66:13
Imprisonment was a fear she had been battling for years — and in other circumstances, she'd probably be handling it much better. Sure, the cold iron shackles were awful, it felt as if something inside her was dead where her magic had been — but it was nothing, nothing compared to the whines out of Aithusa. She had been so pretty, a could of white coming to save her when all else had been lost. There was something in her eyes, so pure, so sweet that Morgana couldn't help but love. It reminded her of Mordred, when he had been but a hurt boy locked in her chambers.
She had failed him, as she had failed Aithusa. Now they were both paying for it. It hurt her far more than the indignities on her own person, the way the beautiful creature was growing stunted and twisted because of the walls around them. Maybe, if she had been older, they would have a way out, but no. Aithusa was but a baby, and what sort of hatred led men — like her father to make war on innocent creatures, who can't even be held accountable to their crimes?
Still, The Sarrum was far, far worse than Uther had haver been. There was no sense of righteousness in his crusade, only the pleasure in the torture, in making people suffer. He had told her, over an year ago, months after she had been captured, that Aithusa's cries stopped most of the castle from sleeping. He also called it the most beautiful lullaby he had ever listened to. Everything about the man was rotten.
Morgana hated him more than anything else she could ever had hated. She dreamt of the day she would be freed, the day she'd have him bathing in dragon fire. It seemed like a fitting punishment. The man had dared lay hands on a High Priestess, there was nothing on earth that could save him now.
Whenever the fire of hatred threatened to burn her from inside, though, Aithusa leaned against her. It was soothing, feeling her scales against the bare skin of her torn dress, to have the warmth that seemed to pour from the dragon's body into her soul. She knew she would be dead without Aithusa a thousand times over by now.
Hope had already disappeared when they finally came for her. A feat of courage and valour, in a way that even the fabled knights of Camelot wouldn't be able to accomplish, if they had been so inclined. No fancy declarations, only a firm command and the pit was open. Even Aithusa had grown quiet in the last few days, as if she had known it was coming. Maybe she did, foresight was a dragon's gift after all. The light could have burned her blind, but it was freedom, and she'd take it gladly as the rough man with a kind voice came inside and freed them from chains.
It was almost impossible to resist — all the power, rushing back to her, at once, clamouring for vengeance, pleading to be used.
Her first magic had been in healing what she could from Aithusa's scars. Her wings were a bit lopsided, but there was little she could do about it. The dragon meowed against her hand, thankful, and it was so little for all the debt she had to it.
In Aithusa she could trust — she could love. Aithusa wouldn't reveal her secrets or turn against her. In Aithusa she had the companion she had missed since her sister had died. She could be herself. She could be even more. Aithusa was all she needed. The only child she would ever have.
(And if anyone tried to harm her again, now — now she'd teach her dragon to repay them the way she should — in fire and blood).