Chapter 2. The Isle of Misfit Toys
Mid to Late March
Queen Mab crouched on the springy branches of a spruce. This spruce grew on the edge of their domain, far from the seat of their power. To be stretched so far made them short—if they'd stood on the ground, a fastidious bush could have swallowed them.
But, they were also small and light. One jump took them across a wide gap and into the needles of a pine. Below it, a female human sucked in air through her nostrils. She had a white dragon with her—a fae Mab had been surprised to feel.
Like now, the trees hummed at the dragon's approach, telling Mab to hide in their leaves.
The dragon dove behind the female, nudging her back towards the exit.
Rot, Mab cursed. All the trouble they went through to play tricks on this human, and the dragon always returned to spoil their fun.
The human huffed off, and Mab flitted to a nearby tree, intent on a new game. "Lost, dearie?"
She whirled, searching. But she didn't see Mab.
"Overweary? What do you search for, stomper?"
The human spotted them, and Mab got their turn to study her as well. A pale creature with wild, curly black hair, and a dress black with soot.
The human eyed Mab. "You're a Leshy too?"
While the human walked, Mab followed, muttering to the trees. Unknown to the human, the trees wound their branches, cutting off game trails and edging her back towards Mab's real throne. "My forest, the Impenetrable Forest it's called, has one queen. Mab. That's me!"
The human smirked, and Mab cocked her head.
"Well, I could use someone to talk to. Up for a walk?" She strode forward, keeping an eye on Mab. "I knew a Leshy, once."
So this one was strange, Mab hummed, feeling the trees ahead respond to their song. The female would make very fertile soil.
"Are you trying to keep me from my destination, fae?"
Mab leapt forward, grabbing a chunk of hanging moss and twirling down to hang before the human's face. "What destination, stomper?"
The human swatted them away. Mab frowned, I am getting smaller! The human evaded the twisting trees well.
"Beyond this forest is a stone tower—"
Mab hissed. "The dark tower, we grow near no longer."
The last dark creature that had come through here, leaving that tower, had chased Mab off with flame. Foul, filthy creatures came from that tower.
The human eyed them again, then dug through an overgrown patch of vines. Mab screeched. Ruining their forest! Spoiling their plans!
They muttered faster, shifting rotting logs and twisting branches. Yet, the human evaded every blockage, always heading for the edge of their realm.
How can she know! Mab yelled in frustration, leaping for the human's head. Mab landed in the nest of hair, tearing at the curls. The human easily picked Mab up and tossed them. So tiny now, barely the size of a leaf.
The human escaped the edge of Mab's power then, stepping into the leveled, empty plane of the dark tower. She turned back to gloat at Mab. "Fool thing," she smirked, "don't you damned fae know how obviously you shrink the further you get from your soul?"
They screeched, "Mraw mewn flamau! Ní féidir luathreach chothú!" Mab spat, a tiny twinkling droplet of moisture arcing to land on a nearby pebble.
The human blew a raspberry, "Same to you."
The stone tower, or the Dark Tower as Queen Mab had aptly named it, stood alone in the clearing.
She'd first arrived unconscious, in the death throes of Merlin's sweet betrayal. This tower was Morgause's small sanctuary to the north of Camelot, where she'd recuperated after the Purge. It had become a second home for them both, and Morgana had many happy months here, practicing magic without fear.
She had come not for nostalgia, however. For one, it was a good place to rest on the trek from the Forest of Ascetir to the Isle of the Blessed, and there would be supplies. There was only so long a girl could survive on roots and Aithusa's roasted pigeons. But for another, it had something she wanted.
The heavy wooden door opened under her spell, creaking backwards on rusted hinges. Narrow windows let in dim light, highlighting the dustmotes that floated around the spiral staircase. It led up to two higher floors. This first, covered in a thin film of dirt, had stored food and other materials. The second had held their rooms, and the third… the third was now of terrible, dark magic.
On bare feet long since sliced and scabbed over, Morgana ascended. The tower groaned in greeting, and the heady scent of entrenched power spread its enchanting arms and hugged.
It soaked into her pores, wanting from her. Always wanting. It was hungry, the dark magic.
When she pushed open that highest door, the power flooded outward, grasping, pulling. Her knees buckled, and the power swept around, gleeful. Give me your strength, it seemed to whisper, so that I may be strong.
She sucked in a breath, held it. It gave her the fortitude to squeeze her eyes shut, then to think of her neck, her shoulders, her fingers grasping the doorframe, she shifted her awareness until she knew herself, knew she would not be cowed. Only then could she push away the hungry fingers.
Forward she went. Strange altars and crude stone circles made the floor a labyrinthe, and bundles of long dried, blackened herbs hung from twine. A single straw doll, mouth stitched open for bloody offerings, she ripped down, shuddering in disgust. She didn't need its empty eyes watching her.
Beyond that stood a final altar, tall enough to stretch above her head, and built into the wall so the stone filigree gave it a pair of dark wings. On that altar, in the space she could not see, Morgause's spellbook should rest.
She pressed her hand above the lip, searching. Empty air. No, no how could it be? Missing? Stolen?
Morgana touched a leather spine, and her gut swooped. She grasped the book quickly, pulling it back down to eye level, then felt her heart plummet. It was thin, with red-leather binding, and most assuredly was anything but their spellbook—the last surviving book of the Priestesses, with Morgause and Morgana's additions stuffed into margins.
She opened this paltry replacement, flipping through pages. The front held maps, delicately drawn with one hand, and scrawled over with another. Most were notes, torn from conversations or books she didn't know. Later sheets seemed filled with the rambling thoughts of a man going mad. Then this, ripped, crumpled, and final— I will be free of them all.
The loss of the spellbook, stolen by some madman, was a problem she put high on her list of priorities. Fortunately for him, there were yet higher priorities than he.
It was the same priority as always, truly: free magic. And with Arthur's treaty— the Isle and freedom in exchange for her leaving Camelot alone— she planned to make sure she saw that freedom through.
Back on the lower levels of the tower she dug through the supplies, years old now, but came away with a pair of boots, wool socks, a shift, and two dresses. There were some holes eaten into them but she could patch that. She and Morgause had left one blanket, but no bedroll or pack. It would do for a sack and something to sleep under.
Aithusa had curled like a cat next to her new mound of gear, and Morgana approached to drop her last find— a badly carved wooden comb— atop it.
She spent some time washing herself clean, combing her hair, and burning the ragged dress. Wearing the dress that had fit— a green that reminded her of the shadowed underside of leaves after noon— she looked again in the mirror. She didn't look any version of herself she recognized.
"Who am I now, Aithusa?"
This is the Morgana who will restore the Isle of the Blessed, and provide a new haven for her people. How to do it, she didn't know. She wished she still had a friend to plan with. Morgause would have been good, and the Dolma better. But the first was dead and the second was Merlin.
Aithusa rubbed up against her, chirping. The small dragon's tail curled around Morgana's legs, and she butted her head into Morgana's palm.
The dragon sent an image— she always thought in images— of a statue of Morgana made of white gemstone. In her hands she held a large white crystal, and her eyes fractured into a thousand mirrors.
"I don't know what that means, Aithusa."
She frowned over the image, a bit disturbed. Not everything Aithusa sent was a foretelling, most just a strange expression of her thoughts. But the Crystal of Neahtid was a reminder of allies and a power she hadn't thought of in a long while.
"Aithusa… there was a young boy, once. His name was Mordred. I don't know what happened to him, but he must be with Druids somewhere in Albion. Can you find him? Bring him to the Isle?"
A part of her wanted to finally see him safe, the other, the piece that never stopped looking to gain from everyone, wanted to take a look through that crystal.
The wood of the dock was sturdy, but peeled and cracked from its abandonment. The boards creaked under Morgana's boots, and a rowboat caused a consistent thud, thud with the waves.
It was still early morning, and the sun had not yet had the time to burn off the fog over the lake. But through it she could see the peaks of the Isle. Aithusa took off for those peaks, flying into the fog.
She'd been here before with Morgause, but it had been dark. She remembered a large Isle, a dock on the West end, and a gate torn through with what must have been a battering ram. That was where she'd head with the boat.
She used Morgause's trick with the oars, and they spun on their own as she floated for the Isle. It resolved before her eyes, and she soaked it in.
The citadel was of three tiers, a motif Morgause had said repeated through the Isle to honor the Triple Goddess. The outer ring was of shopfronts, the middle for homes and barracks, and the inner for the Priestesses themselves. She remembered that inner courtyard clearly, it was there she'd sacrificed Morgause to tear the Veil into the Spirit Realm.
She shuddered to remember it. She'd been alone for so long.
Aithusa met her on the docks, and they wandered together through those first two tiers. The battle Merlin had taken her through using her Sight, she saw the aftermath of it now. Broken walls and hanging signs, doors hanging off of hinges and stagnant water grown over with algae in the thin channels built to bring fresh water from the lake.
It saddened her to see this once great place brought to such terrible ruin, and breath felt tight in her chest. How could she possibly fix all of this? It was too much for one person. Could she ever hope to restore its glory?
Beautiful iron gates bracketed the entrance to the inner courtyard, images of fae made out of delicate twists of wrought iron, but it looked like the only thing that had survived the battle.
Wyverns perched on the high walls, and the courtyard was littered with rubble. One of the three towers had collapsed, its remaining base no taller than Morgana. It seemed fire had taken this place. Of the three relics of the Priestesses— the Rowan Tree which birthed the Rowan Staff, the obelisk circle for the Horn of Cathbhadh, and the altar for the Cup of Life… only the altar remained in any form.
Well, maybe it was the altar. It could have been another rock from the rubble.
She put a hand on the blackened trunk of the Rowan tree, and bark crumbled beneath her palm. Only a tree of charcoal, now.
"Oh, Aithusa," she whispered, listening to the young dragon's lilting hum. It ached like a mourning dirge. "Where do we even start?"
Alvarr never forgot the pretty Camelot ward who'd swooned in arms and delivered the Crystal of Neahtid into his bloody hands. Its future sight did nothing to save Enmyria, his dead lover, but that was a frustration to dwell upon on a different day.
Today he rekindled alliances.
The boat rocked under his weight, but he stood tall, arms held loosely behind his back and foot on the prow. Image was just as important as ability, and his people needed to see him leading them to their decrepit haven. He used magic to propel the boat, and subtle pushes to maintain his balance. It was all part of the image. Had to make it look easy.
She waited for them on the shore of the Isle. Morgana Pendragon, the last High Priestess— he'd never believed in luck, because he'd never had it, but this was a lovely dose of irony. Uther broke in the face of her truth, he'd heard. He wished he'd seen it.
Again, thoughts for another day.
Alvarr leapt from the boat, landing on the dock with a flourish and a bow. "Lady Morgana! I am Alvarr, heir of my father, Blood Guard to the High Priestesses of the Isle. I am at your service."
The small white dragon that had led them here landed with a thump behind him. He'd heard of this dragon before this week, but had thought it a ghost. Druids spoke of a white dragon that led them from that near purge in Essetir to safety. The beast snapped at his heels and Alvarr jumped forward. Definitely real.
The oarman who had given him such a luscious look this morning laughed now, and Alvarr hoped his chances hadn't just been dashed.
The lady Morgana gave a pat to the dragon, who then flew away to the peaks of the Isle.
It truly was a decrepit and lost place, this Isle. He'd come once as a child and remembered a city that sung with light and magic.
This dock, even, had once held a bustling market. Now it held only about fifty Druids and a wry priestess.
She snorted, disbelieving. "Why has Aithusa brought you to me?"
"Why, to help you, my dear."
"Don't call me 'dear'," she corrected calmly. "Why so evasive, Alvarr?"
He sighed. Well, she didn't fall under his charms as readily as before, but it had been many years. She was not Uther's ward, beautiful and naive. Well, perhaps still beautiful. "I'm just returning the favor," he grinned. "Both favors, actually."
He crooked a finger at one of his Druids, and a young boy stepped forward. He'd gotten better at standing straight, but he still hid behind his black hair. It was a shame really, those blue eyes could win over a lot of hearts. And as for his power, well… it wasn't Alvarr who could work the Crystal for Morgana.
"Don't be shy," he said, "say hello, Mordred."
Stand Up sung by Cynthia Erivo
Footnotes:
(1) Queen Mab of the Impenetrable Forest are canon, seen in Season 5 when Merlin is tracking down Gwen in the Dark Tower.
(2) The Leshy from Part 1 & 2 I've expanded on here. Essentially they are the fae of every large area/forest. Mab is the Impenetrable Forest's Leshy.
(3) The Dark Tower from Season 5, with changes. As I've hinted at here, this tower wasn't always Dark. For this story something happened while Morgana and Morguase were here.
(4) The Isle of the Blessed - we see this referenced throughout canon. I've decided it's placed in the center of the Lake of Avalon. The three Priestess artifacts I've mentioned here are also canon.
(5) Wyverns are canon creatures, a breed of dragons who have in this case begun nesting in the abandoned Isle.
(6) Alvarr and Mordred, canon characters of course. Alvarr is from the early seasons, who convinces Morgana to steal the Crystal of Neahtid from Uther's vault.
Author's Note:
A short little chapter to establish Morgana's new surroundings, and set up the rest of the story. Please forgive the choppiness.
Writing Mab was a fun little segment.
I hope with time the Isle can feel like a living place to everyone too, a fallen citadel that wants to be great again.
Next time: You Were My Sunshine. Gwen, and the anger she deserves.