Hello loyal followers! I am – so sorry about the update date, but you know how busy things get over Christmas – I hope you had a good one!
Thanks once again to my reviewers – you really are my motivation, and I will start naming people because I really do value the time you spend on my story!
Thank you very much mondeuz022, Iricious, That-is-illogical, TimothyRiddle and for reviewing my last chapter – you all left very constructive and lovely comments, and you helped me keep going when I was getting disheartened!
Thank you Sunny and Tinkerbell90 for – just being epic and reviewing regularly. It means a lot xD
OK on with the story – and please keep reviewing! I have a sort of vague idea of where the story is going, but I'm still lost and conflicted. Kind of like Morgana.
Deep in the Great Seas of Meredor lay an island, enshrouded by mist. It was not obvious at first, but appeared slowly over the horizon, mysterious and terrible in its grandeur. A ruin, forgotten by the hearts of men and eventually by time itself. Yet it was not always so. One remained there, consumed by memories of a better time. Her name was Morgause, and her heart was sick with fear. The woman was near frantic with it, pacing the stone floors of the ruin, which was close to a home for her. Morgause had known happy times here, had loved here. The women who had been like mothers to her, giving their hearts and minds for her to learn from and love. Yet as she grew up she noticed that there was an element of sadness in the priestesses. All knew that a dark age was coming, that the old ways would be lost, buried deep within the isle. Morgause had not believed that something so evil could happen at the time, but she had been mistaken, so terribly mistaken. She had prayed, as had all, for their deliverance, and the high priestesses had taught her who to pray to. The Deionaee. Worshipped in many ways, his hand molded the path people would take. Those of the trinity called him God, worshipped his messengers, those who sang his songs of creation and rebirth. Those of the old ways feared him, chose to worship his power through the elements, through the cycle of life and death. Through the Goddess, she who was mistress of his creations. The Deionaee was neither man or woman, but a power too enormous for earthly beings to comprehend. And he had had plans for Morgause. To be Morgana's mentor, to guide her in the ways of the dark, just as Gaius's destiny was to guide Merlin through the light. The Deionaee was not good or bad, only his messengers had that privilege. The Deionaee only cared about the balance, of keeping the world in balance. And she was his dedicated servant, bound to his will, to the will of the Disir. She had learnt in the most painful way that no one can fight destiny, because destiny is not the writing on the wall, or the telling of what is to come. That was the part that fate played. And fate could be bent, could be twisted until you could convince yourself that you had changed destiny too. Destiny was the essence of life, the guiding force, the framework of time. Fate and destiny were closely interlocked, but only one decided destiny.
Morgause's eyes became haunted as she thought of the evil Uther had done to her people. She remembered in particular one night, when a druid settlement had been set alight at dusk, and the entire population burnt. She had heard the screams, felt the blaze of the flames cut in to her cheek like a knife, stinging her eyes. Morgause had seen the charred, black bodies of children, still clutching the burnt remains of toys and rattles. But she hadn't cried. She didn't know how to cry. All the priestesses had taught her was to hate, and that she did with a rage so violent that she knew that when the moment came, she would happily look Uther in his snake like eyes and plunge a dagger in to his breast. That she would watch as the life ebbed from him and every breath became more painful. Because he had destroyed her kind, destroyed everything she loved. He had probably destroyed her sister. Morgause had always had a vague knowledge of having a little sister, but had not been prepared for the immediate affection and almost maternal love she felt for Morgana. How she would do anything to see her little sister happy, despite the difference in their bringing up. Morgause should have been jealous, should have hated Morgana for knowing and loving their mother, a luxury Morgause had never been privy to. But how could she, when she had seen Morgana and immediately known that their kinship was strong enough to break Uther's violent regime. When she had held Morgana, dying, in her arms. That had been the first time she cried, and the last. No one deserved the luxury of making a priestess of the old religion cry, least of all a mere servant boy. And she knew that by teaching Morgana to be fearless, to feel no crippling pity and remorse, she could help her achieve her true identity. But now she was frightened, almost desperate with the images that flashed through her mind. Morgana had not responded to her ever more urgent messages, and she had already been concerned when she had heard the news. That Uther had defiled the water source with poison. Morgause knew how this would affect Morgana, knew that she would die if she was not helped. But she had no means of getting to her. Was Morgana still in Camelot? Or had she escaped, found a way of getting in to the woods. But the cold and ice had been spreading throughout Camelot, and images of a frozen Morgana lying dead on the floor haunted her. Morgause closed her eyes, and attempted to find Morgana one more time. For the few hours, she had been trying to call Morgana telepathically, but had been met only with silence. She summoned all her strength and called out,
Sister! Morgana my darling can you hear me? Where are you? For a moment there was silence, yet Morgause held the connection, hoping she would hear something, anything that she could use to find her sister. Suddenly she heard screaming, loud, piercing screams that echoed in her mind. She heard fragments of songs and spells before the screams took hold, though one message was clear throughout her tortured wails.
Merlin? Morgause, where are you? I can't think – I can't see. Find – find me. Find me. Why aren't you coming, Morgause? For a moment Morgause sat there, frozen in shock and horror at the sounds of her sister's tortured mind, at the relentless attack it was under. She soon brought herself out of her horrified reverie, and cried,
"Coniectoen in engleymen emysphery!" In her mind's eye she saw her sister screaming, convulsing on the floor whilst a man tended to her, attempting to revive her. Morgause knew not where they were, or who the man was, she could only see the back of his head. But she knew she would find them
Kilgarrah descended on to the snow and gazed coldly at Merlin, his amber eyes hardened with anger.
"So, young warlock, you have defied me once more. I am to understand you have saved the witch's life yet again. Does Albion mean nothing to you? Are the warnings I give merely words to you?" Merlin ducked his head; his mind conflicted. Kilgarrah's voice continued to rise in anger, his rage throbbing through the forest and pounding in Merlin's head, a power he could not comprehend rising inside of him. "Evil is marked in her, enscribed with power far beyond your understanding. You dare to disobey me? You dare to think that a fledgling sorcerer such as yourself is more powerful than destiny? More powerful than the old religion itself?" Merlin shook his head, and roared,
"Silence! Kilgarrah, I know she will not change. I know that her hatred of Uther is blinding her, and I know that that hatred will not recede. But how can I let her die? How can I sit here and watch the life drain out of her, watch her soul be ripped until she cannot scream any more? There must be some way that I can save her, we can find another way!"
"There is no other way, Warlock. Morgana Pendragon is destined to die at your hand, and nothing you can do will change that. I understand you have given her Oliander and Hemlock, to make the end approach sooner?" Merlin nodded, aghast at how he had unwittingly played in to destiny's hands. "I hope you now understand the hopelessness of your case, the futility of your pathetic attempt to bring Morgana towards the light. You cannot fight destiny Merlin, it is the inevitable, the foretold. Merlin clenched his teeth.
"I would rather burn in Hell for a thousand years than see her die in this way, Kilgarrah. Now tell me, what can we do?" Kilgarrah's enormous amber eyes took Merlin in, gouging his fearful expression, the way in which his rough and callused hand inadvertently stroked Morgana's pale cheek.
"You love her," Kilgarrah stated, simply. Merlin's eyes widened in shock. No, he felt nothing but anger to the woman who had nearly brought down Camelot in her rage. But as her slowly ebbing breath faltered and she gave a soft moan as her own magic poisoned her, blackened her mind and robbed her of all reason, he could not bring himself to deny it any longer.
"More than I could have thought possible," he said clearly and calmly, whilst his mind was anything but. And as he allowed his love for her, so tender and sweet yet laced with tears, bitter memories and foretellings, he experienced a pain of the like he had never felt before. It came slowly, softly, but as it increased the pain became a weight, dragging him to his knees. Kilgarrah snarled in fury as he watched Merlin's agony.
"So the rumours are true, then? Uther has unleashed the full might of the Aether down on his kingdom."
"What the hell is this, why did you not tell me of it before?"
"You cannot foretell the use of Aether – for it is a substance far beyond the knowledge of the most insightful of seers and the wisest of sages. I understand you have always been taught that the four elements are at the heart of the old religion and of magic?" Merlin nodded. "Well, at the heart of the four elements is the Aether, which birthed fire, air, earth and water. It formed a great lake in the kingdom of Heaven, from which the Deionaee created his messengers." Merlin interrupted, impatient.
"Who is the Deionaee? What does this have to do with the poison?" The Great Dragon glared at him, insulted.
"I see once again that your ignorance knows no bounds. The Deionaee is something far beyond what you can comprehend. Some would call him God, but he is far greater than many would have you believe. He wrote the story of the world, and watches it grow. Now if you will let me go on? Good. As I was saying, the Deionaee created his messengers from the Aether, the Christ child, the prophets, the disir, all who bear the Deionaee's light come from there. But the wicked sorcerer, Lokindane, once a trusted messenger, stole some to achieve immortality. As it touched his filthy hands, a small spring sprung on earth. No life could grow around it, nothing with magic in could thrive. The liquid in it was putrid, black. Only the truly soulless have ever come there, but when they do, it is as if their feet have sought that path of their own accord. Uther Pendragon has done more harm than he could have ever predicted by corrupting a water source with its pestilence." Merlin absorbed this quietly, struggling to take in the facts set before him. Suddenly, he asked,
"When I feel my love for Morgana, it hurts – it attacks me. Why would this be?" The Old Dragon pondered upon this for a while, before answering,
"Because Aether is evil, it cannot understand anything as pure as love, or magic, so it corrupts it, turns it on itself. Your love, like your magic, holds the weight of fate in itself, and is a force to be reckoned with. You see, most sorcerers are not as affected because their magic is not pure, it is addled, tainted by the methods used in learning it. Morgana and yourself, young warlock, have pure elemental power running through your veins and bonds of pure love – yourself for Arthur and Morgana for Mordred. And now you have found love for each other – as it turns on itself, the stronger it is, the more it will tear you apart. And in the case of the witch, good riddance."
"Before she succumbed – before her magic overpowered her, I hurt her, badly. I made her think that I thought she was evil, not to be trusted. Did that – did that contribute?" The dragon tilted his head to one side, malice sewn in to his voice.
"Your love for each other is embedded with pain and fear. You made her feel it acutely – you brought on the attack quicker than it would have done had you kept your thoughts to yourself. Well done, young warlock. Perhaps you are learning."
"No, no it was an accident! You dare – you dare-"
"Yes I dare young warlock! Whilst there may come a day when your power exceeds mine, that day is not upon us, and I may speak my mind." Merlin stood stock still, speaking slowly and deliberately.
"You forget that you are speaking to a dragon lord, Kilgarrah!" Merlin intonated, dangerously. He raised his hands and bellowed. "It hurts me to do this, Kilgarrah, but I know you to be too great a slave of destiny to help me of your own will."
"I cannot help the witch, it is beyond my power" Kilgarrah screeched. Merlin's eyes flashed amber, and clenching his teeth at the pain, which once again fell on to his back as a heavy weight would.
"Then it appears I have no choice. Bøye til min vilje ohm stor drage, for du er svak i mitt nærvær. Hjelpe meg, i min søken etter frelse!" At once the dragon sank to his knees, shaking with rage, his amber eyes bright with fury.
"Very well, young dragon lord. But one day, I shall serve a bond far higher, that shall break this one as I snap twigs beneath my talons. Then, you shall not command me with the arrogance that you now."
"Just tell me, Kilgarrah." Merlin snarled, his eyes flashing not with magic, but with anger. Kilgarrah sighed.
"The Lady Morgana is under a deep magical influence – her own. Her pure, elemental magic is attacking her. But fire must be fought with fire. Quite literally in this case."
"You are making no sense, dragon, and my patience is waning."
"My, apologies, young warlock," the dragon sneered through gritted teeth. "I had forgotten your ignorance. I have told you many a time that your magic is elemental, pure. I have spent the last part of our conversation trying to get through your thick skull. Whilst the magic of others is filled with human clutter and waste, there are four who walk this earth with the power of an element in their minds, their veins and their souls. You are one, driven by the might of earth. The witch is another, she is driven by fire. When her magic attacks her, it burns her alive." Merlin reeled with horror as he looked down at her face. This was his fault this was – all his fault. His determination to see evil in her at every turn. He accused her of being blinded by hatred, and yet he was the one who was blind. Blinded by destiny, and by the beguiling words of the Great Dragon. And through it, he had lost Morgana. Yes she had made her own path, but it was his treachery that had sent her down there. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes as he cradled her in his arms. The last time she had been at death's door, he had not mourned her. It had been a casualty, she had brought it on herself with her double cross. Her bruises, the pain on her face had brought guilt, but not remorse or sadness. It had been guilt that had driven him to heal her, guilt that only increased his hatred of her for making him feel this way. Truth was, until all was forced in to seriousness, he enjoyed sparring with Morgana. Too long he had gone without worthy opposition, and Morgana was certainly his match. That day when she had claimed credit for his conquest of her army, so much had gone unsaid between them, said only with their eyes. But there had been enjoyment. There had been mocking, teasing behind the malice in both of their eyes, and he knew that she had been enjoying this as much as he had. Her smirks had confirmed that. But now he understood her, understood the confliction and hurt underneath Morgana's hatred. Yet it was too little, too late. No. There was still hope. There was still something he could do.
"If we could empower the element within her, make it resistant to the aether – surely that can be done? Good must always overcome evil, it is the natural way."
"Perhaps," the dragon turned his head from Merlin, angered at having lead him to this conclusion. Merlin spoke, thoughts whirring in his head like clockwork.
"Her magic is consuming her, but if we can let the uncorrupted consume the corrupted then her body will be her own again – that's it, it must be the way!" His deep blue eyes pierced the dragon's skin and suddenly felt as though he could see right in to the depths of the dragon's icy heart. When Merlin finally spoke again, it was levelly, with the most strained control over his temper. "Breathe over her. Fire – her element. It must be the way." The dragon arched a scaly eyebrow.
"Very well, young warlock. But I cannot promise her survival. These are dangerous matters you are dealing with. I wonder if this is a battle even you cannot hope to fight." Chuckling maliciously to himself, the Great Dragon inhaled, and blew with all his might. A torrent of flames escaped from his mouth, engulfing the sorceress in their might. An aura surrounded her – amber and gold, the colours of magic. Merlin watched in awe; the act seemed celestial in some way. He gazed, transfixed, as the flames receded, until Morgana was left untouched. Merlin saw that she had not been burnt; her skin was as pale as moonlight. But her suffering had ceased. Morgana's once erratic breathing, though quiet, was now peaceful. The frown that had marked her agony relaxed, and her face was calm. She was at peace. The dragon broke the silence, gazing at Morgana in contempt. "Her magic is pure once more, but the battle for the witch's magic has weakened her. Unless you can find a way to give her strength, she has a matter of hours." With that, the dragon took off in to the sky, his wings beating like drums. Merlin stared after Kilgarrah in disbelief. Had it all been for nothing? Was Morgana already too far gone for him to save her? He looked down at her face, so peaceful after so many days of torment.
"Morgana, I am so – so sorry," he whispered. He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers, gently, as if afraid she would break in his arms. The tears ran freely down his face now and his body was wracked with sobs. He kissed her again, desperately, wishing more than ever that she would respond to him. But it was then, searching the depths of his heart that he realised what he had to do. What he must do, for her.
Deep in Morgana's mind, a part of her struggled for consciousness, a part that had watched in horror as her own body became her torture chamber. It was dark. Very dark. Yet now, she was at peace. And as Morgana welcomed the concord, she felt tired. So tired that she thought she might collapse in to herself. So tired that she could not lift her eyelids, nor move her limbs to arise. How she longed for darkness, for oblivion. Morgana had been through enough to want the end, to greet death as a friend rather than fear it as an enemy. Yet she knew somewhere there was a reason for her to live. Her sister would be grieved and bereft at her death, but there was someone else, too. Someone she couldn't quite put her finger on, but was there all the same. And she owed it to that someone to fight, to try and recover. Shouldn't be too hard. If there was one thing she knew about herself, it was that she didn't give up. That she was a fighter, and that so long as that someone was by her, holding her hand and stroking her hair, she could carry on.
Morgana Pendragon was coming home to the man who had called her name as she lay dying. The man who was her destiny, and as it would seem, her salvation.
Well, whadya think? I'm a bit unhappy with it myself, so please leave a bit of constructive criticism with your reviews! (Writing multi-chapters is hard!) Ta! xxx
