REVIEWS:
hannahleanda: Morgana deserves the world!
AndreKL: Those fools will be the death of one another... wait...
Michele:I think, in the least, we shoul've gotten more even after Morgana became the main antagonist. I mean, ho do you make her the villain and not have her interact with Arthur as a hero? Heroes and Villains should challenge one another, at the least in a basic sense of story telling... Anyway, I'm glad you liked it!
Any criticism and advice is appreciated! XD
TRIALS PART II.
WARNING! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS THE SUGGESTION OF SELF HARM AND DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOOD LOSS, IN A BLOOD RITUAL. IF THAT IS TRIGERRING PLEASE, REFRAIN FROM READING, OR DO SO CAREFULLY.
Gwen put the plate on the table, and gently took a step back.
His hand, meanwhile, is right at the edge, idly tapping on the wood. She counts them and gets to ten before summoning enough courage to speak.
"Sire, your supper, it's getting cold."
The fingers stop and the king finally seems to move from his still form. His brow is furrowed and grave, keeping deep shadows over his eyes, but despite that, he can still see her over his shoulder.
"Has Arthur not returned yet?"
Gwen cocks her head, the answer is old and well-rehearsed. It slips from her tongue like honey. "Not as yet, sire. Patrolling in winter can be difficult, and those sorcerers know well how to hide."
The hand on the table curls into a fist. "Yes, I'm aware of how slippery those pests can be." His head turns to the window where she can see the cold night beyond, the clear skies twinkling with stars while the moon becomes a grin towards the snow covered citadel. "We must be sure to purge the evil from our lands before striking at it beyond our borders."
"Yes sire." Gwen wonders if Uther is even aware of who she is. Deep down, she almost wishes for it, a drop of recognition to one day find its way into those pale blue eyes so he could understand that the woman he almost killed is now his personal servant. That the woman whose father he took, now sees to it that he eats, and drinks, and has his bed made. Another part of her wonders if he does remember and simply doesn't care. "Will that be all, your highness?"
He takes the edge of the plate and pulls it closer. It is a fine meal, better than many are having at this point of the season. Roasted pork meat, with fresh bread and a soup made with their last tomatoes. The smell alone made her want to go home to her own poor meal, but she has to wait as long as the king needed. It was just the way of things.
While Uther refuses to give her an answer, she darts her eyes outside. His question makes her think of Arthur out there, and Merlin and Lancelot and her brother. The people she felt were the centre of her world were all gallivanting on a quest to help Camelot in the war, or at least that was how she understood it. Whatever powers had threatened Arthur they had to be dealt with, but that didn't stop her from praying at night for their safe return. Praying as hard as her loneliness would allow so she could see Arthur once more, share some idle conversation with Merlin, be annoyed at her brother and maybe have more meals in Lancelot's company. It was her only wish, and God surely could grant her that much, after all that was taken from her.
Gwen was so distracted, she was surprised to hear the loud bite from the king, turning to see him taking a chunk of greasy meat into his mouth. He chewed loudly, swallowing it, and then downing the food with a gulp of wine which ebbed from the sides of his mouth in a bright scarlet line. "I've hunted sorcerers during winter sometimes." He said when he was done, then he took another bite. "It was a tough affair. The man had sworn to see my death, he had killed a dozen guards I think, and his magic, the things he did with it, unnatural, revolting."
Gwen gulped, trying to find a way to stop the dryness of her throat. "Did you catch him, sire?"
"Yes." The king answered, leaning back on his chair, he let the half eaten pork rest on the plate, and took the bread to dip into the soup. "It took us nearly three days. By the time the wretched was cornered, he was starving on his feet, but that is when they become even more dangerous. He lashed out. The power to kill in those eyes of gold. A wave of his hand and a man would fall dead on the ground. That is how you know they come from the devil, these people. No man should hold that much power."
"No sire, of course not."
Uther swallowed the piece of bread. "I had him burned on the village we found him. It made an example. That same month, three more were denounced in that same place." He finally looked at her now, his eyes like broken glass cutting at her armour, and suddenly, Gwen felt trouble to stand on her feet. "That is what is needed to fight evil, ruthlessness and determination."
"My lord" Gaius' voice never felt more welcome to Gwen than at that moment. The old physician came swiftly into the chambers, his robes billowing with each step as he stopped at her side. "I've brought the medicine for your old wound sire, and the other potions to help with your health."
"Gaius, yes, of course." The king motioned for him to come closer and Gaius did so. "I have need of my strength for the coming fights."
"Of course sire."
"You'll be by my side."
Gaius nodded, slowly. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Gwen wet her lips. "Will you need anything else, my lord?"
When he shook his head and made a shooing motion with his hand, Gwen never felt more relieved, not even when she managed to sneak out of Camelot when Morgana was Queen. She curtsied, and made to the door, listening to the conversation at her back.
"It feels like old times, right Gaius?"
"Certainly, my lord."
"You and I, making the world into a better place."
And Gwen closed the door, going home and trying not to look back.
I can do this.
When the forest vanishes from their surroundings they both arrive into a new chamber, and this one has Morgana gulping as the memories flood her from the depths of fears and near death experiences. It's just like she remembers. Like the Maiden's temple, this one also has no doors, but unlike the Meadow of Spring the First Garden is distinguishably claustrophobic. It is round and small, with no more than twenty feet from one side to the other. The walls were built with heavy boulders of all sizes and shapes, climbing hundredths of feet towards the sky from where the moonlight could only hit them at the right angle. It was a horrible place, and even with the light she was carrying, it felt too much like the bottom of a pit for Morgana not to close her eyes, less she feels the walls closing in around her.
Distantly she can hear ugly voices. Distantly she hears the Sarrum and reminds herself that the man was dead. When her hand reaches out, feeling for a scaly warm body that isn't there, her heart launches itself into a wild frenzy, barely allowing her to hear the muffled voice calling her name.
"…gana! Morgana!" She opens her eyes, only to find the bright blue of Camelot's champion staring back at her, all concern and uncertainty. His eyes always looked like that, not even in his greatest moments she remembered Arthur being completely sure of something. Despite the masks, he would always be lost. "Morgana?" His heavy hand on her shoulder is suddenly enough to bring her back, wavering as the world shifted back into focus.
"I'm all right." She gasped, but he didn't let go.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"That didn't look like nothing, you seemed like you were about to throw up." Arthur frowned. "Did you have a vision or something?"
She felt the urge to laugh in his face, because she had no idea what would be worse. "No, it wasn't a vision." She saw him getting ready to press her with more questions and quickly cut him off. "I think we've shared enough for the day, don't you?"
Arthur was clearly not happy with her answer, but what did he expect? She had told him her little sob story - a whim brought up by his stupid puppy eyes - opening her scars again to exposed the raw flesh underneath, but that didn't mean she would be suddenly confessing everything about her life. It was probably his fault anyway, being here. She spent her days in Essetir conquering herself and a day with Arthur Pendragon suddenly had her on her toes. It was specially difficult at times when she felt each breath she spent close to Arthur haunted by dangerous urges. An old part of herself, a part she kept hidden, still whispered that it would be satisfying to see his head on a spike. It still insisted on sending her back to that forest, when she met Mordred's killer lying on the ground, tired and defeated, while in the present Arthur worries about her. It is enough to make a person go insane, and wouldn't that be tiresome?
When his hand is finally gone her shoulders sink in relief. In front of her Arthur exasperatedly run his fingers through his greasy blonde hair. He looked at her, opened his mouth and closed it again, motioning to the statue ahead. "Very well, what is the nature of this trial then?"
She moved beyond him, her boots crunching the brittle bare soil underneath as she came under the shadow of the face of her Goddess. The woman was very beautiful, a beauty that came with age. Her face didn't have the joyful grin of youth, but the serene smile of adulthood. Her body was bare, healthy and chubby, with stretch marks displayed clearly as she sat over her legs. Dark onyx hair crowned the top of her head and fell in cascading curls over her shoulders and breasts. In her callous hands she was holding a tray with a brazier and an old weathered knife while in front of her was a rusty old cauldron inlaid with silver shaped like runes older than the Temple itself.
"This is the Mother Goddess of the full moon."
A pause. "Why is she naked?"
Morgana felt a smile threatening to get out, and quietly put it away. "She is adulthood, responsibility, growth and maturity." She turned to him. "I don't know why she is naked."
"It must be a trend."
Morgana ignored him. "Her trial is about the price we pay for our ambitions and accomplishments."
"And that means…" Arthur prompted.
"In the old legends, the Mother used to tend to a special garden. She did so very carefully and wisely. Her hands would dig the earth and rip off the weeds, for they would always grow again. Her feet would walk over the moist soil, never stepping on her creations, for their beauty was precious and always unique whether they had pretty colours or a touch of poison, for everyone had their value." Wind whistled down from the opening, brushing her skin with a cold wistful kiss, whether from lips or steel, she couldn't tell. "Since she was ambitious she wanted to have everything in her garden. Every fruit, and flower and shrub. Every plant and tree there ever was and some that would never be. As a consequence, her garden had also a very special flower that could only be grown by a brave sacrifice. It was called the Grail." She motioned to the chamber. "To pass this trial I must grow that same flower in here."
Arthur looked at her dumbly for a long suffering second, before taking a look around at the poorly illuminated chamber. "You mean this place? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"This is barren soil; I doubt you can even dig deep enough to plant something." He said, kicking a block of dry earth aside. "You need water, seeds and some really good manure."
Morgana smirked, lighting the fire on the brazier with a snap of her fingers. He wasn't going to like this. "Actually, we have everything we need right here."
Arthur paused, his eyes darting to where Dahut was patiently watching them, her ears twitching as if to follow their conversation. "I don't think she can fertilize this place by herself."
"What?" Morgana balked, her mare whined.
"I'm just saying, I haven't seen her droppings yet, but even so..."
"Y-you swine! That is not what I'm talking about!" She looked away, gritting her teeth. "Obviously I'm going to be using magic!"
"Oh." He looked at everywhere but her, clearly still uncomfortable and Morgana felt her annoyance at him rearing its head.
"If you will be like that, just turn around and don't watch it."
"I didn't say anything"
"You didn't have to." She had always believed Arthur saw something ugly when he looked at who she was, but to actually hear him earlier, had been horrifying in a whole new way. She picked up the knife and bathed the blade in the flames.
"What are you doing?"
"Magic always has a price, it's the first lesson every sorcerer must learn." Slowly, she pulled back her sleeves, eyeing Dahut briefly before pushing the dark thought away. "A little heat, some stamina, your sanity. Some magic will give you doubt, while others will take a life." It's the first thing Morgause had ever taught her, that whatever she might want from her powers, she needed to understand that nothing would come without cost. "It's all about balance."
She turns to look at him to see concentration etched on his features which are covered by intense shadows. It must be surprising, getting all this new information, but she can't resist the temptation to lecture him, almost like a moth pulled to a flame. Still, a part of her wonders if he might use it to battle her kin one day. "You wouldn't be telling me that if it had nothing to do with this place."
Morgana nodded. "The Grail Flower demands powerful magic in its growing, luckily, I'm very aware of its price." She concluded, bringing the sharp sterilized blade over her forearm. Almost immediately she heard him gasping, his steps hurrying to her side.
"Morgana!"
"It's all right" She reassured him, still grimacing at the pain as she let the blood drip into the cauldron. "I could grow a garden with my magic until I passed out, but the Grail Flower only comes alive if given blood."
Arthur is clearly disturbed even as he hears her explanation. Slowly, she clenches her fist, allowing the flow to keep steady. "This is sick."
"It's a lesson."
"It's a stupid lesson then." He grits his teeth, coming up and ripping the knife from her hands as if he was afraid she might use it again. "Stop that, let me fix you."
"No."
"Morgana…." He breathed out, an edge of panic on his voice. "I'm not a physician..."
"I'm aware."
"If you lose too much blood I won't know how to save you!" His voice reached a whiny quality when he panicked. "How much are you going to bleed?"
"The Cauldron of Dyrnwch is meant to test my bravery."
Arthur watched her intensely as if he could peer through her thoughts if he glared long enough. "Are you in danger?"
Morgana could've laughed. She was told that sometimes a drop of blood was enough, but in other times a priestess would fall dead o the ground, her blood drained until she was only skin and bone and still, she would be considered a failure. She can feel the cold seeping into her fingers already. In moments, there would be sweat, her heartbeat would climb unceremoniously, and then nausea. She was glad for his silence at least.
With her mind becoming numb, she couldn't help but reminisce about the last time she had gone through these trials. It had been Morgause at her side back then, her wound impairing her movements, but not stopping the High Priestess from guiding her sister to her own power. She had sat down in the Meadow of Spring, telling her to go out and hunt something and Morgana had taken the bow, the arrows and set out for almost a week. She had walked until her feet became sore with blisters, her stomach painful with hunger and at that point the wolves had found her, a whole pack of them, grey, hungry and merciless. In a storm of fear and adrenaline she had brought down two of them before taking a bite to the leg, but by that point the trial was done. Morgause had healed her and she had stood before the Mother while been instructed on her task. It was a matter of skill and sacrifice. The grail flower needed very special conditions to bloom. As a priestess she had to give and be skillful enough to heal herself, to take her own magic and replace what was taken from her body. Hesitate and you die. The Cauldron of Dyrnwch drinks only from the brave. Stumble and you die. The Grail Flower blooms only when fed by the cauldron. Make a mistake and you die. She snapped back to the present when she felt her magic revolving in her insides, her eyes glowing golden as her healing skills tried their best to counter the bleeding, fighting her intentions to keep the wound close. The shock of these conflicts in her power was enough to tug her knees into a sharp gasping buckle.
"Stop it…" He grabbed for her hand, like she knew he would eventually try and she tossed him on his arse with a tilt of her head. The quick slip of concentration was punishment on her strength, but she wasn't an amateur, she was already a High Priestess, she could hold him down and pass the trial at the same time. "Morgana!" She couldn't make him shut up, though. "Morgana! Let me up! Let me help!"
You can't help me, you stupid prat! She thought. This wasn't a hunt, there was no way to go through this with an act as simple as feeding a doe with an apple. That act had completely gone over her head – she hated that - but this, she was sure, had no easy solutions.
She felt him tugging at invisible restrains, and tilted her head back, dragging him until he was backed against the wall, his curses reaching new heights. The cost grew strong as she felt the cauldron feeding from her, drinking more and more until her body shivered all over, until she felt hollow and fragile.
"Morgana!" He grunted and roared. She had no choice. She would have to knock him out. The High Priestess felt the dwindling power at her core, pulled at its strings and threw it at Arthur. His body jolted at the edge of her perception, growing limp all of the sudden and bringing her morbid sense of satisfaction.
Now she was free to act. Just a little more, it had to be. A groan escaped her lips when a spike of ice coursed through her limbs. Her vision swirled and grew dark, and yet the cauldron didn't have enough. It would tell her when it was done. It should've been done. It wasn't. Panic touched her heart for a brief second, but in her muddled mind she barely had any embers to be stoked. Everything was faint, growing so distant, muffled by a veil of water and fog. It wouldn't be so bad, probably. It wouldn't. She had lost conscience many times before. She had died many times before. Sometimes she had even wished for it. In a hovel in the woods, or kneeling by the side of dying king, she would greet the darkness in peace, willingly, as long as she could rest.
In her state she didn't hear the movement or the knife been thrown on the ground, she only noticed something was different when she felt the warm body at her side.
Fresh blood poured into the cauldron from a new source, cutting her connection to its hunger, the crimson pouring from his arm in fat dark droplets. How?
"Arthur…?"
"J-just, just let me help…"
Through the veil and the water and the earth burying her body the whimpers reached her senses, small and loud like the splitting of the earth.
He was a boy with disheveled hair hunched over on the bed. It was a familiar sight, and it was always the left hand he cradled, never the right. He needed the right to practice, to hold the sword and parry the blows of his masters. As always, his sobs were muffled little things, sounds he failed to contain altogether. Still, when a knock came from out of nowhere, he recovered enough to shout in a steady voice.
"Go away!"
The steps came closer nonetheless.
The girl was perhaps a few inches taller, with a young face and long dark hair, walking with grace and pride even in the privacy of the chambers. She clutched a small bag in her hands, and as she came around the bed, brought it to her lap as she sat down by the boy's side. She waited in silence for bit, breathing calmly under the dim light of a lonely candle. When the boy raised his head, he glared though tearful eyes.
"I said go away."
"I heard you." The girl retorted, reaching out for his cradled hand which he refused to allow. "I brought a salve, it will make you feel better."
"Where did you get it?"
"I stole from the knights' supplies, I use it after we practice." The boy sniffled.
"Father said I must leave it."
"Why?" He didn't answer "So you can be more of a man?" The question had bite, and the boy winced at her tone. The girl noticed the reaction and immediately regretted her actions. Sighing, she gathered all the training of her short life at court for her next words. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."
The boy turned around, still hiding his face. "I messed the numbers…"
She nodded, because he always had a hard time with numbers. "Even so, the master was wrong to use the ferule, and your father was wrong to let him. They are both idiots. You know that right?" No answer, the boy just kept his head on the pillow. Slowly, the girl touched his arm, gently. "Arthur… Let me help you."
"LET ME HELP YOU!" He roared in the present, shattering the memory. Before his anger, she couldn't summon power and unable to contain the raw instinct from taking over, Morgana stepped back like a frightened animal, feeling the pain subsiding as her powers begun the process of healing her body.
As she fell back, fighting to keep her weak form upright, her head begun to clear, the sight of Arthur Pendragon gaining focus. There he stood, before the Cauldron of Dyrnwch, and the statue of the Mother Goddess. There he stood, the fool, beyond every stupid nonsense, there he was, noble and loyal to a fault, even for a betrayer, a killer, a witch, like herself. There he stood, bleeding from his arm and from a head wound. As her bracelet burned with magical power and Morgana recovered some of her wits, she idly wondered if he had a concussion and then she realized it would be her fault if he did.
Looking up, she saw Arthur was still pouring his blood into the cauldron, and slowly, she saw the old iron assuming a deep scarlet hue. Slowly she saw the shivers passing through his body and slowly she saw his knees buckling like those of a new-born calf. Words were stuck inside her throat and she couldn't set them free. Then, when she felt a need to interfere, the silver faces also acquired a deep crimson glow. It seemed that Arthur could tell it was enough, just like she did in another life. He stumbled back and fell on his arse, huffing and still bleeding. At the doors of death. Yes, he would die, her mind concluded. Years of knowledge told her in instants that the wound would bleed nonstop until the eternal sleep claimed his soul to the Other Side. She needed only to step back and do nothing. She needed only to watch over him. Then, in a storm of movement, he turned on his side, vomiting the contents of his stomach while Morgana felt herself blinking away from stupor.
Trying to wrestle back some control, she crawled her way towards his hunched form, bringing his bleeding arm under her scrutiny while he moaned. Not so tall and mighty now. The idiot had teared at his skin in a clear rush to easy her burden. She needed only to watch over him. Her magic eased into the wound at her command, a job much more complicate than a clean cut would have demanded. "Y-you're a fool."
"G-glad I… Glad I could help." Arthur's grin might have looked pretty and convincing if it wasn't the sweaty pale mess that was his face and the line of bile running down his chin. Wrinkling her nose, she summoned enough strength to slap the back of his head. "Ouch!... W-what was that for?"
"For being an idiot." She said, gulping. "I wasn't in any danger."
"Well, it didn't look like it" He seemed to be speaking through a mouthful of mud. Snapping her fingers, Morgana summoned Dahut closer, not even bothering to get up from the ground as she reached for her bag. She threw him her water skin and a piece of bread.
"Eat up, your body needs sustenance after what you did."
"Y-you could be more…. Appreciative…"
"And you could've died."
"So could you…" He drunk the water, panting after each gulp, when his eyes met her, she had no idea why, but she couldn't stand his gaze. "I've lost you way too many times already."
Morgana was sitting down, her back against the wall, munching on a piece of old tasteless bread. She felt utterly uncomfortable in her current position, hyper-aware of her state of needing a bath and a good night of sleep, but also of the presence sitting two feet to her side. Really, her feet were sore and hot inside her boots, her body felt itchy and clammy, and Arthur was, as he had always been, rather inconvenient. This close she could feel his warmth, his scent, and even his breathing each time he took a bite. Maddening.
The fire of the brazier had died some time ago and she had made another ball of light to keep them company. Above them, where the chamber opened to the sky, she saw the grey clouds moving through like curtains been pulled back to show the shimmering stars, an effect that was as revealing as Arthur's words. To her left, in shadows, Dahut seemed to have fallen asleep some time ago, and she was completely devoid of distractions, so, inevitably, her eyes would dart to him. For his part, he kept staring at his healed arm as if he couldn't quite believe it was still there. She felt almost like a maiden, watching and hoping not to get caught, studying the way his face was parted by light and darkness, how it pronounced the lines of his chin and his lips.
"This is uncanny." He remarked to her surprise and startled, she darted her eyes ahead, scared that he might catch her stare.
"What is that?"
"You healed the wound as if it was nothing." Arthur noticed. "I mean, I always knew there were poultices and cures, I just never felt it." She waited, he was clearly trying to get somewhere. "If only more sorcerers did these things instead of fighting."
He looked at her from under bangs of dark blonde hair and Morgana noticed he needed a haircut as thought of a question in return. "Why don't you?"
"What?"
"Why don't you drop that sword, run to your dear old Physician's chambers and beg him to teach you healing?" She asked, nonchalantly. "You could save a lot of people, and there would probably be songs about your deeds and your kindness. They would call you Arthur of the Healing Hands, and you would roam the lands, bandages in your bag, and your stupid servant carrying your tools."
He glared. "I'm serious."
"So am I" She looked down at the small piece of bread in her hands, felt the cold of the living grave reaching her even here, in this sacred place and swallowed it whole, savouring the mouthful. "You could've learned how to heal, but your father beat you into a sword since you were a kid. Other sorcerers could've learned a healing spell or two, but…" She stopped, not bothering to beat a dead horse.
Arthur understood, closing his expression and looking away from her, flexing his arm here and there and, sometimes, looking at her ball of light as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. "Will it always be like this?"
"Like what?"
"I say something, and you say how stupid I am."
"Wasn't it always so?"
Arthur huffed. "You make it really hard to care about you sometimes."
Morgana grimaced, his little outburst lingering over them both, stronger than any magic. It remained there, unconcealed and unrecognized, as dangerous and harmful as a secret and Morgana knew how dangerous secrets could be, how easily they became a cage of one's own making. "Do you mind backing away a little?"
"What?"
"Your scent is choking the life out of me."
He frowned, looking at her with a challenge in his eyes, and Morgana felt the comfort of their shield setting into place. Yes, this is what they did whenever things became uncomfortable. "Oh, so my stink can kill you, but bleeding to death can't?"
"I cannot be killed by mortal weapons." She said, watching his eyes widening a little as he tried to figure out if she was bluffing. "Your smell though, not even the giants of old would stand it."
He smugly hit his own chest. "This is how a man is supposed to smell Morgana."
"Like shit?"
"Sweat, steel and leather."
"A pile of shit in the armoury."
"Maybe you're smelling something else." He pursed his lips and hovered over her. Weirded out, Morgana leaned back shifting away from his intruding nose. They were not enemies, at least not here and now, and yet, she felt more than a little uncomfortable with his proximity as he sniffed the air over her. "Ah, there is it, it's your stink Morgana, and it is clearly affecting your wits. You should probably take care of that."
"What did you say?"
"You heard me, your smelliness."
"Fuck off."
He tsked. "So unladylike."
"Are you aware of what your mouth speaks, or do your poor wits have no idea?"
He laughed, the idiot laughed. "There it is… Anyway, I seem to remember you liking my scent well enough…" but his voice dies and so does his smile. He turned away, cheeks blushing and Morgana felt the urge to spit some curses in the air. Clearly there was no avoiding the issue so she might as well poke the beast.
"What are you trying to do here Arthur?"
The future king rubbed his nose. "Your friends called me here."
"I told you, they are not my friends" A pause. "And that is not what I meant." She guessed that he knew what she was asking, he was just being stubborn about it. She understood that well enough. Her life wasn't pretty; it wasn't a tragic song of beautiful tragedy. It was just a shitload of hurt, for herself and others. "You said you couldn't lose me again."
"I can't"
"You say that, and yet we just spent some nice little time screaming at one another. You have a beautiful list of all my crimes and deeds with you. Maybe you don't want to lose me, but we both know there is no going back." Her chest felt heavy, strung. "We can spend our lives here, revealing every ugly deed and forgiving even the most grievous offense, and still, there would be no going back."
"I know that..." He mumbled. "Besides, you're a queen now."
Morgana frowned, pulling a loose thread from her coat. "You know I'm not doing this just for a crown." For some reason, she wanted to know. It felt important to know, even if she didn't care a bit about his opinion, even if he repeated what he said before. "Arthur?"
"No…" He managed to say and she saw the shame clear in his eyes. If there was something to say about Arthur Pendragon is that once you learned to read him, you would always know what he thinks. It was a quality of his, the fact that no matter what, he would be sincere even if he tried to hide it.
Morgana bit her lower lip. "You do think I'm wrong though."
"Of course I do! You're starting a war, I…" He paused. "I've always… I mean…" He scowled, clearly unhappy with his lack of words. "Did I… we, lose you? Is that what you're saying?"
"I'm saying there is no going back."
Arthur swallowed, and it felt like he did so from leagues away. Her hands stilled by her side and his seemed to do the same. His blue eyes were dark as they stared at the light, blinking into it for a stretched moment. "That is pretty." Her laugh was dry and short. "It looks familiar, almost…" He hesitated "I never believed…" Arthur shook his head, struggling for words. "I was never so sure about the evil of magic as father was."
"No…" She considered him, wondering if this was an attempt to bring her in. "You never were, otherwise you wouldn't have tried so hard to help Guinevere and your servant when they needed. You wouldn't have helped save Mordred. You wouldn't have healed the unicorn." She closed her eyes, feeling the assurance of saying those things out loud. The dark wolves backed away, at least for now. It was a wonder how easily the mind could trick itself. When she was so easily taken by her pain and the cold dark tentacles of her hatred, she had lied awake at night picturing Emrys by his side, whispering about her poisoning and in her worst, most terrible nights she would see Arthur agreeing with him. Now, after spending time with him, the foolishness of these thoughts was rather refreshing, as doomed as his ideas might be. "You know there are things that are wrong with Camelot." She pressed, almost hopeful. "You've always known."
Arthur still looked down, but she could feel his hurt now in the way he was holding himself together. "Those things were right."
"Those things are the reason you would be a good king." He laughed, confusing her. "What?"
"You…" He said as if it explained. "Telling me what to do."
Morgana looked away, suddenly deflating. He was right, it was funny. They were not young anymore, they weren't children and she wasn't the pure hearted ward trying to mould a prince into a worthy king. Or a friend trying to help another. "I have no right." She recognized.
"You don't." He agreed.
In front of them, she saw a beam of moonlight touching the statue of the Mother. Immediately, the glow reached the whole chamber, blinding both of them into a serene dozing light. Runes began to appear on the walls, pulsing with power and the blood begun to drip from the caldron, down and down into the grounf, forming vein like rivulets that fertilized the barren soil.
By her side she could feel Arthur shifting uncomfortably as he got to his feet. His hand grabbing for the sword and, unconsciously, she held him back, grabbing his wrist. "Wait."
"What is happening?"
"Dahut is not scared" He eyed the waking mare, and Morgana allowed herself to step between him and the cauldron. She raised her hand. Although tired, she would have enough power for this. "Beo leofaaþ, weox."
It was like a breath of fresh air when the magic spread around them, a beating heart of warmth and comfort. It started slow. First, a sprout here, and another there. Then tendrils of thin green moss and grass would follow, and vines and small plants and shrubs would pop out and grow in a moment's notice. She saw flowers blooming into bright rich colours, lilies and lavender, with grains like wheat and oats and even tree trunks were growing through the walls of stone as if they were connected to it. Sweet scents invaded her nose, like the rich bounty of a summer harvest. Then, finally, a single vine slithered its way into the Mother's tray, a solitary bud of deep red sprouted from the tip, and then, it blood, opening in a dozen of blade like petals glimmering as if covered in blood.
It wasn't at all like the garden she first raised that lonely stay, long ago. This one was magnificent in comparison, with so many plants and life she felt stronger just from standing there. On the side, Dahut whined, her snout sniffing each and every corner of the new environment.
Stepping forward, Morgana run her fingers over the petal, feeling a tingle of lightning from the connection, a touch of something different.
"I've never seen a flower like that."
"You wouldn't, only a true High Priestess would have the power and the courage to summon it." She eyed him curiously. "Touch it."
"What?"
"You gave your blood too; I suppose it's all right."
He frowned. "And what happens if it's not all right?"
"The petals will cut you, and you will die." She met his gaze with a shrug. "It's how it goes. To anyone else this flower is poison. Now go on, touch it."
"I'm not sure…"
"Are you a coward? I knew Dahut had more courage." The way he flushed with sudden anger almost had her laughing. After all these years, he was still easy. How didn't she mange to kill him all those times was anyone's guess, except she had a good guess on that. "Go on, are you chicken?"
"Depends, will you imitate one?"
"So obnoxious."
"So annoying."
He did touch the flower eventually and Morgana had the curious delight of seeing his jolted surprise. Then, with more determination, he run the pad of his fingers over the flower, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as he experimented the raw magic on his skin. "What…"
"It's the magic, what you're feeling, it's the magic used to make the garden."
"Your magic?"
"Ours" She corrected, somberly.
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