"I can see them now."
Cenred of Escetia grunts at Morgana's words, kneeling on the ground with a tight grip on the reins.
"You're too loud."
The first of the Saxon camp-makers appear over the horizon, raising columns of dust. Crouched in the tall grass of the plain, Morgana holds her breath as she watches the procession and inwardly prays that the rest of the Saxon forces aren't directly behind the trailblazers.
They're in luck; the motley line of supply wagons and workers enter the Plains of Peredor unescorted. There seems to be only a small number of combatants in the group. Morgana makes as if to get up, but Cenred jerks his head sharply.
"We wait until we're sure there's no troops behind."
Morgana acquiesces, shifting to her haunches. "Better to catch them unawares, after they start working."
"Clever girl, aren't you?"
Their own raid party shifts restlessly - Cenred makes a swift gesture for them to settle down. Morgana raises an eyebrow.
"Very professional."
Cenred glares, then returns to surveillance. "The boy-king was right, this once. There's no risk to us; I doubt they're even armed. 'Ts going to be as easy as taking sweetmeats from a child."
"I'm touched to see you have so much faith in the High King you pledged yourself to," Morgana drawls.
"You'd know a lot about that, wouldn't you?"
"Shh," Morgana snaps, "I think that's all of them."
They lie in wait for a minute longer before Cenred finally nods.
"Let's get to it, then," he mutters. Morgana holds up a fist, then moves it in a circle twice before swinging it down-the order and the signal.
Cenred digs his heels into his horse, urging it to charge through the grass. His cavalry surprises the Saxon camp makers, bearing down on them as they rake through the motley group. The soldiers in Morgana's command gallop out of the foliage, circling them and lashing out at any who try to escape.
The Escetian horsemen regroup and charge back into the surrounded group. As the unarmed camp makers are slaughtered like cattle led to slaughter, Morgana orders her own men to close the circle, trampling the would-be escapees underfoot. She plunges her sword into a scout trembling as he waves around a small dirk, more boy than man, pulling it out and neatly cutting into a woman trying to run away before he even falls to his knees.
"Surrender now before you're all wiped out!" she bellows, "Surrender, or none will be spared!"
"They don't speak English! Saxons speak Saxon! There's no point!" Cenred shouts back.
Morgana growls, viciously stabbing another man making a run for it. She continues circling as she looks around for the only man among their number who speaks even a little Saxon.
"Alden!" she snaps, "Tell them to surrender or be killed. Now!"
The swordsman stands up in his stirrups. He yells something guttural to the Saxons- to Morgana it sounds like gibberish. Morgana holds up a hand, and Cenred reluctantly ceases his charge. Her men keeps them confined, but refrain from attacking. The Saxons mutter amongst themselves, a rumble rising above the clattering of hooves. A tense din. The horsemen circle in silence.
A man in a thick fur cloak who seems to be the leader of this settling group draws himself to his full height. He gesticulates imperiously, spitting words with obvious contempt. Though Morgana does not know the language he speaks, she understands the message clearly.
Over their bodies it was.
Cenred doesn't hesitate. He charges at them, leading his cavalry as they slice through the Saxons. Fresh corpses litter the ground as warm blood spurts into the air, freed from the constraints of arteries. Morgana isn't far behind.
"Spare no one!" she barks, "Man or woman, spare no one!"
She leads her men in closing the circle tighter, using the mounted advantage to cut down those attempting to fight back. One brawny woman swings a makeshift club at her head, and Morgana ducks before she slices her open from shoulder to navel.
Lost in the heat of battle, it is a while before she remembers that she has to seize the Saxon supplies as well. It seems as if some of the Saxons have just realized the same thing, because a number of them suddenly rush towards the abandoned supply wagons, some managing to slip through the horsemen. One wagon abruptly bursts into flame. Magic.
Morgana curses at herself for not thinking of magicians before galloping out to the wagons herself. Six of her men follow her, and they beat a deadly path brutally stabbing at the ones that have reached the wagons.
She notices five men and women placing their hands on another supply wagon. As Morgana thunders towards them, sword aloft, one of them turns and holds out her hands in a pleading gesture.
She runs the woman through without slowing the gallop.
It is impossible for her to tell which Saxon is the magician, or if all of them are mages. They huddle together, pressing their backs to the wagon and screaming those guttural gibberish words. She cannot determine whether it is their own brand of magic spells, or pleas for mercy.
Morgana cannot afford to take chances, not in war.
When she rides back to the circle of horsemen, she leaves behind four freshly slain corpses. The majority of the fighting- the slaughter- has already ended, and the raid party has surrounded the survivors. Under the orders relayed by Alden, they kneel and submit to being trussed up for transport.
One soldier pushing a woman roughly to the ground to be tied up is suddenly thrown to the ground forcefully. Morgana's eyes harden; it is definitely magic, and there is a magician among the survivors. The magician could potentially free every one of the survivors and escape to report to the Saxon warlords. And if the magician was strong enough, he or she could wreak massive damage to their relatively small raid party. Whoever it was, she had to seal the magic before transport. And she had to take him or her alive; the magician would be a valuable source of information.
She drags up a still struggling man on the ground. "Alden, you will tell them that either they identify the magician for us, or I start executions until they do."
Alden blanches, and stutters something to them. Fearful murmurs break out, but no one comes forward. Morgana's face turns blank. "Very well."
She swings her sword down on the man she has grabbed by the collars of his shirt. It is a clean kill, the sword biting into the throat for a quick death. She rides out a little more, and grabs another Saxon, injured this time. "You have one minute."
Her words are dutifully translated, though the man turns a little whiter. His tone becomes more insistent. 60 grave seconds, and her lips curl in disgust at the silence. The man is felled with another stroke, although with his stomach already pierced, it is more of a mercy killing than anything.
She looks around coldly, then snatches up a woman. "Do you need further proof of my words? Speak now, and you will be spared."
The woman spits in her face, snarling wordlessly. Morgana wordlessly wipes the spit from her face with a sleeve. This time, she doesn't wait a second longer than a minute before disposing of her.
"This is my final warning. Tell us who the magician is and you will be spared. Keep your silence and I will personally oversee executions for each and every one of you, down to the last boy." Her eyes flash, and as Alden translates, she drags by the shirt a boy, no older than sixteen, from her seat on the horse. "My final warning."
The boy whimpers, then whispers something. Morgana loosens her grip on his collar, but doesn't release him. His voice grows louder, and he stretches out his arm. Morgana raises her sword, and he quakes, shouting something to Alden.
"The boy says the woman in the blue dress, milady. The brown-haired one. She's a witch, he says," Alden translates. Morgana nods, and releases the boy. He drops to the ground.
The woman who has been identified as the magician hisses in anger. Her eyes glow gold as she starts chanting a spell. She points a spindly finger at Morgana directly, chanting faster and faster.
Morgana drops to the ground as a burst of fire flies to where her head had been less than a minute ago. Cenred gets two of his men to restrain the woman, but the woman struggles against them and continues her chanting, eyes flashing yellow again.
This time, Morgana is prepared. She throws up her own shield as kinetic magic pushes at her. Reaching the now restrained woman, she takes out the enchanted chains from her saddlebag and shackles the woman.
The Saxon magician's face goes slack and then fearful. She starts keening in horror, but Cenred loses patience and slaps her before gagging her as well.
The possessing of the remaining supplies and securing the captives goes smoothly after the magician has been neutralized. Morgana stands next to King Cenred, overseeing the men's work. They stand in silence for a little.
One of their men salute them. "My lord, my lady, the total number of camp followers has been counted at a little over three hundred. The number of captives is one hundred fourty four."
"And our men?" Morgana questions.
"Sixty of our regiment possess injuries ranging from near-fatal to bruises. Thirty of the total two hundred has died in action, with magic being the most common cause."
She nods curtly, effectively dismissing the officer. Another short pause, and Cenred looks at her appraisingly.
"There were women."
Morgana grimaces, but doesn't look at him. "It was a necessary sacrifice. Camp followers and setters are an essential part of the army. They had to be eliminated."
"I'm not questioning you, sister-in-law," he shrugs.
"Don't call me that."
"Well, Princess Morgana, you're as dark as they say. Even Morgause isn't so bloodthirsty."
She tosses down the rag she's been using to wipe her sword and turns to face him fully.
"Say that again and I'll ensure your painful death, sister's husband or no."
Cenred only smirks. "Ruthless little tyrant, aren't you? 'For the good of the people', you say. But tell me, is that really the reason? 'Good' is something that doesn't exist in your heart, I wager."
"And what use is 'good' when my people starve and the Saxons attack? Efficiency is a far greater virtue," Morgana retorts. "What use is highbrow morality when I can't help my people?"
"You enjoy the killing, little sister-in-law. You're as twisted as they come."
Morgana presses her lips into a tight line and turns away. "You've no right to lecture me; you're just as twisted as me. Your only redeeming grace is having married my sister."
"Morgause loves me the way I am," Cenred smirks.
"I don't need details on your marital life."
"And shouldn't the little princess have been married off by now? Don't worry, we'll find someone who'll take you."
"I'm sure," Morgana simpers sarcastically, then glares. "Why my sister chose you I'll never understand. Brute."
"Wench."
"Bastard."
"Jade."
As Morgana opens her mouth to fire another insult, the sound of clapping hooves becomes audible from a distance. Cenred turns, argument forgotten.
"If that's the Saxons…"
She squints in the direction of the sound. "Can't be. I doubt they could have passed the patrols and went around all this way simply to ambush us."
"Troops, at the ready," Cenred calls, pulling out both swords and kicking aside the corpse of a woman. Morgana continues staring in the direction, trying to identify the newcomers.
It doesn't take long before the distant shapes turn into knights on horseback. Her eyes widen as she catches sight of the standard.
"The High King," Morgana says. She abruptly looks back at the carnage. The brutally massacred camp followers are strewn about, freshly spilled blood pooling in the dirt. She turns to Cenred.
"He won't be happy about this."
The legions have already begun fortifying the camp; Arthur has made sure that there would be no international bickers so far. The Nemeth troops under Rodor's command have been received into the forces, and Godwyn had sent word that he would arrive the next morning. Everything finally having been sorted and no longer requiring his presence for every little detail, Arthur had decided to join Morgana and Cenred to scout the Saxon's intended camps.
It is a little while before he reaches the part of the plains targeted by the Saxons as their camp. The air is devoid of the sound of clashing swords and struggling men, and he realizes that the battle must already have been over.
Morgana and Cenred are chilliingly competent. He doesn't like sending her out with other men, but Cenred is her brother-in-law and the best candidate. He has no doubt that they have succeeded in disrupting the camp-building of the Saxons.
Morgana can't be injured. That's the thought that dominates his mind as he urges his horse towards the now visible troops. There's no way she'd let herself be harmed. He thinks he can see her now among the forest of soldiers, hair whipping about her shoulders in the wind.
And then he really can, because she and Cenred come forward to meet him. He pulls at the reins and halts his horse, the knights of Camelot falling into formation behind him.
"King Cenred, Morgana. You're unharmed?" The question is ostensibly aimed at both of them, but he has eyes only for Morgana.
Cenred grunts, and Morgana nods.
"How goes the preparations?" she queries.
"Rodor's come in, and Godwyn…" his voice trickles off in horror as he catches sight of the carnage spread behind them. His eyes widen and words are lost to him.
Morgana follows his gaze and stiffens.
"Arthur, you have to understand-"
Arthur ignores her, glaring at Cenred. Rage brings his voice back.
"What have you done, King Cenred?" He pushes past them to fully see the aftermath of the battle. Bile stings at the back of his throat.
It's a massacre. That's the only name for it. He nearly trips over the sprawled corpse of a woman, a jagged gash on her torso and face eternally frozen in terror. There's a boy with the stubble of manhood barely starting to show, slumped over in a grotesque parody of sleep. He looks down to see yet another girl stiff in the last clutches of her death throes. He's horrified to find that the only weapons littering the ground are rudimentary; these are civilians, not a savage army. Caught in the crossfire- they didn't deserve this.
He takes a breath to calm himself. Morgana couldn't have done this. Not her. Not her. It had to be Cenred; the man was pitiless. The camp-makers could easily have been taken captive; they were defenseless, Saxon or not. Only someone heartless would have ordered them killed.
"King Cenred. I ordered you to disrupt the establishment of the Saxon camps, nothing more."
"They wouldn't surrender. We had no choice," Morgana states. She turns to her men, awkwardly milling around in the presence of the High King. "Secure the parameters and keep the captives in line." No need for them to witness their commanders being scolded. Trust is essential for a successful campaign, and this wouldn't help any. She wordlessly wishes that Arthur could have had the patience to have this in private.
The soldiers salute her and leave, relieved to be away before the argument breaks on them. Cenred's men follow them, though she technically has no control over them.
"There are captives?" Arthur looks at her directly. "They weren't all killed?"
"There were too many of them. They could have mobbed us otherwise. Too many captives to keep, almost. They meant to settle here, no doubt about that," Cenred replies in her stead.
"They were unarmed!" Arthur explodes. "You ordered them killed anyways!"
Cenred shook his head in a curt motion. "Not me."
Arthur stares incredulously. "Of course it was you! Who else would…" his gaze finds its way to Morgana.
"Morgana?"
Morgana raises her chin. She meets his eyes unapologetically. "What else would you have had me done?"
He stutters. "Morgana, you can't-" he turns to look at the carnage. "there were children, Morgana."
"Children who wouldn't hesitate to gut you," she retorts, "children who'd grow up to wage war against Albion."
"Children who are not to blame for the sins of their fathers," Arthur speaks quietly, "or have you forgotten?"
He turns away and watches as the last of the captives are led away. Neither Cenred nor Morgana speak; the frosty silence only grows as the soldiers slowly filter from the plains back to camp.
Morgana follows Arthur at a distance as he rides around the Saxon camp site, escorting him even as she seethes quietly.
"Children who are not to blame for the sins of their fathers," he had said. Of course Arthur would see it that way- Arthur, still fighting against the shadows of his own father's reign. Arthur, always the light to her own darkness. He doesn't see it's not a matter of right and wrong, but cold survival.
That's the difference between him and her, she thinks. She does what is necessary; she will be heartless so he does not need to be. Sometimes you have to do what's right, and damn the consequences. If she has to get her hands dirty and her soul sullied to keep Arthur and that strange brand of innocence safe, then she'll dye them dripping red with blood without even hesitating.
He'd understand someday. Albion and Arthur need morality on their side; Morgana knows that sacrificing her own conscience for them is the 'right' thing to do, if there ever was one. She'd be ruthless so Arthur doesn't have to be.
She swallows before riding over to block his path and forcing herself to meet Arthur's eyes, brilliant cobalt in the morning sun.
"Your objective was for us to prevent the establishment of Saxon camps. We did so, using our discretion. What do you find objectionable, my liege?" Her voice doesn't tremble as she forces the callous words out. It's so, so hard to look at Arthur, his eyes mired with horror and disappointment and that unbearable revulsion, as if he's suddenly realized she's a monster.
Well, she's been a monster for far longer than this. It was time he learned that, anyways.
Arthur blinks once. He clenches his chin and urges his horse past her, his eyes cold.
"We fight to ensure our people is free, to defend the innocents under our protection. What gives us the right to attack unarmed people like common bandits?" He tosses over his shoulder.
Morgana refuses to let him have the high ground. Let him be spared from heartlessness, but he can not be complacent in that. Not with the flickering shadows of ghostly remnants threatening to crowd her.
"What makes this battle right?" she shouts after him. "What is it that makes us entitled to slaughter the Saxons for our people?" She's upset now, and she doesn't know why. Her voice rises. "Tell me how the Saxons are wrong to want a fertile home. Tell me how they're barbarians who can't be allowed to settle in Albion." Her hands tremble as she all but screams to him. "Tell me, Arthur. What makes this right?"
Arthur doesn't turn back. "You seem to know the answer, Morgana," he says coldly. "Why ask me?" He rides on.
Morgana breathes heavily from her outburst. A flicker wisps at the edges of her peripheral vision. She slowly runs a hand through her hair, gulping shuddering breaths of air.
She will not cry. Not for something as trivial as this.
She's been doing this for more than half her life. It shouldn't bother her that Arthur sees differently; how ironic that the son of Pendragon is the moral one. The funny thing is- oh, how she fools herself- the funny thing is that she thought he'd accept her. Thought he knew what it was like to be in war, thought he'd appreciate the choice she's made, even. They are the same, she'd thought. Foolish child. Foolish, foolish child.
Because the thing about magic, her magic, is that it doesn't like the life she's chosen. Morgause wields destruction and power with ease, her magic grand and majestic- just another tool for the golden sister. Morgana's magic wants to lead her life for her. It's as unpredictable as the tides and twice as unruly. It keeps shifting like something alive within her, flowing and coiling and submitting to her will only with greatest force. The basic wards and scrying and telekinesis she can do. But she can't do magic like Merlin, much as she tries. Her magic pulses, feeds into the life around her, wanting to create, to heal, to harmonize- in short, to be absolutely useless. She can't harness the awe-inspiring forces of nature. She can't summon whirlwinds, nor can she weave complex spells.
What she can do is see the ghosts of her dead crowding her soul.
The ones dead by her hand, that is. Her magic gathers them, forces her to see them in their bloody glory, eating away at her sanity. She'd told Arthur that, once. He hadn't understood. "Why do you laugh?" he had asked her.
I laugh because there's nothing else to do. I laugh because I'll keep doing it even if it smothers my soul. She could have told him.
I laugh because it's for you. You think I enjoy the killing? I see them haunting me. It's for you, for our people.
Always for you.
Never again, she promises herself. Arthur is her liege. Never again will she delude herself into thinking he could accept her.
She squeezes her eyes shut against the approaching specters with their gaping mouths and their grasping hands. When she dares open them again, she's alone in the field.
Alone but for the spirits held back for a little while to torment her all the more.