A rare crisp breeze enters the room and tickles Morgana's eyelids, and she opens her eyes again to Glauchedon's stern grey ceilings. There is little more to do than close them again—she has been barred from the council meetings and the other duties until she can prove that she has fully recovered. She would have protested, but even she cannot help being unnerved by the bruises that have yet to fade from her skin.
Perhaps it is for the best. It is more difficult to ignore the spectres that appear even now. Before, she could pretend they were but figments of her guilt, imagination running wild with echoes and shadows. But now… now she can feel them, and there is no escape.
Reality is still preferable to her dreams—the ghostly hands that grasp and tug and bruise are painfully tangible. With the echoes of her victims staying well past when they should have faded, Morgana wonders at her tenuous but still very much present grasp on sanity. Maybe it is because she is just too exhausted to care anymore. Her magic is completely drained, her limbs turned limp. There is nothing she can do without the help of others right now, and she is bone-weary enough to embrace apathy.
In death, maybe, she would be given sweet repose. But then again, her sins are too great for such a reward to be bestowed upon her. Morgana sighs and opens her eyes once more. She knows she has gotten away with only very light punishment. Truth be told, she had expected far worse. She shudders at the sight of yet another spirit snarling as it claws toward her.
Light suddenly floods the room, and she opens her eyes again to Mithian's concerned gaze. Morgana blinks—she had not noticed the princess's presence. Mithian gives her an uncertain smile as she secures the pulled-back curtains. "I thought you'd enjoy the afternoon sunshine," she murmurs.
For a fort, Glauchedon has many of the comforts lacking in the military encampments they had used in Peredor. Morgana smiles back, grateful for her consideration. Both the sun and Mithian's company is very welcome, and she feels more tethered to the here and now. A flash of bright light outside catches her eye, probably a reflection of the sun.
"Our troops have been clearing the remnants of the Saxon camps," Mithian continues. "The High King has been in council, preparing the next offensive. I believe we will start retaking the citadels nearest to Peredor within the month."
Only seven days have passed since the decisive battle and victory. It seems so long ago now, what with the feast and the disastrous attempt to heal Keredic. There are purple shadows under Mithian's eyes, but her voice is almost forcefully cheerful. The princess has been visiting Morgana more frequently since she regained consciousness, perhaps out of guilt. Morgana is grateful for the company, but she worries that the care and warmth being shown to her is taking a toll on Mithian, who should by all rights be grieving for her lost brother.
Losing Keredic must have been a heavy blow for the princess—the siblings had seemed close, and Morgana does not doubt that Mithian has never coveted the position of heiress presumptive that has been now thrust upon her. There must be so many things Mithian should be attending to. Morgana considers telling her that she will be fine and that she could be left alone, but cannot bring herself to do so. Let her be selfish for one more day.
Sudden pain stabs through her head. Morgana cannot help crying out, clutching at her temples as white-hot lightning lances through her vision. Vaguely she can feel Mithian rushing to her side, but her focus is on the voices roaring through her consciousness in a desperate tumble of words.
"Where is your power? What have you done? Danger threatens Albion!"
Morgana lets out a pained gasp. The voices are loud and savage, but there is a desperate edge to them that she does not remember from before.
"Emrys, where is Emrys? We are needed. There is no time!"
Her body is still her own; the flood of voices does not swallow her as they did when she had attempted to use their magic. "Merlin," Morgana manages to stutter out to Mithian. "Get Merlin."
She listens to Mithian's hurried footsteps die away as they turn their ire on her.
"Foolish, selfish child, do you understand what you have done? Where is your Sight? Did you block your ears to the warnings? What you done?" Their voices grate in her mind.
"I don't understand—what's going on?" She bursts out. The voices only grow more strident.
"Danger threatens us and you did not see. Why have you not used your gifts?"
"The Sight has not given me any visions since the war began," Morgana retorts, "and it was a welcome reprieve. Tell me what danger threatens us, and I can try to do something!"
"Too late too late too late," they wail, "all is for naught and you are to blame. Death and desolation we could have prevented await."
Fire fills Morgana's vision then—fire and smoke and the sharp, acrid smell of death. Her hands clutch at the cool sheets.
"We won the battle," she protests weakly. "Arthur—"
"Our lot is not concerned with petty earthly struggles! We safeguard Albion, and you have failed. Death approaches from above."
"I—"
"Morgana?"
She snaps her head up. Arthur is watching her, worry shining clearly from his eyes. Mithian and Merlin stand behind him, warily eyeing her. At the warlock's appearance, the voices crescendo.
"Why have you abandoned us, Emrys?"
The voices resonate through the room, towering in their rage. A small rumbling sound becomes audible, growing louder and louder. Morgana watches with wide eyes as Arthur, Mithian, and Merlin all flinch.
"You can hear them too?" Morgana breathes. Merlin turns to her, brows wrinkled.
"Are these the voices you've been dealing with?"
Morgana bites her lip, then nods. "The high priestesses of Albion past. Their power was what I reached for when I tried to…" She trails off, eyes darting to Mithian. Merlin's frown deepens.
"That… that shouldn't be possible."
"Why do you think the gods granted such power, Emrys? Did you never stop to wonder how two such powerful beings were born in the same era?"
Pain lances through Morgana's temples, and she claps her hands to her ears to try to drown out the screams. The air feels hotter, and the rumbling reaches fever pitch. She cannot shake the creeping feeling that something terrible is coming.
"Stop talking in riddles," she grits out, "and tell us what's going on."
"You should have known, you should have stopped this, you and Emrys were born to protect us and you failed. Too late too late too late too late—"
The skies light up, incandescent. The flash is the last thing Morgana sees before the world explodes. Then there is fire, and smoke, and the earth itself tearing apart from the impact.
And soon, there is nothing. The stars stud the night, oblivious, as death claims what remains of the island.
All is silent.
This is how the story of Arthur-and-Morgana ends—with a woman who was too afraid to See, a man who could not move the heavens to save the earth, and a world ended by celestial whims. This is how the story ends: Not with a life well lived together nor a happily ever after, but fire and death. Love conquers all but a meteor strike.
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A/N: Happy April Fool's Day! Just an assurance for anybody still reading this that this story is not abandoned, and that I will try to have actual chapters up within the next year, if all goes well. This chapter will be deleted once the new chapter is ready. Apologies for anyone who came in expecting a new chapter and was disappointed. I do want this story finished, but I'm not going to do it by having everyone die from a meteor strike.
