the doorway.
A sinister princess stolen into the realms of the unknown.
A fairytale knight. A silent hero. A captured princess. A handsome prince.
The perfect bedtime story.