An old man strolled through the grim streets of the queen's Camelot. He wore a long, druidic cloak over the unassuming garb of a traveler—the breeze caught the ragged ends of it, waving like a great, shredded banner in the glow of victory. A silver dragon-maw clasp secured it to his shoulders, gleaming in the sunlight. Despite having no weapons, he carried on with a relaxed swagger which, if you asked any nearby Camelotian, would be dubiously described as outrageous, boastful, and otherwise annoying. While most pointedly ignored him, a few subdued citizens watched his death march with hollow curiosity.
The guards parted obligingly to let the old man through as he approached the foot of the castle, pulled like puppets on strings. Their skeletal frames creaked, bone scraping against bone. Hollow, cavernous eyes glared out of ghastly skulls, jaws hanging loose in frozen wails. He doffed his hat to the skeletal doormen—an ostentatious old thing that had often been a subject of ridicule.
"What kind, young fellows," he muttered approvingly. "And they said you boys had no guts." He clicked his tongue in disappointment.
The silent wails continued, perhaps with a little more feeling.
The old man nodded in satisfaction, venturing into the open maw of Castle Camelot, each step a step closer to a fate he had already resigned himself to.
Deep within, the queen sat on her throne, waiting. She hardly blinked. She scarcely breathed. Hair spilled over her shoulders and veiled her sickly white face. Against the arm of her throne, her chipped nails began to tap, tap, tap.
The old man climbed staircases and traversed winding halls, alone but for the echo of his footsteps and the vacant vessels of the queen's undead soldiers lining the walls. Their stares bore into him. He stretched himself, making a noise of aggravation as his back creaked and complained like old floorboards underfoot.
The Queen smiled as the old man let himself in, painted lips peeling back from pearly white teeth, resembling the grin of a predator about to strike. The tapping ceased.
"The lady Morgana," Emrys greeted, forgoing a bow. His smile, too, was anything but jovial. Morgana crossed one leg over the other, peering down at her visitor with her chin resting in her palm. He carried himself with easy confidence even now, his flinty eyes gazing at the lounging queen without a trace of fear or loathing—such open malice she'd grown accustomed to in her short reign. Her smile twisted into a grimace.
"Emrys, how good of you to heed my invitation," Morgana said lightly, the tone one king's ward might have chosen to address visiting nobles—not so long ago, but an eternity away. She was careful to keep her eyes on him, her body poised and ready. This was no ordinary old man, as she might have once assumed before his identity had become… evident. Painfully evident. To her delight, the old magician merely extended his wrists in offering.
"Do as you like," he said with a certain ease that did nothing but mock her.
Morgana sneered, wary of deceit. "You surrender yourself?" she demanded.
"Of course," he agreed dryly. "In the interest of peace, it is my solemn duty."
Morgana's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Very well." She waved a commanding hand at the guard bearing the restraints. "Go on, chain him up!"
As the guard approached Emrys, she couldn't help but clutch tighter to the curve of the throne, ready to attack at a moment's notice. Emrys remained passive as a docile little lamb even as the bands slipped around his wrists. The guard stepped back, returning to its dormant position.
The shackles began to glow an iridescent white, constricting around Emrys' wrists like coiling snakes. He raised an eyebrow as the white serpents began to wind up his arms, pressing into his skin with a searing heat. Morgana's giggles evolved into laughter as the old magician staggered to his knees and winced, his breathing picking up. Each snake sank its fangs into his flesh and, with a flash—tearing a gasp from Emrys—became inert. Ready to strike again at a moment's notice. Emrys was declawed. He was harmless as a kitten to her now. It was almost too sweet to be believed.
"Your sacrifice will go unappreciated by a vile, intolerant kingdom. I hope you enjoy your reward." Morgana grinned, still basking in the catharsis of her unexpected victory. It was never supposed to be this easy. For so long, Morgana had lived in paranoia, waiting for the day when the Great Emrys would finally strike her down, like a bird from flight—tearing her wings from her tiny body as she writhed and cried for mercy.
"I have no regrets," Emrys replied calmly, lifting his chin. The weight of the situation never seemed to reach his eyes, even as Morgana commanded for him to be locked away in the dungeon.
"Darling, you don't seem to get it," Morgana began in a sickly sweet tone, adopting a little of her old poise and that facade of calm she used to hide behind as atrocities against her kin, against descent people surrounded her. "You are going to die in that cell. You are going to wither away until all that remains of you is a pile of old bones in the dark. Arthur will never know your name. He'll never know what you did in his honor. Down there, in the weeks it takes you to succumb to hunger, to thirst, to the bitterness of failure, you'll wish it would all just end." She tilted her head, a smile touching her lips. "But it won't be that easy."
Emrys met her eyes. His lips twisted in a harsh smirk. "Bring it," he said.
Morgana, in a rage, swept an arm to beckon her guards. They dragged him away from her. But, just before disappearing around the doorframe, he turned his head to her and winked.
Despite the absolutely abysmal odds of Emrys's escape, Morgana was… nervous.
