Simon ran. He ran as if the Erinyes of Erebus pursued him, the winged women who punished those who spoke false oaths.
He knew he was not so lucky.
As soon as he'd heard of what had happened to his Master, he'd known he had to flee. The king had no love of those who had forsaken their duty; the knights, being knights, would have even less understanding. He ran, his grief drowned in fear, and the muggles couldn't follow. But he'd gladly hand himself over now if he thought it would save him.
He'd been running constantly for two days, without rest, without sleep; he had no Pepper-Up potions, and his vision swam. He was dangerously close to splinching himself each time he apparated. And no matter how often he did, no matter how far he travelled, she was always on his heels. Finally she'd gotten close enough, or simply tired of the chase… a ward of some sort had gone up, and suddenly he couldn't disapparate, every attempt feeling like a blow to the face.
He'd done the only thing his addled mind could think of: he'd run. Straight into the nearest forest, dodging trees and rocks and roots, stumbling painfully again and again. Still she followed! Tears of terror and helplessness streamed from his eyes.
A spell blew past, close enough to trim his hair. It struck a tree in front of him, and the trunk didn't shatter as much as disintegrate. He barely cast a shield before the swarm of splinters struck it like a fist, blasting the young wizard from his feet and sending him face-first into the loam. He didn't have time to draw a breath before an invisible force lifted him and slammed his body against another tree. He heard a crunch from his shoulder and cried out as he flopped back down to the ground.
"Simon… Simon, Simon, Simon," sang a feminine voice from the forest, but there was no playfulness in that tone. "You keep running, Simon. You've run so far, so long. Aren't you tired yet?"
He staggered to his feet; his wand-arm was still functional, and he pointed it left and right in panic. Her voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Though it was broad daylight, he could see nothing but trees.
"What's the matter, Simon? Failure leaden your feet? Does your betrayal weigh heavy?"
He spun, searching. "L-Lady Muirgen… please… I didn't-"
"Didn't what?" came the hissing voice. "Didn't abandon your Master? Didn't leave him to die at the hands of a squib?"
"I can explain-"
"I don't want to hear your excuses! I don't want to hear it! I'll tell you what I want to hear… Crucio!" And suddenly she was there, right in front of him, and a sickly red bolt struck him in the chest.
Agony. Master Myrddin had warned him of the Cruciatus, but none of the horrific description could possibly compare to the reality. It was like his skin had been stripped away, the flesh beneath doused in acid, a ball of molten iron in his gut. He screamed and collapsed, like a puppet with its strings cut, writhing helplessly on the forest floor. He could remember nothing but pain, because there was nothing else. When she released the spell he was left twitching on the ground, sobbing.
"Craven wretch!" She walked around him slowly, her staff dragging behind her carelessly, carving a circle in the layer of pine needles and moss. "How could he have been so wrong? He saw himself in you! A talented, neglected street rat, who only needed a learned wizard to guide him! He would have made you great! And when he needed you, where were you?" She stopped and spun to fix his shivering figure with eyes that were half-mad. "Where were you, Simon? Where were you?"
"I… I heard of treasure, my Lady…" he said weakly, and even as he spoke the shame of his sin, the banality of the desires that had cost him his Master, weighed upon him. "A… a small hoard, stolen by the goblins… I thought it would be a short errand-"
"You thought? You thought?"
He crawled toward her, his damaged arm held to his chest. "He was Myrddin! No one in the world could match his power! What use was I? How… how could I be of any use?"
She seized the collar of his tunic and shook him. "Even the mightiest wizard needs to sleep! Even the mightiest wizard can be felled by the blade in the dark! He didn't need you to fight his enemies, he needed you to tell him they were there! And instead you were off… looking for goblin gold!" She grabbed him by the face and roughly shoved him onto his back. He cried out as he landed on his hurt shoulder.
"Oh, is it broken? Are you broken, Simon? You've broken me. You've broken everything! Do you have any idea what you've set in motion?"
"Please, my Lady-"
She paced around him, and he could hear the wood of her staff creaking in her hands. "Without Myrddin, Medraut and Morgause will seize their chance. They will march on Camelot with their force of goblins, if they haven't already! Arthur Pendragon is going to die, Simon Westly. And without him, without an heir, Camelot will fall."
His eyes opened in horror, and a chill hand gripped his heart. Myrddin had said that Muirgen knew the future, though he never claimed outright that she was a Seer. But if so… "The king… no!"
"Do you understand? Do you understand, Simon? It isn't just Myrddin who has perished. You failed to guard his dream, and now it will all fall to ruin! Instead of a great bridge, a bonding of magical and muggle folk, Camelot will be remembered by magicals as the monument where their leader was murdered… and by muggles as the great hope destroyed at the command of a witch!"
Simon had laboured to his knees, but now sank down so his head pressed against the cold, unforgiving earth. This had been what he was running from: not the violence of Muirgen's wrath, but the full accounting of his moment of greed. "Please, my Lady," he begged. "Tell me what I must do! Anything, even if it takes my life-"
"You dare? You dare?" That awful curse fell upon him again, until he feared his mind might snap... until he wished that it would. When it was done, when he was left quivering in a puddle of his own vomit, she seized him by the hair and wrenched his head upward. He was forced to look into her reddened eyes and see the stream of tears that slid down her cheeks. She hissed into his face from inches away, spittle flecking his face. "You will do nothing! You will get no noble death, Simon Westly, no easy redemption! I will not let you journey to the other side, to be with him when I cannot, no no! Up!"
He was lifted by her magic and slammed against a nearby trunk. Knots and broken branches dug into his back, and his shoulder screamed with agony.
She seethed up at him. "You will live a long time, Simon Westly. You will live, and during that life, you will never know peace with coin in your pocket. That is my curse upon you! You have cost me all that I held dear. You have beggared me, now do I the same for you!"
She stepped away, her eyes burning with hate and wet with pain. She disapparated with the sound of a thunderclap, and Simon was left alone. With the witch gone, her magic disappeared, and the wounded wizard flopped painfully to the ground.
It was nightfall before he found the courage to move again.
Camelot was chaos.
Arthur sat in his customary chair at the famous Round Table, listening to his knights as they argued. Tension filled the hall, and though not a single man present would admit it, a current of fear. Morgause was coming, they all knew it without it needing to be said; and along with her, her profane son. His son.
The witch alone was more than a worry. She was strong, Myrddin himself had admitted that. Who did they have to match her? Simon Westly was still missing, and Arthur was loathe to rest his hopes on a wizard proven faithless, even if he could match Morgause's power, which the king doubted. The other wizards and witches they knew of - Nimue, Morgaine, Taliesin, and others - were either bound to other kingdoms, too weak to challenge Morgause, or simply cared nothing for the plight of "muggles".
Their remaining hope was Muirgen, but the queen of Avalon was nowhere to be found. Arthur had not been present for her brief appearance in Myrddin's tower… he had been helping pursue Medraut. Gawain and Galahad reported that she'd demanded to speak to Simon, but Simon could not be found.
She'd disappeared. From how Galahad had described her emotional state, and from his own guesses, Arthur suspected Simon may already be dead.
As, perhaps, Arthur himself may soon be. But he dared not show his despair in front of his knights. More than ever, they needed his confidence. He'd failed them for so long and so often… he could feel their doubtful glances. He'd held them back from doing what they thought was right, and now everyone around him was paying for that error.
Only a few of the scouts Arthur had posted along the border with Morgause's lands had survived to report back to him, and he was certain they'd only lived because the witch had allowed it. They all agreed on what they saw… an army of small, ugly creatures, lead by the black witch and Medraut. Goblins, based on what Myrddin had told him before: a race of warriors, mercenary in the extreme, who considered it their imperative to claim all the gold they believed rightfully belonged to them - which was every bit of gold in the world. Likely their services were purchased with promises to Camelot's treasury.
The army had stopped at the fields of Camlann, well within Arthur's own lands, no more than a half-day's ride away. Taunting the king… daring him to emerge from the walls of his castle, from behind the wards that yet survived Myrddin's death. Sally forth and be destroyed; or hide away and lose the respect of his people and the surrounding kingdoms, merely delaying the inevitable in the process.
Arthur had faith in his knights, he knew they could beat the goblins. Medraut would be a challenge, and not just martially - even now, Arthur wasn't sure he could put his own flesh and blood to the sword, no matter how twisted the boy might be. But the witch… if she had even a quarter of Myrddin's power, she could crush the king and his army with ease.
They needed a wizard!
Arthur was about to interrupt the squabbling of his knights, thinking that, maybe, they could purchase the services of a worthy witch or wizard. It would likely bankrupt them, but preserving the treasury meant nothing if the kingdom fell. Just as his mouth opened to demand silence, there was a quiet popping sound, like cloth in the wind. A female figure appeared in the clear area surrounded by the tables.
Chairs went flying as his knights surged to their feet. Metal sang as blades erupted from their scabbards, and more than one voice raised in alarm.
"Hold!" Arthur commanded, and his knights froze, though they did not put away their weapons. "Lady Muirgen?" he said as he looked at the new arrival, his eyes wide.
He didn't fault his knights for their reaction. This was not the exotic, beautiful queen of the fae that had been present at Guinevere's welcome, nor the one that had brought him and his wife to the magical land of Avalon to exchange their wedding vows. Her hair hung limply around her face, dull and lifeless. Her eyes were likewise dulled, almost glazed… green orbs stared blankly at and through him. She leaned heavily on her staff, and her garb was that of a lowborn peasant… little more than a frock and grey woolen cloak.
Her mouth worked silently for a moment until she blinked and found her voice. "Myrddin is dead."
"Yes, my Lady," Arthur said. "It was Medraut. He managed to sneak in, armed with a poisoned dagger." Pain and shame shook him as he said it… his best friend, dead at the hands of his own son.
"Simon abandoned his post. He was misled with a rumour of easy gold."
The king's jaw clenched. "He will face the axe for his dereliction."
"Don't bother, I've dealt with him. Morgause is coming."
Arthur felt Percival tense beside him; it wasn't proper, queen or not, to usurp justice in another's realm. But these were wizards, and there was no telling where she had caught up with Simon… it may not have even been in Britannia. "Yes. I must ask: with Myrddin gone," her eyes closed briefly, and he shared her pain, "will you stand with us in his stead?"
"I cannot fight for you. Your battle was… is with Medraut. I cannot interfere with that." Arthur's heart sank. "But Morgause has no place in this. Let me ask you, Arthur Pendragon: can you kill Medraut? Will you kill him?"
The dullness was gone from her eyes, and her hate was a palpable force in the room. Arthur met her gaze. "Yes, my Lady. It will pain me to do, but I won't allow him to hurt any more of those I love." Around him, he felt his knights ease slightly, and realized this was something they'd needed to hear him say as well.
Muirgen nodded sharply. "Then I'll insure you'll have the chance to do so."
Hope rekindled, Arthur and his knights began the task of planning their advance. His men knew their tasks, and he needed to add little. Instead he watched Muirgen carefully as she stood unmoving in their center; she continued to stare blankly ahead, and he was unsure how present she actually was. The one time she showed life was when Galahad mentioned that the equipment of the goblins was likely to be heavily enchanted; she declared that she would do her best to spell the equipment of Camelot to match.
She would begin immediately. Arthur had nodded and tasked Gawain with showing her to the armory. Though none would admit it, his knights were eased to have the silent figure removed from the hall.
The conversation lasted little beyond that. But as Arthur dismissed them, Percival leaned in his chair to speak to his king quietly. "I council caution with regards to Lady Muirgen, my king."
"Why? Do you believe she will not stand against Morgause?"
"No, I'm certain of that, my lord. For all her power, I would not wish to be the black witch when the Lady takes the field. No, lord, I worry for those caught between."
"I must agree, my husband." Arthur looked to his right at his wife, surprised to hear her speak. Since Medraut, since Lancelot, their bond had been stretched near to breaking, and the gulf between them had hurt him more than Morgause's plots. But now she bent near to his ear, concern in her expression. "I can see it in her eyes," his queen said softly. "She's half-mad with grief. Sorrow will become fury in an eyeblink. Be careful how you handle her."
Arthur considered her words, and nodded. He patted her hand affectionately, causing her to blink with surprise and blush. Poor Guinevere… she had yet to grasp that he'd never faulted her. Never.
He stood, and left to inspect the preparations. He visited the stables, and then the kitchens to insure the surprise request for provisions wouldn't overwhelm the workers there. After that was a trip to the stables.
Finally, he made the trip to the castle armory. It was there he found Muirgen, moving from item to item, casting ceaselessly; unlike Myrddin, she seemed to prefer her wand for the delicate art of enchantment. Her movements were quick and efficient, and she muttered the incantations under her breath. But every piece required individual attention, and Arthur's forces numbered near two hundred men. It was past midnight, and Arthur himself had little excuse for being out of bed. He worried for the woman who was needed to safeguard them all.
"My Lady?" She did not respond. "Lady Muirgen… are you near completed? It is late, my Lady."
She paused in her casting, and he was alarmed to see her stagger slightly, as if interrupted in the middle of a breakneck run. "I'm… I'm about half done." Her wand returned to its waving.
"I beg you to rest, my Lady. The battle is tomorrow… you need sleep."
She did not slow in her casting. "I can't, there's too much to do."
"But you must-"
"The only command you can give me is to leave! 'King' or not, do not presume anything else!" She glared at him over her shoulder.
He sighed. "I am not commanding, my Lady. I'm begging. I do not stand here as a king, but as Myrddin's friend."
She looked away, flushing with shame at her own presumption. She hesitated. "I can't sleep," she said softly. Arthur watched her as she seemed to waver on her feet. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I knew… I knew I couldn't save him. I knew what must be. But I held hope that I could at least be there for him at the end. I wasn't."
"No one can ever prepare for tragedy. You bear no fault."
"Don't I? He wanted me here. He asked nothing of me but to witness the good he could do with the knowledge I gave him. Instead, I hid in my home, always expecting him to come to me." Her hand tightened around the shaft of her wand. "I was selfish and cowardly."
"You hide no longer, my Lady," Arthur pointed out.
"No," she replied. It felt as if the room chilled with her voice. "And Morgause will regret drawing me out."
She returned to her spellwork; Arthur saw the fresh anger in her movements, and knew better than to disturb it. He turned to leave her to it, but her words rang in his mind, and he paused.
"My Lady, Myrddin often spoke of you as if you had the gift of foresight, though he described it as no gift at all. He said you were constantly weighing the balance of what could be and what must be." She did not react, but he saw her shoulders hunch slightly, and her wand paused in its movements. "May I ask you… not as one ruler to another, but as the dearest love of my dearest friend… is there hope? Can we stop this evil?"
She didn't respond for a long time. Then her head turned slightly, her voice soft. "And if I tell you there is no hope? What will Arthur Pendragon, King over Briton, do in the face of such knowledge?"
He thought about the question, but there was really only one answer. "I will fight. For my kingdom and for my people, even though it all comes to ruin."
"Then you make your own hope, Arthur. For yourself and those who follow you." She was silent for a moment. "And maybe a little for me as well."
He nodded and then bowed to her, though he was king and she merely a visitor. She did not see; she had turned back to her enchanting. He straightened and left the armoury… it was time to make sure Excalibur was ready for battle.
The army left as soon as the sun rose. It was a half-day's ride to Camlann, and Arthur didn't want to push the horses or their riders too hard, lest they arrive exhausted and unfit for battle. It was a grim procession as they left the castle, the king at the head, and many eyes followed them. Arthur used Myrddin's lessons to control his expression, only allowing the faintest of scowls to show; it was better the king appeared annoyed than afraid.
More than a few of those eyes followed the grim figure beside him. Despite her humble garb, Arthur had recognized Muirgen as a sovereign in her own right, and thus she was entitled to ride beside him. He'd managed to cajole her into taking a horse, pointing out that it was a long walk, and that if she chose to 'apparate' there, she'd either arrive well ahead of them or be stuck idling around Camelot until leaving to meet them.
Just like Myrddin, she was no rider. The grace she exuded, even while exhausted, was notably absent on top of a horse. It would have made him grin were the circumstances not so dreadful. Instead he kept an eye on her, staying within reach should she nod off during the journey, as she almost did several times. He hoped she would; then he would simply steady her and let her rest, but each time her head drooped for a moment she would startle awake with a gasp. Then she would glare around her, as if challenging anyone to comment on her momentary weakness. Arthur merely kept his expression blank.
It was mid-afternoon by the time the host reached Camlann. As they crested a hill, they saw three mounted figures atop a small rise opposite them, just out of bowshot. Arthur's stomach queased as he saw Medraut clad in black armour. A small figure, the size of a dwarf, was with him, likewise in mail. And in between them sat a woman, staff in hand, dressed in flowing black robes, strawberry-blonde hair obvious in the greying sunlight… Morgause.
Sir Percival rode up beside Arthur. "They would parley?"
"Of course they would," Muirgen growled. "They need to gloat. Or threaten. Or more likely both."
"Regardless, if they offer us a delay we should take it," Arthur said. "Gawain, have the men organize quickly. They won't allow us to stall and rest for too long." The knight nodded, riding away to fulfill the order. "Percival, Lady Muirgen… would you accompany me?"
The dark-haired knight nodded, while Muirgen simple didn't react. "We should be wary of treachery, my king."
Arthur smirked grimly. "With these two? There's no other way."
"Let them try," Muirgen snapped.
Leaving the knights to prepare for battle, the three rode forward in a line to meet their opponents. As soon as they were within hearing, Medraut raised his arm in mocking joviality. "Father! How surprising to see you here. What brings you forth from your tall, safe walls?"
"These are not your lands, Medraut," Arthur replied, ignoring the insult. "Why have you trespassed here? As for you, 'Lady' Morgause, I seem to recall that Lord Myrddin specifically barred you from entering the lands of Camelot."
"If Myrddin doesn't want me here, he can say so himself," Morgause replied, a faint smile on her face. "As it is, the call from Camelot for a wizard or witch of power was heard even in my home… I'm simply responding to the call."
Medraut leaned forward. "Oh my. Has something happened to the dear archwizard?"
Arthur bit down on his anger at their taunting, not willing to provide what they wanted. Beside him he heard the creaking of leather, and glanced over to at Muirgen. Her exhaustion was gone, burned away by a fresh wave of fury, and he worried she would begin hurling fire or lightning before any of them could react. Thankfully, she hadn't yet summoned her wand or staff.
Morgause saw his glance, and looked at the deceivingly-young woman appraisingly. "Oh, is this your substitute, Arthur? Have you stooped to raiding farmhouses in search of anyone who can cast a cantrip?"
"This is Lady Muirgen, queen of Avalon," Percival snapped. Good Percival… all of his reservations about their ally were discarded as he defended her. "If she does without finery, it's only sensible… there's plenty of muck about today." Arthur was almost startled into a grin.
"Muirgen of Avalon? Truly?" Morgause fixed the raven-haired witch with a sceptical look. "And here I thought Avalon was a land of magic and beauty."
"Enough. These juvenile insults do no one any honour. Why are you here, Morgause?"
"Straight to business, is it, Arthur? Very well. I'm here because of my son. He is the rightful heir of Camelot, you know this. I intend to make sure he is not robbed of his birthright. My honourable companion, Bloodclaw," she nodded her head at the ugly creature on the pony beside her, "had heard of this injustice and offered his noble services."
Arthur glanced at the goblin, who seemed more amused by the humans than anything. "Offered? More likely you offered him the gold of Camelot. Plunder, not process, is your concern."
"Well, a proper accounting of the treasury would only be sensible. Bloodclaw's people are very good with numbers."
"No," Arthur said. "Myrddin banished you, and that judgement stands. As for you, Medraut… I offered you a place at Camelot. I would have taken you in gladly, given you a home. But you opted to stay with her. Whether you chose that yourself or she controls you so completely that you couldn't consider otherwise is irrelevant. The gates are closed to you now." Medraut's face, so handsome, twisted into something ugly. He reached for the pike slung near his knee, but a gesture from Morgause stopped him, inadvertently lending truth to Arthur's words. The boy seemed to realize it, and it only made him angrier.
"I assume, then, that you will not surrender, Arthur? Very well." The blonde witch turned to Muirgen. "And you, Lady Muirgen? Do you stand with him?"
"No," she replied flatly. Arthur barely hid a startled jerk, but Percival drew a shocked breath beside him. "I'm here for you, for my own purposes. You see, I very much want to kill your son. But that task belongs to Arthur by right. So I'll settle for killing you."
The witch of Avalon pointed at a clearing only just visible from the hilltop, safely away from the soon-to-be battlefield. "You and I will duel over there. When you die, I will leave… Arthur does not need me. I have confidence in the men of Camelot. But if you run..." Muirgen leaned forward in her saddle, eyes blazing, her face showing just how purely stupid she considered that choice to be, "I will slaughter your armies, and I will kill your son, and then I will hunt you. You will see my face in every shadow, hear my voice in every creaking branch, feel my magic in every breeze! I will run you to ground like a deer, and then… and then your nightmare will begin!" She sneered. "Myrddin was honourable and good, Morgause. I am not!"
Arthur shivered as Muirgen delivered her ultimatum, thrill and terror filling his heart, as if he had the devil himself at his right hand. Medraut, confident with the stupidity of youth, was unimpressed; but his mother was shaken to her bones. She tried to hide her fear, but her face paled and her eyes widened slightly. The goblin at her left hand actually seemed impressed, though it was hard to tell on that ugly visage.
Vow thus delivered, Muirgen pulled on the reins of her horse, turning around, uninterested in whatever the others might have yet to say. With the witch of Avalon a few paces away, Morgause regained some of her bluster. "And if I kill you?"
"Then you will have my gratitude," Muirgen replied over her shoulder without pausing.
Arthur watched the witch ride away, and turned back to the dark trio in front of him. He was tense for an attack; striking at Muirgen's back was exactly something they would do.
For once the pair resisted the chance at treachery. He met his son's eyes. "Bring your army. I will waste no more time attempting to be your father. I am the king, and it's time to finish this." Medraut smiled maliciously, and despite his handsome face he was no more fair to look upon than the goblin.
The two groups returned to their respective forces, and prepared to water the lands with blood.
The fields of Camlann were silent. Not a bird chirped, the air was still, and even the trees seemed to hold themselves from rustling their branches. Thick clouds gathered overhead, and the land was cast in greyness. The first sound to break the ominous silence was the rumble of hooves, which was followed shortly by the clang of metal against metal. And that was followed quickly by the screams of the wounded and dying.
Arthur kicked the body of a goblin off his sword, the ugly being falling to the ground in a clatter of limp armour. He panted, struggling to pull breath in past ribs that were cracked at the least. His armour had long past lost its sheen beneath the spatter of blood, and the dead creature at his feet had done more than his share at decorating it with dents with his mace.
The battle prowess of the goblins was not exaggerated, he acknowledged grimly. The dark creatures hit with a strength belied by their stature, and they seemed to have no concept of fear. Though Arthur's forces had outnumbered them two to one, the battle had quickly turned desperate. Arthur himself had been unhorsed almost immediately, a goblin blade taking the life of poor Anwar and spilling the king to the ground. Arthur would have been killed right then if not for Lancelot - cursed, wonderful Lancelot - who had rushed in like a madman, taking on five goblins by himself. Their contest had dragged them away from the king, and Arthur had no idea where his most hated and most favoured knight might be now, or if the poor man still lived.
A light rain had begun almost before the battle had been joined. He had no idea whether it was weather summoned by one of the witches, or if God himself was weeping. It reduced visibility, and the ground beneath the armies was quickly churned to a muddy mess by armoured feet and hooves. Thankfully this worked in the human's favour… the broader feet of his knights found it easier to find purchase in the muck than that of the goblins.
The battlefield was becoming quiet, with only the occasional cry of pain or clash of metal. The goblin wounded made no sound, and their able-bodied brethren had no mercy for fallen humans who did. The loudest sounds came from over the hill, from the place where Muirgen and Morgause contested. There was the crack of thunder, and occasionally the rumble of the earth itself; lightning flashed, and unholy winds screeched. Arthur shivered, glad to be far away from that battle, even though ultimately all their fates were being decided by the two women.
A metal-shod food thumped down, the sound of a human footstep; Arthur looked up. There stood Medraut, his dark armour dented but intact, decorated with the blood of men Arthur called friend. The boy barely seemed winded, and he smiled arrogantly at the king. "Well, Father, it seems it has come down to us. You never got the chance to teach me swordplay when I was a child… shall we make up for lost time?"
Arthur tightened his grip on Excalibur. "Morgause is using you, Medraut," he said. "You have no magic and thus no worth in her eyes except as her attack dog. Put down your sword… come with me, to Camelot. You can have a home, you can be free from her manipulations."
Medraut laughed. "Of course she's using me! Just as I am using her. I killed the mightiest wizard in the world, Father… don't worry about how I'll deal with dear Mother. As for Camelot… I'll be there soon enough." He bared his teeth and raised his pike.
Arthur set his jaw and brought up his sword. He didn't know why he'd pleaded with his evil son; he just knew that he had to do so. But the response had not been unexpected, and neither was their fate.
He hefted Excalibur and strode forward to destroy the evil he'd helped create.
Samuel of Eboracum, squire to Sir Cador, quietly crept over the hill that separated the king's host from the open field where the knights said the witches would battle.
It was not a place where he had to worry about anyone choosing to follow; the knights were busy with their part of the battle against the ugly and short creatures brought by Morgause and her son. The other squires were deathly afraid of magic, no matter who wielded it; Lord Myrddin had been a notable exception, but the wizard had been so affable and wise it was impossible to dislike him. Now he was gone. But Samuel had personal reasons for wanting to witness this battle, to see real magic wielded by those who had mastered it.
The young boy carefully peeked his head out from behind a small rock outcropping, daring a look down into the low field that stretched beyond. To the distant north he could hear the clatter of armour and swords, cries of pain and anger… the battle had begun. Below Samuel, in the center of the field, stood the unmoving figure of Lady Muirgen.
He could understand why the knights were nervous about the witches, even those knights who had nothing against magic. The Lady had been a quiet, menacing presence during the journey to Camlann, riding beside the king and opposite Sir Percival. Even the bravest of Arthur's army were unnerved by her blank stare, while others were worried for more practical reasons, concerned that the witch wouldn't be strong enough to defeat Morgause.
Looking at her, Samuel could see why. The Lady looked no older than Samuel's eldest sister, barely more than a girl. Sir Cador had said that she looked exactly the same age as she had when he'd first laid eyes on her over twenty-five years before, but then she hadn't looked like she'd lost the battle already. Below those blank, staring eyes were deep, dark circles; her skin was waxen and pale, and slender fingers grasped her strange snake-headed staff as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. A light rain had begun; the droplets left her hair, tangled and unkept, as a limp mass stuck to her face and back.
There was a loud pop, and Samuel jerked back behind the sheltering stone with a muffled gasp. Morgause had appeared from thin air just across the field from Muirgen, walking closer with an arrogant stride. Samuel quelled a tremble of fright as he peeked at her; all his life, Morgause had been the monster his parents had threatened him with when he misbehaved, the name whispered with fear and disgust among the knights. He was surprised to see that "the Black Witch" was something of a misnomer… although she wore black robes which billowed around her, even in the rain, the witch herself was actually quite fair. Her skin was the colour of cream, and her hair was a strawberry blonde that formed rich curls bound at the nape of her neck. Though he knew she was older than the king, she stood tall and strong, and on her face was a smirk of confidence.
Contrasting her with the disheveled, wasted figure on the other side of the field, the young squire could understand why the knights of Camelot worried about who would carry the day.
"So here we stand," Morgause declared. her voice ringing across the field. "You've drawn me away, just as you intended, to let my son and my soldiers fend for themselves." Her head tilted. "Are you so certain you can defeat me, or are you merely offering yourself up as a sacrifice? Do you intend to delay me long enough for the battle to play out in Arthur's favour?"
Muirgen said nothing, and Morgause watched her carefully, her own staff held loosely in her hands. The blonde witch's head tilted as she regarded her opponent. "You do not need to do this," she said, seemingly sympathetic. "Leave the muggles to their fates. There's no need for you to die for them. Every witch or wizard is a gift, not to be wasted."
"Do not quote Myrddin's words to me," Muirgen replied, her voice a hiss.
"He's not here to do so, is he? He placed his faith in muggles, and they failed him. They used him, just as they're using you. He chose his allies poorly, but you can do-"
"Morgause, shut up and die." And with that, Muirgen was splitting the air with a green bolt of magic.
Morgause's eyes went wide, but she disappeared and reappeared a few strides away, the spell passing through the air where she stood. She replied with the same spell, which Muirgen likewise evaded. Samuel had no idea where to look as the two witches appeared and disappeared all around the field, hurling magic at each other that filled the air with a malevolence that the boy could feel.
Morgause traced a pattern in the air, and both witches suddenly stopped popping around. He could see Muirgen's eyes narrow.
"A Disapparation jinx," she said, her voice barely audible from where Samuel hid. "Perhaps you do know something."
Morgause smiled, though her expression was less sure than it had been a minute before, her staff held tightly in her hands. "I've had near three decades to prepare for this battle. Granted, I expected to be opposed by Myrddin himself, not his harlot."
Samuel's fist clenched, but the insult drew no reaction from Muirgen. Instead, she merely replied, "And yet, in the end you needed to send in your lowly squib bastard to defeat him where you couldn't."
Morgause frowned, and responded with a spell that traced the air with pale red. Muirgen dodged aside, and with a gesture a wall of flame exploded away from her, a giant snake forming and surging toward the blonde witch. With a gesture she swatted it aside, into the ground where half the field turned black despite the rain. A blue shield appeared around her to intercept a white blast from the lady of Avalon; the shield shattered under the blow, filling the air with the sound of an immense bell.
For the first time Morgause looked afraid, but she spun aside from Muirgen's follow-up spell and responded with another red bolt which was intercepted with a clump of earth thrown up by a wave of the raven-haired witch's staff. Muirgen struck the ground with that staff, and the earth surged as if a monstrous creature was burrowing beneath, tracing a line of rumbling soil toward the other witch. Morgause blocked the spell by opening a rent in the ground in its path, and when the two collided a deadly barrage of rocks and stone spewed upward, well short of the target.
Back and forth the two women battled, filling the air with magic of every colour, faster than Samuel's eyes could follow. Morgause conjured golems of earth, and Muirgen animated the trees at the edge of the forest to groan forth and wrestle them. Fire and wind washed back and forth, lightning flashed, and even the earth itself rose to smash at either of the women. The ground shook enough to knock Samuel flat from his kneeling position behind his protective ridge. He began to think that the other squires were far wiser than he was, especially when an errant blue bolt from Muirgen struck the face of the ridge he hid behind, and it felt as if the hill itself had tried to punch him. Samuel wasn't sure he could leave now if he tried… he barely kept the courage to keep peeking with one eye from behind his shelter.
He wasn't trained in magic, but Samuel paid attention when the knights practiced, and Sir Cador had begun the boy's lessons in swordsmanship a year before. He tried to apply the things he had been taught to what he saw before him, and worried. Morgause was strong, but Muirgen seemed to have the advantage in skill; her spells were cast a bit faster, she countered almost before a spell was thrown. But she was tired… fury and vengeance could carry a person, even a witch, only so far.
If Samuel could see it, he was sure the other witch could as well. Morgause's spells seemed to come at a faster and faster pace, sacrificing power for speed, forcing Muirgen to dance away and shield constantly. As he watched, her evasions and casting slowed until she was barely keeping ahead.
And then, inevitably, she was struck.
Both witches had made liberal use of the spell that hurled a bolt of sickly red light, but never had it landed, with both of them either dodging or blocking the spell with a clump of earth or a conjured wall of ice or soil. When it was blocked it simply fizzled, so its effect wasn't obvious… but Samuel knew enough Latin to take a guess at what 'crucio' was intended to do. It was proven as Muirgen was hit on her hip. She was knocked backwards as if kicked, to writhe on the ground, screaming.
Morgause laughed, and with a gesture Muirgen's staff was wrenched away to fly into the blonde witch's hand. "Crucio!" she snarled again, and the fallen woman's agonies were renewed as Morgause walked across the battlefield.
Samuel bit his fist, tears leaking from his eyes; he wondered if he could dash the distance and tackle Morgause before she struck the final blow. Terror froze him, and shame filled the place where his courage should have been.
The black witch stood over her fallen foe as Muirgen trembled, facedown, on the flattened grass. "A fair duel, I must admit," she said. "Did you delay me enough, Lady Muirgen? Do you think it matters if Arthur won or not? If he defeated Medraut it simply saves me bother. I'm not foolish enough to clasp an asp to my breast." Blue eyes narrowed, and Samuel had to strain to hear. "Or do you even care? Did you come to me to cure your other pain?"
Muirgen had laboured to all fours, and as she looked up at the gloating witch, she said nothing, her eyes showing only loathing. She raised a hand, and snapped her fingers. And Samuel felt the strange ward, the blanket Morgause had cast, tear just a little. Muirgen disappeared with a soft pop.
She reappeared a few steps behind the other woman, and with a gesture a wand appeared in her hand in a golden glow. "Expelliarmus!" she cried. Morgause was blasted from her feet even as she turned, and both staves were knocked away to fly through the air. Muirgen tossed aside her wand to catch them both.
She glared at Morgause's staff, and with a snapping gesture of her arm shattered it like an icicle. Samuel decided he'd treasure the horrified look on Morgause's face for years to come.
Their places switched, the green witch carefully circled the blonde, her staff held at the ready. Her body still trembled from the magical torture, but the end of her staff never wavered. "You ridiculous child," she rasped, her voice raw, "I've been using Apparition since before the pyramids were built! You think, in all that time, I never considered a Disapparition jinx, and how to disrupt it?" Blood dripped from her mouth from where she'd bitten her lip, but her eyes were clear. "I've had time to learn many things. Like how to deal with pain. Like how to lure a would-be dark lord in close: by being broken!"
Morgause cowered on the ground, and Samuel marveled at how the loss of a wand or staff changed a wizard from arrogant to craven. The black witch trembled, pinned by her own ward.
"Please, Lady Muirgen, have mercy," she begged. "You have your victory! Arthur will kill Medraut, you know it! I… I will leave Britannia! Spare my life… it was Myrddin's way!"
The raven-haired witch stared down at her fallen opponent, her face devoid of expression. "You're right. Myrddin would have accepted your surrender," she said, her voice flat. "Every life was precious to him, not just that of magicals. That was the kind of man he was. He always sought the better path. He took his ideals and made them real. But I?"
Her face twisted, and Samuel wasn't able to tell if it was anger or agony that he saw there. "I do what needs to be done! Avada Kedavra!" Green light lashed out. There was no spray of blood. Morgause did not cry out in pain. She simply flopped to the ground… dead.
Muirgen fell to her knees, her staff slipping from her fingers as she tipped to her side to flop into the wet grass. Before Samuel could think he was on his feet and running to her, dodging craters blasted into the ground. Small fires continued to burn bare earth despite the rain, the shrinking flames seeming to reach for him hungrily as he passed.
"Lady Muirgen! Lady Muirgen?" he said as he hovered over her limp body. Now that he was here he had no idea what to do. He touched her arm, and when that brought no reaction he rolled her onto her back. Mud was smeared across her face, mixing with the blood from her lip, and the skin beneath seemed dangerously pale. Was she bleeding inside? Had Morgause inflicted her with a curse before the end? Not for the first time, he wished he knew more of magic. He leaned down to press his head against her chest to listen for a heartbeat.
Before he could hear anything, he found his hair seized in an iron grip as his head was was yanked upward. Muirgen's eyes blazed as she glared at him. "I said that if I fell, then you were to run! Not to help me, but to get as far away as you can! I told all the knights that! You-" The rest of her rebuke was lost in a fit of coughing, and she let go of his hair.
"I-I'm not a knight, my Lady! I'm just a squire… I'm sorry, I didn't know…"
"Fool boy," she rasped, though with little heat. She lay still for a long moment, eyes closed as if sleeping. The rain ran across her nose and down her cheeks. After a few breaths she looked up, flinching as the cold raindrops struck her in the eyes, and rolled over to laboriously rise to her knees. Mud coated her back and side, and grass littered her hair. She smelled of smoke and brimstone.
"Lady, your staff!" It hadn't fallen far, but she didn't seem up for reaching for it; fetching a knight's weapon was one of a squire's duties anyway. He kicked aside the remains of Morgause's staff (somewhat gleefully) as he lifted the wooden stick and presented it to her. As he did, a small rainfall of blue sparks fell from the ends.
Muirgen's eyes opened slightly with the hollow astonishment of pure exhaustion. A gloved hand reached out and gently took the wooden implement from him. "You're magical," she said.
He blushed, looking down. "I… I think so, my Lady. I don't have a Master, I don't think my parents even realize…"
"A muggleborn," she said, apparently to herself. She laboured to her feet, leaning heavily on her staff. He helped her as best he could, unsure of what he could or should do, ridiculously aware of his hands; he wasn't used to helping a woman in battle, much less a witch. She stood silently a moment, taking deep breaths, her eyes closed. When she opened them again she looked at him carefully. "What is your name, boy?"
"Samuel, my Lady. Samuel of Eboracum. It's a village just north of-"
"I know where it is," she interrupted. She'd seemed worried until he spoke his name. "I was there once… long ago."
"Really? My family has a croft in a valley there. We've been there for generations." He shrugged. "The village-folk just call us the Longbotmes." Muirgen's head snapped about, her eyes wide. "Have… have you heard of us, my Lady?"
She sighed, rubbing her face and wiping away the mud there. Her hair, soaked by the rain, stuck to her face and neck. "I think I have."
He wasn't sure it was a good time to ask - in fact he was sure it wasn't - but didn't know when he'd ever have an opportunity again. "My Lady, I'd… I'd like to learn magic-"
"I will not-!" She halted as he flinched, closing her eyes briefly, mastering herself. She continued, more gently, but firmly. "I am not taking apprentices, Samuel. Not now, perhaps not ever."
"Oh, not you, my Lady!" he said, blushing furiously at the temerity of it. He might as well ask the king to teach him how to hold a sword! "I-I would be incredibly grateful if you did, but I couldn't possibly be worthy of your instruction. B-But if you knew who I should ask…"
She sighed again, and then laughed softly, though there was no joy in it. Samuel thought she looked wan and delicate, like she might shatter at any moment. It was a strange contrast to the powers he'd seen her wield minutes before. "I'll… see if I can find someone. Which knight are you bound to?"
"Sir Cador, my Lady. I… I don't know if he yet lives…"
She paused, listening. "I think the battle is over." She took a breath. "Your king needs you, Samuel. Go now, and be careful. Avoid the goblins, no matter how dead they might look. We'll talk later."
"Y-Yes, my Lady." Cold gripped his heart at her words; he'd also heard the rumours that Muirgen had the dubious gift of prophecy. He turned to climb the hill, hesitating, feeling it wasn't right to leave her there. There was a soft popping sound, like a banner flapping in the wind; when he turned to ask if she would be safe, she was gone.
In the great hall of Camelot, two queens mourned. They could not have been more different… one was delicate and flaxen-haired, the other had callouses on her hands and her hair was the colour of night. One was magical, the other mundane; one was dressed in jewels and finery, while the other was clad in a simple frock that was a bare step above sackcloth. One had forsaken her vows, and despised herself for it… the other had held true to oaths spoken thousands of years before, and hated herself for it all the same. They could scarce be called friends, but misery had forged a bond between them.
The two women were alone in the hall, Guinevere having ordered two knights to stand guard and insure their privacy. The famous Round Table of Camelot was pulled apart to make room for the two fallen heroes, the table scattered to the corners of the room… a metaphor for the kingdom itself, she thought grimly. Already the surrounding kingdoms, like vultures, were speaking of annexation.
Late in the day after the battle of Camlann, the surviving knights of Camelot delivered home the body of their fallen king. Arthur had been found sharing death's embrace with his dark son, having delivered a killing blow even as his own life escaped. Sir Percival ordered the blackguard's body piled with that of his mother and burned, not willing to risk the chance of any magics lingering on their bodies. Nothing and no-one arrived to claim kinship with the fallen goblins, wiped out to the last, and so pyres were built for them as well. The air turned black and greasy as they were cremated.
King Arthur Pendragon was laid to rest on a marble slab next to that of his friend, the great Archwizard Myrddin of Camelot. Muirgen had arrived soon afterward, casting the same spell on Arthur that she had on the body of her own love, insuring that the bodies wouldn't decay while those left behind still mourned. The spell was powerful… with that final, terrible wound hidden beneath a fine tunic, had Guinevere not known otherwise she would have thought Arthur merely slept. Only the chill of his skin told her he was gone, and along with him her chance at redemption.
"He forgave you," Muirgen said, as if reading her mind. Guinevere looked up to where the other woman stood guard next to the body of her own beloved. Her fury vented upon Morgause, Muirgen no longer looked as if she could be roused to murder with a poorly-chosen word. Now she simply looked spent… her eyes bearing deep circles, her skin waxen; her hands gripped her staff tightly, as if it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
She didn't ask how the witch knew her thoughts, but she had been trained practically since birth on how to recognize and negotiate with power. Muirgen may have looked like she was just entering the prime of womanhood, but Guinevere saw knowledge in her eyes, the kind of knowledge that was bought with time and sorrow.
But for all her power, she'd shown no ability to speak with the dead. "How can you know that?"
"Because he was Arthur. Because he was a good king and a good man. Myrddin wouldn't have called him friend otherwise. His pain wasn't because he couldn't forgive you, but because you wouldn't forgive yourself."
Guinevere looked down at Arthur's face, free from the worry which had plagued him for so many years. "Perhaps. Now I will never know."
"You will know. One day, you will know. And I envy you for it." Guinevere looked up. Muirgen had shown little emotion since her return, as if her heart had been squeezed too tightly and now couldn't beat at all. But her eyes showed unshed tears.
Guinevere understood. Kings and peasants, wizards and priests, spoke of the joys of eternal life; but it would be no joy at all, if you were sundered from the one who made that life worth living.
"You will come for me, when that day comes?" she asked softly.
Raven hair, limp and dull, shifted as the witch nodded. "When that day comes."
"Then I will stay true to him until then."
"He would not fault you for finding love again."
It was on the tip of her tongue to say nor would Myrddin. Instead she simply said, "There is no other I would want. I will wait." Muirgen nodded.
Guinevere forced herself to take a step back. "The knights will bear them to the south shore as you instructed. We will leave on the morrow. May I accompany you as you bring them to Avalon?"
"Of course."
"Then we will see you then."
Muirgen nodded. "I will go and prepare their resting places." She turned, leaving the room and the royal widow, the weight of ages visible in her steps.
Guinevere leaned over and set her lips against her husband's brow for the last time.
Simon was old. Old, and tired.
He lay in his bed in the room given to him in the home of his eldest son. A son who no longer lived, having died years before… not of plague or murder, but of simple old age. Simon had outlived him, just as he had outlived his wife and so many of his friends. Just as he soon might outlive his second son, against all his wishes.
He was so tired. Had he the strength, he would have taken his own wand and ended it; but somehow he felt as though doing so was wrong. His punishment, his curse, was deserved, and to take the easy way out would be selfish. Simon had vowed to not let selfishness guide his actions, never again.
Yet he wished it would end. He had worked so hard for so long… he'd devoted his wand to charitable works, always in the name of his fallen Master. He proved to have a talent for healing magics, and travelled all through Britannia and even as far as Gaul bringing succor to those who needed it. He healed wounds, cured diseases, and purified waters. He'd lost count of how many babies he'd greeted as they entered the world, and how many lives he'd ushered gently out. He never accepted payment, as even holding gold made him shiver and feel sick. He could take the gift of a meal or a replacement for a ragged cloak, but never a coin.
He'd tried to tell Alys to leave him, to find a man more worthy of her… one who could provide for her properly. She'd hexed him quite thoroughly, saying if he thought he could run her off that easily, he was an ass and a fool and thoroughly mistaken. He'd never understood love until that moment, and had felt all the more ashamed, because his quest for wealth to impress her had been unneeded… just as Master Myrddin had always said. She had stayed at his side as he travelled, helping him deliver babies, and then providing him with his own. No matter how low they were forced to live, she never left his side.
Until time and old age took her away.
He'd searched, then. Searched Britannia, searched the continent, for any sign of a strange witch with green eyes and wild black hair. He didn't care what she did to him, so long as it provided an ending. In his more despairing moments he even thought of trying to duel her… suicide of a different kind, perhaps, but enough to satisfy him. He remembered Myrddin mentioning that she had a home up north, in the land of the Picts; after an encounter with some unpleasant centaurs he managed to find a tiny home burrowed into a hillside. But it had long ago been abandoned; the roof had collapsed, and what little remained unburied was charred as though someone had loosed fiendfyre inside.
Lady Muirgen was nowhere to be found, and Simon lost all hope. Even his body had failed him, and he'd had to come home to his sons. Home to wait. To watch his body slowly crumble until he was nothing more but a useless old man, living life from under woolen blankets.
He was so tired.
"Father?" Simon lifted his eyes at his youngest son's call. Arthur, named for the late king, stood in the open door of Simon's room. A shadowy figure was behind him. "There… there is someone here to see you, Father." Heavy brows, long since white, raised in curiosity at the sound of fear and anger in his son's voice.
"Arthur? Who is it?" he rasped. Rather than answer, his son stood aside, glaring at the figure behind him as she entered the room.
Simon's mouth went dry as the candlelight played upon the face of Muirgen. She had not been seen in Britannia in over a hundred years, since the day she arrived at the convent to bear away the body of Queen Guinevere - to Avalon, it was said, and eternal rest by her husband's side. Some speculated she'd fled to the Far East; others said she stayed on Avalon, always mourning lost Myrddin. Still others said she had died of heartbreak.
Obviously none were true.
She had aged not a day. In many ways she looked even younger than that last day he'd seen her… her eyes were not puffy with tears, nor her mouth twisted in ugly rage. Green eyes watched him carefully, and dare he believe he saw pity in their depths? Could he hope again?
"May we speak, Simon?" she asked. It was a question more for Arthur than himself.
"Of… of course, my Lady. Arthur, can you give us some privacy, please?"
"Father-" his son began.
"I'll be fine, Arthur. Go." Honestly. He appreciated the concern, but what did Arthur think she would do? Curse him twice?
The witch watched the younger man leave carefully, closing the door behind him. She turned to regard Simon in his bed. "Your sons are loyal."
"Perhaps foolishly so."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you are more deserving of their love than you give yourself credit." She moved to his bed, gracefully taking a seat beside him. She was clad in grey robes, simple in styling but clean and made of fine cloth. Her staff was nowhere in sight, and she extended a hand to take his. The hope in his heart burned a bit brighter.
"I have taught them, my Lady. They are humble and giving… they will not repeat my sin."
"I believe you." She squeezed his hand gently.
The silence drew out. Tears formed in his eyes, blurring his vision. "Please, my Lady. I'm tired… so tired. I beg you, release me from your curse, so that I may see my wife again."
Her head tilted as she looked at him. "I lifted my curse many years ago, Simon." His eyes widened, but he saw no jesting in her expression. "I watched you, over the decades. I saw your selflessness, how you had remade yourself, and I felt shame for what I'd done to you in a moment of grief. You've been free of it for near fifty years now. I thought you would pass soon after. But no… you are even more obstinate than he was." Her lips curled, but it was with fond exasperation, not scorn.
He squinted, confused. "But… how?"
"You've held yourself here, Simon. You are no weak wizard, and your magic responds to your desires, conscious or not. There is no greater a cage than that we make for ourselves." She reached up and brushed wispy grey strands from his brow. "Your penance has long been done. You just need to accept that within yourself."
He trembled… had his release been in his own hands for all this time? But… "Will he forgive me?"
"I'm certain he already has. I have no doubt he is proud of you, Simon," she said. She squeezed his hand again. "I'm very proud of you."
"Th- thank you, my Lady." And with that, he could feel the change. An easing of the spirit… like a muscle, shivering with exhaustion, finally relaxed.
Muirgen could see it as well. She stood and gathered her cloak around herself. "I will send your family in to be with you." She stepped to the door but hesitated as she laid a hand on the latch, turning to look at him. "Simon, there is one last thing you can do for me."
"Anything, my Lady."
Her green eyes glittered in the candlelight. "When you get to the other side, please tell Myrddin... I love him, and I miss him terribly."
"Of… of course, my Lady."
She nodded in gratitude, and then left, closing that door behind her.
Muirgen jerked awake upon the bed.
Muirgen? No, no… Jasmine was her name, now. Her first name, now reclaimed… there and back again, as a poetic hobbit had said. She blinked in the darkness; outside, she could hear the odd car pass by the flat, the muggle street lights beaming the errant ray in between the curtains. London was never truly silent nor dark anymore. The air smelled not of hides and the smoke of the fire, but of woolen blankets and the hot metal of the nearby radiator. It wasn't the Sixth century, but the closing days of the Twentieth.
She forced herself to breathe evenly as she oriented herself; she hadn't dreamed like that in years.
"Jas?" a sleepy voice said. She turned, and saw Hermione's brown eyes blinking up at her in the reflected streetlight streaming through the window, honey-brown hair a wild mass around her. Behind her Ron still snored lightly, his arm around his fiancee's waist.
She remembered: she'd been visiting her long-lost friends, all but shoved out the door by Geoffrey. Things were still awkward between them, a rut that didn't quite fit her anymore… like the little hollow on their couch that they said was hers, worn out by her own backside just a few months and thousands of years before. They didn't quite know how to approach her, nor she them… but they were trying, and she adored them for it. Bit by bit she could feel that little hollow stretching, reshaping itself to wrap around her more comfortably. Pizza and beer and a movie, the nervous glances becoming increasingly rare... a ridiculously mundane night compared to what a witch of her power and wealth could command, yet nothing she would dare substitute.
It'd been late when the movie finished. They'd surprised her, and possibly themselves, by offering to let her stay the night. And she'd surprised them, and herself, by accepting. Geoffrey had sounded far too smug when she called him to let him know.
She'd balked a bit when Hermione offered a spot in their bed, of course… apparently it'd been something they'd done - quite innocently - as children at Hogwarts, and while hiding from Voldemort during the recent wizarding war. She'd accepted, though not without the sexual innuendo that was demanding to be voiced. There was fun to be had in making Ron sputter. Jasmine gathered that her younger self had not been so bold.
And it had been familiar and comforting. She'd slept easily… too easily, maybe.
"Jas? Are you okay?" Hermione asked softly.
"I'm fine, Hermione," she replied, equally quiet. It was a conscious effort to speak modern English. "I'm sorry for waking you."
"Are you sure? You've been crying."
Jasmine wiped at her cheeks, surprised by the wetness there. She scrubbed at her face with the sleeves of her transfigured pajamas.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine… just a dream." She lay back, pulling the blankets back up. "Just a dream of days gone by. I'll tell you about it, but not tonight," she added, forestalling the question she knew would come.
Hermione frowned, but respected her wish. She reached across the bed and squeezed Jasmine's hand. "Is there anything I can do?"
She gripped the hand that held hers, trying not to hold on too tightly. "Just… stay with me, both of you. That's all I need."
