Chapter 2 Isolation and Madness
A/N: I've gone with Aithusa being female based on interviews with Katie McGrath. Edited and revised May 2021
Deep in the heart of the Perilous Lands, Morgana Pendragon sat upon the throne of the fabled Fisher King. If Morgana were truly honest with herself, she had to admit that she wasn't entirely sure of how she had managed to find herself in the Perilous Lands. She had walked aimlessly in a stupor for days after the young white dragon had breathed its magic upon her. It was possible that she had wandered in circles, lost within herself. There was nowhere left for her to go.
She certainly couldn't have returned to her hovel; Emrys knew where it was and Morgana wasn't about to wait there for him to come for her. Their last encounter hadn't ended well for her, and she still suffered the nightmares of his condemnation every time she closed her eyes. Emrys' hard, piercing blue eyes haunted her. It was driving her mad, how familiar those eyes had been.
A low trill, almost a purr, brought Morgana back to reality once again. She was almost startled that the creature was still with her. The young dragon had silently followed in the high priestess' wake, sometimes walking alongside her, sometimes gliding well overhead. Morgana jerked again at the indignant screeches and hisses of the wyvern that infested the crumbling castle. They had been circling the skies above the castle, angry at having been chased from their nests. The wyvern apparently didn't appreciate the presence of the white dragon in their territory, young though she may be.
Between now and the moment she had fled Camelot, injured and devastated at her most recent loss, Morgana's memories were cloudy. She actually wasn't sure how she found herself to be sitting in the ancient throne. Arthur had come questing in the Perilous Lands. Morgana had tried to kill him then. She couldn't remember how though. Was that before she had joined her sister? Or was it before? Had Uther still lived? Surely that was it; their tyrant of a father had sent his heir on a fool's errand. But why? And why couldn't she remember?! Morgana's body may have been made whole by the little dragon's magic, but her mind was near to breaking. If only she could remember why.
No matter. The Fisher King's throne wasn't the kingdom that she coveted, but she would make do until Arthur Pendragon lay dead at her feet and Gwen no longer wore the crown that belonged on Morgana's head.
Morgana shook herself again, startled to realize that the sun had set; she could hear rats scurrying in the darkness, and the now distant cries of the wyvern. Suddenly, she couldn't bring herself to care. In fact, she wasn't sure why she was supposed to care about anything. Nothing mattered anymore, and that thought triggered a wave of pure, white-hot anger. Morgana abruptly let loose a feral scream, the first sound she had made in days. All around her it was suddenly still and silent, as though all the creatures around her had taken note of her presence and realized that she was something to truly fear.
Sister...
The word seemed to echo on the winds. But who had said that? It was someone who had loved her. The memories seemed to be settling better now. Morgause! That haunting voice was Morgause. She was Morgana's sister. But she had died. When had she died? Why? Morgana gasped as the memory settled. Morgause had died because she had made Morgana kill her in order to tear open the veil. The memory tore at her heart.
Morgause was long dead; it had been more than a year since that Samhain. Her sister was gone. Everyone kept leaving her. Why?! Agravaine was no longer around to snivel cautiously at her feet like an abused dog. Helios was dead, no longer eyeing her like she would welcome him into her bed. Morgana was entirely alone except for the white dragon who hadn't left her side for more than a few hours at a time since she had healed her. Morgana assumed the creature only left to hunt.
Even the Southron army was scattered asunder. Though that was hardly surprising. One could not expect an army half-built of forcefully conscripted villagers to stay loyal to a dead man and a lost cause. Neither Queen Annis nor Alator of the Catha were interested in continued partnership. But surely there were others, magic users whom she had come across who were as angry as she. There had been a druid boy she had helped smuggle out of Camelot. Who was it that was with him? Angus? Andwin? Alvin?
Alvarr.
That was a name she hadn't thought of in years. Morgana wondered what had come of him. But she would need more than one ally. She needed an army. Morgana had hope that King Alined or King Odin would be open to negotiation. There was certainly no love lost between Odin and Arthur, and Odin had proved that he was ruthless. Alined was a coward, though Morgana had heard rumor that he was not as opposed to magic as he would have had Uther believe.
Morgana sat unmoving on the throne, eyes unfocused, her mind awhirl. It was in quiet times like this that she heard her sister's voice the clearest.
Sister... I hope that you will remember me fondly... Sister... You are the true heir of Camelot... Sister... You must take this coin... Sister... Merlin must die! Sister...
Morgana shuddered at the whispers in her mind. She had felt hollowed out since the death of Morgause, her heart sore and her mind on the verge of shattering like so much glass. It was as though there was something pulling her apart. Morgana found that she became more distant and apathetic as the days wore on, even to her own needs. She could count on one hand the number of times she had responded to the pangs of hunger in the last week. Morgana felt like a shell of her former self, wasting away until there was nothing left but her magic.
At the thought of the thrumming power that coursed through her veins, Morgana reached out with her magic to explore the ruins around her. Morgause had taught her long ago to quiet her mind to sense any lingering traces of magic that had been performed in the area recently. It was a useful skill, though one she unfortunately had little patience for.
Settling herself and breathing deeply, Morgana closed her eyes and relaxed as she took in all the faint whispers of magic around her. There had been powerful magic at work in this very castle, and though the trace was more than a year old, it was certainly not old enough to belong to the once-vaunted Fisher King.
There was an odd sense of familiarity to the magic that imbued the very room she sat in, though it was one that she couldn't quite place. It felt as though it was something that she had once held in her hands, though what it was, Morgana couldn't say. Few people ventured into the Perilous Lands; they were in fact, aptly named. Morgana knew of only one person in the last few years who had willingly traveled into this area and been in this very room. Her half-brother, however, had no magic to speak of and couldn't possibly be responsible for the trace she sensed. Arthur was never supposed to reach this room, yet he had not only reached the castle of the Fisher King, but returned to Camelot, annoyingly healthy and smugly triumphant with the blasted trident in hand. If only Arthur hadn't lost the cuff Morgana had given him...
The eye of the phoenix. Morgana gasped at the sudden glimpse of memory. The magic she felt in this room had in fact been in her hands at one time. She herself had put the eye on Arthur's wrist; when he apologized for having lost her gift to him along the way, Morgana had cursed herself for not enchanting it to be unremovable. However, the trace she felt here was now unmistakable. The eye hadn't been lost in a marsh as Arthur had claimed. It had made it all the way to the castle and had performed its final purpose, just not on the right person.
But that didn't explain the other somewhat-fresh traces of magic Morgana sensed within the crumbling walls of the castle. They were nearly as familiar as the trace from the Eye, but yet not. One tendril felt warm. Gentle yet powerful. It felt like the smile of a supportive friend. Some distant part of Morgana, deep within her mind, was instantly soothed by this touch of magic. She might even go so far as to say that part of her yearned for it.
The other trace was raw, instinctive. Wild, though ultimately tame. Morgana was vaguely reminded of the feel of the dragon magic that imbued the little creature that had healed her. There was a distinctly animalistic feel to the very human magical trace. It was nothing Morgana had ever felt before. Inexplicably, she felt as though both the warm, gentle magic, and the raw, wild magic were impossibly, undeniably, cast by the same person.
"Who could wield two such different, yet powerful gifts?"
Morgana hadn't realized that she had voiced the last aloud until she heard an answering chirrup from the white dragon as she perched in the long-broken window's sill. She seemed to be studying her; it was unnerving. The little dragonling seemed to be able to peer into the depths of Morgana's soul. She could have sworn many times in the last month that the dragon had been waiting for something. Or someone.
"What is it, little one," Morgana crooned, wishing she knew what to call the beast, or better yet, what she could do to bring this dragon under her absolute control. Its compassion was undeniable, but Morgana had hopes of making a powerful ally of the white dragon. Make her someone who would do her bidding the same as the other dragon obeyed Emrys.
Surely, there were spells that could make such a feat possible. Dragonlords were extinct, but there had to be some way to mimic their gift. Emrys had done it, somehow. That proved it was possible. Morgana herself had a special gift for controlling serpents. The formorroh and the nathair had been ridiculously easy to bring under her control. Perhaps the dragon would be similar, if she could just find the right spell.
"What shall I call you, hmm? You certainly won't be a 'little one' forever, you've nearly tripled in size since you healed me. You are a pretty girl, maybe Delyth. No? Aylwen, perhaps? Do you look like a 'white brow?' Too masculine? Are you pure and holy as well as white? Perhaps Annwen, or Blodwen then. There's always Tanwen. White flame is a fitting name for a dragon, don't you think?
"I think the Southrons would agree, though maybe they wouldn't since they're dead. Perhaps none of those fit you. Are you darker than your coloring would suggest? Is that why you healed me, a proud priestess of admittedly dark magic?" Morgana gave a mirthless and insane chuckle.
Sister... Morgause whispered again. Morgana stopped laughing as suddenly as she had begun.
In response, the dragon clumsily dropped down from the window and walked on hind legs towards her, still chirruping in its odd language. It tilted its head from left to right, as though studying her. Then, it straightened as though coming to a decision.
"Aithusa."
Morgana gasped in surprise, taken aback by the whispered, gravelly voice that resounded through her mind much clearer than Morgause's whispers. This was more like Mordred's youthful voice had sounded as he had spoken to Morgana once before.
"You can speak?!" she managed to utter through her astonishment.
"Mind to mind, yes. I cannot yet talk as the great one does, but soon I will. I have almost grown enough to learn to speak as man does."
Morgana narrowed her eyes slightly at the last. Why were men always so highly valued? Women spoke just as well if not better than men, she wanted to argue, but she decided it wasn't worth it. The dragon probably wouldn't understand her indignation anyways. She was a dragon, after all.
"Aithusa. What language is that? It is not of the old tongue."
"It is the dragon tongue. My dragonlord hatched me when he named me for the light of the sun."
Morgana raised her eyebrow at that. It was certainly more poetic than any of the names she had considered. Then she thought more on what the dragon had said. She didn't seem very old, yet the last dragonlord had died at least two years before. Of course, Morgana had no real idea of how quickly dragons matured. As such long-lived and massive beasts, perhaps they aged and matured very slowly. It would explain the time discrepancy.
"How old are you?"
"I will soon see the end of my first year."
Morgana's eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. How could this dragon have possibly hatched then? Only one person, or creature, rather, could tell her.
"The last of the dragonlords was killed at least two years ago, when the Great Dragon attacked Camelot. My sister told me of the great carnage and how Uther sent Arthur on a desperate mission to find a dragonlord to rescue them from Uther's stupidity and ill-thought revenge. Morgause influenced Cenred to send some men after the last dragonlord in the hopes that his death would cement Camelot's fall. How could anyone have hatched you? Dragonlords are extinct, their gift lost to time."
"No, my dragonlord is the last."
"What?!"
"No, my dragonlord is the last."
Morgana fought the urge to roll her eyes. "I heard you well enough, what I meant is how is that possible? Uther slaughtered all but one and the last remaining dragonlord was killed before Arthur could get him back to Camelot."
Aithusa merely tilted her head again, studying Morgana, as though measuring the witch.
"Balinor was not the last. My dragonlord is," Aithusa said carefully, as though every word had a hidden meaning that Morgana was unable to see.
"Balinor wasn't the last?"
"No, my dragonlord is," the dragon repeated.
Morgana huffed in irritation. This was getting her nowhere. It was almost as though the little white dragon was playing with her. But, if Aithusa was speaking the truth, then there was a living dragonlord. Someone other than the traitor Emrys, who could control this young dragon, as well as the beast that had slain an entire legion of the Southron army. Someone who had to have been in hiding and was possibly very lonely.
A sly grin stretched across Morgana's lips. She just had to find this dragonlord and persuade him to join her, or teach her what she wanted to know. It couldn't be that difficult, Agravaine and Helios had been entirely too easy to sway and she hadn't even had to follow through with her temptations. Men were easily controlled once they thought a beautiful woman was willing to give them what they wanted. This dragonlord would be no different.
"Tell me, Aithusa. How does one become a dragonlord?"
"Dragonlords are not trained, it is a gift with which they are born."
"How is that?"
"I may be newly hatched, but even I know how hatchlings come to be."
Morgana fought the urge to growl at the beast's cheek. As if she didn't understand how a babe was conceived! Her nurse had certainly warned her of the perils of the carnal pleasures often enough. Not to mention the gossip that ran rampant through the courtiers about who was bedding whom and which servants of the castle were in fact illegitimate children of the lords of Camelot. Morgana certainly understood these things. Yet this dragon had the audacity to mock her! It was almost as bad as talking with Merlin. At the thought of the meddlesome servant, Morgana really did growl.
"Fine, I will explain. You see, when a mated pair comes together-"
"I don't need you to explain mating! I am perfectly aware of the facts of life and of the activities of mated pairs! I meant, how is the gift passed on? Is it through the father's bloodline, or the mother's? Is it the oldest child, the oldest male? What are the rules of dragonlord succession?"
"The dragonlord's gift is passed from father to son. If there is more than one son, the gift can be inherited by one, none, or all of them. But the gift is only inherited upon the death of the father."
"Has there ever been a female dragonlord?"
"I have never heard tell of it, though the great one would know more."
Morgana scowled at the thought. Why was it that men got everything?! If she were to birth a dragonlord, she felt as though that even her daughters would have the gift, such was her tenacity and willpower. Never mind that it was passed on from the father. Son or daughter, her child would be powerful, just on the merits of being the heir of a high priestess of the old religion. Being a dragonlord would only add to that legacy. Morgana froze. Had she seriously just considered having a child to further her agenda?
Not just any child, she reminded herself, but one who could command a dragon. She could feel her lips turning up into a smirk. It was her most audacious plan yet. It would take patience, not to mention pain and sacrifice. And time- months, years, even. Could she do it? Would she do it?
Considering everything that she had done in the last two years, sacrificing her sister for one, and ordering innocent people cut down or starved for another, seducing a dragonlord seemed rather tame. Surely there were spells to ensure good results from such a union? Nothing could be left to chance, for if the gift was only male-inherited, she couldn't afford to have a daughter first. Her mind set, Morgana merely needed the identity of her next pawn.
"Who is your dragonlord, Aithusa?" Morgana hoped that her voice sounded friendly and curious. It wouldn't do for the little dragon to grow suspicious and fly away before she could even get the most important information.
"What would you do with such information?"
Damn. Perhaps the youthful dragon was more insightful than she appeared. Again, not unlike a certain bothersome servant. Why could she not forget about that infuriating peasant? Even leagues away, he continued to be a thorn in her side.
"I am merely curious, little one. I too do not wish to see the line of dragonlords go extinct. They are a noble people, and they deserve our respect and admiration, not our scorn."
"You need to let go of your hate, Morgana Pendragon."
"My hate is all I have left," Morgana growled. Aithusa's purring chirps deepened into a snarl. Morgana froze, feeling nervous around the creature for the first time. The dragon bowed her head and quieted back to a soft purr. Then she raised her head and looked straight into Morgana's eyes.
"Deep within you, there is a kind and noble heart that the great dragon is blinded to. He carries his own hate for you because of the futures he has seen. He is very knowledgeable and wise, but sometimes his years make him forget that destinies can be forged and shaped through choices, not simply because of fate."
"There is no kindness left in me, it was burned from my heart the moment a man I thought was my friend poisoned me!"
"You're wrong, Morgana. It may have been buried under many hurts and sorrows and a veil of darkness, but it is still there. But I see now that you need help letting go of your anger, of this darkness within you before it entirely consumes the person you truly are. Therefore I will tell you who my dragonlord is."
"Who?! Who is he?!" Morgana asked, excitement lighting her eyes.
"He is Merlin, son of Hunith and Balinor."
Morgana's face fell and she froze in shock once more. There were no words to describe how utterly furious she suddenly became. It always came down to Merlin, didn't it? Would she ever be free from this torment? Of all the people in the five kingdoms that could have possibly been the last dragonlord, it was Merlin?!
Suddenly Morgana found herself doubting whether she could follow through with her hastily made plans. Could she seduce Merlin? Did she even want to? Would it even be possible, with all that they had done to one another?
There had been a time, years before, that she had thought that he had harbored feelings for her. He had brought her flowers more than once. He had regularly delivered her sleeping draughts to her and lingered in her chambers, chatting with her even though Gwen had already been dismissed for the night and it was entirely inappropriate for her to entertain his friendly talks. Merlin had listened to her when she was emotionally distraught because of her newly emerging magic, and Morgana had thought he cared about her. He had seemed like such a good and kind friend, helping her to find the druids instead of reporting her when she had finally admitted to having magic.
But then he had poisoned her. Morgause had explained that he had used her as a bargaining tool to make Morgause give up her siege on Camelot. Morgana hadn't believed her sister at first, insisting that it had to have been an accident. Surely Merlin, her friend Merlin, wouldn't do that to her. But then Morgana had remembered the way he kept pushing that water skin into her hands and insisting she drink. She had realized then that Merlin had known exactly what he was doing and it had hardened her heart.
Could she really seduce Merlin of all people? The prospect made her sniff disdainfully, but she doubted Merlin would even realize that she was propositioning him. He had always seemed so clueless and naive. Merlin had never realized that Gwen had been head over heels for him, and Gwen had told Morgana that her handmaiden wasn't the only serving girl to harbor a crush on the friendly-yet-gangly manservant.
Would Morgana's feminine wiles be enough to win him over, where so many had simply fallen flat? Especially considering their common history. Perhaps with some persuasion, some incentive, Merlin would acquiesce to her desires. The last dragonlord would surely capitulate to her demands if he knew his precious dragon was in her hands. Or there were spells that she could use to make him pliant.
Morgana recalled the look in his eyes when he was chained within her hovel. He had truly looked terrified when she had promised him that she wasn't going to make things as easy as dying. His imagination had surely run away with him, especially as close together as they had been. She could have kissed him, she had been so close, and he would have been powerless. The thought was enough to solidify her decision and spur her into action.
Before Aithusa could react, Morgana swiftly threw her hand out and spat, "Weorc untoworpenlic!"
Aithusa screeched indignantly and tried to take flight, but the magical chain had caught her fast. Her left wing was pinned to her body, and the chain circled her neck twice. She narrowed her reptilian eyes at the woman before her.
"It is not wise to chain a dragon, but I waited more than 400 years to be released from my egg. I can wait for you to realize that you have made a grave error." With those words, Aithusa turned her back to the witch and curled up as though asleep.
Morgana had to find a way to keep a dragonlord from commanding a dragon. If their gift was truly as close to magic as Uther had feared, then perhaps a magic-binding chain would prevent Merlin from commanding a dragon. Morgana had a plan in mind; now she just had to put it into motion. Then, with a dragon at her behest, perhaps she would be the one to bring Emrys to his knees, destiny be damned.
A/N: Reviews are appreciated.
