Series 2 Ep12: The Fires of Idirsholas

Chapter 8

Despite the Summer heat that lingered in the stifling air, like some overwhelming perfume, a cold breeze seemed to inhabit the ancient walls of the castle. Shadows danced on the cracked floor, as if reflections of hidden demons lurking in the dark corners of the crumbling architecture. It was enough to make anyone nervous.

Yet the blonde witch entered the room, once the castle's Great Hall, although the state of decay made it almost impossible to tell, with a casual confidence. The dark did not intimidate her, if anything it was where she seemed to thrive. Never in the blinding spotlight, but just off to the side, where expectations were lower but success was higher. Though moments like that was when she needed to remind herself who she was. The last High Priestess. If that was not a blinding spotlight, then one did not exist. Still, she continued, her scarlet, silken train behind her like a bridal gown. For wasn't this the day she would be married to her destiny? For better or for worse, she would be tied to this path for the rest of her life. Or so she hoped.

The words of the Old Religion slithered from her lips as though serpents, seeming to writhe in mid-air around her as the musty scent of the rotting Hall became replaced with the overwhelming aroma of magic. With every word, her body was filled the new found strength of sorcery. It delighted her, a smile creeping over her otherwise sombre face as she circled the objects of her attention. As the last of her spell hung in the air around her, she stopped and waited for the reward of her magic.

Nothing. Her heart was pounding like a galley drum within her chest. Then, simultaneously, the twelve figures surrounding her raised their heads. She had not been scared until that moment. As a child, she remembered being told the story of the Knights of Medhir, the twelve Knights seduced and enchanted by a sorceress to become her own army against the crimes committed by the Kings of old. She remembered Taegan's cautionary approach to the tale, the warning she would always put at the end: never to misuse magic, or she would justify Uther's violent campaign against sorcerers. And she remembered her bright promise to never use magic for evil, only ever for good as Taegan and the Priestesses had. Though that had been years before the massacre of the Isle of the Blessed, before Cenred, before Morgana. Surely, now, she could use magic for more than just healing? Though, looking at the Knights before her, she wasn't sure.

They were dark, not just in the old armour, but in their faces. If they had faces, of course, she really could not tell. She'd expected to see eyes, at the very least. But no, there was no sign of life. Though, the blonde supposed, they were not alive. They had been once, they had once been men, who drank and fought. Now they were just enchanted corpses. Maybe it was that that ignited the fear within her.

But, they were hers now. And that caused a wide smile to spread across her face, illuminated by the flickering light from the flame torches.

Her immediate feeling was one of chill, a lightly cold breeze sweeping over her arms, sending a shiver over her. It may be Summer, yet Camelot was never warm, especially in the airy citadel, and Gwen had soon learnt never to open the windows of the ward's chambers. So, why forget today?

Morgana crossed quickly over to the open window, the curtains flapping in the mild wind, her servant's carelessness all that was on her mind. But a glint of silver, caught in the sun's burning rays, suddenly distracted her. From the window, her slim hand lowered to run over the unknown object. A small, glittering box, carved with intricate design, too intricate to have been designed by anyone other than a professional hand. Yet, as her fingers danced over the surface, she felt an energy beneath her fingertips, something that caused her heart to jump a beat and merely heightened her curiosity. She could no longer resist. Gently lifting the lid off the box, she was met with the strangest sight. For some reason, Morgana had been expecting jewellery, some new trinket from Uther, just as he used to leave her gifts when she was a child. But, no, it was only a tiny roll of parchment. Trying to fight the growing feeling of disappointment in her stomach, she pulled the ribbon off the paper between her fingers, and felt her pulse beat double time from the first three words:

My Dearest Morgana

And she knew instantly who the note was from. For the box was as delicate as the bracelet that sat neatly on her wrist, her surprise gift, and the cursive writing was as beautiful and elusive as the female warrior herself. As the ebony haired woman continued to read, she could not help but let a smile rest upon her crimson lips, for it was as though she could see Morgause before her, speaking the words to her, staring at her with deep, chestnut eyes. Yet, what Morgause was asking of her...

'Are you ok, Morgana?'

Morgana stopped, paper still in hand, at the sound of Gwen's, almost intrusive, voice. She shut the message back in the trinket box, desperately attempting to steady herself, despite her rapid pulse and the burning curiosity in the pit of her stomach.

'Yes, just a little cold.'

The night sky hung over Camelot like a net, the occasional stars like fireflies tangled in the dark. And Morgana left the citadel, cloaked in this midnight, with only her healing bracelet on her wrist and the parchment tucked by her breast, next to her heart that was pounding so hard she feared it would wake the whole of Camelot, for reassurance. As her feet trod the dirty streets, she felt shadows down the city's empty alleys, a million eyes watching her treachery. Yet, her feet continued, a hand merely pulling her hood further over her face. For this path was finally one of her own choosing, and nothing would deter her.

Morgause regretted her treachery the second it was committed. But, it was the only way to ensure both her and Morgana's safety in Camelot. For the Knights of Medhir were ruthless and would distinguish not between the meaningless citizens of the citadel's walls, and the only one who held any part of Morgause. For it was true, as she caught the ebony haired woman in her arms as she fell, unconscious from the second the blonde's eyes had flashed gold, Morgause could feel nothing but an urge to hold Morgana there forever.

She'd left the note in a moment of sheer, desperate stupidity. For, had anyone but Morgana found that, it would have surely meant death for the pair of them. Yet, she remembered the pained look in the girl's peridot eyes as she'd watched Morgause practise in the courtyard, the rapid pulse in her neck as she'd visited the blonde warrior's chambers. And she knew she could never have forgotten her. But what she'd have done if Morgana had not shown that night, she could not fathom. For there was a part in her that would have abandoned everything, called off the Knights, and gone, vanished into the night like a spectre. She felt a twinge in her stomach at the thought, she would abandon everything Taegan had promised her to fight for, for the sake of this one woman. And then she recalled the sudden rush of joy she'd felt at Morgana's promise of alliance, and she realised she would do anything, just for her.

She lowered her sleeping figure slowly onto the middy ground and, eyes flashing gold while the Old Religion tumbled from her tongue, she began to circle the ward. She forced herself not to think of the danger she was putting the girl into, only the benefits they would both share when the battle was won. When the source of both of their hatred was dead, and the icy fist that enclosed Camelot's walls was gone, then neither of them need ever live in fear again. And that, Morgause felt, was worth the risk she was placing on Morgana's life.

Her wrist seemed to tingle the next morning, rousing her from her slumber. Not in a painful way, like it sometimes did when she got cramp in her hand from too much writing, but as though someone was holding it tightly, and all her cells were jumping at the touch. But that couldn't be it, surely, for who had been holding her that closely?

Morgana sat up suddenly, she was in Camelot, in her own, four poster bed. Her hand flew to her breast, to find she was dressed in her silken nightgown, and the sheet of parchment was gone. No, it couldn't have just been a dream. Her feet light on the ground as she escaped Camelot's walls, emerald cloak tight around her shoulders. Morgause a vision in her crimson dress, her seductive, serpent's words of destiny and treason. Morgana's heart threatening to break from its bony cage as she handed her loyalty to the blonde stranger. That was all just her dream? Her inner desire? Yet, somehow, she could still feel the caress of long, slender fingers on her cheek. And she blushed.

'Good morning, my Lady.' Morgana raised her peridot gaze to see Gwen enter her chambers, a slightly bleary look across her face. 'Did you sleep well?'

'I'm not sure,' The ward answered, a light frown creasing her forehead. 'Better than you, it seems.'
A red tint appeared across Gwen's face at Morgana's reference to her constant yawning that morning. She attempted to swallow it down, causing a sudden lightness in her head. The maid resisted the urge to grab at something, she couldn't let herself be so unprofessional, not in front of Morgana.

'I'm sorry, I'll be ok.'

'You need to rest, Gwen.' Morgana noted Gwen's vacant eyes, and smiled slightly, trying to be a comfort. 'I'm sure anything you have to do can wait until tomorrow.'

Gwen nodded, stifling a yawn with a clammy hand. As her yellow gown swept from the room, Morgana felt herself unconsciously biting her lip, an action she used to do as a child to comfort herself. Her father had told her if she ever needed to wake herself from her nightmares, something she had always struggled with, to bite her lip and the pain would shock her back to life. The action had crept into her waking life, though, as the young Morgana began using it in any situation she felt helpless in. A reminder of her father, she'd always thought. Until Uther had told her to stop the ridiculous move, no Royal Ward could pull such a common and vulgar action before others. But so many things; Morgause, Gwen's sudden illness, the rumours of the resurrection of the Knights of Medhir, were convincing the raven haired girl that she really was in a nightmare still. And she needed desperately to wake.

'Lady Morgana, this is a surprise.' Geoffrey sat up a little straighter at his desk as the Royal ward entered the library cautiously, her emerald dress highlighting her wide, peridot eyes as they surveyed the dusty bookshelves around her. She had the appearance of a wild creature that had suddenly been caught alone in a clearing. It stirred some form of sympathy within the man's heart. 'What do you seek, my Lady?'

She looked at him suddenly, as if only just aware of his presence. Around her wrist, a thick bracelet hung like some form of decoration. Geoffrey could swear he recognised the pattern that circled the golden band, silver entwined like two snakes. Some form of family crest, a seal, maybe her father's? Though, of course, without a closer look, he'd never know. Morgana was still taking small steps into the room as her studied her trinket, but her body stiff as though wary of something. The librarian felt himself yawn.

Morgana couldn't have noticed, however, as she continued to walk through the library, peering down the rows of shelves. Eventually, she stopped and stood by Geoffrey's desk.

'What are you looking for, Lady Morgana?' He smiled, and was repaid by a slight twitching of her lips, and her wooden figure seemed to relax slightly.

'I don't know. I wanted to know if, maybe, you had anything on the Knights of Medhir...' She asked quietly, her teeth seemingly chewing on her bottom lip uneasily.

He frowned. 'My Lady, that is but folklore.'

'You must have heard the rumours, and now Arthur has gone...'

'You are worried?' Geoffrey asked, seeing the pained look in the girl's eyes. She gave a small nod, lowering her head and he took a deep breath, he was not good at helping anyone, not when it did not involve books, especially the Lady Morgana, whom he had never had a conversation this long before with. Besides, his head was beginning to pound like a war drum. 'Let me help you. Uther burnt most of the books containing anything relating to the Old Religion, but I'm sure there must be something left.'

'Thank you.' Morgana smiled, offering an arm to the ageing man to help him up. He leant heavily on her, which she bore through gritted teeth. Anything to help ease her worried mind, spinning like a child's toy.
Geoffrey led the girl slowly down the bookshelves, his head still throbbing. Yet now, as he attempted his search, he could not help but watch the sights before him blur. Black and blue seemed to merge, golden lettering swirling amongst the kaleidoscope colours, as if trapped in a blinding, insane nightmare. He took tentative steps forward, putting a hand to his head as he did so, in some form of desperate attempt to control the drumming that had begun. If only he could sleep...

'Are you alright?' Morgana had slipped her arm away from his, leaving him staggering to one side, falling into one of the bookcases, causing books to fall around him and land at his feet. He hadn't quite realised how much he had been relying on Morgana's support. The ward's peridot eyes were wide in fear as she watched the man before her stagger towards her, face pale.

'My Lady. Morgana,' he whispered, but his voice came out more as a strangled breath as he attempted to force his eyes to remain open. But it was too much, he was too old to fight the desire any longer. Within seconds, he had fallen from his leaning position against the bookcase, collapsing on the stone floor with a sudden, sickening thud.

Morgana stood, paralysed to her spot, her breath ragged as her brain attempted to process what her eyes has just seen. He had been stood there, only moments before, he had been talking to her. Now, he was just lying there. Wait, what was she doing? He could be dying, and she was stood there, doing nothing. Carefully, she knelt to the ground, pressing fingers hard to his wrinkled neck. A slow pulse. Then he was, what? Sleeping? So suddenly, though? She was fighting back the urge to scream, out of fear or frustration or pure fury at being so hopeless. She needed to find Gaius. That was it, she needed Gaius.

Her tanned boots seemed to pound with her every step, the echo of the heel against the cracked stone floor, cracking it further as she left the library. It would take her roughly ten minutes to reach Gaius' study, was that too long? Maybe she ought to run, though that would attract attention. The King's ward running through the citadel, nobody had seen that since she was a young child. But attention is what she needed, for a man's breath could be leaving his body, any help to keep him alive would be welcome.

'No!' She couldn't help the shout leaving her mouth as she turned the corner into the main corridor running past the Great Hall. But, it couldn't be the Great Hall. Not in her Camelot. Morgana must be dreaming, despite the golden charm that enveloped her wrist, for all along the corridor lay bodies. Bodies of guards, of servants, just littering the cold floor. But there were no injuries. Morgana had seen battlefields before, she'd seen the dying men with blood dripping from open wounds in their chests, faces paling as they clutched at their mutilated forms. The first time, it had made her sick, physically sick on the blood soaked grass. But, then, it had not shocked her again. Not until now. For this must be a battleground. Bodies lying strewn at her feet, arms outstretched as if to catch their falling bodies. But, instead, they lay crushed under their collapsed figures. For she had been wrong, there were injuries. But they were not inflicted by a glittering blade, wielded by an enemy, but by the stone floor, cracking heads of those fallen. Yes, this was a battlefield. Which meant somewhere, maybe even within Camelot's walls themselves, an enemy must be lurking. And Morgana ran.

Heels pounding hard on the floor, one hand desperately trying to keep her dress from tangling under her feet, the ebony haired woman made her way through Camelot's labyrinth of corridors. Everywhere she turned, bodies lay on the ground. Courtiers, Knights, servants alike lay collapsed, sleeping like in some form of twisted fairytale. And she seemed to be playing the helpless Princess, waiting for the daring Hero to rescue her from the carnage that lay at her feet. She had only one place she could go.

'Gwen! Gwen!' Morgana pushed the wooden door open, almost off its hinges, in her terrified haste to get into her chambers. 'Tell me you're ok, Gwen.'

But the servant's body lay slumped on the floor, eyes closed in deep slumber. Morgana felt her throat closing in fear, the pounding of her own heart the only sound she could hear. This was not real. This could not be real. And, whether her imagination or not, she could hear footsteps, echoing footsteps prowling the corridors of the citadel. Predatory footsteps and she'd trapped herself like a wild deer. She had but one option. Morgana hid in the curtains.

The kingdom was within her grasp now, Morgause thought as she led her Knights through Camelot's lower town, and it inspired nothing but pure, unadulterated glee within her. Around her, in the cobbled streets, sleeping bodies lay like corpses. Which, unfortunately, a few of them became under the hooves of the Knights of Medhir. But, enchanted men could distinguish not between the sleeping and the dead, and Morgause convinced herself it did not matter. For revolution requires sacrifice, surely? Yet, as she dismounted outside the heavy wooden doors of the inner citadel, she could not shake the feeling that she was, now, no better than the wretches that had attacked her home, and killed the closest thing she had ever had to a family. It was a feeling that filled her with terrifying power. But it made her detest her own being, nearly forcing her to turn around and ride away, leave Uther to his tyranny, for she was no invader. No, for this was not an act of cruelty, stemming from nothing more than mindless hate. This was her destiny, to return magic to Camelot, to save her sister, trapped in Uther's chains of persecution and fear. And, with this in mind, she drew her sword.

The blonde warrior growled furiously at the sight before her. A young, fair man, sword in hand, battling the Knights of Medhir. His face was pale, clammy, but it did not excuse her failing. There was supposed to be no resistance, no defence. An easy victory for Morgause. Yet, Prince Arthur Pendragon still stood strong, his blade gleaming sinisterly, despite the weary look in his pale eyes. He stood outside the Great Hall and, following her search of the citadel, she could only assume he had both King Uther and Morgana in there for protection. Which meant it was her hell-bent determined goal to get into the Hall.

She stopped. A sudden pain in her throat. No, more than a pain, she felt as though her throat was closing in on itself. Morgause raised her free hand to her throat, feeling it slightly for anything that would explain this sudden feeling. But there was no inflammation, nothing. The realisation hit her as her hand reached her throat. It was not her pain, it was not her throat closing in like some ancient, spring trapped room. Her nerves were not sending these pounding pulses. In which case, there was only explanation. Chestnut eyes wide with furious fire, Morgause felt herself charge forward, past the pale Prince, and burst through the wooden doors to the Great Hall.

It was as she'd feared. The blonde priestess flung herself to the floor, sending a sharp pain to go rocketing through her knees, which she ignored to take the limp figure tightly into her arms from the stone floor. Before her, Arthur's manservant backed away from this unexpected arrival, but Morgause could focus on nothing but the inert body of the Lady Morgana that she held so closely.

'What has he done to you?' She whispered, almost cooing to the woman in her arms, in a desperate bid for a reaction. She could see breath, Morgana's chest rising and falling faintly, but she could feel the effort this was taking, as the girl's collapsed figure shook with every breath. Her face, naturally pale, had more appearance of a ghost than a living being, the usual milky complexion now had a translucent edge that caused Morgause to only hold her closer. The blonde frowned and looked up from her sister to direct her gaze primarily on the servant before her. 'You poisoned her.'

'You gave me no choice.' His harsh words, despite his tear stained eyes, still cut fiercely into Morgause's usual wooden heart, like an axe to an oak.

'Tell me what you used and I can save her.' She must have sounded desperate, and in that Morgause hated herself, but she had no choice. Clinging to her sister's body, she felt as helpless as she had done all those years ago, as she watched her friend and protector die at the hands of Camelot's murderous Knights. At least then, though, she had the comforting cold feeling of a blade in her palm. Now, she had nothing.

But, she did not expect the following words from the serving boy before her. 'First, you must stop the attack.'

Morgause looked up, a black fire dancing in her dark eyes. 'You're nothing but a simple servant, you don't tell me what to do.'

'If you want to know what poison it is, you must undo the magic that drives the knights.' Merlin felt himself breathing deeply as he spoke, in a desperate attempt to control his racing heartbeat. He could not understand why this woman, this witch, seemed so determined to save Morgana. They were allies, of course, but why? Still, it did not matter, for he felt himself bargaining with the devil as he spoke, the fury in the blonde's eyes.

'Tell me what it is, or you'll die.'

'But she'll die with me.'

Morgause stopped suddenly, all anger vanishing from her wide, chestnut eyes as she looked back down at the ragdoll girl in her arms. She felt a tear slip silently down her cheek as she pulled the girl closer into her, barely able to resist the urge to place her lips upon the girl's forehead, placing her forehead there instead.

'I don't want this anymore than you, but you have me no choice. Stop the knights and you can save her.' The boy was speaking, and she looked up at him with tear blurred vision. But she knew what she had to do already. This kingdom could be hers, the Knights of Medhir still hers to control and could slaughter all who stood in her way to glory. Yet, she had been in this position before; sat weeping over the corpse of her friend, mentor and the closest thing she could ever have to a real mother. And she could not allow herself to risk that again.

The magic left her mouth, not as a friend, but forced, frozen words that she felt stab her gut with every syllable. Everything she had planned, collapsed. But as the boy held out his hand, and she read the deathly bottle, the cruel cursive letters 'Hemlock', she knew she had done only what was necessary.

Behind her, a male voice. The Prince. 'Morgana'

'Keep away from her.' Morgause felt herself snarl, snapping like some vicious snake, finger pointed as if it were a flickering, forked tongue. A real villain.

But she had no time. No time to defend herself from those approaching, instead uttering dark words in foreign tongue, and vanishing with Camelot's prized ward wrapped in her chain mail clad arms, leaving nothing but dust in her wake.

Hemlock. Hemlock. She remembered picking the deadly plant during her time on the Isle of the Blessed, for Taegan's apothecary. The plant could be used for good, for medicinal purposes. Or used for evil, to steal the very breath from an enemy's mouth and the very beat of their heart. Morgana had under five minutes of life left and, as Morgause felt the grassy slope outside of her castle materialise under her feet, she realised it might not be long enough. She murmured the magic under her breath and as she carried the girl's limp form into the castle, her pace hurried. The fitting would begin, Morgana's body fighting in vain for its remaining life, when she had only two minutes left. That gave Morgause three minutes. Three minutes of desperate sorcery, of the pounding of her rough heels along the stone corridors, of carefully crafted racing up uneven stairs, Morgana's body awkward in her arms. To find it was not long enough. Her sister's body began jerking convulsively as she held her, head twitching, a splatter of blood as the girl's jaw clamped down on her tongue. No. No. Morgause carried on, despite the struggling body in her arms. Her chanting was getting faster and louder, her eyes flashing manically gold, her tears falling rapidly onto Morgana's sagging head. Her words echoed threateningly in the cold air, like from some empty cavern.

She finally found where she was looking for, her own chambers. Hurried, she placed the girl on her bed, the moss green of Morgana's dress clashing with the red silk cover. And she spoke faster, stronger. Never before had she felt her magic so weak, had she had to work so hard for anything. But this, this made her feel more powerless than she had ever felt before for, if her magic failed her, if Morgana's heart should still forever, she would lose everything she had worked for.

Yet, hope. Morgause watched in joy as her sister's body began to slow, her fit falling under control, as Morgause continued to whisper her ancient tongue. The body, that had been writhing as a fish caught on a line, had calmed, her pulse slowing as her chest began to rhythmically rise and fall. Blood still dripped slowly down her chin, but she was in no more danger. She would sleep, and that was all Morgause could do for her.

Then, almost as silently as the ebony haired girl on the bed, Morgause pulled a wooden chair from her desk to the bedside and sat there, clutching one of Morgana's limp. hands, long into the night.

Thank you everyone for your comments, reviews always make me smile :)

EightNine: Thank you! I do get worried about the lenth of some of these chapters, this one is HUGE! I hope you continue to enjoy

Mike3207: Hmm...that is an awfully good point, I suppose they were never going to get along though. And many of Morgause's plans are rather far-fetched, or they'd just be boring, I suppose. But, maybe an alliance would have been nice

OliviaJayne: Thank you, I was looking forward to describing their relationship. I hope you continue to enjoy :)