A/N: This chapter is a turning point, and (much like GoF) is designed to make the story much darker. Many thanks to Kysmet and EternalSailorChibi (aka novadragon and She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) for getting me here. I hope you enjoy it, and as always reviews are greatly appreciated.
And so the first few days passed, fun and games with friends. But for the hostess, carousing had a darker undertone. Morgana couldn't get the article off her mind. At night Silas Atalasa haunted her dreams. She thought she knew what he looked like: brown hair so dark it was almost black, icy blue cat's eyes, and deathly pale skin, as though it never saw sun.
Worse, the uncontrolled, violent thoughts, like the one she'd had before Christmas, began increasing in frequency and severity. She was certain that these thoughts were not her own, but she didn't know whose they would be.
At last she decided to consult the expert.
Walking along her bookshelf one night, late, her hand reached out to brush the spines of familiar friends. Her fingers stopped on the oldest and most worn of all.
It had been written towards the end of the Middle Ages, by a father and son who, between them, had managed to see three Griffinqueens. The authors had been wizards, and thoughtful enough to place spells on their precious printing to protect it from the rigors of time. The book was practically Morgana's bible.
The title: A Historie of Gryffyn Queenes.
It was very informative, but, as the title suggested, written in almost indecipherable Old English. No matter. Morgana was used to it.
She opened the Historie to whatever page it would. It settled in a section Morgana had never seen before, thought she knew the entire book almost by heart.
Translated into modern English, it went something like this:
In general, Griffinqueens are adept in all forms of the mental arts, except for one: Divination. Griffinqueens have highly developed skills in telepathy and meditation, for instance, but they are, as a rule, terrible at scrying the future.
In fact, the only time a Griffinqueen can practice Divination worth a lick is right before her death. Often, she will know who her killer is months in advance.
But perhaps this is due to another phenomenon, the mindlink. The minds of a Griffinqueen and her killer become merged, allowing each to feel the other's thoughts and emotions. This link grows gradually more acute as time goes on.
Morgana's stomach lurched with new understanding. It all fit in. Silas's violent thoughts were invading. Silas.
No, impossible. She couldn't die now, with her whole life in front of her.
Yet she was showing all the symptoms.
Perhaps it was only a possible future. One thing she'd actually learned in Divination was that nothing was definite. If such-and-such happened, then a new future split off from what would have happened had that event never occurred.
Morgana desperately hoped that this future would never be hers.
A cold wind whispered in Morgana's ears, slowly whittling away at the chinks of the cold grey rocks. Thrown around haphazardly, the rocks were, as if from some long-ago explosion. No other life could Morgana see. No bird sang to greet the sickly dawn. No lizard scuttled across the dismal sand, or sunned itself in the warmthless light. Not even fungus clung to the rocks.
Morgana dragged herself up from her position lying on her side, trying to retain some semblance of control over her situation. All movement here - indeed, the act of living - was repressed and sluggish. Her heart pounded in her ears from that one small movement; incredible weariness pressed upon her from all directions. Through great effort she managed to lift her face to the listless sun and the world around her.
This... this was a dying world, its lifeblood slowly leaching away. What manner of people had once lived here?
A faint patch of white caught her eye. Morgana crawled a few feet that felt like miles toward it and saw what it was.
It was the skeleton of a cat.
Suddenly, a scene flashed before Morgana's eyes. Chocolate fur and a white face mask. Incredible antics. Bonzo. The skeleton was Bonzo. Her cat.
Then this place... was no other world, no foreign desert. It was England. Her home.
A sound behind her made her turn. She saw a man seated on a granite throne. His robes were blood-red and black, splendid and dazzling in this wasted landscape. His wand in his lap, he threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed horribly across the empty land.
He was Lord of Destruction. King of Desolation. Ruler of Everything and No One, he would never be challenged.
He was Silas Atalasa.
Morgana woke in a cold sweat.
Possible future... possible future... not inevitable. Even if she didn't try to take Silas on, another could surely stop him.
But... what if they couldn't? What if her dream became real, and all life ceased to be?
Could she really live wither her conscience if she backed away, a coward? If she died trying, then she sacrificed valiantly, did what she knew she should.
At that moment she knew that there had never been a choice. She swore that she would save the world from Silas. If she failed... then at least she'd tried.
The jagged lightning seared the sky, washing the night in its brilliant, deadly fire. Dying as abruptly as it came, even the white inferno of the sky had no power to illuminate the black figure.
The figure's robes were not the starry black of the night sky, nor the glossy black of the raven. They were not the lustrous black of velvet. They were the utter blackness of an arctic false dawn, the total absence of light.
The figure stayed mysteriously dry through the cruel pounding rain. If the water touched the material - it seemed wrong to call it fabric - it showed no sign.
Miles away, a girl lay awake. Though for her it was a clear night, she felt every blinding flash down to the marrow of her bones.
Here, the man in the black cloak felt the cold dread that she could never quite hide and smiled a smile that none could see. He knew they were linked by destiny. He didn't object to it. She was one of the main obstructions in the path to his goal. It would be better to get rid her sooner rather than later (though she would have been a fine one to toy with). He would get a certain amount of enjoyment out of it, putting a proud one down.
He lifted what must be his face. Another crooked lightning flash briefly penetrated the utter shadow of the hood to reveal... two ice-blue cat's eyes.
