AN) Let's pretend that I didn't go radio silent for what...two years? It's been a time and a half, but I still have brainrot and hyper-fixations so here we go again.

The King of Gotham. The King of Gotham. Bleeding on the table. The man bleeding on the table was the King of Gotham. Arthur didn't know what to do. The sorcerer was working quickly; a pale gold light was radiating from his hands. The king's advisor had removed the monarch's armor skillfully. Arthur found himself holding the breastplate as Alfred began to organize medicines. There was a deep gash along the king's side. It was jagged, not the cut of a single blade or lance. There was a large cut tracing from the man's hip up to his chest, with smaller gashes decorating his chest with small trails of blood. Arthur did not consider himself a squeamish man—quite the opposite, he did not shy away from the gore of battle, but he did not relish in it. The king's injuries were intense, blood was beginning to pool around him as his sorcerer and advisor worked to patch him up. Arthur couldn't help but wince at the expression on the king's face. He could tell that Bruce was trying to ignore and fight through the pain, but his brow was knitted together and a pained groan escaped his lips. Suddenly his back arched and a cry escaped his lips. The light in the sorcerer's hands had grown.

"I'm sorry, your Majesty." The sorcerer looked at his king. Arthur gawked as he watched the injured skin begin to knit itself back together. "Hopefully it won't be as painful as the initial injury."

"I hope it is." Alfred had moved to the king's side, the gentle hand on the man's forehead contrasting his sarcastic words. "Serves him right—what were you thinking, facing off Ivy and Freeze all on your own?"

"And what else should I have done?" The king gritted out, "Bring the children into it—Zatara, no!"

Arthur had been surprised by the king's initial expression of pain, but he was even more surprised by the king bolting upright—well, more upright than he had been before—to push his sorcerer away. The others in the room seemed surprised too, Alfred moving to press the king back down, and Zatara moving further away from the king. The magic he was holding in his hands was burning brighter, almost looking like small suns were being held in his hands. Upon the king's admonition, however, the light began to dim. Arthur took a step back himself. Partially surprised by the king's outburst, partially concerned about the sorcerer's magic, and partially because he didn't know why he was still in the room.

"Your majesty…I am trying to heal you." Zatara held up his hands, as if to display magic.

"You are going too far. You know the cost of such magic."

"I do. And it is a cost I am willing to pay."

The king was sitting up now, holding a hand against his injury. The skin had been sewn together, though scarred, and fresh looking, and was no longer freely bleeding. But the king still looked injured. King Bruce held his free hand up, Alfred placing a small vial in it.

"I know, Giovanni." His voice was soft, deep concern overriding any sense of pain or anger Arthur would expect to hear in the injured man. He rose to his feet, Arthur expecting the man to go down—he moved forward, ready to catch the man when it happened. Bruce did not buckle, but instead moved to the sorcerer. "I know. But that is not a cost that I can ask you to pay on my behalf." His bloodied hand found a comforting place on the man's shoulder.

"My king—"

"Giovanni, please. I cannot—will not—ask you to make that sacrifice for me, as your king…or as your friend."

There was a moment. A very intense moment of quiet. The two men stared at each other, almost challenging each other. But the sorcerer nodded before letting the light die in his hands.

"You have a vial of pain relief already. Sit back down, Bruce. I have a new salve that can numb the area."

The king followed orders, letting the two men address his injuries once again. His eyes met Arthur's, finally seeming to realize that he was not alone with his attendants. The man's gray eyes focused on Arthur, found the armor that the prince was holding, and found his face again. A strained smile reached the man's face.

"Pendragon. We have much to discuss, don't we?"

The music sounded distorted. As if the performers had forgotten to tune their instruments before performing…and their concert venue was underwater. It sounded far away, but that didn't make sense…she could see them. They were merely feet away from her at the head table. No one else seemed concerned about the music, or the blue mist that seeped around the dancers on the floor. Only she was concerned…only she was afraid. But why was she afraid?

Glass was raining from the sky. People were running away in fear. Now they were afraid, just as afraid as her. A woman decked in flowing green silks soared over the fleeing nobility, chanting—though it sounded just as distorted as the music had—as wreaths of light opened around her.

She was running, she was running with someone next to her. His voice was distorted, but it sounded so concerned. He was keeping her close to him, his cape held protectively over her head. She was trying to focus on his face, but the smoke was crowding around her eyes—thicker and thicker. He cried out, his hands shooting up to his face, no…his throat. Her face was wet, why was it wet? As she pulled a hand away from her face, the red on her fingertips stood out dramatically against the blue smoke. Blood. Blood was on her face. Blood was on his face, on his neck, gushing out of his throat. He stumbled, hands clutching around the arrow…the arrow in his throat. He fell. He fell over dead.

Distorted screams. Everywhere. Just as distant and far away as the music. One had to belong to her, didn't it? She saw everything in flashes. Two men locked in combat, one with arrows sticking out of his side. A young boy running in terror, a man stalking after him, sword drawn and dripping with blood. A woman held the body of an old man, desperately trying to make him breathe again. Everything was clouded by the smoke, everything sounded so distorted and far away. Except for the face of one man. Uther. She could see his face as clear as day. It was twisted in pain and horror as he watched the destruction unfurling around him. And she could see, in perfect detail, the twisted dagger that was plunged into Uther's back.

Morgana gasped. She was clutching her blanket against her chest, eyes wide and knees drawn close. She wasn't sure when she had woken up, but she was awake. There was no smoke, just the smoke from the fireplace Gwen had recently put out curling out the window. She could hear her breathing perfectly; it wasn't distorted or far away. It was just a dream, just a dream…she was whispering that to herself as she wrapped herself in a robe and found the soft walking slippers. She just needed air. She had taken the medicine Gaius had made for her. She had done everything that she was supposed to do, but sometimes the dreams still happened. She just needed to get some fresh air and walk, and everything would be all right. Was she just anxious about being in a new court? Perhaps the fact that there were sorcerers around was causing her anxiety…but she had never been afraid of magic before, why would that be in her dreams?

The air in the corridor was much cooler than the air in her room, and that made Morgana feel much better. She didn't think she had woken Gwen, which was good. She didn't need to worry poor Gwen with her nightmares. She felt awful every time she had to bother Gaius or someone else with her problems. Her pace was quicker than she intended it to be, but she wanted to get to a courtyard and feel the fresh night air on her skin. Fresh air, no blue smoke.

And that's what she found in the courtyard. Cool, still air. Soft light from lanterns and fireplaces that hadn't been extinguished yet. The soft aroma of the carefully tended orchids placed in neat lines. She found a place to sit on a stone carved bench under a tree surrounded by the orchids. What she didn't expect to find was a child curled against the tree.

He was clutching at the bark, his fingers dug into the rough surface as his forehead rested against it. His face was twisted up, tears trickling down his red cheeks. She could tell that he was trying to calm himself down but was having a challenging time doing so. His breath was uneven; he would successfully pull in an even, slow breath only to have his exhale hitch and catch in his throat, causing him to pull in a quicker breath. Small gasps and sobs made it difficult as well. A small wail escaped, causing him to pull his legs closer to his chest and use one of his hands to muffle his cries.

Morgana slowly lowered herself down to his level, drawing her robe closer around her.

"Richard, darling…" she slowly extended her hand toward him. The young prince flinched, a sob getting caught up in his throat. His eyes were welled with tears, and were drowning with fear and…guilt? "Are you all right? Are you hurt?" Morgana looked the child over, not seeing any new injuries. Considering they had first met with him falling from a tree she wondered if he had been trying to explore again.

"N-No…"

"Good, good. Do you want me to get your brothers, or your fath—"

"No!" He clamped a hand over his mouth as he got louder, more guilt seeping into his eyes. "N-no…I've already bothered Father…and I m-made King Uther mad and…and I don't want anyone else to be mad at me." He wiped the tears off his face with the sleeve of his night dress.

There was guilt. He didn't want to burden anyone else with his emotions. Morgana helped gently brush away the tears. Morgana sat herself next to the boy.

"It's all right…it's alright. I won't tell anyone."

"I don't want…want to bother Father again, but the dreams are just…bad." His voice wobbled on the last word before he buried his face in the tree again. Morgana kept her hand on his shoulder, making sure he didn't feel alone.

"Oh, Richard. I'm so sorry. I know what those dreams can be like. And it is…scary…to face them yourself. And I'm sorry that King Uther was unkind. I am sure he did not mean…"

Who was Morgana kidding? Uther didn't mean to be anything. He didn't care if he was kind or not.

Richard blubbered, seeming to grow tired with each sob. He turned to face her, and Morgana could see the sparks of magic in his eyes. He looked so afraid, so small—but the magic inside him was so large.

"The lion…" he choked out, "the lion came and took Tati, and…and Mami."

Morgana just listened. She didn't know what Richard meant by the lion, but dreams so rarely make sense.

"And…and Tati tried to fight the lion. With…with his sword, but the lion—" Richard grabbed on to her hands. He looked so desperate. "Tati didn't do anything wrong!" He wailed. "The lion said that…that Tati and Mami were bad! But they weren't! Why did the lion kill my tati?"

Morgana pulled Richard into her, letting him sob and shake against her chest. She didn't understand, she didn't know what to do. But she could be there. She could hold him and listen. She could run her hand through his hair and wipe his tears. And she could talk to his father in the morning.

AN) Hope you enjoyed! Dreams are tricky, funny things. And they make for fantastic literary devices. Dreams of the past and dreams of the future, hopefully our courts can piece them together.

I've been writing about my various D&D characters, so I may try to find a place for those snap-shots to go...who knows!