Chapter 12 Voice in the Shadows

Morgana stirred on the cot in the bleak darkness of the cave, cursing the chill. A small fire simmered in the pit near her, but she was too cold to retrieve more wood and stoke the flames. She tucked the blankets and hides securely around her, seeking more warmth within their folds. Except for the soft crackle of the fire, silence droned, unnerving her, not even the wind to howl its mocking whispers. The dragons were gone too.

Most nights she slumbered, but never really slept, the prophetic dreams that used to come lapped at the edges of unconsciousness, stirring her to wake. She couldn't grab hold of the images flashing through her mind – any meanings to them obscured in a wisp, for the bracelet prevented those dreams from manifesting. With a soft sigh, she slowly opened her eyes to the Nothing.

That was what she called the place now – the Nothing. There was nothing for the cave, nothing for her existence – for her future. Only Aithusa provided some comfort to her – though Kilgharrah strongly objected to their budding relationship. But left alone to care for a creature she knew little about and could not communicate mostly reduced them to nothing more than mistress and pet curled at her feet.

It was a living netherworld, a solitude of perpetual cold and utter dark, and Morgana wondered how she would endure this crushing isolation. Would gentle affection remain but a faded dream? She shuddered imagining her mind unraveling thread by lonesome thread until she became a hollow waif reflected in Aithusa's blinking eyes. Perhaps a decade hence she would forget longing arms or laughter joy or sunlight warmth. Would she ever again feel the comforting touch of another human being? In this hour, she would even welcome Merlin's.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, but she wiped them away with stinging indignation. She couldn't allow self-pity; she didn't dare show weakness in front of the dragons, especially Kilgharrah. There were no gray areas between them – they despised one another. When they did communicate, it usually resulted with recriminations and affronts.

But water flowed, lids burning as she wept now, the silent cave broken by her staggered breathing and sobs. Closing her eyes, haunting deeds plagued her thoughts as sleep grasped for hold.

"Morgause," she stuttered with despair, yet not for the loss of her half-sister, but for her actions – what she had borne. Morgause had urged her onto this road, turning her against all she held dear. Morgana didn't know whether she'd already been set on that path, but Morgause had sped up her arrival upon it. One day she was friend to Arthur, Merlin, and Gwen – and a tolerant ward to Uther. The next day, and over the course of a year, they'd become her bitter enemies.

Was that what she'd sought? Had she ever considered seeking the crown before Morgause? Did being Uther's bastard child give her claim to it? Morgause had convinced her that her birthright held power and influence – though her words now echoed hollow:

"Only if Arthur dies – whether it's before or after Uther's death – the crown will be yours..."

Why had she believed? Was it mere anguish toward Uther and Arthur that drove her, or deeper, selfish motivations? Was regicide solely Morgause's desire? Or had she yearned for their power before her sister enticed treason?

"What have I done?" The questions frightened her, grief over ceding her own elusive dreams to her sister's futile plots and blood ambition. "I've lost everything."

"Not everything," came a gentle voice from the darkness. "There's still hope."

"What do you mean?" Morgana asked, a warm, drowsing sensation caressing her, releasing cold tension from her body. Too tired to care from where the voice came, she gratefully received having someone to talk with.

"There's a reason you are in Kilgharrah's care, Morgana. You must trust the dragon."

She scoffed with somnolent anger. "He speaks nothing but ill of me. He has little regard for my suffering."

"I know – it is his way. The great dragon is a solitary creature of the old religion."

"And I am a high priestess!" Her voice cracked with bitterness, her chest tightening as if stones were placed upon it.

"The difference between you and he is great. You both have abused your powers, but you, Morgana – you did not respect the authority of the goddess."

Intensity in the voice magnified, creeping across Morgana's flesh as its gentleness subsided to biting criticism, agitating her upon the cot.

"You did not rebuild the temples and alters. You neglected to gain followers and nurture them – you tempted fate by defying the prophecy of the once and future king."

She shrank from the scornful rebuke penetrating to core. All that the dragon had said about why she was imprisoned was true, yet she defiantly whispered one word dripping in disdain.

"Arthur."

"The king must live!" boomed the voice, vibrations rumbling through her, the hairs on arms and legs excited with goosebumps. She shriveled, retreated between the folds as a hot coldness penetrated. Even the shadows seemed to quiver.

Its tone returned to a calming flow. "You must set aside your prideful defiance and embrace your destiny, Morgana."

Her body involuntarily tingled. Destiny? What was destiny to her but the lonesome tick of time and the slow descent into madness?

"Trust the dragon," it said. "The time is before you to become the bridge between the dragons and King Arthur. Without either of you, Albion will not rise."

Why give hope where bonds are irreconcilably severed? she thought. "Arthur will never..."

"The King of Camelot is also bound by prophecy!"

The same white-hot cold splashed onto her again, sending shivers down her spine and finding no comfort within the blankets. Breath escaped her lips in the dim light.

"His desire to bring forth the golden age is earnest and undeniable – his path straight and true," the voice continued, once more replying with tenderness. "But he has many enemies blocking his way. He will need you. Albion will need you."

Morgana swallowed, her mouth dry, coarse. She shook her head. She could not believe. "I'm sorely out of favor with Arthur – or haven't you noticed? He will never trust me again."

"This much is true, but he will see the value you bring one day. Trust yourself. Trust in us."

"Who are you?" she asked softly, though her heart warmed with an inkling.

"We are the Triple Goddess!"

Morgana's eyes snapped open. A blinding light emanated from a blazing fire pit, several specters lithely entwining each other within it – above it. Ribbons of dazzling colors played across the stone walls, swirled in a cyclone around them, blowing effervescent robes of three ghostly women manifesting with flowing white hair. She shriveled, their icy hot vibrancy permeating the air, her body. She could not behold the goddesses and diverted her eyes, squeezing them shut.

"Bow to the will of your sovereign!"

Morgana woke with a jolt, bolting upright. Panting, wide eyes glanced around the dark cave, the goddesses' words still echoing in her mind. She sucked in a breath, hugging the coverings tight around her shivering frame. Sweat covered her body, the vision's glow now banished to a few embers still sparking low in the fire.

Aithusa was nestled beside the great dragon outside, shielded in the wrap of his tail, the wind eerily whispering its nightly songs. They slumbered peaceably, oblivious to the divine encounter and her violent awakening, revelations now in pursuit of her. She reclined back onto the cot, drawing the coverings, a handful clutched tight to her chin.

"A vision," she whispered with a shutter.

Her eyes widened and she suddenly jerked her bound wrist above the covers – no blood nor pain – not a cursed vision. Relieved, she closed her eyes, exhaustion seeping back into her body.

It wasn't like the dreams that slipped away forgotten as soon as consciousness took over. Nor the cryptic prophecies that had no context and could be misinterpreted. Each word from the goddess was etched clearly in her mind, ghostly images vibrant against her closed lids.

Trust Arthur. Know the dragons. Bow to the will of your sovereign.

Did they mean to bow to them or to Arthur?

"Never," she spat in sleepy denial. "Never to Arthur."

But she wanted to believe. To know she had a part in Albion's birth kindled hope. Yet to parley with Arthur for her release and to aid him in his dream was impossible and so far out of reach.

Though, to cooperate with the dragon would not be a great feat to undertake, however uncomfortable it may become at times. She was a high priestess of the old religion and Kilgharrah, borne of it. She could bend. She could appreciate the knowledge he possessed – his thousand-year experiences. She could learn of his gift of prophesying and share her own knowledge and experiences with him? And the lost dragons he now sought? What could she do to help, to show her well intentions?

They were both here by force – the first thing they had in common. If she ever wanted her exile to end, she must find ways to build his trust and play her part, act upon what had been commanded of her. Kilgharrah had value and she would use that.

As for Arthur, the goddess had spoken, but would he ever see her as an ally and embrace her again?