A/N: I know I said the title of this was going to be 'A Handful of Dust', but as I was writing, this title came to me, and it felt more appropriate to the story itself. Also, while I normally rate these stories as 'T', just to be safe, there are a few moments where the story really does earn it due to innuendo.
"This is where our paths separate, Morgana," Morgause reined in her horse as they reached the crossroad. The battered sign had long ago lost its words, a mute thing of weathered gray wood that pointed in either direction. She did not need the sign, though, to tell her where to go. The western road led across the northern reaches of the White Mountains toward the Plains of Denaria, while the northern road stretched out under the eaves of the Wild Wood.
"I thought you were coming with us?" Morgana frowned and urged to horse toward her sister's.
"No. I told you last night I had business with the Dochraid, and the way to her leads down this road, Morgana. You must go on to the Isle of the Blessed. We each have our tasks to complete, and we cannot accomplish them if we stay together." Morgause reached out to rest a hand on Morgana's arm and gave her a reassuring smile. "This is our best time to strike, sister. After you went to sleep last night, I received word from Nynaeve that Arthur is all but alone. His knights are gone, scattered like chaff in the wind, and Merlin is missing."
Hope flared in Morgana's eyes at the last, "Is he dead?"
"I don't know," Morgause shook her head, "But it's best not to assume so until we've seen a body. Until then, we must go on as planned. I will find the means to destroy the Pendragon men, and you will find the way to defeat Merlin."
"But I've never been to the Isle. Are you sure I'll be able to find it?" There was a glimmer of doubt in the younger woman's eyes. Though Morgause had described in detail the ways through the catacombs below the ruined temples of the Isle and the illusions set down to hide the paths, she could not help Morgana through the traps the Priestesses had set before their defeat. After the fall, Camelot's soldiers had looted the Isle, taking what magical artifacts they did not destroy back to languish in the locked vaults below Camelot.
They had not found everything, though. Some illusions had been woven too well for the Pendragon to destroy. A few artifacts remained, Morgause knew. The Goddess had shown her. "You will what you're looking for, sister. The Goddess told me where it was, and She will help you reach it. You must trust in Her. And in yourself. Accolon." She gave the dark eyed man behind Morgana a sharp look. "You will watch over my sister while I am away. And may the Goddess tear you apart if you let any harm come to her."
Always respectful of the Old Ways, Accolon pressed a hand to his chest and half-bowed in the saddle. "You have my word, My Lady. And besides," he looked toward Morgana, a wide smile on his face, "She has my heart, and I could never let any harm come to my heart."
Morgause felt a pang of regret at the melting gaze the two lovers gave each other. There had been a king in her own future, once. And sons. . . . But she had taken the path of greater power. A lonely path. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, in her lonely bed, she wondered if she had chosen correctly, if having children of her own- to teach the Old Ways, to pass her powers on to- would have been the better choice. It was too late now. She had decided to forgo marriage, and Lot had married another. "Be that as it may," Morgause grated, "You are her sworn protector. You know what the Goddess does to oathbreakers." Accolon merely nodded again. "You must go, sweet sister. Night is coming, and we both have far to go."
"Promise me you'll come back to Tintagel when you're done? I can't bear to lose you, Morgause." This time it was Morgana who reached out, her grip tight on her sister's arm.
"I'll do my best, but I cannot promise. My time is growing short, Morgana. We all die someday, and if I am meant to die in service to the Goddess, then I will count myself lucky," Morgause said.
Tears spilled out of Morgana's pale eyes. She brushed them away with a shaking hand. "Then I'll just have to wish you good luck. The Dochraid is a powerful ally. Surely she'll help to shield you against Uther. And Arthur."
"I'm sure she will. Good luck, Morgana. May the Goddess guide your steps."
"And yours," Morgana forced a wavering smile onto her face.
Morgause's smile was genuine as she wheeled her horse around, looking back at Morgana just once before starting down the road. "Come, Sefa. The day is passing quickly, and we have a long way to travel."
They reached the Dochraid's cave just before nightfall the next day. The path led through fell marshes and twisted stands of oak and hawthorn trees, the land growing ever darker as they traveled until they reached a hill crowned with a decaying hazel tree. At the foot of the hill, a gaping hole yawned before them, wreathed with roots and dying vines. Morgause swept them aside with her staff, ignoring her aching bones that protested her every movement. Days of riding had not eased her pain or aided her health. She felt herself grow weaker by the hour, but a few more steps and a bargain lay at the end of the tunnel. She would hold on until then.
"Sefa," Morgause looked back before she disappeared into the darkness completely, "I may not walk out of here again. If I do not return in three days' time, take the horses and return to Tintagel. Inform your father what has happened. If I fail here, we must not lose everything."
Sefa shrank against her horse's flank, her wide eyes fixed on the priestess, "Will the Dochraid harm you?"
"She may. It may be that she'll refuse to grant my request and let me go in peace. She is a creature of the dark places of this world, and there is no telling what she will decide. Do not fear for me, child. My time is ending, whether the Dochraid speeds it along or not. Now. Do as I say. You father will need to know what happens here, and so will Morgana." Morgause turned and walked into the shadows.
She might have walked for a minute or for a year. The cold darkness pressed against her like an icy tomb, unrelenting as the grave. If not for her staff, she would have fallen a dozen times when the roots wrapped around her feet and pulled at her skirts. Halfway through, she closed her eyes and let her ears guide her. In the black, the shadows and wavering lights her mind conjured were too much of a distraction. Finally, when it seemed she had walked to the center of the world, the passage opened up and a chill breeze tugged at her hair.
A spidery whisper echoed out of the cavern and a dozen glimmering gouts of sickly green faerie fire leapt up in response. A hunched figure shrouded in cobwebs lurched into view, her skeletal fingers scrabbling at the rocks as she turned eyes sewn shut toward the priestess. "Morgause," the Dochraid rasped, "It has been long since you last sought my wisdom. What brings you at this late hour?"
Morgause drew herself as straight as her damaged frame would allow. "Years ago, I swore vengeance on the Pendragon line for destroying our temples on the Isle of the Blessed, for murdering our sisters, for denying the Old Religion. But my strength is failing, and I fear I will die leaving my oath unfulfilled."
"So, Priestess, you wish for me to extend your life, that you may satisfy your oath?"
"No, Great Dochraid. Only the Goddess may do that, and she has not answered my prayers in that way." Morgause bowed her head and stepped into the cavern. "No, what I seek is enough strength to return to Camelot one final time. There is no better time than now. Uther Pendragon has sent his knights into the forest to seek out our kind and finish what he began twenty-five years ago. Arthur's allies are gone, as well. They are as unprotected as they will ever be. Now is the time to strike."
"And are you willing to die for this?"
Morgause sighed. "I am."
"And are you willing to leave your sister to finish your great work?"
"Morgana is strong. She was named High Priestess by the Goddess herself. Her resolve will not waver, and her allies are strong. She will carry on our work as though I stood behind her."
The Dochraid hissed and scuttled toward Morgause. Her grasping hands clutched at the priestess, climbing the length of her body, sliding over bone and curves until she felt naked under the other's sightless scrutiny. One hand rested briefly over her heart, the other over her eyes. Morgause stood still, steeling her will against the touch of the cold, scaly hands that pressed against her skin and seemed to search further, into her mind. For what purpose, Morgause could only guess. "You've the will, and most of the strength. The rest I will loan you for this task. But. . . " The Dochraid sighed again, a wistful note, "There is something else you would have. Something more than an ounce of strength."
The hands lifted away from Morgause's body. She blinked against the tears that sprang into her eyes. "Yes," she breathed, "There is. I was beautiful once. And strong. I would have that beauty restored to me, if only for a night. I would not have my enemies see what I have become. Surely you can grant me this bit of vanity."
"Yesss. . . "one of the hands returned to trace the ruined half of Morgause's face, "Beauty is its own power, and that power was stolen from you by your enemies."
"By Merlin."
"He lives still. But his destruction is not yours to complete. That task is Morgana's," the Dochraid said.
"She goes to find a weapon against him."
"She will find it." The cold fingers trailed across Morgause's lips, and the hag brushed her fingertips across her own lips as though tasting the priestess's intentions. "I will give you your beauty, priestess, but it comes with a cost. As life pays for life, so beauty must pay for beauty."
Morgause nodded. A fair price, for one close to the end of her days. "What is it you want?"
"One day. The memory of one summer's day spent in happiness. That is the price for a day of beauty restored."
"Done." Morgause closed her eyes, thinking back through the summers of her life, searching for just the right memory to give over to the Dochraid, the sort of memory that would be equal payment for her restored beauty. She had once had a face that besotted kings. . .
Kings. . .
The Dochraid's fingertips brushed against Morgause's temples as she remembered.
A bright summer morning. . . waking in a king's bed. . . silken curtains rustling in the breeze. . . the dawn light off the river. . . down coverlets and feather pillows. . . King Lot asleep beside her. . . waking. . . his lips on hers. . . the two of them coiled together, skin to skin, their hearts beating as one. . . the golden light of the rising sun spilling over two lovers oblivious to the new day. . .
Yess. . .
Morgause jerked away from the Dochraid as the memory faded and finally vanished as the hag's fingers slid off her face. 'It's worth it,' she told herself, 'It's worth it.'
The Dochraid shuddered, something like a smile on her ruined face. She sighed. "A day of beauty for a day of beauty. You will have your chance for vengeance, Morgause. My power wanes with the waxing moon, but soon enough it will grow strong again and you shall have your chance at vengeance. At the dark of the moon."
