Chapter Nine: What's in a Name?
Spyro wriggled back into his Dragonlord's chest, caution tingling right alongside the magic in his core. The High Priestess and his mother hadn't hurt him – they'd saved him and his Dragonlord – but he knew they weren't his Dragonlords' friends. Far from it. After all, they'd kidnapped his Dragonlords once, trying to get him. And…now they had him. And Dragonlord Spike. Who was still unconscious after nearly dying.
And they thought his name was Altiore.
If they hadn't just saved his Dragonlord's life, this would've totally sucked.
Gazing up at his… Opponents? Rescuers? …Spyro tilted his head. "What?"
His mother's wings flared a bit wider, then rustled as they slid back into place at her sides. "You are my firstborn, dear one." Leaning forward on her rocky perch, the tip of her muzzle touched his. "My Altiore." Lifting her head, blue eyes focused on him as she added, "I have known your name since I laid your egg."
"I as well," the raven High Priestess murmured. "Each Old Dragon is named by the Old Religion itself, Altiore." Reaching out, she stroked the white dragon's neck, affection shining in emerald eyes. "Even in the Netherworld, I Saw Aithusa's offspring."
"Was I always gonna be purple?" Spyro asked, wings twitching.
There was a beat of astonished silence, then Morgana le Fay threw her head back and laughed; a light, joyful sound that illuminated her form, revealing, if only for an instant, the Lady Morgana who'd been known and beloved by all of Camelot. The Seer's emerald sparkled merrily as she regarded the young dragon, mouth curving in a genuine smile.
"Perhaps I should show you, little one."
So saying, Morgana stretched out her hand, magic streaming around her to form an image that hung in the cave. Spyro's eyes widened at the sight of a dragon, built like his mother, with a hardened coat of purple-blue scales. The same color dominated over his whole body, even his wings, though the membranes seemed to be a slightly lighter shade. The dragon's eyes were gold and instead of 'biker spines', he had a crest on his head that tipped up at the back with three little horns. His tail was long and flexible, just like Spyro's, but armored like the rest of his body with sharp edges at every joint and even more spikes on the end of his tail.
He looked strong. Powerful. Vicious. Spyro huddled back into his Dragonlord, shivering. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that that dragon was totally obedient to the Old Religion. Disdainful towards any humans without magic – at best – with intense hatred towards anything that might threaten Magic's Return and the rise of the Old Religion's chosen few. His Dragonlords had freed him from that fate and given him the choice of whom he would serve.
Peering up at who he might've been, Spyro forced a jaunty tone. "Huh. So that's Altiore." He made a show of examining himself, stretching out his wings to peer at them and then underneath them at his tail. One paw reached up, feeling for his biker spines. "Nope, no match." Grinning at his mother and the Witch, he prodded his magic and felt Sparx pop into view next to him. Without turning his head, he remarked, "Hey, Sparx, whadda think of other me?"
The golden dragonfly fluttered up and around the Witch's image, making thoughtful buzzing noises before he turned and flew back to his master. Letting out a loud, derisive buzz, he shook back and forth in midair. "Mean, mean, mean."
"Gotta agree with you there, lil buddy," Spyro concurred with a head tilt. Perking his wings up a little higher, he said, "I'll stick with being plain ole Spyro, thanks."
His mother reared back, a hurt expression flitting across her muzzle, but the High Priestess's eyes narrowed. "You would repudiate that which gave you life?"
Tilting his head the other way, Spyro countered, "Old Dragons are supposed to be hatched by Dragonlords, High Priestess. We gotta be hatched by Dragonlords, 'cause we aren't born with enough magic to survive by ourselves. So how come the Old Religion let somebody with Wild Magic hatch me, huh?"
His mother's muzzle fell open in unfeigned horror and even the High Priestess rocked back on her heels, eyes wide. "How do you know this?" she demanded.
Spyro shifted uncomfortably. "My Dragonlords told me, when I was old enough. They said right after I hatched, my magic tried to control Dragonlord Spike, so he'd only care about me." Sparx fluttered lower as he looked down, buzzing encouragement and sympathy. Staring down at the rug and the stone at its edge, the dragon continued, "Dragonlord Sarge made my magic let him go, but that…that wasn't gonna work forever, so they took me to Gringotts. While we were there, my magic got Dragonlord Spike again, but Silnok made it so I'd grab onto…" He trailed off, eyes going wide and both paws rising to cover his muzzle. He'd nearly told them about the 'team sense'!
"You're not just connected to Scarlatti; you're connected to all of them," the High Priestess declared. Even as his head came up and he stared up at her in terror, she smiled. A thin, tight smile, one that wasn't friendly. "I know well that they are linked, Child of My Aithusa." One hand rose as the human stroked her chin in thought. "Parker's more powerful than I thought, if he can force a dragon's magic away from one of his." Emerald narrowed. "Or perhaps it was all of them." Shaking her head, she turned back to the young dragon. "I take it your magic latched onto Scarlatti because he hatched you?"
The purple hatchling nodded, unwilling to speak and betray more of his Dragonlords' secrets.
The High Priestess inclined her head. "So…that is why the Dragonlords were so necessary for the Old Dragons' survival. They did not just hatch the dragons, they supported them magically."
Orange wings twitched and Spyro nodded again, though his muzzle wrinkled in a frown. "Didn't you know that already?"
Morgana le Fay grimaced. "Both Aithusa and I were born after the Purge. By the time Aithusa was born, there was only one Dragonlord left and…" She trailed off, grimace deepening. "Much as I despise Merlin, he likely knew as little about dragons as I did. Uther's vendetta against magic destroyed a great deal of knowledge and Merlin never knew his father."
Oh. "So he never learned anything about really being a Dragonlord?" Spyro asked, earning a snort from his mother and a tight nod from Morgana.
Silence fell and though Spyro made sure to stay curled against his Dragonlord, he gazed up at his mother and Morgana. They didn't seem so bad; they'd healed him and Dragonlord Spike – and they weren't being mean or anything. Not at all like what his Dragonlords had told him or even when Morgana had kidnapped his Dragonlords and let her minion freeze them in crystal. Maybe it was the Old Religion that made them so mean?
Then Morgana stepped forward, lifting a hand. Magic flared, cold and alien; he shivered even as Sparx buzzed indignation. "You are an Old Dragon," she said, firm. Unyielding. "You should not be bound to Wild Magic."
"Maybe I like it better this way," Spyro retorted, wings spreading wide as he gathered his own power. It wasn't much, especially after he'd tried to shield himself and Dragonlord Spike from that Big Green Meanie, but it was all he had.
The woman smiled, a sad, yet determined curve of her lips. "We are creatures of the Old Religion, little Altiore. Our wishes and wants are secondary to its dictates."
The purple dragon scrambled up, summoning the same shield he'd tried to use in the forest preserve. For an instant, his magic wouldn't come, then it roared and a barrier rose, mixing draconic gold and royal purple.
"My name is Spyro," he snarled, crouching behind his shield. One foot extended forward as his head lowered; he glared up at the Witch, horns parallel to his spine. On his back, his wings flexed upwards, partially unfurling, and his tail curled, the acorn on its tip arching above his head. "You can't take my freedom, Witch; I choose Narnia!"
A sound rang through the cavern, like a bell, but deeper. Ringing through their bones with the echo of a Lion's roar behind it. And Spyro knew in that moment that Aslan had accepted his choice – never again could the Old Religion touch him or dictate his fate. He was as secure in the Lion's Paw as his Dragonlords were.
Morgana drew back from the hatchling's declaration as if slapped. For Narnia to be equated with freedom by a dragon…it rattled her. There had been many times during her exile in the Netherworld that she'd dreamed of a future with magic and Aithusa's young had always featured proudly in those dreams. Full-grown, as wild and free as their ancestors with no fear of magic-hating Muggles. The Old Religion would rise again, right alongside the Old Dragons, and Uther's Purge would finally be overturned.
Her hand dropped without thought, the spell on her lips dissipating. Her vision of Altiore finally died away and she Saw. She Saw a dragon as large and powerful as the Great Dragon had been, but there was a wry, playful expression on his muzzle. Joy and laughter in his bright purple eyes as he gazed down on the city he protected. Rich purple scales lined his hide, a perfect match for the yellow-gold of his belly scales, horns, and the flexible spines on his head. The acorn on his tail had grown into a shapely blade that resembled a leaf while still reminiscent of its adolescent form. His wings were broad, their structure and placement much like Aithusa's wings, but still with orange membranes and yellow-gold adorning his radius and wing digits.
Nor was the dragon alone; Morgana Saw countless Old Dragons, each of them with a unique appearance, names that were far different from what she'd Seen before, and a home to call their own. They weren't aloof from humanity; each of them walked within the cities they'd chosen, alongside the friends they'd made. Welcomed, honored, and cherished, especially by the children who begged for dragon rides.
Tears streamed from glazed emerald eyes; Morgana knew these dragons' lives weren't perfect. She knew they weren't accepted by all humans – there were hunters and foes aplenty – but they were happy. They faced life with joy and zest, never alone and never forsaken by those who cherished them. And when hard times came, as indeed they must, she saw the dragons grieve with their humans – for their humans – struggling to accept that no mortal lives forever.
It wasn't perfect, but she found herself longing for the future she was being shown. An age of Men and Dragons, where creatures of all sizes and shapes found places to call their own. Friends and homes to protect and defend… An era where evil still existed, but always there were defenders against that evil, willing to snuff it out before it threatened the people's lives.
Her magic cascaded, pulling her away from that future; well used to the nature of her Seer powers, Morgana did not resist, letting the visions play through her mind's eye. She Saw a castle, very like to Camelot's, but in ruins as it sat on an island in the center of a lake. A long bridge connected it to the mainland, where a monument towered over the surroundings, supporting the massive statue of a winged lion.
The vision pulled away, twisting towards the image of two cars, both pitch-black, though one was far newer than the other. The newer vehicle flashed amber in her Sight as it pursued the other in a chase throughout the city, though she could not See the drivers of either car.
A man replaced the vehicles, kindly and respectable in his wizard's robe with a pair of square spectacles perched on his nose. A gentleman and a scholar, one she should trust, but the sight of him sent a chill up her back for reasons she could not grasp. She Saw his eye fall upon Parker and his two brats, a gleam of avarice appearing – and Morgana felt a stab of true fear.
The tide of visions flowed on, tugging her onwards. The flash of a dementor, a glimpse of Parker and a wizard in a home that felt comfortable, yet reeked of death and Black Magic; her Sight caught a snatch of a unicorn and a woman sworn to protect them from the Hunters – and then she Saw Mordred.
Delight surged for an instant, then faded into confusion as she glimpsed the uniform he wore. The Strategic Response Unit – and he was… He was moving away from her. His eyes met hers, sorrowful, but determined in his path. He stretched out a hand, beckoning her to join him – and the vision faded into a forked road.
Morgana gasped as she stood on the road. A plain dirt road, akin to those she had walked in the days of Camelot. The forest should've blocked her view, but instead, she Saw down each fork clearly. On one, she saw Merlin and Arthur, surrounded by Gaius and Gwen and all of the Knights. Mordred stood among them, gazing at her still with hope in his eyes – and around him, the others bore that same expression of cautious welcome. Wary of her, yet willing to offer her a second chance, if she would but choose their side.
On the other path, she saw Morgause and Kara and another woman she did not recognize, though she knew the stranger for a High Priestess. An army stood at her sister's back; though Morgana could not see all of them, she recognized the Disir, the Dochraid, and the Dorocha among the ranks of the Old Religion's forces. A vast army, against which only a small force stood in opposition. If she chose Camelot, she would be joining the losing side.
Beside her, she could sense Aithusa's presence. The White Dragon, as ever, walked her path, loyal to the Mistress who had seen her through the hardships of her early years. For the first time, Morgana understood the great gift she'd been given in Aithusa's friendship. Unconditional love and loyalty, so rare and so very easy to abuse. Unaccustomed guilt twisted her heart as she Saw Aithusa gaze longingly towards her hatchling, standing with his Dragonlords along the fork to Camelot.
"Thy Fate is not yet set, Daughter of Camelot."
Morgana jerked, emerald widening as a woman materialized in front of her, standing at the edge of the divergence in her road. Pale-blue light surrounded her, illuminating her long braided white hair; a secretive smile curved pouty ruby lips in a face so perfect that it couldn't be human. Slightly pointed ears confirmed that initial impression, along with the unearthly glow in her silver eyes.
"Who are you?" the Seer demanded.
The woman dipped her head in a formal half-bow. "In the tongue of Men, I am Luthien, Daughter of Camelot." She gestured at the twin forks. "The Lion bade me come and grant thou warning of what lies along thy path."
She drew breath to retort, then glanced up at Aithusa, seeing the grief in her old friend's sapphire eyes. After a moment, she inclined her chin in a return bow. "Say on, then."
Luthien gestured, bringing her first vision back into view; Morgana inhaled sharply at the sight of the Old Dragons, joyful in their chosen homes. "Thou hast Seen Albion," the other murmured. "An ideal to be sought, even if it canst not be obtained." Sorrow shone in her silver gaze. "But the Dark One ever strives for the downfall of the World of Men, scorning the Emperor's precious Gifts to His Creation. The Prince of the World, the Father of Lies, and the First of the Fallen."
The vision of the Old Dragons dissolved into another scene as countless horrors assailed the World of Men, magical and mundane alike. Morgana felt tears slid down her cheeks as she Saw thousands in torment, millions perishing as a chosen few executed the final stages of plots in motion for over a thousand years. Evil beyond anything she'd ever known or embraced flowed over the whole world, engulfing it in Darkness Everlasting.
If she chose her sister, then she would be part of that Evil. But in the face of such power, how could she choose Camelot? No power of mortals or dragons could stand against the full might of the Old Religion.
"I say to thee what once I said to Emrys and the Knights of Narnia."
Morgana's head came up, emerald meeting silver.
"Camelot rises, young witch; the Dragons of Old return, but beware the White Dragon. Her loyalty remains with the Witch and neither wilt turn aside from the Dark One's path. Thou canst not prevail against them alone. Allies aplenty thee possesses, but thou must seek more. Seek ye the son of the White Dragon, seek ye the guardians of Old, those that guard the Heart of Magic." A breath. "Summon ye the Traitors who remain faithful to their King. Summon ye the Sons of Magic, allied to the Last of Narnia. The High King will ride once more, leading Narnia to war and calling even the Stars to take heed of the doings of Men."
The other woman's expression hardened. "Take heed of my warning, Morgana of the House of Pendragon, and beware. Thy Mercy to the Son of Adam hast bent the chains that bind thee to the Dark One's path, but only the Lion's Grace can truly change thy Fate or that of the White Dragon."
Morgana wet her lips. "I am not the only one who plots against the Guardian and his own."
Luthien inclined her head in acknowledgment of the point. "That one is not thy concern, Daughter of Eve. Thee and thee alone must choose thy path, but no Son of Adam or Daughter of Eve mayst break free of the Dark One without the Lion's Aid."
The Seer regarded the other, Seeing what lay beyond that otherworldly beauty, and stepped back. "Very well; I shall heed your warning, Daughter of the Stars, but I have walked my path for too long to simply change."
Despite her harsh tone, Luthien smiled with the same hope she'd Seen in Mordred's eyes. "Perchance thou mayst see the quality of those thee opposes."
The woods and the fork in her road vanished, releasing her to Aithusa's cave. In front of her, the young dragon's barrier had faded and she could see Scarlatti moving, blinking up in confusion and a burgeoning sense of fear.
Gesturing, Morgana conjured chains, binding her captive's wrists together in the blink of an eye. A second gesture created another length of chain, one end embedded in the wall and the other attached to the thick manacles on Scarlatti. With the 'Dragonlord' fettered, she knew Spyro would not flee, so she left him alone as she whirled to stalk deeper into the dragon cave, calling for Aithusa to accompany her.
Emerald flicked back for an instant, regarding the human and the small dragon already curling up next to him again. The corners of her mouth turned upwards and, in a low murmur, she turned Luthien's suggestion over in her mind. "A chance for the Lion's Chosen to prove their quality."
Yes, that would do. It would do very well indeed.