One day, Leon staggered into the castle covered in blood. His cape was torn to shreds, armor dented and smeared in grime. He was holding something protectively to his chest, wrapped in his battered cape. A limp hand fell from the bundle. Morgana gasped. Not something, someone.
"Sir Leon!" she called, rushing to meet him.
It seemed as if it took everything in him just to remain upright. He spoke through ragged breaths, "Lady Morgana." He winced, falling to his knees. The bundle in his arms unraveled, revealing an unconscious woman. She had been beaten within an inch of her life. Mottled bruises, welts, and bloody abrasions marred her features. Most of the blood Sir Leon was wearing had not been his own, she realized. "She needs help. Quickly," he gasped out, wiping the blood obscuring his vision away. Morgana kneeled down to their level, grimacing. She couldn't make out the woman's features past all the gore. Her chest heaved, almost hyperventilating as she desperately sucked in hasty breath after breath.
"You'll be alright, dear," Morgana murmured, gently caressing her cheek. She whined pitifully in objection.
"Isobel," Leon told her. Morgana's heart skipped a beat.
"You'll be alright, Isobel." Her fingertips glowed with energy. "Liehtan," Morgana urged, magic settling beneath her skin and glimmering encouragingly. Now she was light as a feather as Morgana drew her into her arms, relieving Leon.
"Godfrey?" Isobel wheezed, eyes fluttering and a wretched smile touching her face. A pang ran through Morgana's heart at the name.
"G-Godfrey?"
"Her companion—" Leon answered, teeth clenching, bloodied lips peeling back. "I didn't make it in time," he spat. Morgana clutched Isobel to her chest, standing. She whimpered. Morgana felt something inside her shatter like china. She turned away, hiding her face.
"You failed, Sir Leon," she said quietly. He bowed his head, fists quaking.
"It won't happen again," he growled.
"It better hadn't," Morgana replied in the same subdued tone. "Come along, I am still in need of answers," she said, setting out for the physician's chambers with quick, purposeful strides. She heard Leon crawl to his feet, heard his involuntary hiss of pain. All she could think of was Isobel, cradled in her arms, the flutter of her racing heart, the warmth still left in her body. She couldn't let her die, not after she'd failed Godfrey.
Gaius, despite all other despicable aspects of himself, was always reliable when she needed him most these days. When she broke through his door clutching the bleeding woman and wearing what must have been a wretchedly desperate look on her face, he sprung to action immediately. The urgency was at once understood between them, no words spoken as he arranged Isobel on a patient's bed and began swiftly examining her condition. Her skin was drawn and white, sweat gleaming in the candlelight. He took her pulse, then held her hand in his—blood smearing over his palms and wrinkled knuckles—something unreadable flickering in his eyes. She continued to thrash about and mutter indecipherably.
"What? What is it?" Morgana demanded. Sir Leon watched on with a dire expression.
"Cold. So very cold." Gaius closed his eyes.
"Is she too far gone?" Leon whispered, something like contempt souring the words on his tongue. Morgana ignored his self-loathing, ignored every word out of his mouth. Why wasn't Gaius doing anything? Why was he just sitting there?
"Help her!" she erupted, hand sweeping out to send a cascade of books and potion bottles spinning to the floor.
"She's lost too much blood…" he murmured, almost to himself.
Morgana growled, sending another row of books tumbling."Fix her!" she howled, a dangerous edge dancing in her eyes.
Gaius held out a boney hand, voice resonant and commanding. "Be. Silent." Morgana and Leon recoiled in shock. Gaius inhaled roughly, "This is going to look ghastly. Do not interfere." He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly and deliberately. Something in the air shifted, an almost indescribable sense of the uncanny causing her to shiver and Leon next to her to cast his eyes about in paranoia.
"Gegadera gyte!" Gaius rasped in a harsh, discordant command. The power of his words echoed in her skull brashly, scattering her panicked thoughts like a flutter of darting crows. A fervent awe took hold of her, lips parting in fascination. Leon's eyes were as wide as saucers, knuckles white around the pommel of his blade.
"What are you—"
Morgana jutted an arm out in front of him, but the sight that followed had already stopped the man dead in his tracks. Isobel's upper body seemed to wrench itself out of bed limply, head lolling on her neck and limbs splayed, as if held by some invisible force. More horrifically, the blood—her blood, all over the sheets, trailing down the hall, covering her and Leon—began to reconstitute. The gore seemed to seep backward in time, spiraling through the air in a macabre dance. Leon lifted his hands, watching speechlessly as they ran clean of it. The dark, viscous liquid shifted in color, bright, vivid crimson rushing back into Isobel's wounds. She gasped and screamed, struggling fruitlessly against the influx. Gaius held himself steady, eyes shining gold and teeth gritting firmly.
It was an agonizingly long time before it finally ended. Before Isobel finally stopped wailing and twisting like liquid fire burned through her veins. When it stopped, she seemed to choke on one last, tormented scream, chest convulsing, body going frighteningly limp—and then still. The force seizing her in place evaporated. The way her body landed softly back in bed and her breathing evened into slow, steady snores was almost jarringly tender. A peace so terribly out of place it must have been a fantasy.
Neither of them spoke, words forming and then slipping away. Gaius wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, collapsing into his seat at her bedside. His eyes slipped closed, exhausted. "Ghastly thing," he breathed in disgust.
Morgana approached Isobel cautiously. Her complexion was clear of gore, revealing the care-worn features of a middle-aged woman. She had gained a little color, freckled cheeks and the tip of her nose flushed with vitality—and her skin was warm to the touch. Her pulse pounded strongly under her skin. Morgana let the vibration thrum under her fingers for a long moment, simply basking in the feeling. She let herself relax, tension leaking out of her.
"You did it, Gaius. You saved her." She kissed Isobel's hand, relieved.
Leon had stopped clutching his sword, but his eyes were far from relieved. "What—what dark magic was that?" he whispered, a distinctly queasy look in his eyes. Morgana turned to glare at him.
"How can you accuse him of dark magic after what he just did for her?" she snapped. "I pity you—one so small-minded he sees a miracle and takes up his pitchfork. But I should have expected nothing better of Arthur's trusted knight."
Gaius ignored their exchange, gathering a washcloth and cleaning the dirt from Isobel's wounds. Leon tried to hide his trembling by running his hands through his hair. A shaky, nervous smile formed on his lips. "Miracle? That?"
"Come see for yourself. Look at her."
"I'd rather—I'd rather stay right here," Leon replied, nearing hysteria.
"Look. At her," Morgana seethed. Leon shook his head once, twice. "You are my knight, Sir Leon. Do as I command." With visible reluctance, Leon complied. He was quiet as he examined her, but he clearly realized every detail Morgana herself had. Morgana needn't say anything more.
"She'll make a full recovery?" she asked Gaius. He frowned.
"Her wounds will heal."
Morgana narrowed her eyes. "What is it?" she asked.
"The toll of the spell will impair her. But she'll live."
"Impair?" Leon asked warily.
"She'll be very weak. For a long time, I should think. Some things she used to find easy may prove exhausting to her now." He sighed heavily. "I made a judgment, and I stand by it. Everyone deserves a chance at life, even one fraught with challenges."
Morgana's spirit wavered. She smiled a little bitterly. "Let's hope she sees it that way," she replied grimly.
"Did you know her?" Leon asked.
"Not her." Morgana swallowed harshly. Emotion swelled inside her dangerously. It didn't need to be dwelled on. There were more important matters at hand. "How did this happen?"
Leon looked her in the eyes, visibly fortifying them from lingering shreds of emotion or concern. His voice was steady, emotionless—something Morgana almost admired. "People have started beating anyone believed to be practicing sorcerers. Before it was only glares, words, sometimes shoves. Something… changed."
Morgana, outraged, cut him off. "Those bigoted fools! What harm were they doing?"
"None," Leon admitted. "Not that I could see."
Morgana raised an eyebrow at that. "What, you don't think they got what was coming to them? They were sorcerers, after all."
"Give it a rest," Leon replied, exhausted. "They didn't do anything to harm anybody. They were jumped out of fear and paranoia. They didn't stand a chance. By the time I heard the uproar, it was already bloody. He tried to shield her, her companion, he took the brunt of it. There was hardly anything left of him. I tried to get to him, but I couldn't. People were so—frenzied. They didn't care, all they wanted was to hurt someone, anyone who got in their way." He shivered. "I barely got her out of there breathing."
"Did he—" Morgana folded her arms over her chest tightly. "Did it end quickly?"
"Not at all."
Morgana's eyes fluttered closed, throat tightening. "I told him I'd look after him." And I gave him my favor. Anything he could ever ask for. What queen lets her subjects tear one of their own apart in plain daylight?
Leon looked at her with something approaching sympathy. "I cannot see a way out of this, Morgana."
For once, Morgana had nothing to say. She didn't even possess the will to reprimand him for addressing her so casually. Had she caused this? Something changed. Hatred building up. It wasn't because of Godfrey, it wasn't because of Isobel. It was because of her.
Morgana, gritting her teeth, turned to leave. "Send for me when she wakes," she commanded, stalking away.
Leon stood at Isobel's bedside and watched Gaius finish his work in silence. Watchful of his every move. He worked slowly and deliberately as if to appease him. When he was done, he looked over at Leon.
"You've gone and broken yourself again, haven't you?" he grumbled, stern eyebrows furrowing severely. "After all the care I took putting you back together?"
"I—I'll be fine. Thanks," he replied stiltedly.
"Nonsense."
"I don't need your help."
"Sit down and shut up, boy." His expression softened. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Why should I believe that?" Leon asked, eyes hard. "After all you've done under Morgana's rule?"
"I am loyal to Arthur," Gaius said. "He may not approve. But I can't ignore someone dying when I can do something about it." He closed his eyes. "Not anymore."
"You're willing to give it all up? Your job? The life you built for yourself? Merlin? What would he think, Gaius?" Leon's voice wavered, now. How could this man not see reason? His choice would surely destroy his life if Arthur ever found out.
"Using magic to heal again, like I did before the purge, it feels right. Like I've regained something of myself I've been missing for so many years. I don't think I can go back. Nor do I want to." Gaius glanced at him, almost curious—examining. "Does that really sound so awful?"
Leon's first instinct urged him to pounce on the man. To raise his voice, deny him. But that was exactly why he did not do any of those things, instead letting the question give him pause. He took a moment, considering. He sat down. Gaius seemed pleased. "How many people could you have saved under Pendragon rule?" he asked, genuinely. "How many died in Isobel's position?"
"Countless," Gaius replied quietly. "I was selfish. I stood by—as I always did—as people died on my watch. In my care."
Leon did not respond. Gaius began tending to his wounds, this time without any pushback.
"You're very unlike me," said Gaius, softly. "You are brave, Sir Leon. You didn't have to intervene. Anyone else in your horrible position, I think, wouldn't have done the same."
Leon let his tired eyes slip shut as Gaius washed the blood from the throbbing wound stretching from above his brow, across his cheek, to the line of his jaw—where digging fingernails had tried desperately to pry the flesh from his skull. The frenzy flashed behind his eyes. Savage jeers, tearing, ripping hands. Screams ringing in his ears. Filthy sorcerers! Tear him off of her! Kill her like the animal she is!
Leon's hands trembled. "Thank you, Gaius."
Morgana ventured down the stairs to the lower level, cradling a beam of conjured light in her hands like a trapped firefly. Emrys watched her descent, crawling closer to the bars with a telltale rattle of chains. The light peeked out from between Morgana's fingers, dimmer than before. He seemed to have less trouble adjusting to it, this time. "Where's Aithusa?" he rasped hoarsely, voice scratchy with disuse. He seemed almost disappointed, but no less eager for the company.
"Your pet dragon, dragonlord?" Morgana sneered. "I want nothing to do with her," she said around the lump in her throat. Something inside her chest ached.
"Aithusa is not my pet." Emrys growled low in his throat "What did you say to her?" he asked, bushy eyebrows crinkling in concern.
"Oh, nothing really. But she told me everything. All your little secrets," Morgana drew out slowly, an ugly smile twisting her lips. Emrys blinked innocently, looking around as if confused whom she was referring to.
"What secrets? I am an open book," Emrys claimed with an almost sing-song lilt. Despite the levity, he seemed to be watching her keenly, searching her expression, trying to put together what exactly she knew, perhaps. She looked away, the satisfaction of the game gone in a flash. She sighed. She didn't have the energy for this tonight. She shouldn't have indulged that childish urge to lash out. It wasn't helpful.
"Whatever. It hardly seems important to me right now if you are who you say you are. Whoever you are—" Morgana let out a shaky breath. "I wanted your… perspective." She hadn't planned on bringing her acquired knowledge up at all, but Aithusa's name had riled her up. Now, the pit in her stomach yawned ever wider. Had she really come down here seeking Emrys's… what? His advice? She grimaced, disgusted. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here."
But as she turned to retreat, Morgana heard the chains rattle abruptly against the bars behind her. "Wait! Don't go!" Emrys called out to her, voice breaking. She turned, brows furrowing in disbelief. Emrys's withered hands clutched the bars of the cell, something desperate flashing in the depths of his eyes. They stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment before Emrys let go in a rush, clearing his throat. His voice was steady again as he spoke, "I can help you, whatever it is." He smirked, recovering that playful twinkle in his eyes. "I've been known to provide a little wisdom, 'time to time."
"Truly?" Morgana asked. "You'd help me?" She narrowed her eyes at the man, uneasy when she couldn't locate any traces of deception hidden away in his features.
"Sit, your royal majesty," Emrys gestured loosely in front of him. "Tell me what's on your mind."
"I don't feel like sitting," Morgana replied restlessly, arms folded in a self-soothing gesture. It was drafty underneath the castle, the air laden with a damp cold that seeped into her bones. She drew her cloak closer to herself, collecting her thoughts. "Things are… getting away from me. I thought I could keep this kingdom together. I thought I could unite us—" she broke off. "Our kind with their kind. Make it someplace our kin could be free and safe." She started to pace in front of the cell. "But it's gone all wrong."
"Wrong how?" Emrys asked. He didn't seem particularly surprised, but his concern seemed genuine enough. "What happened?"
Morgana swallowed harshly around a knot of anger. "Two sorcerers were mobbed and beaten today. More are sure to follow." Morgana gritted her teeth in a feral snarl. "He died in agony while she watched, helpless. And why—senseless, baseless hatred? The Pendragon's backwards ideology has its teeth in this miserable kingdom." She whirled her arms around as she paced, her heart hammering against her breastbone. "And—And they call us wicked? They should be the ones rounded up and burnt!" Morgana spat. Emrys watched her pace silently, lips downturned in a frown. He stroked his chin absently, thoughts flickering behind his eyes.
"Sit, your majesty," he said finally. "Let's work through this with clear heads."
Morgana let out a long breath—Emrys's calm, inviting tone managing to ground her some. She knew he was at odds with her thinking, that he held a farcical amount of sentiment for the people working against their kin—but he was right. She had to put that aside for now, if she wanted to mend anything.
It felt both surreal and perfectly natural to sit across from Emrys with the intention just to talk. She folded her legs underneath her, glancing through the bars. The conjured light illuminated their faces in a dim arcane glow, magical reflections dancing in their eyes. Morgana wondered who really looked back at her through those ancient eyes—behind the alchemical guise of the old man. What was his name? His story? She drew her cloak around herself, feeling her heart rate slowly return to normal.
"There—are you pleased?" Morgana asked with a tiny, manic chuckle.
Emrys smiled wryly. "We don't have to be at odds. We're alike in many ways," he told her.
"How so?" she asked, eyes narrowing skeptically. The thought of sharing any qualities with the traitorous sorcerer who turned his back on his own kind made her sick.
"We both want what's best for this kingdom. We both want to see magic restored to Albion." Morgana raised an eyebrow at that. "And we both want to end this needless suffering," he finished solemnly, as serious as she'd yet to see him.
Morgana said nothing for a long moment, considering him. "Fine, then." She smiled crookedly, teeth glinting white. It was almost as dreadful as a shark's gleaming, multi-layered grin. "You're not spouting complete nonsense."
"Never completely," he agreed with a mad grin of his own.
Morgana let her hair fall over her eyes, head bowed. "Godfrey was his name. I was aware of him before I took the throne. He was a revolutionary, not unlike me. He worked in secret. He caused an uproar—several, in fact, before he got captured. Levitating the odd object, charming signs and proclamations, loudly projecting animal calls across the kingdom in the dead of night." Morgana chuckled. "Perhaps we weren't so alike, after all."
Emrys seemed amused. "'A royal declaration from the king: Verily, thou'rt a corpulent, flap-wagging pillock and thou mother a strumpet.'"
"So, you're familiar with his work?" Morgana snorted. "A nefarious little scamp. Naturally, Uther had him slated for execution."
"I remember," Emrys said. "Uther never got the chance to carry out that order."
Morgana sneered. "I made sure of that."
"Arthur never did, either," Emrys added calmly. Morgana pinned him with an annoyed glare.
"Yet he kept him locked away below the castle for years—waiting, helplessly, for his promised death to catch up to him."
"He did," Emrys acknowledged sadly. "Until you righted that wrong."
Morgana had nothing to say, mouth going dry. She pictured Godfrey's bloodied, broken body in the streets of Camelot. Leon's expression when she asked if he had gone quickly. 'Not at all.'
"I—" Nausea twisted in her gut. "I'm to blame," she blurted. Emrys didn't say anything, listening quietly as she went on. "I knew what state the kingdom was in, and I ignored it. I used their fear of magic, of me, as a weapon to control them—keep them in line. I… reveled in it. As they should be, I thought."
"You confirmed everything twenty-plus years of prohibition pounded into their skulls," Emrys said, voice low and angry. "You've taken three steps back from where you began. From where Arthur began. You can't have expected anything less, Morgana."
"I was too focused on keeping it all from falling apart!" Morgana roared, squeezing her hands together until the light split apart under the force, sparks flying in every direction. She hissed in pain, cradling her hands close. She watched, despondently, as the last remnants of the spell shimmered into nothing. The last of Emrys' frustration sank into the darkness. Neither spoke, two sets of elevated breathing the only perceivable sounds. The chill felt harsher than ever. It occurred to her that this was Emrys's day-to-day reality—and in that moment of discomfort, she found herself reveling in his suffering.
"What should I do?" she asked the darkness, eventually, her voice quivering with a shameful mixture of desperation and loathing. The darkness didn't respond, contemplating, perhaps. Morgana's breathing slowly evened out, her eyes sliding shut.
When Emrys finally spoke up, it was without malice or resentment. "Magic is sewn into every fiber of this word's constitution—every breath drawn, every exhale is touched with it," he mused. Morgana found his description almost poetic, a small smile tugging her lips involuntarily. "It's warmth, safety, hope, danger—yes, but so much more than that. It can be an expression of self, a connection with nature, or even a tool. You and I know this, but they don't have even the faintest clue! So, show them."
"Show them?" Morgana echoed, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
"Did that never occur to you?" Emrys asked, curiously.
"I…" Morgana trailed off.
"No, of course, it wouldn't," Emrys grumbled. "You let hatred cloud your judgment… Just like Arthur. The pair of you are the bane of my existence."
"Leoht." Magic spluttered to life, filling empty sconce after sconce with soft blue light. Emrys blinked, startled. Morgana stood, dusting off her dress. "Thank you, Emrys, for your vague ramblings. Useless as always. Never compare me to him again—and perhaps I won't turn the lights off." She turned to leave, flashing a shark-grin over her shoulder. "I know what you're hiding, 'Emrys.' Next time we meet, I will get answers. That's a promise."
"Oh, goody."
