Chapter 6

Revelations

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Princess Guinevere let a partly relieved sigh. "Excuse me," she said to Elyan, who waved her off as he stared intently at the chess board. He was already winning, but he wanted to be sure his sister suffered ultimate defeat. She straightened her skirts as she crossed her chambers to answer the door. The siblings had been playing behind the partition to block the strongest sunlight that streamed in through the open window. The room was a bit warm, but the occasional breeze whistled through to cool them off.

"Morgana," Guinevere greeted, slightly surprised.

Morgana was smiling sweetly, but the princess instantly picked up on the strain around her emerald eyes. "Hello, Guinevere. How was your morning?"

"Fine," she answered. "Please, do come in."

"Thank you."

Morgana stepped into the room, ignoring Guinevere's concerned, penetrating look. The Court Sorceress said nothing, her eyes locked on the golden org hovering on the horizon, which could be clearly seen from the west-facing window. Guinevere hesitated in engaging the woman in conversation, but she was bursting with a question:

"Morgana, I went to see Arthur in his cell. He wasn't there. Did you have him released?"

"No. He's dead."

Guinevere froze, shocked. Ripples of goose flesh ran up her arms. "What?" she whispered.

Morgana did not seem to hear. She turned to the princess, still wearing her faux smile. "Gwen, sweet Gwen, I must tell you something very important. Perhaps you should sit, you don't look quite well, dear. But really, I have to tell you this, and get it off my chest."

"All—all right," Guinevere said, still wide-eyed. She allowed herself to be led to the bed, and perched rigidly on the edge of the plush feather mattress.

Morgana did not sit, but paced haltingly. Her brow was furrowed, as though she were trying to decide how to word whatever she was going to say. At last she seemed to figure it out, and turned to the young woman earnestly. She knelt before the princess, skirts splaying like a flower in bloom, and took her shaking hands in her own.

"When your father Leodegrance was bequeathed the crown on the deathbed of Vortigern, I was furious. Enraged, in fact," she started. "And I was even angrier that your imbecile brother was next in line for the throne."

Gwen made a soft noise in her throat, but did not interrupt or take her hands back.

"Oh," Morgana rolled her eyes, upper lip curled in disgust, "how I hated him." Guinevere didn't know whether she meant Vortigern, her father, or Elyan. "Glorious was the day that your father was assassinated—a blessing for me." She stood and began pacing again, making wild gestures with her hands. "I had waited so, so long to acquire the throne for Mordred. It was my son's rightful place as the last living direct descendant of Constantine II, my father by blood, no matter my illegitimacy.

"It wasn't fair, what Vortigern did. Do you understand, Gwen? I had to do all that I've done. I had to kill Uther, my last surviving brother. He would have taken the throne back, you see? I had to push your brother—not to kill him, but to unfit him for my son's rightful place!"

Guinevere's breasts heaved as she gasped for breath, resisting the urge to be sick.

Suddenly Morgana was on her knees again, grasping at the princess's hands. Guinevere tried to push her off, but the sorceress's grip was vice-like. "Gwen," she said. "Gwen, I need your help."

"No," the princess uttered. "No."

"You must renounce your claim so that my son, the last direct descendant of Constantine, may assume his rightful place!"

"Morgana," Guinevere choked out, fighting back her tears, "you have no son!"

The raven-haired woman looked stricken for a moment. "No, you're right," she said, clasping a hand over her mouth. "No, he is dead. I have lost everything." Morgana slowly crumpled to the marble floor, weeping. "My son, my son!" She tugged at her hair despairingly.

The princess's tears finally fell. She pitied Morgana. Though she could not find it in her heart to forgive the revelation that the sorceress had caused her brother to become simple, she thought she might empathize with her plight. A stolen birthright, a lost child. Any mother might have lost her senses like this.

As Morgana continued to weep, Guinevere slid off of the bed and placed a comforting hand on the witch's shoulder. Morgana lashed out and grasped the hand tightly.

Gwen tried to pull away, but it was to no avail.

Morgana sat up, her cheeks stained and eyes wet. Her expression was of ferocious hatred. "Yes, I have lost everything," she spat. "Because of your family! Do I not, then, deserve compensation?!"

"Ohhh, Morgana," Guinevere moaned, trying to pry her hand off. "You're hurting me!"

"I want your crown," Morgana said. "It's mine! It's mine!"

"Guards!" Guinevere screamed shrilly. "Guards!"

"They're dead, too!" the witch snarled. "No one can help you. But," her features softened suddenly into the kindly Morgana Guinevere had thought she'd known, "but, sweet Gwen, I don't want to kill you. We can be friends. I'll take care of you. I'll even bring Lancelot back for you, if you give me your crown."

"Lancelot?" she whispered tearfully. "He's dead. You can't bring back the dead, Morgana."

"Not yet," she smiled, stroking Gwen's cheek to wipe away the wetness. "But I know someone who can. She taught me everything I know. I'll ask her all about it. Then you'll have Lancelot, and I—I'll have my children again. Soon I'll hold Morgause and Mordred in my arms, just like old times…"

"Morgana," Guinevere wept softly, "you should know more than anyone that magic…Magic comes with a price."

"Yes," she nodded eagerly, "yes, it does. You're so smart, Gwen. Your price for Lancelot is your crown. Give me that, and you'll marry happily ever after, just like in the stories."

Guinevere shook her head. "Morgana, you told me this yourself, after my father died: A life for a life. To give one, you must take away one. Who is going to die so that you may replace them?"

Morgana looked slightly perturbed at the question, but then her face smoothed over once again. "Gaius can be one," she said. "And Elyan. Then just one more…I'm sure I can find someone else. Perhaps one of the noblemen."

"Morgana! Morgana, you've gone mad." Guinevere buried her face in her free hand and cried. "Please, let me go. Let me go."

The Court Sorceress reluctantly released her grip on the princess's hand. Guinevere snatched it away, tucking her arm around her midsection as she cried, huddling against her bedframe. "Oh, Gwen," Morgana said. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Please don't be frightened of me." She reached out to comfort her.

"You get away from her!"

Guinevere gasped and looked up. She'd forgotten Elyan was still in her rooms. He must have heard most, if not all, of the women's exchange. A silver glint caught her eye.

"Elyan, no!" she cried.

But Morgana was prepared. She whipped around, eyes flashing gold, and barked, "Astrice!"

An invisible force struck Elyan before he'd managed to come close with the dagger raised overhead. He flew back, and with a sickening crunch, hit the far wall. Guinevere shrieked wordlessly and shoved Morgana out of her way, running to her brother's side as quickly as her heavy skirts would allow.

"Elyan!" she cried. "Elyan! Elyan!"

But the young man was already pushing himself up, glaring at an enraged Morgana, who mirrored his actions. "Run, Gwen!" He nudged her toward the servant's door.

"No, stop it!" Guinevere pled, trying to stand between them. Elyan would not let her, and pushed her again toward the exit. She fought her way back into position, spreading her arms wide as though to protect him from an oncoming arrow with her own breast.

Morgana's lips curled into a cruel smirk. "I should have just killed you," she said. "I had so many chances. This is how you repay my mercy? Maybe I should have ended your life, not Lancelot's!" As she spoke, her emerald eyes heated to molten gold.

"Please, Morgana!" Guinevere said, shaking her head. Her hair had come loose from the immaculate braids Sefa was prided for, dangling dementedly over her drawn face. "Please, leave him alone! I'll do anything!"

But Morgana did not heed her. She raised an arm and flung it to one side.

Guinevere, feet swept out from under her, skidded with the movement as though slipping across an icy pond. She pressed her palms against the floor, trying to slow her momentum, but it seemed nothing but the wall would stop her. She struck it shoulder first, her leg knocking violently into the chess table. The carved pieces toppled and rolled over the edge, raining down onto her figure. The princess, gasping through her terror, curled tightly into herself as though waiting for another blow.

Another strike was not forthcoming.

Instead, Guinevere could only watch in horror as Elyan, against his will, raised his dagger to his chest.

"No," she whispered, struggling against some invisible weight that held her down. "No…No…Elyan!"

The blade, with a final jerk, disappeared in the fabric of Elyan's white tunic. He made a terrible choking noise, dark eyes wide. Crimson dribbled forth from his lips.

Suddenly Gwen could move again. Trembling, she crawled back to him.

"Elyan…! Elyan…!"

Her hands fluttered helplessly over his jerking chest. Red blossomed from the decorated leather hilt, spreading across his linen shirt. Elyan opened his mouth, choked again. "Gw—…"

"No, don't speak," she whispered, drawing him into her lap. She wiped away beads of sweat from his brow, tears obscuring her vision. "You'll be all right," she said calmly, as though comforting him from a nightmare. "You'll be all right…Morgana…Morgana!"

Guinevere turned, and spotted the Court Sorceress standing a few meters away from the scene. Her expression was impassive—no longer the kind beauty, but no longer the mad witch, either.

"Morgana," Guinevere said tearfully. "Please, save him. Save my brother!"

Elyan's hand clutched at the dagger. The princess, after a lingering, despairing look at the other woman, returned her attention to her older brother. "No, don't touch that," she admonished shakily, taking his bloody hand in her own. "It'll be all right." Another pleading glance over her shoulder yielded no result.

"Please!"

Her voice reverberated harshly.

Elyan's grip tightened. His choking became prolonged. The princess realized he could not breathe.

"Hold on," she begged. "Hold on! Hold on!"

Elyan's eyes rolled back, then closed. The choking stopped. His hand went slack.

"Elyan?"

Guinevere shook him gently, as though he were sleeping.

"Elyan?"

She shook him harder, increasingly violently when she received no response. A sob rocked her body, constricted her lungs so that she could not draw breath. She clasped a hand over her heart, searching for the dagger that had stabbed her as well. Then her lungs expanded, giving her the means to wail mournfully.

Guinevere gripped the hilt of the dagger with which Elyan had been forced to murder himself, and yanked it out in one swift movement. Blood welled up from the wound and dripped from the tip of the blade. It fell with a clatter. She pressed her hand over his chest, hoping against hope that he would start to breathe again.

He didn't.

She convulsed once, twice—then turned and vomited. It spattered over her silk skirt, but she didn't care. Guinevere wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, inadvertently smearing her brother's blood across her face, giving her a barbaric look.

Once she was sure she would not heave again, she returned to her task of mourning. She maneuvered her legs out from under his still form, laying him down gently before prostrating herself over him. Her head fit in the crook of his neck, the way it had when they had been children, first at their mother's funeral, and then their father's.

Gwen suddenly realized how alone she was.

"Why?" she moaned pitifully. "Why?"

Morgana did not answer. Instead, she said, "You have until tomorrow to give me your answer, sweet Gwen."

The nickname was acid to her ears. She let out a disgusted sob, burying her face in her brother's shirt, fisting the material in her hands. As though refusing to let go would keep him here, with her.

Morgana's unwavering footsteps receded, and the door opened and closed again.

Guinevere did not move, only sobbed with abandon.

She did not know how long she stayed like that. She felt ashamed when her tears ran dry, knowing that Elyan deserved far more to be shed. He had been her only constant: when everyone else had gone, he had stayed.

Now even he had left her.

A door suddenly opened—the servant's entrance. She waited for Sefa's shocked, terrified shriek, but none came.

"Oh, my dear God, no!" was the soft, familiar gasp. She'd heard the same tone, the same phrase, when Elyan had been found lying at the base of the stairs, bleeding from a gash on his head.

The utter relief of hearing a friendly voice was enough to elicit another wail from the princess. She lifted her head, face contorted as she turned toward him.

"Thank you, God," Gaius whispered, pale face drawn grimly, his gnarled hand coming down from his rabbiting heart. "Gwen, my poor girl! Let me see, where are you hurt?"

"Elyan," she sobbed, allowing Gaius to help her into a sitting position. "Gaius, please, Elyan!"

He immediately knew that there was no helping the young man. Elyan had obviously been dead for some time—his lips were blue, his eyes sunken in their sockets, and the wound to the chest was no longer pumping his lifeblood. His heart fell.

"I am so sorry, my boy," he said, crossing himself. "May the heavenly host receive you."

"No!" Guinevere shook her head, grasping his sleeve. She felt the dried blood on her skin crack. "You have to do something, Gaius!"

Gaius drew her into his embrace. "I am so sorry, Gwen. There is nothing I can do for him."

"Oh, please…Please…"

The bishop gave a weary sigh, looking about at the room. There was hardly any sign of a struggle, except for the toppled chess pieces. Only the black knight remained upright.

"Guinevere," he said, holding her at arm's length. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and she would not meet his gaze. "Princess, look at me," he ordered sternly. She did, and he saw her anguish. "We must flee. You are in danger."

"I don't care," she said. "I'll stay with Elyan."

"No!" He gave her a single, firm shake. "No, you must come with me. There is no sense in the both of you dying! God willing, I will take you to a safe place."

"God willing?" she repeated. "What God? There is no God."

Gaius' mouth thinned. "Please, my girl, I do not want to lose you, too. I understand what it's like to be surrounded by death, and I am sorry I came too late, but trust me when I tell you that you will be all right. You must flee."

"I can't leave him like this," she protested.

"You can," Gaius said. "I promise that we shall have a proper burial for him, but first you must survive. You can't send him off if you're dead."

"But—"

"Think of your father, girl!" Gaius said fiercely. "Think of your mother! What would they say were they here? Would they want you to stay and die? Would Elyan want you to stay and mourn him when you could escape the same fate?"

"No," she said. "No."

"No, what?"

"No, they would not want that," she answered. At once, Guinevere began to work her feet beneath her.

Gaius nodded approvingly and helped her up. She swayed slightly, but managed to stay upright without much help. "This way," he said, leading her into the servant's passage. "We will go where the witch cannot find us."

Guinevere watched over her shoulder as long as she could see Elyan's still form.

{Birthright}

"This way," Leon whispered, motioning to the right.

They ducked down another dark, damp corridor, the blue orb lighting the way floating above their heads and casting strange shadows. The group had formed a solid plan while standing outside the gates, and fully expected to be able to fulfill it. Under the city, the thieves, Sirs Leon and Percival, and Merlin would sneak toward the citadel; above, Sir Galahad, who had gladly loaned his weapon to his senior knight, would rally the knights under orders of Leon and meet them in the council room, where the nobles would surely be congregated to discuss their daily matters. The noblemen, who each controlled a faction of the army, would call the men to arms once they heard of the witch's presence. With that sort of might, Merlin would easily defeat his adversary.

But, despite Leon's assurances that the plan would work, Merlin insisted on having a backup. He wouldn't shut up about it because he had a bloody 'feeling.'

"All right," Merlin whispered, his hushed voice bouncing along the corridor. "If this doesn't work, here's what you all should do: find Constantine II's sword, and use it to kill the witch."

"Why not just a regular sword?" Arthur hissed back.

"You can't kill a witch with a regular sword," Merlin rolled his eyes. "It's got to be forged in a dragon's breath. Constantine's is the only one I know of. Kilgharrah and I made it ourselves."

"Probably bloody useless, then," Arthur muttered. Probably by coincidence, Merlin's eyes flashed beneath his lashes, and Arthur tripped over thin air just a moment later. "Ouch."

"Shh!"

"Me father told me once," Gwaine said, pulling Arthur back to his feet, "that out in the woods there's a magical sword thrust through a stone. Probably a different one, yeah?"

"No," Leon said, "I'd heard of that, too. They say it is Constantine's sword. On his deathbed he commanded that it be planted in a stone, and that only he who was worthy to wield it would be able to pull it free."

"Brilliant," Merlin grumbled. "Now you tell me. We could have made a stop on the way here."

"Well, we didn't know we would need it, Merlin," Arthur shot back at him irritably.

Merlin opened his mouth to retort, but finding no rebuttal closed it again, glowering at the floor.

"We can't talk anymore," Leon said softly, slowing his steps. "We're here. Sir Percival, guard."

The burly knight, who had been following them silently as a cat, nodded seriously, drawing his sword. The senior knight kept his hand on the pommel of his borrowed weapon and slunk up the short stone steps toward a dark door. It opened inwards on well-oiled hinges, revealing a deep red tapestry concealing the secret exit.

They all remained deathly still and quiet, scarcely daring to breathe.

On the other side of the wall of fabric, they could hear nothing. The room seemed empty.

Leon slowly pushed the tapestry aside and peered out. He just as quickly ducked back inside, eyes wide and brow furrowed. "We're too late," he said. "Percy, with me."

Sir Percival stoically pushed past the commoners and joined his commander, and they entered together. Gwaine and Arthur shared a look as Merlin moved to follow them. He stopped short a few feet away and turned back, eyebrow raised in an unimpressive imitation of Gaius. "Well?" he mouthed.

Arthur's legs moved before he consciously decided to do so. A foreboding chill caused gooseflesh to form on his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He shouldered the heavy curtain aside with Gwaine at his heels, following Merlin.

His jaw dropped.

"My God!" he whispered, horrified.

All the noblemen were dead, slaughtered like the two guards. Dozens of wide, glassy pairs of eyes stared forevermore at the last image of their murderer. Blood had sprayed in every direction, heads had rolled away from their bodies, half-opened scrolls absorbing spilt ink and blood alike on the table. Chairs were askew and toppled, some lying on top of men as though they had been used as shields.

And the smell.

They had obviously been dead for at least a few hours. A day at the most.

Leon and Percival were crossing the room with purpose, occasionally kneeling amongst the dead to place their blades over the mouths and noses of their victims whose heads were intact. But there were no survivors.

Merlin was frowning at the scene. "It's as I feared," he said. The warlock turned back to the hidden. "Quickly!" he barked. "We must flee. There is nothing we can do here."

For once Arthur was quick to agree with the soul from the lamp. "Leon! Percival!" he waved to get their attention, gesturing to the door.

"Aye, retreat!" Gwaine said urgently.

"Oh," said a gleeful voice, "but you just got here!"

Horrified, the men's heads whipped in the witch's direction. She had stepped out from behind another tapestry, painted red lips smiling sweetly. Her long black hair was free-flowing down her back, and the red dress she wore was a little too revealing to be called modest.

Arthur's face twisted in confusion. The witch's voice was the same, but her appearance most definitely was not.

Merlin stepped forward, glaring angrily. "Nimueh," he said.

The woman's smile widened as she cocked her head. "Well, you weren't expecting Morgana, were you? She can hardly stand upright nowadays. Lack of sleep, you see. Mandrake roots will do that."

"Hmm, to be honest, Nimueh," Merlin said, "I really wasn't expecting Morgana. She's only your lackey, isn't she? You twisted her mind and soul, made her believe all sorts of lies. I know it was you who gave her the binding spell. But her task wasn't to take my power for herself, but to give it to you. What did you promise her? Her children?"

"A mother would do anything for her children," Nimueh shrugged. "Something someone like you could never understand."

"Nor you," Merlin answered. "There was a time you might have borne children, but you wasted those years with your thirst for revenge."

"Hold on," Gwaine piped up. "Are you the same…old witch from before that, er…"

"Gwaine, shut up!" Arthur hissed. He had been slowly edging toward the tapestry, hoping to make a run for it. He already knew that as long as he had the lamp, Merlin would be forced to follow. He had been sure Gwaine would have been on his heels, but it seemed he was distracted by another pretty face.

"Yes," she beamed at him. "I am." Her smile turned suddenly cruel as she thrust her outstretch palms forward.

All but Merlin were flung backwards, crashing heavily against the far wall, where they instantly became stuck like a fly to honey. Merlin seemed surprised, but the confusion etched on his face resolved itself when he glanced down and saw that Arthur had dropped his lamp.

"I'm so glad you all survived," Nimueh exclaimed, one leveled arm holding them in place. Her eyes glinted gold, flashing brighter still in the sunlight streaming in through the window. It made the horrible scene seem all the more ghastly. "And you've brought my prize straight to me, just as you promised. Chivalry isn't dead, after all."

"Nimueh," Merlin said, "think of what you're doing. What will this solve?"

"My anger," she answered sharply, scowling at him.

"You've held onto it for far too long," Merlin insisted. "Half a century of hatred! If you had turned that passion to tasks other than revenge, what could you have accomplished?"

"And think, Emrys," she said mockingly, "what I could have accomplished with my sisters if your precious Constantine hadn't murdered them in cold blood!"

"It's too late to change the past," Merlin said. "Your sisters are dead, and so is Constantine. There is no one left to take revenge on."

Her piercing eyes narrowed. "No?" she sneered. "What of Constantine's pet sorcerer?" With an abrupt shriek, she flung her arm toward the soul.

Merlin's figure disappeared in the blink of an eye, and instantly cropped up a few feet away. Arthur realized that, being tethered to the lamp, Merlin was restricted in his movements. He tried to move, but found himself stuck fast, just like the other three men beside him.

The warlock's normally expressive face had turned impassive. He raised his own hand, aiming for Nimueh. "Acwele egesgríme!"

She easily deflected the magic with a fluid motion of her hand. "Did you really think that would work? You're out of practice, Emrys."

Merlin did not dignify her with a response.

"Blæcern," she said.

The warlock simply pointed at his lamp, stopping it from flying into the witch's reaching hands. Her premature victorious grin faded. Nimueh clenched her hands into fists. The lamp jerked haltingly toward her, but Merlin did not react, and the lamp resettled into its original position.

"You can't win, Emrys."

"Don't be so sure, Nimueh."

"Þréaweorc!"

Merlin staggered back with a sharp shout. He nearly retracted the hand that kept his lamp, but at the last moment reasserted himself, face contorted with pain. "Dark…magic…indeed," he said through gritted teeth.

The lamp was slowly progressing toward the gleeful witch. Her lips curled cruelly, eyes glinting demonically. Her long-nailed fingers grasped greedily.

"No!" Arthur said. "Merlin, you idiot! Fight her!"

"Aye," Gwaine cut in. "We believe in ye, mate!"

"Merlin!" Leon cheered.

The encouragement seemed to work better than Arthur's insult. The warlock, though he seemed to be growing dimmer by the second, lifted both arms and magically dragged his artifact back. Nimueh growled, mirroring his actions.

"He's not going to make it," Leon realized with dismay.

As the lamp moved farther, Merlin began to stagger forward as well.

"Þréaweorc!" Nimueh screamed again.

With a head-clutching cry of agony, the warlock vanished.

"Merlin!" Arthur screamed.

"Bloody hell!" Gwaine said beside him, sounding truly frightened.

A moment later Arthur saw why.

The lamp had finished its journey into her hands, and Nimueh was cackling victoriously. Golden light emanated from the receptacle, reflected in her own eyes. "It's mine! Finally mine!" she howled. The stained glass windows shattered noisily under a forceful gust of wind. The sky outside darkened, rumbling ominously.

"Bloody hell, bloody hell," Gwaine was chanting.

Nimueh raised the lamp over her head, laughing. Merlin was nowhere to be seen, but Arthur instantly surmised that he trapped again. But he soon forgot that as the lamp's brilliant shine magnified a hundred-fold, blinding him.

He felt someone tugging his arm, heard a familiar voice shouting in his ear. The blond dumbly allowed himself to be dragged through the secret door of the siege tunnel behind the tapestry. He stumbled along the dark corridor behind Gwaine, chased by the horrible witch's mad cackling.

They had failed.

Ashamed, Arthur and the others ran. They didn't dare stop until they were out of the city and hidden in the forest, not far from the place they had made that dreadful plan. There they fell and desperately tried to catch their breaths.

"I've…" Leon panted miserably, a hand over his face, "I've abandoned my men."

"We abandoned Merlin," Arthur groaned.

"Aye," Gwaine said. "We've got to do summat, mates."

"What can we do?" Arthur said. "Mortal men cannot win against magic."

"Yer jus' givin' up?" Gwaine asked him incredulously. "Merlin's a good man, Arthur! We cannae jus' leave 'im t' that—that blasted witch!"

"I know that!" Arthur retorted meanly. "We need to, I don't know, regroup! We have to tell Gaius what's happened."

"I think everyone already knows summat's happened," Gwaine said in ire, gesturing toward the darkened sky with his chin. "'Twas bright an' cheery but half a minute ago."

"Now's not the time to argue," Leon interrupted, face still hidden. "The fact of the matter is, we are probably the only ones who will be able to stand against Nimueh, magic or not. There is no sense in not trying."

Arthur furrowed his brow, trying to remember something Merlin had told them before they had gone in, and everything had gone to hell.

Percival was the first to stand, brushing off his breeches. "The sword," he said, voice low. "We must find the sword in the stone."

"Aye," Gwaine leapt up. "The sword!"

Arthur sat up slowly, eyebrows rising toward his sweat-matted hairline. "The sword forged in a dragon's breath."

That was what Merlin had said.

And Arthur would do anything in his power to make up for breaking his word to keep Merlin safe. He owed that much.

"Then what are we waiting for?" he said, heart lightening with the sense of purpose. "We've a sword to find!"

{Birthright}

Nimueh knew that the cowards had run, but it was no matter. Soon she would be immortal, with all the power of Emrys. Albion would fall. All would kneel to her, sovereign of the world. And with that sort of magic, who need bend to the rules? She could revive Aithusa the dragon, summon any creature at her will. Her sisters would live once more!

All she needed now was to complete the binding spell, and Emrys' soul would merge with her own. He was at her mercy.

The ex-high priestess crooned, caressing the lamp. It was hers. Finally!

"Heofonfýr."

Pain, abrupt and startling, lanced through Nimueh's core. With a soft gasp, the lamp from her hands, clattering against the marble floor. Her body began to tremble. She recognized the voice that had called the heavenly fire.

Morgana stepped around her, green skirts swishing, and picked up the lamp. Her dark curls hung like a curtain over her face, obscuring it from Nimueh's view.

"We…" she croaked out, betrayed, "We had a…deal…"

The Court Sorceress turned her head enough that Nimueh could see her smirk.

Nimueh, quickly losing feeling throughout her cold limbs, fell to her knees. She stared up at her, uncomprehending. "Why?" she uttered. Her skin began to sag as her rejuvenation spell ebbed away. "I thought…we had an agreement…Morgana…You were going…to visit your children's graves today…"

"The plan has changed," Morgana replied coldly. She ran a pale hand across the smooth golden surface of the oil lantern. "With Emrys in my grasp, I can bring back my children myself."

"I've told you," wheezed Nimueh. Her face was withering with each passing moment, displaying her true ancientness. "It won't work. To bring back a life…a life must be taken."

"Yes," Morgana said, turning her face away again as though to look out of the dark window. The tapestries fluttered like birds' wings in the wind.

Nimueh sank lower against the floor, her strength fleeing her form. Her wide, pale eyes were locked desperately on the lamp in Morgana's hands. She reached out, shaking violently. Her hand, as she watched, grew knobby and gnarled, twisted by arthritis. "The lamp…" she whispered hoarsely. "My power…"

"Your sacrifice will not be in vain, dear Nimueh," Morgana said.

"No…No…The lamp…!"

With both hands, Morgana raised the lamp that housed the soul of Emrys, the most powerful warlock to walk the earth. Her eyes matched the intensity of the golden glow. The howling wind, frenzied with tumultuous power, roared throughout the council room, snatching at the witches' hair and robes. A tapestry ripped free from its hanger, twisting midair to bypass Morgana and audibly collide with the table. Scrolls flew about maniacally, helplessly caught. The dead noblemen stared on, horrified.

Morgana's incantation, barely heard over the chaos, rose in pitch and volume as she continued on. Nimueh, toothless mouth open in a silent scream, clutched at Morgana's skirts. The frenzy reached its pinnacle with the final word of the spell: "Mordred."

Nimueh at last succumbed to death, collapsing into a bony heap.

It was over.