Morgana watched from the window to her quarters as a fight broke out. The rising sun washed the sky in crimson, and already the cries of men filled the morning. In the square below, an alarming number of Camelotians had gathered. They hurled rocks as they screamed and spat. Their words were indistinguishable to her from this distance, but she could imagine well enough their target. The skeletal guards were slow to react. A stone impacted against one of their skulls, and it twisted three-hundred and sixty degrees before snapping back in place. The guards advanced, steel blades gleaming in the red light.
Morgana's stomach turned in anticipation, remembering the stench of blood on the battlefield as she took her victory over the king and his knights. She had picked her way through the carnage, glancing morbidly at the bodies strewn about. Faces she'd seen around all her life, some, even she'd learned the names to. Morgana grimaced.
"Stop!" she called, her voice projecting across the square. Her skeletal warriors froze in place like statues, inert, lifeless. The tumult seemed to redouble at this, dissenters running for the castle gates. Morgana strode out onto the balcony, thrusting her hands out as if to hold back the tide. The wind screamed and howled, carrying her booming voice across Camelot.
"ligetung!"
A white-hot bolt of energy cleaved the air above them, forking in all directions. A terrible crack split her ears. The ground shuddered and quaked, and the air was thick with electricity. Her hair stood on end, and her lips twisted in satisfaction as the storming dissenters cowered and faltered underneath her. Her ears were ringing, and probability permitted theirs were too. Morgana surged forward and gripped the edge of the balcony.
"Consider that your warning! Any of you foolish enough not to flee for your lives will rot in the dungeons!" she howled.
The square echoed with the frightened and frenzied wails of retreating dissenters. Those who remained, luckily few, were rounded up and escorted away. Morgana watched from her perch on the balcony until the square was empty, and Camelot was swept with an eerie quiet. She smirked wryly. Better to be feared by the entire kingdom than responsible for a slaughter.
She'd make them understand, eventually. After all, her cause was just. Prejudice and superstition ran deep in Camelot; Uther saw to that. Erasing it would take hard work, and she was, admittedly, off to a bad start.
Also, admittedly, Morgana had no clue how to begin digging herself out of this hole.
Morgana's kingdom was faring worse than she could have ever prepared for. Rebellions and fights breaking out have to be quashed nearly every day. On the outskirts, farmers needed "persuading" to allocate their usual percentage of crops to the kingdom for its winter stock. People within the gates required the same "persuasion" when taxes must be collected. This was not how she imagined she would run Camelot. But it was necessary, for now, to hold them all together.
Her pliant soldiers presented another hurdle. They were not complex enough to be receptive to orders. They didn't have the mental capacity necessary to carry out what was necessary. They responded only to violence, to mobilization against enemy forces.
She needed living soldiers. However, the remaining knights refused to submit to her. She threw them in the dungeons in hopes a little isolation might change their minds. She had her doubts.
Her kingdom couldn't function without enforcers, a truth that nagged her day in and day out as dissent began to rise and crime became an all-time high.
The dungeons were becoming very full, so she focused on adding extensions.
The court was at the very bottom of her list of problems. They were more of a nuisance than a challenge. Most were too frightened to commit treachery. Others were pleased with the change of direction. Perhaps they thought she was someone they could exploit. Morgana knew she could trust none of them. All of them—Slimy, rotten to the core.
But Morgana was in charge now. She had the ultimate say. Even if she required the insight and knowledge of her court, they could never again overrule her.
Later that night, Morgana found herself drawn to the lowest level of the dungeons, where a certain captive was locked away. It had been nearly a week and a half since his surrender. Often her thoughts would wander to that dark cell. Would she find him crumpled in the corner, the light gone from his eyes? Or would he greet her taunt-for-taunt? It was only curiosity, nothing deeper. That chapter of her life was over now. Arthur was the only hurdle remaining.
"Emrys," Morgana purred.
One unobscured eye peered out at her from the darkened interior of the cell, orange specters dancing In azure irises by the flickering torchlight.
"I see you're settling in nicely. It won't be long for you now, Emrys. Your old bones will make excellent dungeon decorations," she mocked the old man easily, looking at him with a mixture of disdain and glee. He didn't seem interested in her taunts, regarding her boredly.
"How fares your kingdom, highness?" Emrys prodded with a facade of curiosity. "Satisfied with your new power?"
"The state of the kingdom doesn't concern you anymore, I'm afraid—not down here," Morgana bit back. Emrys watched her intently, his lips twitching in amusement. "You've nothing to smile about," Morgana seethed. "The hunger and isolation must be driving you mad!"
"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," he said with an impish grin. It struck her as eerily familiar.
"You're bluffing," she hissed, brandishing her torch closer to the bars. She squinted at Emrys, searching for a crack in his facade. Had he lost weight? Did stains under his eyes suggest he hadn't been sleeping? No. Emrys, as he always was—an irritating slip of an old man with a dangerous glint in his eyes—stared back at her. His smugness was almost deafeningly loud, though he didn't say a word to her as she growled low in her throat. He raised an eyebrow.
"Did you walk all the way down here to visit me only to make yourself feel better—or, perhaps, is there something else to it?" Emrys wondered in a slow, meandering way likely designed to maximize her discomfort. "Is something eating you?"
"'Something eating me?'" Morgana repeated in disbelief. What on Earth would possess him to ask her something like that? Emrys tilted his head, eyes giving away nothing.
"You seem lonely, Morgana," he said softly. "It can't be easy." Morgana flinched, taken aback. She nearly lost her grip on the torch. Unsettled, she tried to reassemble her outward persona.
"That is exactly why I am the right fit for the job," she countered haughtily, lifting her chin and forcing a faltering sneer. The unease of the unexpected personal question didn't leave her. All the sudden, this visit seemed like a terrible mistake. "Good day, Emrys. Or is it night? Do you even remember anymore?"
With that, she turned and stalked away, thankful for the growing distance between them. What had she been thinking?
Merlin watched her back retreat, darkness settling in her empty space. He was back to wallowing in the neverending blackness. It sank into his pores, dampening his spirit. Had this all been a foolish gambit, as Arthur had told him, one he'd soon come to regret?