It was a night unlike every other evening Morgana prepared for bed, a break in all the other quiet hours she spent alone, because of the woman lying by her side.
Gwen had just finished brushing her lady's tresses and now lay back on the mattress, finishing up her repair of a dress by the waning candlelight.
Morgana observed her friend in the dancing light of the flames and allowed herself the privilege to stare while she was distracted. She watched Gwen's nimble fingers catch and pull the needle through the bodice of the gown with a practiced fluidity, her stance completely relaxed in the familiarity of the movement.
It wasn't often that Morgana would see her maidservant look so calm; ever since she had returned to court Gwen had been unusually careful around her, completing her work and then leaving with as much hurry, as if Morgana would break with the expense of her presence.
The silence in her chambers had been both a relief and a warring frustration, and Morgana felt that familiar tension again as she watched her friend deftly bring the dress back to a state of modesty.
Did she want Gwen to stay, or to leave her alone? She couldn't quite decide.
Soon the other girl would bid Morgana goodnight and blow out the candelabra on the lady's vanity with a soft breath; then make her way home for the night. Soon Morgana would be alone.
Gwen finished the stitch with a quiet hum and Morgana made up her mind.
"Gwen."
"Morgana." Gwen answered, a hidden smile in reply at her lady's languid voice.
"I know you must head home soon, but I had a request."
Gwen's shoulders rose defensively, and Morgana's words faltered; the spell of quiet between them had broken.
Yet she didn't hesitate to reach over to still the movement of Gwen's hands with her own. She looked into the warm brown of the other woman's eyes with a sudden nervousness.
"I was wondering if you could tell me a story."
Gwen's heartbeat slowed from the sudden uptick, and her brows furrowed in confusion. "You haven't asked for a story in years my lady." She looked over Morgana's face, which revealed nothing as usual.
"Shall I ask Gaius for a stronger draught?"
"No, don't trouble yourself. The old man's probably fast asleep by now. I wouldn't want to wake him for my troubles."
She fell back on her pillow with a sigh, hoping Gwen would humor her, if only out of pity.
"And no, the nightmares have not returned."
Without even looking, Morgana knew Gwen had quirked an eyebrow in response, an indication that she suspected the lie.
Morgana had always preferred a story, over all other distractions, to help her fall asleep; but this time she had other reasons for the company. She could only hope Gwen would read in between the lines.
Promptly, Gwen gathered the dress into her arms and stood up, striding to the door of the chambers. For a moment Morgana feared she would take her leave early, and leave her lady to her fate, and she prepared for the disappointing goodbye.
She was surprised to see the other woman turn around, with a reassuring smile. "Of course, Morgana."
Gwen placed the dress on the dresser and lay back on the mattress again, a little farther than necessary from her mistress.
"Which shall I tell?" She asked archly.
Morgana drew her eyebrows together in thought, but Gwen knew she was just fooling. Common for us these days.
She'll say, 'spirits of the breach'.
"How about, spirits of the breach?" Morgana patted the pillow next to her, and Gwen lay back with a groan, knowing it was a long tale.
"Are you sure my Lady?"
"Only if you wish, Gwen."
The quiet tone made Gwen look back at her Lady in a little surprise, observing her expectant look in the moonlight. The other woman's face was dark under the shadow, but she could trace every curl of her hair by memory.
She had looked more haunted of late, thinner in the spite and spirit that she usually marshaled in court. Ever since her return, Gwen had sensed the change, but she soon found it a shared misery. She, herself, had grown up in the past year and half, maturing in the absence of court affairs and the presence of new friends. And apparently, so had her mistress.
Gone were the snappy comebacks to Arthur or the pretty prose from her lips.
Lips that were now curved in a smirk at Gwen's apparent distraction.
"-wen? Gwen?"
Gwen's face heated at the amused look on Morgana's face, and she supposed the chores of the day had weighed on her more than usual, to account for the sudden heaviness in her limbs and the patter of her heart.
Never mind that! She would not deny her lady her request.
Clearing her throat, Gwen looked determinedly away and began her tale.
In a far, far away land, in a little village of no renown, lived a group of good-hearted people. And they lived in relative peace.
Their farms always produced a good harvest, and every year their animals were of good stock. Everything was plentiful to the seams, and no one in the village ever went hungry. All of the tradesmen were very successful, especially the blacksmith, who was awarded every year for his incredible skill.
Morgana rolled her eyes in good humor at Gwen's embellishment. In every story, she included a blacksmith, who was very good at his job.
But like every town, the people who lived there had one trouble, something they were more likely to label a nuisance.
The town was haunted by a very angry spirit.
Every night, a brigade of evil descended on the town.
On the roads, travelers were oft known to go missing, and their bodies found hanging in trees. The market was overrun with pestilence when the moon came out, and wild beasts roamed the streets for easy prey with nary a sound.
Things went missing often only to be found broken, and babes were found blue in deep wells, stolen in the dead of the night.
The villagers were utterly terrified of the haunting and began to rebuke the familiarity of their paradise as intolerable. Something had to be done.
Eventually, things came to head and the village leaders sought help from their overlord. They were loath to call on him, but they put aside their pride to beg. Of course, the mean pig of a man declined to lift a single jewel-encrusted finger to help.
As she wove her story, Gwen felt a strange sense of nostalgia coating her words, embittered by time. The words came too easily and slipped naturally from her mouth, as if her voice remembered the path of her words better than she did.
But the overlord had a pure and invested compassion in his heart for his livestock and for his crops, so he sent his bravest knight to investigate the cause, and cast the spirit away, by any means.
He came late in the night, a trifle scared, and lay within the village grounds, awaiting the spirit. He was brave and honorable, so he made sure to remove his socks before bed. Then on came his nightgown and slippers...
Gwen briefly considered including the whole iteration of the knight's bedtime routine, something of a comedy bit when they were younger, but she decided to leave it out.
Just as he had put on his night cap, he sat up to see the little spirit waiting for his notice.
"Hullo there." The Knight said.
"Hullo yourself." Said the ghost.
The Knight got down to business.
"What's been troubling you little spirit? Why have you been terrifying the good people of this village?"
The ghost was as silent as only the dead can be, for a long moment, but wailed like an amateur banshee in the next. "I have not found a respite for my misery, brave knight, that's why I do it!"
"And what misery is that?"
"The misery of my passing of course!"
Gwen felt a little shiver as she repeated the words; the old ghost story had been a favorite of her mum's growing up, one that had scared Elyan half to death lots of times.
Morgana had always been morbidly fascinated, claiming the fright helped her sleep. Gwen dared to look in her mistresses' eyes and found a sharp green gaze on her own. She found the sight unsettling to hold for too long, for reasons she did not completely understand.
"And what was the nature of your passing?" The Knight asked curiously.
"I was slain, brave knight, by a witch! And without my revenge, I will never rest easy, and I am certain to torture this village for the rest of its days."
"And what can I do?"
The ghost seemed surprised, or as surprised as a phantom could express, but they quickly outlined the plan for vengeance. The Knight must travel to a mysterious Isle and seek the witch there.
"But know that the road is terrible and treacherous Knight." The ghost came so close, the Knight could feel the wet puff of its breath, the breath of the dead.
"And know that there will be a sacrifice. And you must persevere."
The knight nodded in acknowledgement and made his journey post haste.
First, the knight braved the Darkened Woods, and saw all manner of horrible creatures. They came so close that he could see the whites of their eyes, and the width of their maw, and they did not fear his blade. But when he availed them of his journey, they turned tail and quickly scurried away.
Once, he gripped the hide of a wolf with the most vicious face, but it spared him one word before ripping itself from his grip.
"Run!"
The Knight trudged onwards and reached the great waters that separated him from the Isle. He had no boat and no other means to cross. He had just contemplated swimming, when the bare head of a sea creature came into view.
It was an enormous and ugly monster, with the pale skin of Man peeking out between sickly green scales. Towering above him was its bald human-like face, grinning in excitement.
"Please! Help me get across to that yonder Isle, Lord of the Sea!" Said the Knight, having already taken a breath to steel himself with courage.
"I Shall." Resounded the deep voice, although it never changed its wicked smile.
"If you give me a favor in return of course."
The Knight nodded his hasty agreement, resolved to whatever the bargain could be.
"Your arms. For you shall have no use for them on the shores of the Isle."
The Knight agreed.
Through magic or some reptile cunning, the Knight found himself bare of upper limbs; but he rode on the serpent's back to the other side of the Isle.
He slogged through undergrowth and endured grave insults by the scratching of tree branches and the scraping of prickly bushes. But he carried on, until he found his way barred by a collapse of heavy rocks.
With no arms to reach and no hands to grip, the Knight had no way across the obstacle in his path. Until he saw the crow.
The animal landed claws first on the ground in front of him but did not approach. Instead, it cocked its sleek head in amusement at the funny man in chainmail.
Could he even call himself a Knight with no sword in hand?
"Take pity on me, Great Beast! And carry me the leagues I have left to distance." The Knight asked, bowing his head in reverence.
The crow spoke in a splintered cadence, his voice pitched to the sky. "Oh, I will help you foolish knight. But for nothing less than a bargain! Give me your eyes, your sight, and I'll take you wherever you desire."
"You shall not need them when you reach your destination." The bird finished cryptically.
The Knight agreed because he had no other choice. Moreso, he had begun to feel a sensation within him, a low thrum in the annals of his chest that communicated he was almost there.
He arrived, with the blinding brush of feathers and a snap of wind. The cackle of a witch greeted him, and he resolved to reach his goal. Without arms to kill and without sight to guess at her moves, he was a sorry opponent, but he was still keen on his quest.
"Morgana?"
"Hmm?"
"Still awake then?" Gwen kept her gaze on the ceiling, but she felt the warm puff of breath as her lady answered, her voice low in her ear. "Yes, Gwen."
"Just making sure my Lady."
"Of course."
"Witch! I have come to take fair revenge, on the behalf of a friend."
The witch laughed even harder at his stalwart response, her voice the same skitter of branches on branches, a screech he could hardly hear.
"And may I ask how?"
She assessed him honestly saying, "With nothing except your courage and good teeth, you've come to my realm with the ambition that we will duel, and duel fair. The idea is preposterous, but your motives even moreso. How ignorantly you have come to me, Knight!"
"Or should I say shrouded! In the Veil of a ghost." She smiled at the smell of his fear, her gums bare of any molars. Not that he could observe the maw. The Knight now felt that he stood terrifyingly close to a precipice, at least five fathoms deep, and there was no man to save him.
"Tell me! What is the nature of the ghost if anything but truthful with me?"
"You've traded in your various honorable parts for the agenda of a malevolent spirit, who has no agenda! Defeating me would unleash a wave of spirits of the same countenance, enveloping the world in shades of terror and endless night. That is what they wanted: unrest."
The taste of carrion and decay was on his lips when the vulture next spoke. " But I ask, what is it that you want?"
"They deserve a good death." His voice was quiet, as if he'd traded that too, but it gained strength as he went on, like a boulder caressing a mountainside.
"Every spirit deserves a peaceful rest, they all do! Even the malevolent ones, even the ones with unfulfilled purposes. Even the vengeful ones. I ask this of you."
"So, a bargain is struck! Give me your heart, and it shall be as you please."
Her cackling was a distant thunder, but the knight was glad for the coming reprieve. "You may find that I have given it up already."
There was a resounding acclaim from the heavens in the form of a rushing wind and a biting cold, but the Knight felt not and heard not.
His heart held fast in her claws, the witch drew in a sharp breath, and let out a horrendous scream, tearing the ground, the Knight and the heart in two.
And a tear in the world itself.
From all over the land, thousands of spirits emerged like brides to a funeral, hissing and cursing and yelping and barking as their insubstantial forms were wound back into the underworld, through a violent passage in the sky.
It was over almost as quickly as it began.
As a sacrifice came to a close, the seam in the very world was stitched shut, and with hardly a whimper did the last leaf settle down on that unholy and reckoned ground.
From then on, the veil of the otherworld was closed forever, and no more people were troubled by unruly spirits. The Knight's sacrifice was not in vain.
"The End."
Gwen looked over to Morgana after finishing her story, curious to see her expression. Her lady's eyes were closed, and she breathed evenly, a serene smile on her lips.
"That was... beautiful Gwen. Thank you."
"It was no trouble my lady." Gwen nodded at her and rolled over on her side to move off the bed.
Suddenly she felt Morgana's cold grip on her arm, and the other woman's eyes were intent on her. Gwen trembled at the intensity of emotion she saw in them, but she found it hard to move away.
"Stay Gwen."
It all came back to her quickly then, in a flurry of memories.
She was sixteen again, the shadow of Morgana's lips pressed against hers. Tracing the veins of her lady's pale wrist, while Morgana's other hand wound around her side, tight around her waist. They were so close, so close and she felt the ghost of her breath on her neck, her mouth, before she leaned in for the very first time.
She remembered.
Gwen's voice shook in the still air, but she plastered on a smile.
"I must get back now, my lady. I have some things to tidy up at home. And it's getting late."
Instantly, Morgana let go, and moved back from the absence of space between them without a word. Her eyes flashed with something akin to disappointment, but it was gone again, and Morgana's face was an unreadable mask once more.
"Of course, you may go Gwen. You must be tired."
The strange tension hovered between them while Morgana settled into bed and Gwen blew out the candles. It was only when she exited the chambers that Gwen let out a sigh of relief.
"Goodnight my Lady."
The thought of Arthur flew into her mind.
How was he? She hadn't seen him in a few days, caught up in an influx of work. She would have to make sure to visit him tomorrow. Gwen pushed away the sudden feeling of dread or guilt? in her stomach and made her way to the lower town.
She didn't notice the woman watching her intently from the castle window, eyes tracking her every movement back home.
Morgana paced in her room. Tonight, had been... interesting. But also successful, she had needed to refresh her memory on certain folk tales.
Tomorrow night, she would visit her dear sister and reunite with her again. Discuss plans, execute their conjoined agenda.
Morgana smirked at the disappearing figure she watched from the street.
She had much to tell Morgause.
It was years later, on one fearful night, that Gwen remembered the morbid tale from her repertoire.
She was being escorted by an armed guard through the streets of Camelot, a terrible danger lurking in every dark corner of the familiar town, when the story came back from the recesses of her mind.
The ghost, the Knight, the sacrifice.
The Veil!
Could it be true? It... wasn't possible.
Gwen looked over at the guards on either side of her, carrying short spears and swords. But their hands shook with the most powerful weapon in their arsenal: torches.
"My lady."
Gwen could've sworn she heard the inviting whisper in the dark, and she stopped the procession to listen for one moment; tilting her head to the side to search for the voice.
But in the next moment chaos erupted.
With a blow of a strong gust of wind, all of the torches in assembly blew out in a sudden whoosh; as if they were nothing but weak flames of a candle.
The guards around her spoke in an alarmed cacophony, some gestured wildly in the new dark, but Gwen stayed silent and trembled, her arms wrapped around herself.
It was coming.
Gaius called it the Dorocha, but she knew it as the calling of the underworld, the spirits of the Veil.
The tear had been torn open, the seam unstitched, and now they had all escaped with their unholy wails to take bitter vengeance on their world.
A distant scream came from her left and she felt something heavy pitch her forwards.
Before her vision was doused in black, Gwen had a very peculiar thought, a very strange sensation that her end was being calculated, watched and enjoyed.
She would think me a fool for this. And I was.
It was wrong to think, to feel, but nothing rung truer.
A fool for her.