Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

[ellarose]

Guinevere, for her part, is lying on the floor and waving her legs in the air. While she agreed to their deal, it seems that in Morgan's presence, she's still comfortable enough to sit in any manner of her choosing. "I am not completely bored." She muses after some thought, tilting her head and pausing mid-kick. "But that is only because your voice is so mellifluous, I could listen to it all night." Morgan has a point, though. Do human children have to listen to these tales all the time? Imprinting upon their young minds that men are meant to kill beasts and women are meant to be claimed? The fae's tales are indeed different, but... Gathering her splayed self into an upright position, she sits on her knees and clutches hesitantly at her skirts. There's something vulnerable in her expression as she ponders it, something wounded and reluctant. "The nature of our stories depend solely on the storytellers. We do not print our tales on pages, the way humans do." She puffs out a light sigh. Before the notion of books was so strange to her. Now? In her lonely chambers away from the forest she called home and the voices of her people... she wishes more than anything that she had something. "The ancient ones told many. My sisters, too. I... should have memorized them, when I had the chance. As it is now, I will never hear them again."

Excalibur floods her with warmth on the inside, embodying the embrace of her people. Chin up, child. You are not alone, see? Right. Guinevere ought to focus on what she has-- not what she lacks.

"...Hm. The clever princess strikes a bargain with the fearsome dragon for her freedom. She has to endure a series of tests within the enchanted castle to escape." Guinevere curls her toes and smiles, closing her eyes as she tries to picture the ideas that might come forth at a gathering to fix these redundant human stories. "Or perhaps the princess runs away so that she might hide from the knight who meant to claim her. She relies on the dragon for protection... even befriends her. So when she hears the knight is coming for her poor dragon's head, she nobly glamours herself to look like a dragon. When the knight arrives, he foolishly strikes down the very princess he meant to claim! There is very little time for him to weep over his grave mistake before the true dragon arrives and swallows him whole." When she opens her eyes again, they're bright. "The princess who was once cowardly, running away from her problems, becomes heroic." Guinevere nods to herself, confident that her younger sisters might have enjoyed that one, and then peeks sheepishly at Morgan. "Fae value sacrifice for the earth's creatures above all else. And of course magic is always present! It flows in our veins, after all. Our tales vary, though, depending on the desires and vices of the characters."

Listening to this, chills tickle at the back of the present Guinevere's neck. The stories she loved to tell at camp, the stories she even began telling the children of Camelot -- they uncannily resemble these ones. Maybe not word for word-- but still. Despite the spontaneity of it all, when telling stories she always got this unexplainable feeling that she already told them hundreds of times before. It never made much sense. Now, though? Well, maybe it's all starting to come together? It's admittedly kind of eerie... but also familiar. Comforting, even.

The past Guinevere moves to sit next to Morgan, leaning in close to peer into her eyes. "For a human... you seem rather interested in magic." She presses her hand under her collarbone, where that woman had traced the symbol for her glamour before. Probably wondering whether or not the other woman would be afraid to see her true face. Whether or not she would be hostile, like the forest elder warned. Nervous that she might flinch back in fear. (Which is a sensation that even the present Guinevere is familiar with, to an extent. The way her stomach sank, back when she offered her hand to Morgan for the first time, when they faced those beasts so very long ago. Worrying whether or not she would refuse help from someone like her. A scrappy gangster from the wastes.) "Are you... could it be that you are curious to learn more about it?"

 

[Syntra]

Mellifluous. Oh, gods! Morgan could feel her cheeks heating up already, as if set aflame by that single word. (How did she even do it, really? That she could obliterate her composure this easily, this effortlessly. Perhaps her honesty had caused this? When your eyes were used to the darkness, after all, even the smallest flicker of light could blind you, and their new queen-- well, she was the sun itself. A sole beacon of sincerity among liars, shining and radiant and oh so beautiful, and-- no. No, such way of thinking was dangerous. Dangerously stupid, in fact. She was there to teach her, not to become personally involved with her! The queen belonged to the king, just as the custom dictated. The union may have been... unfortunate, yes, but it was still valid, both in the eyes of men and gods. Defying that would have been a great sin!)

...acknowledging that she was charming wasn't, though. A woman was allowed to pay her peer a compliment, wasn't she? Surely, surely Morgan could admire her from afar, or, technically, also from up-close. As long as her thoughts stayed in her head, everything would be fine. Ideas had never hurt anyone, right? Right! (Besides, ideas and fantasies were all she would ever be allowed to have. The simple truth of that was something Morgan had grasped years ago, when her gaze had wandered where it shouldn't have for the first time-- when she had understood why, exactly, it lingered, and why that was unacceptable. The world wasn't meant for women like her, but again, her mind belonged to her only. And since some people didn't even have that? Oh, she was so, so very rich.)

"That is fascinating," she said, scratching her chin. (Yes, a voice in the back of her head said, focus on that. It's interesting and productive and, above all, safe. Safer than, say, paying attention to how much more alive Guinevere looked when she talked of things that were close to her heart-- how her eyes lit up, and her entire face changed. The sullenness she wore when interacting with Arthur? It was gone, gone, gone! Instead, the warmth of her smile could thaw glaciers.) "Aren't you afraid the stories will die with those who tell them, though? Wouldn't that be a shame? We have various re-tellings of the same myths as well, but usually, they are recorded somewhere. You see, it is our gift to our children. Even if they can't listen to the stories now, whether it's because they are too young to understand or because they haven't even been born yet, they deserve the chance to do so later. That is the power of the written word. It is... stagnant, I suppose, but that is part of the appeal. Using the quill, you can capture a moment perfectly. Capture it, and preserve it for the whole eternity." Ah, if only she could do that with this moment as well! It was just so relaxing, sitting here with Guinevere and exchanging their opinions. Not arguing, of course not, just... offering different perspectives. Learning from one another, really. (Why couldn't more people do the same? Surely, surely the world would be a better place for it.)

"Hmmm," Morgan giggled, "I think I like your clever princess more. She feels like an actual person, you know? Rather than the usual prize." Because that, after all, was what they were-- rewards for knightly valor, and means of motivation for the gallant prince. Ugh. How terribly depressing, wasn't it? Perhaps not if you were the knight, Morgan supposed, but she would never attain that role. No, of course not. How could she, really, when wielding a sword was a man's domain? She had to make do with smiles and dresses, with careful words and vague implications. And those-- well. Those could hardly slay a dragon, now matter how important they supposedly were.

Except that then Guinevere wandered into the forbidden territory, and Morgan felt her heart flutter. (With what? Fear? Desire? The two had been intertwined for her so often that she couldn't tell, truly. Either way, they shouldn't be talking about this. Shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't! And yet...) "Well, yes. It is quite interesting, I have to admit. My curiosity means very little, though, doesn't it? As you said, magic flows in your veins, queen Guinevere. And I-- I am human, so this isn't true for me. Clearly, I can only watch." Just like with you.

 

[ellarose]

"Fae live in the forest and die in the forest. We take care of it, as it takes care of us. And the forest remembers everything." Guinevere answers matter-of-factly, nodding along with Morgan's perspective on the value of the written word. She decides now that it makes sense. The humans, without magic at their fingertips, find other ways to preserve what's important to them. Inventing other ways of holding onto their memories-- it is resourceful, she will give them that. However, she never feared losing anything until now. The earth itself has a memory, every flower and creature. The spirits echo words of the past and spells can weave them into existence. (That is why Arthur claims that he would burn their forest for her hand sealed her fate. By doing that, he threatens to take so much more from them than any human could ever truly realize.) They may be strong enough to survive the flames, to find a new home. But many innocent lives would perish and the roots her ancestors left would be reduced to ash. "I... was arrogant. I never thought I would have to leave."

And then the catastrophe came along. The present Guinevere swallows down the bile rising in her throat. It's no wonder Morgan never heard of the 'children of the forest' before. Without any scripts, or any books... so much must have been lost to time and destruction. Except clearly there are other ways to preserve memories, seeing as they're--

"Although... magical heirlooms are known to carry memories of their own. I was granted one for my sacrifice before I left the forest." Guinevere says earnestly, pressing a hand over her heart. Excalibur. She smiles, her gaze traveling around the room and coming mysteriously close to where their present counterparts are standing. Almost like she can sense them there. "Perhaps this moment will be captured for all eternity as well? A human and a fae. It is rather remarkable, is it not?" Though she is meant to bear Arthur's heirs... there is some comfort in that her daughters of the future will be able to learn through her memories. Maybe someday they will find their way back to the forest she calls home. Or maybe they, too, will befriend human girls and find true peace. One that is not bargained for with threats, but forged with love and understanding. Is it naive of her to think that way? Speaking with Morgan like this, she feels she can dare to hope.

"I don't understand." Guinevere frowns, brow furrowing as she puzzles over Morgan's thoughts on magic. Humans are so strange! They reject so much of what makes them who they are, all for the sake of keeping up appearances. They create strict guidelines for themselves and never wander outside of them, never allow themselves room to breathe and live as they are. (Her dear husband, for instance. Smiling through conversations at great feasts like nothing is wrong-- only to corner her with intense glares and accusations for something she unknowingly said or did when the doors to their chambers are closed. The first time his mask fell, it was... jarring. So confusing that she burst into tears. And then he had the nerve to act cross with her for crying!) Okay. Clearly, the differences between Arthur and Morgan are vast. Very, very, very vast. But they are similar in that she appears to be burying strong feelings of her own. She wants something more. And the frustrating thing is that she is capable of so much more! If only she could see it for herself.

Guinevere takes the other woman's hand in both of hers. "Curiosity is part of what makes you who you are, Morgan. You are the smartest human I know. Why, then, do you choose to deny yourself?" She tilts her head, smoothing her fingers gently over the other woman's knuckles. Feelings are meant to be listened to and followed. This is how she sees the world, how she was taught. How she is. "By merely watching, you are no different than a princess in a tower. I suppose you may learn a little that way. But you will never realize your true potential without trying. Tell me. Why are you so certain that humans cannot cast magic?" She caresses her cheek, then, eyes warm with belief and undisguised admiration. "...What if you were the first?"

 

[Syntra]

"The forest," Morgan repeated, her eyes full of wonder. "Does it mean you can speak to the trees as well? To the flowers, and everything else?" Gods, how vast and mysterious the world was! Clearly, thinking that books could tell her everything there was to know about it was naive-- almost dangerously so. Still, this actually... kind of excited her? Being wrong shouldn't have triggered these feelings within her, definitely not, but it did exactly that nonetheless. (Maybe, just maybe because this proved she could be wrong about other things as well. You know, about the things she wished to be wrong about? And, oh, did she wish for it desperately, in the same way that sunflowers desired the sun.) "Do you just listen, or can you communicate with them in earnest? I mean, do they respond to your words? Do they ask you questions as well?" Existing in a world like that, where every single living creature had their own voice... gods, she couldn't even imagine. What was it that queen Guinevere saw when she looked around? When she opened her mind's eye? Miracles, definitely. Miracles and wonders that would forever stay hidden to Morgan, with her own eyes blind like those of a newborn. (A strange feeling of sadness filled her, but she swallowed it. Why, after all, mourn the loss of something that had never been hers? That would never be hers? Foolish, oh so very foolish.)

"Oh," she exhaled. "A heirloom? What is it? If-- if you don't mind talking about it, of course," Morgan added quickly. "I do not wish to interrogate you against your will." Not when so many other things are being done to you against your will, anyway. "I... find it difficult to contain my curiosity, however. You see, my queen, before you came along, we believed magic to be extinct. Dead, just like all the legends it appeared in. Many of us even thought it had never existed! And honestly, could you blame them? These people had never seen a glimpse of magic in their entire lives, and we're talking about grown men here. Mothers, fathers, even old men and crones. And then, then you emerge out of the forest, and suddenly everything changes!" ...an insensitive statement, as Guinevere probably didn't like most of those changes, but Morgan couldn't help herself. The significance was staggering, and she had to explain just how much that was true! "Everything we thought we knew? Gone, just like that," she snapped her fingers.

Something about her next words made her think, though. "Oh. Queen Guinevere, had you never met a human before your encounter with the king?" Morgan asked, her head tilted aside. "In our legends, the fae interacted with humans often. Under the guise of a glamor spell, yes, but there was always some sort of contact. Was that not true?" That... wouldn't be strange, actually. How many of those stories were lies, fed to them with an agenda in mind? Their ancestors, after all, most likely had had a vested interest in painting the fae as enemies-- as the aggressors, really. That way, they could always conveniently remain the victims!

Guinevere's touch startled her, but what she said? Oh, those words touched something deeper within Morgan. She looked down at her, her green eyes uncertain. "I-- well. There aren't any records of that ever happening, my queen. Magic belongs to you, and to others like you. It is known." ...what if that was another thing they had gotten wrong, though? Yet another misconception, or perhaps a deliberate piece of propaganda? Guinevere, at least, seemed to think so. And out of the two of them, wasn't she the one with the wisdom to discern such things? What if-- what if that which she yearned for was indeed within her reach? Oh, gods, her heart was beating so fast! (Due to her touch, or the implied promise? The promise to teach her?) "I-- I don't know. I suppose I would actually need to be in that situation to know what I would do," Morgan reasoned. A measured, diplomatic response, wasn't it? (The response of a princess in a tower, in fact-- a girl imprisoned so thoroughly she could never leave, for her own mind was the prison. No. No, I am not that. I am no princess, and I will never be one!) Such a bold assertion had to be backed up by actions, however, which was the reason Morgan squeezed her hand right back. "...I'd try it, though. Casting magic, I mean. If-- If I had the gift, I would want to see how it works."

 

[ellarose]

"So many questions!" Guinevere giggles behind her hand. Not that she means to make fun of her for it. If anything, it's enlivening. Flattering, even, for she might as well be the only human who doesn't look at the fae's culture as something to sneer at or erase. Morgan's eagerness to know gives her an opportunity to reel back through her memories, to embolden them in her mind before they can fade with time. Explaining the ways of the forest, though, will be difficult. Oh, if only she could take her there! The spirits themselves could explain everything far more eloquently than she ever could. Or, rather, show her. They do not necessarily use words, but-- ah. Only the experience itself can fill in the blanks. "I will answer them in time. I... have never had to explain the forest to anyone before. It is difficult to put into words."

"Never. I never even left the forest, until..." Guinevere answers in regard to whether or not she met another human before Arthur. She shakes her head gently. "It is all I've ever known. Some fae do leave... though it is rare. Like all sentient beings, we each have a will of our own. What was it you said before? Complex beings with complex desires." Tugging absentmindedly at her curls, she gazes at her feet. "Few don a permanent glamour and decide to live among humans, never to return again. And those who are curious will disguise themselves with the elements and observe from a safe distance. Fae getting involved with humans is historically..." Messy. Though she gets the sense Morgan may know that already. Some fae will murder humans for trampling on their flowerbeds or mistreating animals... while some humans will murder fae they corner as if for sport. Or attempt to claim them as something akin to exotic pets, as Arthur has done with her. There are no defining lines separating good from evil when there is blood to be discovered on both sides. "My people were weary to send me away to a human kingdom. Thus I was given the Excalibur for protection. At this moment, it has no tangible shape. I suppose you could say it lives within me."

Guinevere beams when Morgan's grip tightens. Ah. Now they're getting somewhere! Except... it's up to her to explain, isn't it?

"Well, it is true that you won't be able to perform blood magic. But..." Guinevere trails off, clearly unused to teaching-- especially knowing that Morgan has a good point. It is true that they are different and therefore she will not have the exact same experience with magic. And together, they are taking a path that no man has ever dared to take before. In fact, they're forging it. It is not recorded in any of their books, after all! As a fae, she exists in the space between humans and spirits. Surely, surely she of all people can find a way to bridge the gap between them? "But you see, magic is not something one possesses. Not exactly. We rely on the spirits for a connection to the source. There are many ways in which you can attune yourself to their voices. Seeing as you are a complex being with a soul... well, I believe with enough practice, it should be possible for you to reach them as well."

The scene begins to ripple like water, then, before falling away completely. Red lightning flickers in the darkness it leaves behind, much like it did when Excalibur cried out in the cellar before. A few different scenes glitch by, each one blinking out far too quickly to make any sense of. Different meetings, different lessons.

"Morgan, what's--" Guinevere doesn't finish her question before she's overwhelmed with a splitting headache. The fever from before is returning with a vengeance. Excalibur's cries make a fierce comeback as well. They flood the silence with far more clarity... maybe it's because they're trapped somewhere within the sword's memory bank? Rather than gibberish and static, she can make out actual words and phrases. (Is this all in her head... or is it all out in the open? It's hard to tell the difference in a place like this. Either way, the grieving cries are staggering. Jam-packed with emotion that threatens to drown her where she stands.) My fault, repeats itself in the maelstrom of voices, it's all my fault. And apologies, god, so many apologies. Somewhere within, she can even make out her own voice. From when she apologized over and over in Morgan's mind, when she had her hands around her throat-- Or are they all meant to be her voice? Pain, loss, guilt--

"...It hurts." Unease sits on Guinevere's chest like the tip of a knife, threatening to sink into her heart at any moment. As if any move she makes now will tear her apart. So for now, she instinctually decides to hold even tighter to Morgan. Excalibur must be feeling this too, right? Maybe there's something they have to fix, in order to see the rest of what it was trying to show them? "Is-- is there a way to make it stop?"

 

[Syntra]

"Well, that's only natural, isn't it?" Morgan smiled. "I am interested in what you're saying, after all." And honestly, everyone should be! How come they didn't ask her more questions? Queen Guinevere was of the fae, after all-- fae, whom they had only known from legends so far. Fae, who appeared in fairytales often, but never in their actual lives. Fae, who, as it turned out, liked to keep their distance. Oh, how rare this opportunity was! Guinevere could teach them so much-- entirely new schools of thought could spring from the fae tradition, Morgan was sure. Entirely new concepts, and entirely new conclusions as well. Wasn't that wonderful, the wealth of knowledge they could uncover? (Their discussions had been surface-level so far, yes, but gods, the effects! She could already feel her mind latching onto so many details, in the same way a blind person's fingers would examine an object they were trying to 'see', and just like them, Morgan was beginning to see something. A shape that was entirely foreign, but also... beautiful, perhaps? Like her.)

At the same time, though, the lack of attention didn't surprise her. Guinevere was a woman, after all-- and women weren't meant to be heard. (A fate Morgan knew as well, even if on a smaller scale. Do you think anyone asked her about her research, for example? Pffft! Yeah, right. She was lucky she was allowed to pursue her true calling in the first place, really, and that privilege had been paid for with her parents' death. Because, would she have been allowed to spend her precious time with all those books had her father still been alive? As much as she had loved him, Morgan didn't think so, actually. More than likely, she would have had a child by now. ...what a weird, weird thought. It was also a thought that made her feel sort of thankful for how abruptly his life had ended, and that filled her with guilt.) "That is... wise, I suppose. I assume it will materialize it once you need it?" Morgan asked. "The best kind of weapon a woman can own, truly. That way, they cannot take it away from you." Which, undoubtedly, would have been the exactly the thing to happen had their king's new queen turned up with a freaking sword. (People like them weren't supposed to have claws, you see? No, no, no. Women were silks and songs, and gentle tones and pastel colors. And if you happened to not be that-- oh, fret not. Surely, surely they would mold you into the correct shape in time!)

The current Morgan was so fascinated, so enthralled by the scene, that she didn't notice Gwen's reactions at first. Her hand still held hers, yes, but her attention? It was consumed by what she was sure was past now-- and probably the depiction of the genesis of magic as she knew it, too. Gods! (Could the past Morgan and Gwen have played such a large role in this? Their own... what, shadows? It seemed fantastical, a tale that obviously couldn't be true, and yet-- yet. The Excalibur wouldn't lie to them, would it? Clearly, there was some sort of connection, and the sword wanted them to see it.)

Except that then, predictably, everything went to hell. "Gwen!" Morgan shouted, clasping her hand tighter. "Gwen, what's happening?" Because, whatever was afflicting her, she didn't see it. Something within her mind, then? An inner turmoil that bled through, in this peculiar place where thoughts and actions were one and the same? Gods, gods, gods. If only she could reach for her magic now! (The spirits were still silent, though. Her ears had stopped ringing when this world had swallowed them, but for some reason, that apparently wasn't enough. Perhaps they simply existed outside of their old dimension right now, and so they couldn't find her? Either way, it didn't change the result-- Morgan was weak and defenseless, like the day she had been born. Oh, what a horrible time to be a burden!)

No. No, that's not what I am! I can-- I can still help. "Gwen, I... I think the Excalibur is doing this. Perhaps something unnerved it. I am... gods, I am going to cut you, just a little bit. Your blood may soothe it. I'm sorry, alright?" And she was, so very deeply. (That choking incident, that seemed to bother her so? For the first time since it had happened, Morgan understood Guinevere's pain, if only to some extent. Having to hurt your loved one-- gods, that wasn't a fun feeling.) "We need to see the rest of it," the sorceress reasoned before pulling out a dagger. (A tiny, ornamental thing, but a weapon nonetheless. Her last line of defense, really.) Please, please, let this work, she prayed, and prayers truly were her only recourse here. This was blood magic, for gods' sake! An area of magic she knew nothing about, in other words, and so she relied on-- on this vague instinct. (On a hint of something that had used to be there in the past, maybe, if that girl in the vision had been her. But that was silly, wasn't it? Reincarnation was just a superstition, upheld by those too cowardly to face death!)

Without hesitation, she broke the skin on Gwen's arm, and the familiar smell of blood filled the air. Drip, drip. At first, nothing happened-- but then, then the vision returned, as if the pond upon which it was reflected calmed down once again.

"...how do I contact these spirits, then?" the other Morgan asked. "Theoretically, of course. I don't suppose you can just, umm... send them a letter. Right?"

 

[ellarose]

"It's-- it's okay. Do it." Guinevere grits out through her teeth. Because anything-- anything would be preferable to this battering of raw emotion and hurt. And at a certain point, it became instinct to bleed. To dig into her own fresh wounds, to create new ones. She overcame simple bouts of nausea after dealing with that damned blood cult. This blood, at least, she can say she shed willingly. (Didn't Viviane say something about this, after all? Using the sword without feeding it her blood is dangerous. Arthur and Merlin might have taken some from her earlier... but it's still mixed in with her bastard husband's. What if it drains away with time or use? Call it a hunch... but maybe with enough of her blood, given in small increments, they can cleanse the sword of his blood entirely.) The sharp sting in her arm is nothing compared to the knives in her heart. When beads of blood spill down her arm, a weight lifts from her chest and... miraculously, she can breathe again. Hurriedly rubbing the tears that sprang to her eyes with her free hand, easing her iron-clad grip on Morgan's hand as not to hurt her. "I don't know where I'd be without you." She breathes, managing a weary smile. Dead, probably. No... definitely. She'd be deader than a freaking doornail! "That worked. Thanks." There isn't much time to dwell in the moment, though, because the vision picks right back up where it left off.

"...Letters?" Guinevere scrunches her nose and tilts her head, confounded. (She... uh, does make funny faces when she's confused, doesn't she? Kind of like what Viviane had said.) Except suddenly the blue of her eyes deepens and-- there's a different person standing there altogether. In a different room, lined by tall windows marbled with rain, talking to a different woman. She claps her hands together, wearing a pleasant smile that warms her entire face. "--Letters! Morgan, you're brilliant." She paces, thoughtfully bringing a fist to her lips, before whirling back around to face her companion. Who is... also a Morgan? What!? Another ghost, which means this may be another Guinevere, too? "We can be ever so discreet about your lessons that way. I was warned so harshly about this and I--" She pauses and reaches as if to caress the other woman's cheek, but pulls her hand away at the last moment. Clutching them together before lowing them, as well as her chin. This woman is considerably more soft-spoken compared to the first-- but the resolve in her eyes? It's like steel. "As much as I want to teach you, I cannot... cannot risk it. I must earn Arthur's trust if I am to reclaim the Excalibur and help my people."

"His knights abandoned my sisters, left them to bleed on the ground when the Excalibur would not accept them. The Lady of the Lake was kind in giving me shelter... but I had no other choice but to give myself up entirely." Guinevere continues. "A select few types of fae blood will satiate the earth, that is true... but if too much of it is given at once-- without their consent, no less? Oh, it may even awaken something dangerous. Something otherworldly. It could invite ruination that threatens fae and humans alike. In his quest for greatness, Arthur does not yet realize what he is tampering with." She sighs, shaking her head. "But you do, don't you Morgan? You understand. And I do want to help you deepen your understanding, make no mistake about that. Visit the Lady of the Lake, as I instructed." She hands her a crystalline glass bottle, filled with a red liquid... her blood, perhaps? "And I will send you letters. I will write to you--"

"--I cannot read, let alone write!" The first Guinevere reappears, there, laughing harmlessly at what she deems as a silly question. "No, no, no. The spirits are all around us. But much like the fae, they do not care to be bothered. They have their own business to attend to, after all. They are very elusive, very quiet, as not to be seen. Because while they hold a great deal of magical power... once claimed, they have no choice but to obey the will of their host. By agreeing to help you, they are making themselves vulnerable. Too much misuse and they may become hostile. And in extreme cases, they will overpower a panicked or indecisive host. For that reason, you must be incredibly careful in voicing your intentions. I cannot stress that enough. Working with any spirit can be dangerous. Even for fae." She smooths her fingers gently over Morgan's knuckles again, as if to reassure her. "I do not mean to scare you. But it would essentially be murder to guide you to the spirits without a proper warning. Magic is indeed wondrous... and like most wondrous things, it has a price." There are many differences between human and fae... but many similarities as well. And the effects on the human body may be just as-- if not more-- trying. That said? Several more cautionary words come to mind.

"Even if you invite them correctly... spirits will be numb to your limitations, as well as the limitations of others. You must cut ties with them respectfully if you feel they are going too far." Guinevere bites her lip, then, considering it. "The spirits you attract are your allies. They are not meant to be ordered around, or treated like servants. And if they are insulted, they will retaliate. The trick is learning to listen and to see. You must clear your mind and make space for them. Spirits are just as complex as fae and humans... if not more so. Should they agree with your intentions, they will want to work with you. They will come to you of their own free will and lend you their power." She smiles coyly, then, leaning in a bit closer. "If your intentions are mischievous? You will attract such playful spirits... and they will share your joy in causing harmless havoc! If your wish is to help a lost child in the wood? There are noble spirits, too, who will agree with your intentions and generously spare their time to do a good deed."

"The faces you humans wear are often dishonest or guarded... your emotions unclear and unpredictable. Dangerous, in other words. Many of my sisters believe this is why you do not see the spirits as we do. They reflect your distrust and will avoid you to keep themselves safe. Meanwhile, young fae are taught to be as we are, without fear or doubt... we accept and trust in ourselves. And the spirits? The spirits trust us in return." She muses, watching carefully to gauge whether or not her friend is following her description. Those clever eyes she keeps getting lost in? They communicate that she is absorbing what is being said. Taking it seriously, in other words. Morgan may very well be the first, Guinevere thinks, which is... well, breathtaking. "They value honesty and clarity above all else. For instance... if you ask for mischief? You must deliver and make mischief! Otherwise the spirits will feel that you have betrayed them with false promises."

"That said... if you are aware of the risks, I can teach you how to reach the spirits. Do not be discouraged if it doesn't work right away. Because becoming truly vulnerable in a place like this?" Guinevere gestures around them. This castle, with all the rules and the masks? "I can already tell it will not be easy. It may well take weeks of practice, months... even years. When you establish your first connection, though? It will feel like second nature! The spirits will be drawn to you after that. The world is brimming with them, you know. They're everywhere. And once you begin, you can never unlearn or unsee that." In her eagerness, she inches closer yet-- closer than before... and their noses nearly touch. There's no concept of personal space with this fae, is there? "Now I am curious. Tell me, Morgan. What would you do first, if you learned how to cast magic?"

 

[Syntra]

Visions flickered in front of her eyes, like the flame of a candle in the wind, and it made her feel dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. What was real, and what wasn't? Was any of this real, actually? She had assumed so, for the Excalibur seemingly had no reason to lie to them, but what if this was a trial of sorts? A test to see whether they suffered from delusions of grandeur, for example? Because what those visions implied... gods, her thoughts raced so fast Morgan couldn't even keep a track of them all! (Fate, some voice whispered in her ear. Your fate, and hers as well. On some level, you've always known it to be this, didn't you? Read the writing on the wall. ...which, what?) There was no time to think about any of that, though.

"That makes sense," the other Morgan said, clasping the bottle in her hands. "Caution is of utmost importance, I agree. And, as much as I wish to learn... gods, Gwen. I would never want to hurt you!" (That sentiment, at least, the current Morgan could understand-- she kept it close to her heart, like an amulet they could never take away from her. A mantra that kept her afloat, really. Revenge wasn't a nurturing food, you see? And as much as the taste satisfied her, as much as she craved it, the sorceress didn't actually think she could survive on it alone. It just didn't seem possible. And Gwen-- Gwen was something more than that. Gwen was future, a promise of hope. A life beyond Camelot as she knew it, really-- a real, tangible proof that such a goal wasn't foolish. That the dreams that had kept her alive throughout her childhood were... well, something more than just Morgan lying to herself. Of course she could never hurt her!)

"It doesn't matter where I get to deepen my understanding of magic, or who my teacher is. If this Lady of the Lake can help me, Gwen, then so be it. Once I am powerful enough, I will return for you. I promise." Softly, she squeezed the other woman's hand, and her eyes? Oh, those said everything. (They told tales of love and care, and Morgan had to wonder whether she looked like this as well. Because if that was the case? Everyone in Camelot had to be blind not to see what they were to one another!) "This isn't his victory. He may have you for now, my dear, but it won't stay that way forever. Even if-- even if we have to wait for another life. Eventually, we will get what we are owed."

...huh.

Just when the conversation was getting more interesting, though, the Excalibur re-directed them back to the old memory-- to the one where Guinevere was wilder, and Morgan more starry-eyed. (An innocent, naive girl. She could see it in the way she carried herself, in the way she smiled, and honestly? Something about it broke her heart, for reasons the sorceress both knew and knew not. A tragedy waiting to happen, that was what she was. A doe surrounded by lions, which hardly ended well.) For now, however, the duo in the vision seemed to be safe-- happy, even.

"Sincerity doesn't have to be something to struggle with," the other Morgan smiled. "Not necessarily. It is true that you have to be careful with your heart here, my queen, but as long as you are honest with yourself... well, it isn't that difficult to open up to the right person in that case. Or to the right spirit, I suppose. Lies are but tools, and those who allow themselves to be controlled by them missed the point." Still, the idea of this hidden spiritual world? Oh, how fascinating! Those... those spiritual entities, as Guinevere called them, would surely offer her yet another perspective to learn from. And if they didn't have a corporeal form, wouldn't that imply they had been around for ages? That they had witnessed the events she studied, and often had to use her imagination to make a sense of? Oh, this could change everything!

"Please, teach me, queen Guinevere," Morgan said, more eager than she had ever been. Her eyes shone with determination-- with a thirst that couldn't be quenched. The sudden closeness... well, okay, she did tense a bit, but apparently that wasn't going to stop her. "I-- I would ask them about so many things! Don't get me wrong, my queen," she hurried to clarify, "I might try something more ambitious later, but at first, I would be entirely content with speaking to them. With learning. I'd ask them to show me what happened aeons ago, back when the written word didn't exist. I--"

Once again, however, the vision began changing-- the grey of the castle began morphing into greens and blues, and, oh, alright. Suddenly they were standing under a clear sky, surrounded by plants and flowers and so much life it took her breath away. The lost world, Morgan thought. The heritage that should have been ours. What had happened back then? Somehow, she felt the Excalibur would provide answers soon-- that this entire trip into the past, or whatever it was, was heading towards that revelation. (Guinevere was supposed to restore the earth, wasn't she? For that, she had to know what had ruined it in the first place.)

Morgan looked forward, and-- shit. A pyre stood there, tall and ominous. (A death sentence, or the personification of it. How did she know? It could have been for a festival, or some ritual meant to venerate the gods, or... or anything else! Fire didn't have to mean destruction, dammit. Flames could also cleanse a wound, and lift one's spirits. So, perhaps she could remain optimistic? Despite the strange, heavy feeling in her chest.) Her fears proved to be horrifically true, though, when a pair of knights emerged from the castle. They walked to the pyre, slowly, and between the two of them-- oh, gods, Guinevere. She was half-led, half-dragged to the pile of wood, and the rags they had made her wear? Those suggested that she was not there to watch some fireworks. (She's there to be kindling, Morgan realized with a quiet dread. Gods. They can't-- they can't do this! She's the queen!)

"Guinevere of the fae," an unknown man in white said, "you have betrayed your vows. For this sin, you shall die a traitor's death. The flames shall purify your soul, and burn your sins away. That is our final mercy. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

 

[ellarose]

"Do you fools expect me to grovel on the ground? Those vows were just as shallow as your high and mighty preamble." Guinevere spits, wearing an aura simultaneously wild and dignified. Still a queen in spirit, in spite of the rags and tangled hair. Her gaze is fixed on the looming pyre. Almost... determined. Stone-faced and ready to accept her death. (Damn. If she's scared of her fate, she's doing an impressive job of hiding it. Who knows how long she's been kept prisoner, how long she was forced to wait while knowing it would all end in flames? God-- and what a painful way to go.) The men holding her arms tighten their grip and twist them at horrible angles, not at all taking kindly to what she has to say. Though she cries out, she still manages to bite out more words. "You can burn my flesh away... but not one of you has the power to change my soul. Not even your pathetic king." They bark at her for her insolence-- for being a traitorous fiend-- but she rasps out more words in spite of it. "Damn you all! Show me true mercy for once and get it over with. Lead me into the fire and reunite me with everyone you stole away!"

From where they're standing, even the present Guinevere can feel the intense heat of the flames scorching her skin. While it's heartbreaking and she wants to avert her eyes, to hide away in the crook of Morgan's neck as they tie her counterpart to the pyre... she forces herself to watch. Everyone you stole away... her stomach turns, that bad feeling from before resurfacing. That means that her Morgan must have also-- oh god. Oh fuck. What led them from that innocent first lesson to this total travesty? There's no time to wonder, though, as the fire crackles to life, glows as hot and bright as the summer sun.

Flames creep towards the first Guinevere, lashing up at her feet. Catching on the hem of her rags. But instead of trembling and succumbing to fright-- she smirks? (Probably her way of sticking her middle finger up at all these people who gathered to watch her burn. Horrifying as it all is, she has to admit that it is... kind of badass? Geez.) Looking up towards the sky, she whispers something to herself before vanishing and becoming one with the wind. Twirling up into the air, she becomes both wind and fire, a wheel of flames that rises higher and higher... and the spectacle is strangely beautiful. An elegant dance. Elegant but deadly, as it swiftly consumes the pyre and races towards screaming spectators, towards the castle itself...

The wheel of flames in the Lady of the Lake's vision... could that have been related to this, somehow? Not to mention that all of this started because she saved a white stag from dying at Arthur's hand. Before Guinevere can wrap her mind around this, though, that vision morphs into a new one. It's so dark that it takes her eyes a second to readjust. Except, uh, it does nothing to lessen the weight of dread sitting on her chest.

"My love... I could not bear to read that you suspected me of plotting your murder." A man is burning what appears to be a handwritten letter. And Guinevere's second counterpart, the one with the deep blue eyes, is tied to a stone table in a cellar of some sort. Excalibur is nearby, flickering erratically. The man laughs, then, as if murder is a laughing matter. He's... unhinged. (Just like Arthur, now that she thinks about it. Oh. Well, duh. This is obviously that time's version of Arthur! Ugh. Of course. Who else could it be, anyway?) "Your treacherous spy is in the catacombs facing interrogation as we speak. Did you really send this hoping your dearest Morgan le Fey would come and save you?" He spits his words out as if he really has the nerve to feel betrayed-- when he was the one plotting her death to begin with. (Yeah, there's no mistaking it. Classic Arthur behavior, here!) Looming over her like a second pyre, he takes a dagger from his belt and examines it callously.

"Disgusting! Now you can die knowing your final words never reached her. And what sweet words they were. You promised her your heart. But you should know that your heart is not yours to give." Silently, Guinevere shivers from something that strikes colder than fear. Perhaps it's the way he imposed on a love she made such valiant efforts to keep safe. Arthur saw and stole words that were meant for Morgan's eyes alone. Words that... that Morgan would never get to read. Because they've been reduced to a pile of ashes on the cold ground, along with all her hopes for this lifetime. Another failure. Her breathing comes in thin wisps as he traces the tip in an agonizingly slow line down her throat. "Consider yourself fortunate that I am a merciful man, Guinevere. I will honor your promise and send it to her. Your heart." The bastard smiles and dangles the dagger over her pounding heart. God-- he means to cut it right out of her chest, doesn't he? She's going to be sick-- "And then I will send my knights to crush your silly fae rebellion once and for all."

"The Excalibur will feast on your blood tonight and it shall finally accept me. I will wield it and put an end to that evil witch with my own hands!" Arthur shouts, looking feverish in his excitement. Blood begins to seep through the fabric of her nightdress. Before he can monologue at her even more, though, the Excalibur shines brighter than ever and--

And the vision rips them away again and presumably back to the first...? But there's nothing left to look at but thick clouds of smoke billowing in the air. The first Guinevere is definitely dead and gone at this point-- but she has to remind herself that these aren't just her memories. They belong to the sword as well. (Wait. Her memories. Are these really her memories, though? Is she--) A sharp glow cuts through... and there, lying among the ashes, is Excalibur. Brought forth by the fires of destruction, marking the end of the promised peace between humans and fae. But the sword's mournful cries are soft as it rests alone without anyone there to wield it. Time rushes forward at a gallop, then, as brambles and wildflowers begin to grow generously around it. Paying homage to the wild soul who left it behind-- or maybe signaling a time of rebirth, like spring? The simple scene gives her a moment to catch her breath amidst this storm of... of death. Death that she's dreamed about, in bits and pieces. Or even-- experienced?

"Morgan, I think... I need to sit down." Guinevere still has her hand over her heart, as if instinctually to protect it from Arthur's blade. As if she had experienced being strapped to that table firsthand. "They're us. I mean, that's obvious. But--" She grips her hand tighter. Well, the other Morgan had said it herself, right? Even if they have to wait for another life...? They're different-- and yet the same? But how is that even possible? "I'm not just imagining it, right? All of this... all of this feels familiar somehow."

 

[Syntra]

Morgan watched with growing horror as the flames licked Guinevere's feet, hot and red and hungry. (Averting her eyes would have been wiser, she knew, but at the same time? She couldn't, couldn't, couldn't! Something about the scenery was almost magnetic, and her neck, it seemed, had turned into stone. No, there was no escape from this. 'Watch,' the voice in the back of her mind said, harsher than gravel. Could a sound hurt? Because this one did, in this vaguely distant way. 'Watch, Morgan le Fey, for this is the price of failure. Don't you dare to forget.) So, yeah, Morgan obeyed-- perhaps for the first time in her life, she did not question the authority, and just went with the flow instead. Why, though? Because it felt like a respectful thing to do, maybe? Probably. A person was dying before her very eyes-- a person that may or may not have been her love, or some version of her, but that didn't matter. Not now, anyway. What mattered was that her life was ending, and the spectators? Oh, they were thirsty for her blood, eager for her pain. Nobody deserved that kind of departure! Nobody, least of all the innocent woman bound to the pyre. So, even if the old Gwen couldn't know, Morgan would act as a counterbalance. Where they cheered the flames on, she would weep-- where they laughed at her suffering, she would pray for a swift end. Fair, wasn't it?

And, as the flames danced, both beautiful and terrible, tears did wet her cheeks-- how could they not, really? She'd never seen a scenery this terrible, this overwhelming. The smell of burning flesh assaulted her nose, and Morgan wanted to look away, but gods, she had promised, and-- oh. Suddenly, the pyre was gone. Instead of that, Morgan was looking at a... garden? Okay. Okay, why not! The Excalibur's taste sure was eclectic, for she sure as hell did not see the connection between the execution and this-- this oasis of calm. Or perhaps it just thought she would appreciate a change of scenery? ...or perhaps not, Morgan thought when the other Morgan walked into her field of vision, accompanied by the king. Uh oh. Why did this feel like watching a doe turn its back on a wolf?

"Yes, my king? What did you want to discuss?" the woman asked. "If this is about the lessons--"

"No, not at all, lady Morgan," the king smiled. (That smile was danger-- she knew, in the same way a mouse knew to avoid cats, but the same couldn't be said about her other self. Because, the trust in her eyes? It was genuine. Genuine, and so, so foolish.) "I am satisfied with your services, truly. No, this is about your research."

"...research? Well, hearing that pleases me. What would my king like to know?"

"You can start with," his smile morphed into a smirk, "explaining why you tainted yourself with magic."

"What? I-- no, I--" Oh. Oh, now Morgan understood why the king (Arthur?) had chosen the garden for their confrontation. Because, you see, it was so convenient to turn around and push, and watch the woman plummet down a well. An unfortunate coincidence, right? For nobody would be foolish enough to accuse a king of murder-- not when his word was the law, anyway. No, only those who had gotten bored of having their head attached to their neck would do that. (...huh, so that was how she had died. Alone, and without making a difference. The magic she had supposedly learned? It did little to fight gravity, or the frailty of human bones. One impact, and poof, shattered, just like her dreams.)

Bile rose in her throat, but the Excalibur didn't give her the chance to recuperate. Before she could even fully process what she had witnessed, something grabbed her by her hand, and pushed, pushed and pushed-- a cold shiver ran down her spine, then suddenly, Morgan was standing in a dark room. (Gods, couldn't the sword at least warn her?! Some heads-up would have been nice, really.)

"Open the door, witch! We know you're hiding in here, like the rat you are. Come out, and perhaps we shall be merciful. It's not too late to repent!" ...yeah, Morgan thought, right. Because the world is so kind to those they deem to be witches, right?

Her other half seemed to share her sentiment this time, for her response was to drag a bookshelf in front of the door. (A makeshift barricade, and not a perfect one, but it would do. It would have to.) "Leave me alone, fiends!" Not-Morgan shouted, her voice like a whip. "Or I shall curse you, your children and the children of your children. And I curse your precious king as well! One day, he shall be devoured by his own greed. I swear this, on my name and everything I deem holy." ...which, of course, was a bunch of nonsense. Curses didn't work like that, Morgan knew, and her counterpart must have known as well. Still, the pursuers? Those didn't know, and the silence that followed her proclamation was deafening.

Hmm. So she did that to distract them, possibly so she could escape unscathed? Wise, Morgan supposed. Except that, no, that didn't seem to be the case-- the other woman's eyes shone with magic, with something powerful enough to shake the earth itself, and then she raised a dagger. (It was no ordinary dagger, either. The runes that covered its blade, gleaming in the light of torches? 'Death,' they said, but also 'rebirth' and 'wheel'. Change personified, in other words. What on earth...?)

"Let my own blood be the seal," she muttered, and then, gods, then she plunged the dagger into her heart. There was pain, pain sharper than anything Morgan had ever experienced-- she couldn't walk, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Nothingness embraced her, just like a mother would embrace a lost daughter. Was that where she belonged?

And, as if to answer her question, the strange gravity from before seized her again. This time, though? It brought her back to Guinevere-- her Guinevere, the one with kind eyes and the prettiest of smiles. The one who heard her, and could talk to her as well. (The one who wasn't... well, dead.) "I-- I think they are," Morgan had to admit. "Did you see the vision with the magical ritual? You weren't there, so I guess not, but I saw myself casting something. Something huge. Gwen, this may be the key to--"

"The key to what?" someone asked, and-- oh, of course. Arthur, with the Excalibur in his hand. (Had the sword also shown him visions? If so, it hadn't done him any favors-- his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept for days, and within, there was a hint of something alien. Madness, perhaps? Oh, gods.) "But yes, yes! You are right, my dearest sister. I've seen myself kill you two again, over and over. Clearly, I had the right idea before-- I just need to do it properly now." And, with that, he lunged towards Guinevere.

 

[ellarose]

A ritual? Guinevere's about to ask -- would have asked-- if someone else hadn't asked first. Oh. Why now!? The bastard's very existence permeates this world of memories with the scent of burnt flesh and blood, but she nearly forgot that he was in there with them. Unspoken questions dry up in her throat as she turns to look at him, exhausted and exasperated. Arthur. Their faces may have been different, but those eyes... they belong to the same man who ordered her to burn, the one who cut her heart out of her chest. Killed her, killed Morgan, and would readily kill them both again. He stares at her with a bloodlust that sinks her stomach. Eager as ever to create another tragic end to their story with his own hands and he-- he pounces at her. Shit!

Move, move, move! Guinevere knows this, damn it! Except her feet refuse to obey her as Arthur doubles before her eyes, disorienting her. Two versions of Arthur, two flashing blades of steel, coming for her all at once. Right or left? Which way should she--? A tangible pulse vibrates the air itself and the force of it blurs the scenery itself. Thrown off-balance, she staggers to the left, avoiding what might have been a fatal blow. That doesn't mean she escaped unscathed, as the blade grazes her and a sharp pain assaults her left side. Blood drips from the fresh wound, near where the vision's version of Excalibur rests. The jewel embedded in the hilt emits a soft blue glow beneath the brambles. Is... is her blood from the present resonating with the memory, somehow? Heavy rain begins to fall, then, pelting down on them relentlessly-- and it suddenly occurs to her how strange it is that she can feel every drop. Soaking through her dress and sticking wisps of hair to her forehead. Wait. If she touched the vision's sword, does that mean she could actually--

But before she can even attempt to pursue that line of thought, Arthur charges at her again like a bull in a china shop, taking her fatigued body down like a ragdoll. After fighting all those monsters in the cellar, in the great hall-- performing new spells and losing so much blood? It's no wonder she's completely spent. And the weight of his armor is absolutely crushing her. Every inch of her aches, her head is pounding in sync with her heart. His voice is all warbled in her ears from the impact-- but judging by his expression, she's sure he's calling her a worthless bitch again. This can't be how it ends. Not-- not again. But Arthur will kill her without hesitation, without remorse.

"Stop it! Let go of me--" Guinevere hates herself for pleading with a man who is clearly beyond the point of being reasoned with, but what else can she do? There's no time to reach for magic, or ghosts, or weapons. Now it's just Guinevere... and it's practically her instinct to freeze up beneath him by now. No, no, no. She can't let herself revert to that, or-- or it's game over. It's like Morgan said, right? It's not over 'till she stops fighting. Besides, how many times has this bastard pinned her like this by now to have his way with her? How many times has she truly been allowed to fight back? Never! (Because before there would have been grave repercussions... but now? Now it's a matter of survival, damn it!) Summoning up all the anger she'd buried up until this point, she writhes wildly under him and manages to free one of her arms, effectively raking her nails across his face in retaliation. "Get the fuck off!"

Howling out in pain, Arthur loses his composure (if it was even there to begin with... which is, uh, doubtful)-- but not his grip on Excalibur. The same can't be said about his grip on her, though, and she takes advantage of the situation to slip out from under him, crawling backward to get as far away from him as possible.

Feeling something sticky and wet on the earth, Guinevere lifts her palm to find... blood? "What...?" Blinking in confusion, her gaze darts to the ground she just dragged herself over... and she discovers the third ghost (the third Guinevere, most likely) sitting in the space she had only just occupied. Seemingly catatonic over a large and complicated symbol of blood on the ground. Miserable and sopping wet with rain, her eyes are dark as a starless night and it's deeply unsettling... like peering into empty eye sockets. Could this be some kind of magic, too? "--Finish it." She speaks gravely, completely unafraid. Arthur can't seem to tell the difference between the two of them in his haze as he staggers forward and unhesitatingly sinks Excalibur down into her counterpart's back.

And instead of crying out or sinking to the ground in a heap... the other Guinevere turns to stone? The ground beneath her begins to wilt, painting the grounds with a deathly shade of grey that anyone from their future would deem familiar. Wait-- what!? Gradually, Excalibur itself begins turning to stone as well. When Arthur tries to wrench it free before it can be stolen from him forever-- it snaps in half. Kind of like it's a toothpick and not a legendary sword. Once her connection to the sword is severed, the flowers cease their wilting. And presumably, the rest of the earth is spared. At least for the time being.

Oh god. Oh, that's-- there's a lot unpack about that, huh. About all of this, really. But there's no time. No telling with Arthur will do next. "Morgan! Behind you." Guinevere gestures, because she doesn't want to say it outright. She doesn't want him to catch on. But that other Excalibur-- the vision's version that's still in one piece? Right now, it's closer to Morgan than either of them. There's no guarantee that it's the real one... but it's worth a shot, isn't it? For now, she keeps her eyes trained on Arthur as he mourns his broken toy. Alongside his... his own counterpart, who's essentially doing the same exact thing. Ugh, this is such a headache! But no way is he going to catch on to what Morgan's doing on her watch.

 

[Syntra]

The second the bastard touched Guinevere? Oh, the anger Morgan had been nursing for years exploded, and she saw red. "Leave her alone, you piece of shit! Do you hear me?!" It seemed that the answer was no, though, for he didn't even flinch. To him, Morgan may as well have been air. (And, really, how was that surprising? She had always dwelled in the shadows, more dead than alive-- a mere shell, fragile enough that coughing in its general direction could shatter it. A marionette, with its strings firmly attached. Why should he be afraid of his pitiful sister, who wielded power but was afraid to use it? Whose spirit had been broken long ago, by loneliness and neglect and grief? Except that, you know, that wasn't who she was. Not even remotely. A phoenix always rose from its own ashes, and Morgan-- Morgan had enough of them to fill a whole damn cemetery. So, no, she wouldn't allow him to walk all over her again!)

Not having access to her magic was unfortunate, of course, but magic wasn't all she was. There was the rest of her body as well, wasn't it? Just like everyone else, she had her legs, and arms, and-- okay, the idea may have been stupid, but it wasn't like Morgan could choose from a plethora of other options. Plus, the heart pounding wildly in her chest? ...uh, let's just say that it didn't exactly create a peaceful, stimulating environment for brainstorming. (She had to do something, and she had to do it now, and this was the last chance they would ever get, and, gods, she didn't know, know, know--) And so, seized by the madness of a mouse driven into a corner, Morgan jumped on Arthur's back and sank her teeth into the soft, exposed flesh of his neck. Blood filled her mouth immediately, which, gross. The sound he made, though? Oh, that was the sweetest of melodies.

"What are you doing, you crazy bitch?" Arthur shrieked. "I knew I should have killed you, back when you dishonored our family. Rotten to the core, that's what you are!"

"Run, Gwen!" Morgan shouted, hanging on for dear life. "I can-- I can slow him down for you." That, and only that. Because, without her magic? She was defenseless, like a fly who had gotten stuck in a spider's web. (The ropes clung to her skin, with this familiar, bitter kind of finality, and in that moment, Morgan knew. It wasn't hard to recognize the steps from this dance she had apparently danced so often, really. No, the pattern spoke for itself. Death was knocking on her door-- and, if Gwen were to survive, she had to let it in.) "Just go!"

Arthur, however, didn't seem to like that prospect. (Guinevere was his, after all-- his to kiss, his to kill. Such a meagre difference, right? Only two letters.) Before Morgan could do anything, he was holding her by the throat. Aw. Aw, shit! Air was being squeezed from her lungs, and, gods, it felt like they were on fire, and... she really was going to die here, wasn't she? Without accomplishing anything, too. The vision would swallow her as Camelot collapsed around them, along with everything they had fought for. Gwen, I-I'm so sorry...

"Pathetic," Arthur spat out, and then he released her. Morgan dropped on her knees, powerless. (Was that why he had done it? Because he knew she wasn't a threat? Or did he plan to make her watch as Guinevere died, robbing her of the one thing she held dear? Of her hope, her love? No! No, you can't do that. You can't win every single time, dammit. That's-- that's not fair! ...which, laughable. Had karma truly worked on any meaningful level, Arthur would have strangled himself on his freaking umbilical cord! Instead, he had been born a prince, and allowed to marry Guinevere. Was that the gods' justice?! If so, then-- then Morgan rejected them all!)

Gwen fought on, though, because of course that she did. (Her lioness, her only true knight in shining armor. Hers, hers, hers, in all those previous lives and now as well.) Then the timelines blended, as if the walls separating them came crashing down-- as if everything fell into place, maybe? Gods, so many impressions! Drowning in them would be the easiest thing in the world, really, if Gwen didn't seize her attention instead. What? What is she...? Oh. Oh, indeed. It was the Excalibur, shining like a lighthouse in the darkness-- the only star on an otherwise empty sky. A new beginning, but also a way to end it all. 'Take me,' the weapon pleaded. 'Do it. You know you want to.' And, yes, Morgan did want that, alright. More than anything else, even. Consequences no longer mattered, the sorceress supposed, so she grabbed the sword-- grabbed it, and felt power surge through her body immediately, from her heart right to her fingertips. Ah, how wonderful! So this was what Arthur was addicted to, huh? Little mystery, then, that he had never learned how to let go.

"Hey, Arthur," she called out, her own voice sounding strange to her ears. (As if it no longer belonged to her only, maybe? Underneath it, she could her thousands of different voices, like a choir from ages long past.) Maybe Arthur heard it, too, for this time, he did turn around. And when he did so? Morgan stabbed him with all her might, with rage older than she was, and... uh, okay. The Excalibur went up in flames, burning through his armor as if it was but paper. The issue with that, though? It wouldn't let go of her, either. Oh damn, damn, damn!

 

[ellarose]

"Morgan!" Guinevere shrieks as the erupting flames reflect in her eyes. (No, no, no! It can't end like this. If Excalibur burns her up after-- after she went and suggested she take it into her hands in the first place, then--! Oh, bile is rises in her throat so fast that she nearly retches on it. My fault, my fault, my fault. Those voices with teeth converge on her like a pack of wolves. But she's got ignore it, got to act, damn it!) She sure as hell wasn't gonna run away back when Arthur had his bastard hands around Morgan's throat-- no freaking way will she abandon her now! What to do, though? This Excalibur was the one that revealed itself after her other self burned away... does that have something to do with this spontaneous combustion? But if this is some kind of riddle, or a puzzle, she can't take her sweet time solving it. (Not to mention she's freaking terrible at solving riddles!) Every moment she wastes is a moment Morgan hurts. So without any semblance of plan, she throws herself forward to try and pry the flaming sword away with her own hands.

And... huh. Somehow, after seeing Arthur's armor melt, Guinevere expected to experience a scorching pain unlike any other. Instead, her hand sinks into flames as easily as water... and she absorbs them into herself, because-- well, why not? That seems to be the way these things work. Heat dances inside her veins and she struggles to breathe properly as the sensation overwhelms her. Child of the winds, you became a child of the water to escape the flames that devoured you. A voice speaks, velvety smooth and calm. As your kind fell victim to human avarice, you became a child of the earth. You fought to help them regrow their sacred roots. The voice is joined, then, by the sensation of other voices. The needs and wants of countless others piled on her shoulders. It's been months... but it's distinctly what she felt in that disturbance zone. They shackle her, as they did back then, with tendrils and claws that drag her down, down, down into a dark place with no exit.

Where's Morgan? What became of Arthur? Well, there's no way of knowing for now.

Shadows slither around Guinevere like serpents. She finds herself sitting on what might be a mirror-- or perhaps the surface of a still lake that refuses to take her under. Because she can see her reflection. The dark, hollow eyes she saw on her former self peer up at her. Somehow, it's familiar in more ways than one. But why? It never mattered how hard you tried. You lost so much, child. In your grief, you struck a bargain to stop the wheel of fate from turning. You desired a permanent death. An end to your suffering. The voice's consoling tone hardens after that. Excalibur desired more than that. Do you understand?

Guinevere finds she can't speak, but she does. She understood the implications the moment she saw the flowers wilting beneath her former self, revealing a devastating gray beneath. The voice seems to take her thoughts as her agreement, apparently reading her mind. God, the whole catastrophe-- could it really have been-- wait a second. The way this voice speaks of the Excalibur implies that... this isn't the same presence that took ahold of her the night of the banquet, nor earlier when she sought the sword in the cellar. This isn't the spirit she's meant to be forging a partnership with, not the one that's going to forge her connection to the sword. It's not warm, nor friendly... and yet it is distinctly familiar.

Then the sword was tampered with. The terms of our bargain were tampered with! The voice is vehemently angry now. The accusing voices accosting her are hard to sort through, now, but... Guinevere doesn't understand this part. What bargain? What terms? But now you can surrender yourself, Guinevere. The shadows take a tangible form, regrowing their talons and digging into her skin. Oh. Those void-like eyes staring at her -- she's beginning to remember. It was one of the first spells Jennifer showed her. Back when she boasted that none of her 'friends' could use the same types of spells that she could... the way her eyes emptied of color and frightened her to her core. That can't be connected to this, though, can it?

When the time comes, surrender yourself and the Excalibur. Your love will finally be free to live a long, happy life... without you there to ruin it. Several voices hiss, then, as if shedding a disguise. Revealing poisonous fangs. Those were your own words, were they not? It's your fault. You brought magic into her life. Made her suffer. Guinevere presses a hand to the side of her head, trying to fight it, to clear her thoughts as the accusations consume her mind so entirely. Made everyone suffer.

The word everyone echoes over and over and the ground beneath her trembles and shatters, dropping her into the scene she inhabited before. She finds herself beside the version of herself preserved in stone, with a circle of dead earth around her. Preserved like a delicate statue, peaceful and tragic. She touches her counterpart's cheek, then, finding the damp stone is cold to the touch. "What did you do?" Guinevere whispers, slowly bringing her hand to her own chest. "...What did I do?"

Shaking her head, Guinevere recalls the circumstances before she up and vanished and rushes to Morgan's side in an instant. She takes her hands in hers very gently and peers down at them see whether or not she'd been burned. "Are you... are you okay? You're not hurt, are you?" She asks, her words thick with guilt. Blinking hard, she tries her damnedest to shake what just happened. When the time comes, the voice had said... what does that mean? She has bled a lot by now. Excalibur could reach for her at any moment. There's no telling how much time they have. No telling what's going to happen next. Surrender yourself. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that it was going to..." Fuck. Now she's crying. "Morgan, I think I caused-- caused the--" Her sentences are broken up in her panic. "I need to take responsibility, right? I have to pay for it somehow. So there's something I should say in case I--" Unless... unless it's selfish to say it now. To say she loves her and then disappear for good. What is she supposed to do? It's not like she can just ask Morgan which option she prefers!

 

[Syntra]

Gods. Gods, so this was to be the last chapter of her life? An epilogue written in fire, rather than ink? Morgan would be lying if she said she hadn't expected it, sort of. (Anyone would have been able to see that coming, really. A pyre, after all, was the standard fate for witches-- at least for those without connections, without family members powerful enough to buy them forgiveness. And Morgan's family ties? Well, those could easily turn into a noose wrapped around her own neck. Relying on Arthur for protection would be like trusting a fox to guard your henhouse, and the sorceress had always known. Always, even back in the times when her naivety hadn't allowed her to acknowledge the fact. So, yes. The fire part? That didn't exactly shock her. The fire coming from the Excalibur, though, and melting Arhur's armor in the process-- alright, that was new. A fresh plot twist in the stale waters of her life, really.)

I suppose this is fine, Morgan concluded. It really, really wasn't, but what else was she supposed to do? Scream and cry? Beg the gods for mercy? Try to communicate with the sword, even if it couldn't hear her voice? None of that would release her from her shackles, nor would it change the course of her fate. The gods especially didn't care. They never had, even when she had been little and her prayers genuine, so there was no reason to assume it would be different now. Why, after all, help someone who had strayed from the path? Who followed the teachings of the old, heretical and forbidden?

No, Morgan was alone in this-- just she, the flames and her brother. ...who would have guessed they'd actually die together, huh? Yet another twist, no doubt hilarious to the gods that observed the whole debacle. At least I will always have this, the sorceress thought as she watched Arthur's face contort in pain, grinning despite the flames crawling closer. (He screamed something, probably at her, though what did it matter? Just words, words, words, foolish and empty. Words couldn't touch her, couldn't so much as graze her skin. Her actions, on the other hand? She had killed him, even if he was technically breathing-- and Arthur knew that as well, which made it all the sweeter. It was my hand that did this, Morgan reminded herself. Mine, and nobody else's. Was that such a bad way to go? No, not really. She had hoped for something more than that, granted, but this wasn't terrible-- it wasn't a complete loss, at the very least. Arthur's regime was shattered, Guinevere was free. So what if she couldn't enjoy the fruits of their labor? It wouldn't-- wouldn't--)

Tears pricked her eyes, uninvited and unwanted, but then-- oh. Gwen, because, duh. She had promised, hadn't she? That she would always come for her, and now she was here again. (Morgan had told her she trusted her, and she had meant it, too-- in her limited way. Humans were fallible, you see? So, translated into literal speech, it would probably be closer to 'I mostly trust you' or 'I have no reason to distrust you.' After that display, however? Oh, she should update it, alright. Update it to 'I trust you fully and forever,' for she deserved no less.)

"Gwen! What are you-- oh." Oh, indeed, for the flame disappeared-- immediately, as if an invisible hand pushed some magical button and cut off its supply of oxygen. Meanwhile, Arthur collapsed on the ground, his body seemingly lifeless. (It... didn't actually look as if the fire had burned him? There were no marks on his skin, no nothing, and yet he lay there like a broken puppet. Served him right! A fitting end for one who thought he could play with others' lives, as if-- as if they were just dolls made for his personal amusement, really.)

Morgan breathed a sigh of relief-- a sigh she had been holding for weeks, months, years. (Lifetimes, even, if those visions could be trusted.) When Gwen appeared at her side, though? Anxiety once again gripped her heart, and possibly harder than ever before. What could distress her Guinevere to this degree? No trifling matter, surely. Yet, despite that - or maybe because of it? - Morgan kept her cool. "Gwen. Gwen!" she put her hands on the other woman's shoulder, as if to ground her. (To provide a stable space in the unstable universe, maybe.) "Calm down. I have no idea what you're talking about. Explain, please?" Because, once she knew what was happening, they could actually do something about it!

 

[ellarose]

"Fuck." Lost in in a whirlwind of thought, Guinevere squeezes her eyes shut and rakes her fingers through her hair. Though the memories Excalibur have shown them strike with familiarity, it doesn't mean she remembers them in vivid detail. Does she carry accountability for those actions and mistakes with her-- even if they happened in other lifetimes? They're the same and yet so different. Those other versions of herself walked the earth so long ago, they knew far more about themselves than she ever did. And for her, all of this shit is still only just sinking in! (No, sinking in may be too generous. No-- this information is slamming into her like a train!) How is she supposed to make any sense of what she should do next? Would following that voice's instructions even help her atone? Surrender herself... surrender the sword... Death may be a suitable punishment for causing the freaking apocalypse, but will it fix anything? Who knows! "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Calm down, Morgan soothes, and Guinevere knows she's right. She's always right. It's easier said than done, of course, but for the other woman's sake she tries her damnedest. Breathing in and out slowly, she ushers all of her fears and doubts out. The attempt isn't wholly successful, but it's a step in the right direction. Stop. Think for once. Because trusting her own gut is impossible when it's twisted and tangled in knots. For now, taking Morgan's approach, looking at the solid facts they've gathered up until this point, will help her make the right decision.

"Excalibur's powerful enough to restore the earth." Guinevere glimpses her stone counterpart, the death earth surrounding her, and then cuts away. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Her eyes flicker and shift and for the first time she finds herself having trouble focusing on Morgan. She breathes a hysterical laugh, then, as the horror of it all rises back up inside her like a tidal wave. "Safe to assume it's also powerful enough to break it, right?"

Pulling away, Guinevere walks to her past self and drops down to inspect the circle of graying earth. "What if it--" She chokes on the words. "I think it could be my fault."

Her gaze wanders around, then, as she examines the idle vision for more clues. Oh. There's Arthur's seemingly lifeless body on the ground. (He's... is he really dead, or--? Well, he won't pose a threat for now, at least. Not armed. Not moving. And if he's gone for good, then good fucking riddance! There are far more important things for her to be concerning herself with for now.) There's that complicated symbol of blood on the ground... which remains a topic that she would know absolutely nothing about. However, another curious detail is that... around them, the rest of the earth still flourishes. Still lives on.

"Unless..." Hm. The world continued turning on without this version of herself-- presumably for thousands of years before the catastrophe took effect. Guinevere notices the shattered Excalibur out of the corner of her eye, then, lying abandoned on the ground. The one Arthur wielded before. The sword was broken back then, too. That's what the mirrored vision of those events implied. So what happened to it afterwards? (The sword was tampered with. As well as the terms of the bargain... that's what that voice said. And then there's the matter of that voice altogether.) This story is just as incomplete as the sword is now. "Unless it's not. And something in here just wants me to think that. Wants me to die."

Self sacrifice sounds noble on the surface level, doesn't it? It's what Guinevere's always resorted to, if she felt she could make a difference and better the lives of those around her. But is it really noble if she doesn't know what's going to happen afterwards? Shouldn't she trust herself to wield Excalibur properly... over that mysterious presence she knows absolutely nothing about? And even if this is her fault, isn't approaching the sword with a death wish the very thing that started this whole mess in the first place? Isn't Excalibur a partner that reflects her own desires? Rather than fighting to die, shouldn't she fight to live? Fight with a future in her mind and heart?

Alongside that conclusion, though, a sinister presence creeps up on her from behind. Shadows slither and accumulate on the ground... forming a claw that rises out of the ground, sharp and reaching, reaching-- Guinevere snatches the broken Excalibur into her hands on instinct and spins to strike it down. It writhes and hisses. "--What. Did you think you were gonna convince me to die that easily!?" (It might have, honestly. It might have... if her love wasn't there to ground her. Thank god for Morgan. Seriously.) She stabs down a second time to finish the job, but the creature dissolves back down into the earth and retreats to recollect itself. She brings herself to her feet... rushing to Morgan's side and taking her hand. "Before you said something about a key. A ritual?" The ground rumbles, though, interrupting her... and the shadowy creature rises again, taking a larger form than before. Christ. Her broken stub of a sword won't do much against that utter monstrosity. "Fucking--" She tugs on Morgan's hand, "Shit! Come on-- we've got to run!"

 

[Syntra]

"...I suppose?" Morgan raised her eyebrow. The thought experiment was interesting to be sure, but why had Guinevere brought it up? As a fun diversion? No, that didn't seem too likely. (Gwen's mind didn't generally explore such nooks and crannies, mysterious and seemingly disconnected from the outside world. That just wasn't her style. Daydreaming, as Morgan imagined, probably wasn't encouraged in the wastes-- not when it could freaking get you killed. And that she no longer lived there? Oh, that mattered very little. Gwen was still a survivor, with her old habits etched into her skin, and practicality was her only religion.) "Where are you going with that thought, though?" For some reason, Morgan guessed she wouldn't like the answer-- perhaps due to Gwen's tone, the tension in her shoulders, or some combination of both. And when her love did speak up? Yeah, the prediction came true, alright. Very much so!

"...that's nonsense," the sorceress said, entirely too quickly. (Perhaps that was why her words were free of conviction? For Morgan spoke to soothe, not to express what she truly thought, and that-- that was a mistake. A mistake born out of kindness, maybe, but still a step in the wrong direction. Guinevere trusted her, dammit! Why, then, sully that trust by treating her like a child? ...no. No, she had to be honest.) "Well, I mean... maybe it's not. I guess it could be true." How could you refute a hypothesis without knowing the necessary facts, after all? Without seeing the full picture? You couldn't, no way around it. (Morgan didn't like the implication, of course she didn't, but that didn't mean she could sweep it under the metaphoprical rug, close her eyes and pretend it had never existed. No, that was a fool's way. Arthur's way, to be more precise, and where had it led? To his own death, as stupid as the man himself had been! ...following in his footsteps, then, would have been even more short-sighted.)

"But even if you did cause The Catastrophe somehow, it doesn't necessarily have to mean anything. Not for us, anyway." 'For our future,' Morgan meant to say, but she didn't dare to. Not right now, and not like this. (Guinevere hadn't said it outright, but Morgan sensed it, you know? Every crime needed a punishment, and-- well. With that grief-stricken look in her eyes, it wasn't difficult to guess that dark thoughts ruled her mind. Stupid, noble thoughts revolving around self-sacrifice, doubtlessly, which, ugh! Morgan didn't even want to acknowledge those, really. Doing so would lend them some sort of credence, and... gods. Gods, she wouldn't be able to handle that! Not when they had slain the evil dragon, broken the dark curse. Wasn't this supposed to be their happy ending?!)

"Don't do anything stupid, Gwen," Morgan warned her, her voice shaking slightly. "So far, we know nothing about what truly happened. So, no rash decisions, okay? I won't stand for that!" She prepared for verbal battle, drawn out and brutal, but thankfully, Gwen saw reason. Gwen, however, seemed to be the least of their problems.

"By the gods! What the--" A monster, that was what. A beast forged from nightmares, except that they happened to be very, very real. And with her magic still out of her reach? Yeah, Morgan took Gwen's advice and ran. Ran and ran and ran, until it felt like her lungs were on fire. "I don't-- don't think it has anything to do with that," she managed to say. "I altered fate, I think, and..." Altered fate. Ah, of course! That was something you could only do if you stood your ground-- if you fought, even against the overwhelming odds. (Especially then, really.) And cleansing? Cleansing wasn't a passive act, either. Which meant that running would get them nowhere!

"Gwen! Gwen, stop," the sorceress grabbed the other woman by her sleeve, and made her turn around. (Made her face the shadowy monster, really. It hissed and snarled, as if to threaten them, but Morgan? Oh, she wasn't afraid. Not anymore.) "This is all wrong. It's just like that trial, remember? We aren't in your dreamworld, true, but similar rules apply here. There's a symbolic meaning to your actions, and... well, running away doesn't feel right. It can't be right! You still have the Excalibur. A broken holy sword is still a holy sword, so I think you need to fight. We need to fight! ...somehow."

 

[ellarose]

"Symbolic...?" Guinevere instinctively adjusts her posture for a fight when Morgan stops her, tracking the monster with her eyes. That's right. In her dreamworld, they encountered that other version of herself. (A creature made up of shadows in the same way that this monster is. Except she's got a sinking feeling that this big ass monster isn't just going to melt away with a hug.) Out in the wastes, it was wise for her to pick her battles. Knowing her own limits, avoiding fights she felt couldn't win-- there's no shame in that. Prone as she is to throw herself into danger, even she knows. Hell, that's how you survive in a place like the wastes! No matter how strong you were, how skilled you were at taking monsters down... lacking that sense could get you killed. Here, though? All of those rules are obsolete. If this is a symbolic fight, like Morgan says, then she has a valid point that running away won't solve anything. What if it's a test? Except-- "Okay. Okay, I get what you're trying to say, but--"

Guinevere jumps backward to dodge a shadowy claw, holding her arms up protectively in front of Morgan. But how!? She wants to ask, but that 'somehow' implies there's no solid plan for them to fall back on. Which is fair, considering how quickly this was sprung on them-- but damn it, they've got to come up with something! All they can do now is outlast this thing until they come up with a strategy. Thankfully, switching into that mindset is second nature for her. The issue here is that she's totally spent-- not to mention that Excalibur won't function like the sort of blade she's accustomed to using. They'll be backed into a corner at this rate!

"C'mon, Excalibur. Give me something to work with!" Hah. Okay. Guinevere doesn't know why she's talking to the sword, exactly. But she's freaking desperate here! Right now, it's just a hilt with short, jagged pieces sticking out where the blade was supposed to be. Powerful as it is, maybe it'll hear her and respond? Except, yeah, no... of course that wouldn't work. That'd be way too easy. She doesn't have much time to deflate over the failed attempt before the giant claw races towards them again. In vain, she stabs out at it, only catching it shallowly in the side.

The creature shrieks, retreating briefly only to return for them with a vengeance-- outstretched to snatch Morgan up, and-- "Oh no you don't!" Guinevere's quick enough on her feet to shove her out of the way before it can touch her. Yeah, that's not happening! Not on her watch! Shadowy tendrils wind tightly around her waist, the monster lifts her high in the air. Her feet dangle, she loses a shoe and her stomach turns somersaults. Still, her grip on Excalibur is still tight as ever. How else can she spur it into action? Well... "Don't worry! I-- I think I have an idea?" She calls down to Morgan, hoping she sounds reassuring when in reality she probably sounds totally unsure. Desperate times, right? She turns the sword in her hand and sinks what remains of the blade into her own arm. Blood. Because it's always blood, isn't it?

Excalibur flickers like a broken light and then beams-- so blindingly bright and hot that Guinevere... drops it onto the ground. "Fuck!" Real smooth! Except the scorching charge it administered continues to send shockwaves through her, reigniting the distinct heat she felt in her veins when she absorbed those flames before. There's the sensation of a door being unlatched somewhere deep inside her, something caged coming loose. Amidst a storm of sensations, she hisses quietly and her teeth lengthen for the span of only a second.

Lost in the feeling, Guinevere's hands spark and dissolve into crackling flames. She burns the monster and it howls, slackening it's grip on her and slinking so she hangs closer to the ground. Except it still won't release her, the stubborn thing! And, uh, now the scene itself is setting in and she's understandably beginning to freak the freak out. "What the--" She's on fire! Or to put it more accurately... she is the fire? The moment she acknowledges that her hands have vanished is the same moment they reappear and her skin cools to its normal temperature. Uh huh. Okay. That was... a thing. Yes. It was a thing that happened. Oh god.

It's reminiscent of becoming one with the wind, right? Guinevere saw her other self do it just a short while ago-- even did it herself, when she went looking for Morgan! But it's still a freaking bombshell. "Holy shit. Did you see that!?"

Unfortunately, Guinevere's far too distracted to notice some of the shadow creatures sneakier tendrils are discreetly snaking around and reaching to snatch up the Excalibur she had dropped on the ground.

 

[Syntra]

In theory, fighting the shadow sounded like a good plan. Because, symbolism, right? In magic, symbolism meant everything, and so a single act of resistance often translated into a successful rebellion. (The triumph of spirit, you see, was also a triumph of flesh. Everything was connected, on a level much more meaningful than most people thought. Could you, for example, move your limb without thinking of it first? No, of course not. It was the thought from which the action was born, and magic-- magic was the extreme case of that. What else was a ritual, if not converting thoughts into energy? Into what you needed them to be?) Unfortunately, though, this wasn't a ritual. They were facing an enemy, one made of shadows but very, very real, and Morgan... damn. Morgan had no idea what to do! ('We' need to fight, pffft. Yeah, right! The pronoun tasted sweet on her tongue, much like honey, but the actual reality of their situation was way more bitter than that. Words alone couldn't change anything, you see? They couldn't give her back her access to magic, nor could they make her actually useful. What was a sorceress without spells at her disposal, after all? Without the spirits whispering into her ear? An empty husk, that was what. An additional burden Gwen had to carry on her shoulders, really.)

Needless to say, Guinevere did carry it, and she carried it well. (Apparently, a survivor could take a lot. It was no wonder, really, for in the wastes, she likely had had to take care of her friends countless times-- a leader's purpose was to protect her people, after all, and unlike her dear brother, Guinevere understood that duty. Because, the way they had looked at her? Clearly, they had relied on her for guidance, and that trust must have been earned. By now, looking out for others must have been a second nature to Gwen.) Still, her ability to do so didn't make this situation right! Morgan should contribute somehow, dammit. This was their fight, for their future. How was it fair, then, that she got to do nothing? It wasn't, and the sorceress would never be able to meet her love's gaze again if she didn't rectify it! Gods. Gods, I need to do something. Anything aside from just... standing there and attracting its attention!

So, while Gwen fought the beast, Morgan picked up a stick. It was, uh, a creative solution, and also a very creative weapon, but at least it was something, right? ...or not, the sorceress concluded as she watched the stick phase through the monster, its shadowy body unaffected. (Which, duh. Of course she couldn't hurt it like this! This wasn't a hungry wolf, or something similarly mundane-- the creature was dark and filthy, born out of the darkest wishes, and trying to slay it via the usual means was like attempting to drink an entire lake. Useless, useless, useless. Useless, and stupid as well!)

Still, there had to be something for her to do. Now, Morgan didn't hope to be a hero-- the role belonged to Gwen, and besides, she just wasn't the type. Manipulating the events from shadows sounded more like her style, you know? Except that that approach wouldn't help them now, and Guinevere was in danger, and-- wow, okay. Okay! The sorceress had always known she had fire in her, but she hadn't expected it to be so, uh, literal. "I did," Morgan said, as flabbergasted as Guinevere herself. "This is beyond my scope. This is-- well, your magic, not mine. The magic of your people." The children of the forest, just like Viviane had said. Oh, if only the woman had lived a little longer! There were so many questions that would remain unanswered, all because of a cruel man's whim.

And then Morgan saw it-- the tendril, making its way to the Excalibur. To the Excalibur, that was inconveniently out of her reach as well. (A trained runner might close the distance in time, but her? The woman who had spent most of her time locked in an ivory tower? Hell would freeze over before that happened, Morgan knew.) Dammit! If only the spirits--

'You don't need spirits,' a familiar voice said, and a woman's figure emerged from nothingness. (Her other self, or at least one of them. How did she know? Easily, just like she could recognize the sound of her own heartbeat. It belonged to her, and this life had once been hers as well.) 'Not when you have us, anyway. Our ability to cast spells hasn't been tampered with, remember? Open your heart to me, Morgan.'

The time had slowed down to a crawl, it seemed, as the sorceress did so-- something touched her then, gently at first, and suddenly, her insides were on fire as well. Oh, the power that coursed through her veins! It was like-- like nothing she had ever tasted before, and yet a strange nostalgia seized her as well. A nostalgia that would have to be explored later, for Morgan had a job to do.

With a flicker of her wrist, she lifted the monster-- it writhed in the air, like a worm that had just been removed from its hiding place, but Morgan didn't feel sorry for the pest. Not even remotely. "I don't-- don't know how long I'll be able to hold it," she admitted, her green eyes shining with the peculiar, blue-ish hue. "Fire. I'm sure that's what we need, Gwen. Cleanse it, and you'll cleanse the Excalibur as well." It was a wild guess, but it... sort of made sense, didn't it? In this curious, not-entirely-illogical way that only ever worked in dreams. Gwen's death at the pyre had been the beginning, and now she was being given fire powers. A coincidence? Oh, no. Those didn't exist, or at least not in magic. Clearly, fire was meant to bring an end to this as well!

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere slips from the shadow's grip when it rises up, hitting the ground on her back with such a force that she sees stars. As they disappear, she watches the monster writhing in the air above her, mouth falling slightly agape at Morgan's display... because, again, holy shit. "Wow." Fucking attractive, is what it is. Christ. But there's no time to be absolutely stunned by her power when she mentions not knowing how long she'll be able to hold it. "Okay. Okay, that sounds... that makes sense. I'll bite." Fire. Right! Purging a creature of shadows by swaddling it with light makes perfect sense! If she can, uh, figure out how to make it work, that is. Scrambling up to her knees, she immediately makes for the abandoned Excalibur on the ground and reaches it while the monster is held still by Morgan's spell. Clutching the hilt tightly, she stares at it pleadingly before snapping her eyes shut to concentrate. Sweat beads at her furrowed brow. Fire, fire, fire. She's always had one burning inside and now it's time to... set it free? Except that it doesn't come as easily as one might think. "...Come on."

Guinevere's heart pounds so hard it might burst when heat floods through her a second time... but her fingertips only manage to snap out a few useless sparks that dissolve on the air. Damn it. But she wouldn't have survived for this long if she were the type to give up on the first try, so she tries to push for it again. Except she achieves the same result. Again and again. Sparks and useless puffs of flame fly around, like a wounded dragon choking on its final breaths. No, no, no. "I can't let everyone down. I can't. Not when we've come this far." She murmurs too quietly to be heard, the words falling off her lips in fragile shakes. Her friends are out there counting on her! The people of Camelot. Morgan. And maybe even the dying world itself. Though she derives a desire to live with those thoughts, the pressure pressing on her shoulders increases a thousandfold.

Raised among humans and it shows. You are overthinking this, child. A light voice brushes by like a passing wind. Soft and sympathetic. You are indeed strong... but you have been manipulated. In your mind, you cannot escape. You are still a captive of your fate. A tool to be used. The whisper becomes grave, then. Guinevere, you will die here.

Die here, die here, it repeats and Guinevere hears the crunch of the earth as the monster breaks free of the spell and lands back on the ground. It was inevitable, wasn't it? Of course Morgan couldn't hold that hulking, vicious thing forever. But hell if she didn't do an admirable job. Guinevere just... couldn't get her shit together in the time she had generously given her. With her head hung, she hears it approaching, doesn't even realize she's crying until she feels a drop hit the back of her dirtied, bloodied hand. How did she manage it before?

Your fault, die here, your fault. Huh. There are two fresh cuts in her arms. The one she gave herself on the left and the one Morgan had given her earlier on the right. Her blood had turned down the volume of those horrible voices before. And only her arms agreed to embrace the flames. There was that sensation of something shackled somewhere inside her. By breaking the skin, a few of those chains were shattered. The price was her blood. But there's still a padlock on her heart. And if Excalibur is the key, then that can only mean one thing. Guinevere finds that her mouth is dry at the realization and swallows hard. Does this mean she has to--

Before Guinevere can bolster herself to prepare for what she needs to do, the monster closes in and bats her around like a cat with a ball of yarn. Ears ringing, she can't find the strength to lift herself up again before the thing seizes her by the throat. Die here, your fault, die here. Her grip on Excalibur is tight as ever. And now it becomes a choice. Does she die here at the mercy of this creature, or does she-- does she take her fate into her own hands? (Because if she doesn't dare to try, the end result is death anyway. She knows her limits. Knows she physically can't take anymore.) And her gut? Her gut tells her to go through with it. Her gut says... it'll be fine. If she learned anything about the fae by listening to the first version of herself speak, it's that they follow their instincts. It happened with Arthur, too, didn't it? Morgan stabbed him and the blade itself was engorged in flames. Afterwards, there wasn't even a scratch on his armor. So... so...

The fire is inside of her-- it always has been. And there's a way to set it free, she knows it. Guinevere stabs into the creature with all her might so it releases her... when she hits the ground, she coughs and rushes to collect herself. Fumbles to turn the sword's broken blade towards her chest. Alright, deep breaths. Calm down.

"It'll-- It'll be okay! Trust me." Guinevere manages a reassuring smile for Morgan. That future where they lay together in a flourishing garden, unbothered in the shade of a tree, sharing stories-- it exists. It has to. Despite what she's about to do, she's sure of that. This isn't her surrender. This isn't death. It's for the symbolism of it, right? By opening her heart on her own terms, she'll embrace her fire and let it loose. But... but if not, in case it all ends in disaster, then-- her eyes crinkle with undisguised warmth. "I love you, Morgan."

There's so much more to say than that, honestly, but it's not like she has the time to make a grand, romantic speech. Especially considering that the monster is recovering from the blow, preparing to strike her again. Now or never. Closing her eyes once again, this time Guinevere appears at peace-- even as she stabs the broken Excalibur into her own heart. And as the world goes dark for her, Excalibur sparks and shines brighter than it ever has. Ah, you're finally awake! You kept me waiting, little firebird. Where she once was, there's a blazing fire. If one squinted hard enough at those flames, they might have seen the shape of a figure inside... a figure with long hair, a flowing dress and a renewed sword. How does it feel to be free? The shadowy monster rethinks it's approach at last, yowling as it cowers from the light. There's no escape as the flames race towards it with a sort of wild grace, eating it up limb by limb with wheels of fire.

 

[Syntra]

Come on, come on, come on! Morgan repeated in her head, gritting her teeth so hard they hurt. Endure it a little longer. A few more seconds, that's all she needs. Gwen had never failed her before, dammit, and surely she didn't intend to break the pattern now. Not when-- not when so much depended on her! So, for her sake, Morgan would bear the burden. (The beast that sat on her shoulders, and pressed its claws into her bare skin? The bloody trails it left behind? Oh, none of that was as bad as those years spent in shadows. The pain she had felt back then had to be wrapped in elegance-- in deference, even, for Arthur's fragile ego wouldn't have handled anything else. Had Morgan not smiled as he plunged a knife into her heart, and another and another, all would have been lost. Now, though? The bastard lay at her feet, pathetic and broken, and she-- she could finally scream. A lady's place, huh? Apparently, that was slaying monsters!)

Sweat trickled down her brow, but get this, Morgan held on. It was neither pretty nor dignified, with her mind so stretched so thin it threatened to tear, but the monster didn't move. It didn't freaking move, which was all that mattered! (Plus, the power that coursed through her veins? It was hers--hers, in a way it had never been true before. The spirits had always been gracious about letting her use some of their might, yes, and Morgan would remain thankful, but this was... wow, completely different. The distinction between jumping and flying, really. Right now, the sorceress could move mountains-- she could dry the seas, too, and set the sky on fire. The very cosmos would bow down to her, with starlight serving as her guide. Nothing could stand between her and her goal, and-- oh. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit! It broke free, just like that. A single lapse in concentration, one tiny opening in the dam she had built, and Morgan fell to her knees. Ah, how the tables had turned!)

I'm sorry, Gwen, she thought, too exhausted to even speak. (All of her energy went away, as if someone had pushed an invisible button. Gods! Had the monster absorbed it somehow, via a magical link? Because, if so, then Guinevere's job had just become exponentially harder. Impossible, maybe. What if-- what if she had killed her? Locked the only door leading to their freedom, and swallowed the key? What a horrible, horrible thought! ...it being horrible didn't make it untrue, though, and that-- gods, Morgan had no idea how she'd deal with the knowledge. Her love, killed by her... what was it, even? Hubris?) I failed you.

Then, as if wanting to confirm her suspicions, Guinevere started reassuring her in the most nerve-wracking manner. 'It'll be okay?' Yeah, sounded exactly like something someone who knew nothing would be okay would say! Especially in a situation like this, with-- with a monster about to tear her apart. And the 'trust me' part? That made everything approximately ten times worse, really. "Gwen, I swear," Morgan managed to say, her breathing heavy and labored, "if you're-- if you're trying to die a heroic death, I'll learn how to raise the dead solely to kill you again with my own hands. Do you hear me?! Don't you dare! I can't--" 'lose you,' she wanted to say, but her throat felt tight and the words wouldn't come, and then-- gods.

'I love you.'

Um, okay. So, it was this easy to shatter her world, huh? Three little words, barely louder than a whisper, and everything fell into goddamn pieces. ...that was just like her, wasn't it? Always dropping these bombs, with the worst timing imaginable! Morgan had hoped to bring her flowers, maybe, and compose a poem celebrating her spirit, not just-- well, say a muffled 'me too' shortly before a creature straight out of their nightmares devoured them both. Surely, those weren't high standards to have!

Except that, as it turned out, they wouldn't even get that meager 'me too'. Maybe because Morgan had slandered it so? Either way, everything around them exploded in fire, fire, fire, and--

When the sorceress opened her eyes, she was... where was she, even? It looked familiar, sort of, but foreign at the same time-- kind of like a dreamscape she had seen before, but forgotten about. Huh, how curious. The flames from before were there, too, licking Arthur's beloved throne... Arthur's throne. So, this was the great hall, then? Which meant they must have succeeded! Immediately, Morgan raised herself on her elbow, and indeed, there she was. Her Gwen, lying on the floor, but very much alive. Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! "Never do this to me again," the sorceress said as she crawled to her, her face wet with... tears, probably. But honestly, could you blame her? She had lost her, twice, and had almost lost her for the third time! "Never, do you understand? Because I love you as well, Guinevere, and you aren't allowed to toy with my heart like this." Gently, she stroked her hair and kissed her on the lips, when--

"Queen Guinevere!" Oh, duh. Of course that Lancelot just had to appear and ruin everything! (Privately, Morgan remained convinced that the knight owned a radar that could pick up on tender moments, or something. A hidden villain, that was what he was! A patron saint of snoopers.) To his credit, though, he wasn't the only one to intrude upon their privacy. In fact, there was a veritable crowd forming near the entrance, with people whispering to each other in hushed voices. "Queen Guinevere, are you alright? What happened? There were-- there were monsters everywhere, but then they suddenly disappeared, all at the same time! Some say that the ground swallowed them."

 

[ellarose]

When Guinevere opens her eyes she finds herself lost in an ocean of red. The red of fire, red of blood. She's overcome with a floaty sensation before a familiar ache sets back in. To embody an element, untamable and free, and then get thrown back into her body, severely weakened from physical and mental exertion... she's never felt anything quite like it before. But the fact that she feels anything at all comes as a relief. In fact, she's hyperaware of her own body. Limbs weighed down with exhaustion, pressed flat against the hard floor. Heart slamming like a sledgehammer against a chest that trembles with every breath. Alive, alive, alive. Meaning she survived it. Hah! Take that, fate! No longer will they perpetuate that same old tragic cycle--

--Morgan? Guinevere hears her voice nearby. Except through her eyes, it looks as though she's been temporarily blinded after having a staring contest with the sun. Thankfully time solves the issue as the spots in her vision begin to melt away, revealing a blurry ceiling overhead. The great hall, of course. And not too long after, she's gazing upon a face. One she would recognize even in the blurry world she's living in now, since she's memorized every minute detail. Can you blame her, though? For the longest time she's had to rely on her imagination to supply a picture of Morgan. Something that'd help keep her sane in this godforsaken place. And now she's right in front of her. Beautiful, tearful. (Still the prettiest bride she's ever seen, even after they've been to hell and back. Maybe that adds to the appeal, somehow. Because she's liberated and the wedding's off!) She might offer to fight whoever dared to make her cry, but, uh... it seems like the culprit in this scenario would be herself. Duh, after that stunt she pulled! A stunt that was wild even for her standards. So the only input she can give in reply is a weak little laugh. (They survived, they're together. And-- oh. Oh. She loves her back.) Guinevere didn't have any words to begin with and she sure as hell doesn't now. But that doesn't matter... because Morgan is kissing her softly. Wow. Are they really back in the real world? The cruel world she knows? Somehow, it seems too good to be true. But it's easy to forget those questions and the world altogether as she melts beneath Morgan's touch. She rests a hand on her shoulder, which gradually trails up her neck and towards her jaw as she deepens the kiss when--

Lancelot interrupts. Well, that's... what he does best, isn't it. But why now!? Their lips part and Guinevere has to swallow down hard on the noise of protest in the back of her throat. Can't they have even a single moment to themselves!? They nearly died-- technically they have died-- time and time again. And now that they've finally escaped that, they should be allowed at least a kiss. An embrace. A few whispered words. But queens aren't supposed to whine like children and duty calls. Which... is kind of strange? After all, since when do people ever address her for things around here? It might have been the norm back at camp. But this isn't camp. This is Camelot. A... wrecked Camelot with a burning throne, but still! It occurs to her with a stab of panic, then, that Arthur is nowhere to be seen. Uh. Isn't he supposed to be here, too? Where did he go?

Giving Morgan a knowing look, she squeezes her hand affectionately to communicate what she can't say with words. Later. They can pick up where they left off later. And finally, finally they'll be free to express themselves in any way they like, without disruption.

"I... I'm okay." Guinevere answers a bit breathlessly, wincing as she tries to sit herself upright. Lancelot is quick to close the distance, to help her onto her feet. God. God, her whole body is screaming at the top of its lungs for her to rest. She has to rely heavily on the knight to keep herself upright. Okay, maybe she's not totally okay? But she is in spirit. To love and be loved in return, is-- well, it's some powerful stuff. "Arthur was messing with a dangerous magic he didn't understand. It lured the monsters here. Morgan and I did what we could to fix it..." She blinks slowly, looking a bit like a frightened doe at the gathering crowd around them. These were the same people who might have watched her burn in another life like it was entertainment. No one seems to be laughing now, though. Not after they've all stared death in the face. So she has to set those feelings aside and take care of them. Because their precious king won't assume responsibility or step up to that particular task. "I guess it must've worked, if the monsters are gone."

No one knows what to say. It might be a tough pill for them to swallow... but the precious king they once defended so faithfully is nowhere to be found. Arthur never showed up to protect them. Sure as hell didn't lift a finger to protect his queen, considering the state she's in. And now he's not there to take care of them in the aftermath, either.

"Never mind that. Is everyone accounted for?" Guinevere asks, carefully surveying the crowd. From there, she compares notes with Lancelot on what needs to be addressed. Everyone is present-- the lords, ladies, children, knights, servants and wedding guests. Essentially everyone aside from Merlin and Arthur. Which is, uh, very unsettling? But it can't be helped right now. Despite feeling too weak to perform any tasks on her own, it's surprisingly simple for her to lay out what needs to be done and find volunteers among the people. That's what it is to be queen without a pompous king present, she supposes. Those who still have their wits about them are willing to do as she asks. Regardless of status, a handful of people help to put out the fire in the great hall. She finds others to fetch blankets, medical supplies, and whatever food could be salvaged from the wedding preparations to attend to the needs of everyone gathered. There weren't any particularly severe injuries among the people. Honestly, those who suffered most were trampled in the initial panic. In typical Camelot fashion, some of the ladies-- even some of the lords and knights-- held pity parties over their insignificant bruises. They're like children! Except that no, that's not even remotely fair to the children she's known in the wastes. They're all survivors, every single one of them. Especially the children. So she can't really help herself when she snaps at one particularly whiny man to get over himself.

At least some have been humbled by the experience. Offering thanks where they might have scoffed before. Accepting the help they're offered gratefully and doing what they can to help in return. There are whispers, though. Doubts and unsettled fears in regards to what happened. Rumors about the monsters underground, about their missing king's whereabouts. No one seems ready to raise any disputes, though. Not yet, at least. Explanations, detailed explanations detailing the day's events, can come later. Once everyone's processed things a little more.

When there's finally a decent system in place to attend to everyone's various needs and concerns, Guinevere takes the first free moment she has to sit next to Morgan. Oh, it'd be so nice to rest her head on her shoulder! But considering the company they're in, she knows she shouldn't. Ugh. They get so touchy over the simplest things! Still, it's in their best interest to avoid ruffling any feathers for now. Especially while the people are in such a delicate state. For the time being, she's got to uphold her queenly image.

"I need a nap." She sighs, "A week long nap." Excalibur put her in a freaking coma the first time. If she closes her eyes now, she might never open them again! The only thing that keeps her going are the needs of everyone around her. As well as the creeping suspicion that their battle may not be over yet. Ugh, she hates to even bring it up. But she does, in a low voice. "Except I don't think I can sleep until I know exactly what happened to Arthur. Did he disappear in the vision? Or... or do you think he's hiding somewhere?"

"Excuse me, Queen Guinevere. I would like it very much if I could retire to my room--" A lady approaches, interrupting her.

"I understand. But you need to wait. Sir Lancelot and his team are still scouting the castle." Guinevere's response is immediate. It comes as second nature, somehow, but... it's still taking some getting used to. Addressing the concerns of these people. Camelot's people. The monsters crawled out of the ground, for god's sake! It's essential to check that the floor hasn't given out anywhere, that there weren't any stragglers to take care of. Or that Arthur himself isn't hiding somewhere. "When he returns, he'll announce if it's safe." The lady nods meekly and scurries off.

"...Lancelot said that Merlin's missing, too." Guinevere switches back into their conversation when the lady's out of earshot, concern furrowing her brow. At least she has Excalibur? The idea of those two waiting to strike in the shadows does little to console her, though. "It makes me kinda restless. Like we're not out of the woods yet." She sighs again and then looks to Morgan with attentive eyes. "How are you holding up?"

 

[Syntra]

Once, all the lords and ladies gave her had been suspicious stares-- 'look at the witch,' they had said with their eyes, 'she's up to no good. Evil and wicked, yes, yes. Beware.' Most of them had found an excuse to leave the table whenever Morgan had gotten too close to their seat, as if her mere presence could taint them. (Wasn't that what filth did, after all? And she was filth, no doubt about it-- a large, dark stain on the shining reputation of Camelot, still there even if she had no right to be. Everyone's collective shame. Shame, and also an uncomfortable reminder that, no, they didn't get to control everything. Despite all those rules, you see, Morgan existed, and that was her greatest sin. Existed as nobody but herself.) Right now, though? A pair of hands was a pair of hands, and somehow, the sorceress found herself standing in a line of people passing buckets of water. Suddenly, nobody flinched when she touched their hand, which... wow. What a strange, strange feeling. When was the last time this had happened? The last time she had felt included, outside of Gwen and her gang? Back when she had been a child, most likely-- before the magic coursing in her veins had awakened, wild like a firestorm, and burned everything to ashes. (Almost burned her as well, really. Still, it was an old wisdom that steel had to be tempered, wasn't it? And perhaps, perhaps that was exactly what had happened to her as well. Without the mark that had branded her as an outcast, after all, would Morgan have found the strength to resist? Would she have continued to fight, fight and fight, with some blurry vision of freedom in mind, when conforming would have been so much easier? So much sweeter? ...yes, she would have liked to say, but that wasn't at all guaranteed. The path of least resistance was seductive, and-- well, she wasn't immune to these things. To gravitating towards the simple solutions.)

So, yes, perhaps it had all been worth something. Every tear shed, ever drop of blood spilled, every time she had fallen asleep and hoped to never wake again-- maybe the gods had demanded it all as a payment for her happiness, and now that debt was paid, paid, paid. (...maybe this was just a rationalization, though. Maybe nobody had demanded such a sacrifice from her, with the wounds inflicted on her soul being just a result of her brother's whim. A cruel game of chance, with no winners and no losers. Still, did it even matter? Because, regardless of the hows and whys, Morgan was here now-- alive, breathing and feeling so, so light. That sense of relief? It felt... dizzying, really. Dizzying and entirely overwhelming, much like stepping out into the sun after centuries of living in a dark cave, but hey, she would manage. Gwen had helped her practice for this moment, you know? Since she was her sun and everything. Her love, who happened to love her in return. ...how had she ever gotten this lucky?)

The magic hadn't returned to her yet, but perhaps that was for the best. People looked at her with newfound kindness in their eyes, true, though it was better not to test their limits, you see? Not after they'd just witnessed the full extent of destruction magic could wreak, anyway. Oh no, no, no, helping like this was much wiser. (Maybe the attitudes would change in time, under Guinevere's rule? Rome wasn't built in a day, after all, and-- Guinevere's rule. Gods! It still sounded like a dream, didn't it? A childish fantasy, meant to distract them from the reality of living under Arthur's boot forever. How wrong that impression was, though! Nobody had acknowledged it with words yet, but they didn't have to-- the way the knights looked at Gwen, expectant and full of respect, spoke for itself. Clearly, their work bore fruit. All those instances Arthur had delegated his duties on his wife because they weren't heroic enough, and thus they wouldn't bring him glory? Morgan hoped he cursed them now, for these were his downfall. Not his inability to deal with the beasts, or his lack of success in those foolish quests-- no, just the pure, concentrated disregard for his people. Kings always served his subjects in the end, you know? For wearing a crown couldn't exactly protect you from being stabbed in the back.)

By the time they got the fire under control, Morgan was bathing in her own sweat, and her cheeks were covered in ashes-- not the picture of a perfect lady, though honestly, she had never been one. Polished manners? Those meant nothing if they also came with agency, with the will to change your own fate. With inner fire, really. (And, besides, wasn't the symbolism delicious? Those were ashes of her old life, of all that she had left behind, and once Morgan took a bath, everything would be gone for good. Her skin would be pristine, just like the day she had been born.) So, without a hint of shame, she went to join Guinevere-- not before cutting two slices of the wedding cake some servants had managed to salvage, though. (Pfft. Where was Urien anyway? Morgan hadn't seen him among the aristocrats, so it was fair to assume he had sat his noble ass on his noble steed and galloped away, nursing the humiliation in his heart. Would this grow into a larger conflict? A war between their kingdoms, maybe? Because the insult likely was enough to shatter his fragile ego, and-- No. Not now! This day is yours, so savor it These problems will find you on their own, so there's no need to seek them out.)

"For my queen," Morgan smiled as she handed her the plate. "As I believe there's a cause for celebration." And more than one, too. "I apologize for my sorry state," the sorceress curtsied, playful sparks in her eyes, "for I would have loved to honor the beginning of your reign with a more dignified look. But, alas! I cannot, so I'm afraid I will have to... make it up to you later." 'When we're alone,' her eyes said. Finally, finally they could fully enjoy these moments! Gone were the times of them having to examine every shadow before they dared so much as hold each other's hand, which was-- wow. Everything Morgan had ever wished for, and more. "Arthur has no power anymore. If he turns up, I'll crush him like the mosquito he is. I promised, didn't I? And I'm fine. Tired, but fine. It's a pleasant brand of exhaustion, though-- feels like a job well done."

Most of the great hall hadn't survived, but so what? They could always rebuild, and perhaps it was a good thing that Arthur's throne had burnt as well. Again, think of the symbolism! "Well, it's not done yet, but surely you know what I mean. Anyway, what about you? How are you dealing with... what we saw?" Because that was important to talk about, right? Especially because Morgan herself hadn't processed it at all yet. "It, umm... certainly was a lot."

 

[ellarose]

"Why, thank you." Guinevere finds it in her to grin cheekily and play along as she accepts the plate. Her reign, huh. Geez. It hasn't even begun to set in yet. Probably won't for a while. It was only a day ago that she was doped up in a bed! Arthur put her through the wringer to the point that accommodating these changes in her mind might take some time. Pushing those thoughts aside for now, she looks Morgan up and down as she considers her words. "I don't know. I think there's something pretty damn attractive about the whole..." She rolls her wrist, struggling to hold in her giggles and find the appropriate words for it. "Apocalyptic warrior bride look." Very niche, isn't it? The sorceress pulls it off with ease, though. Freedom holds a distinct sort of beauty. She's free from the shackles of her arranged marriage and finally-- finally free of Arthur's regime. Morgan had been waiting her whole life for this day. There's so much in store for their future. The wall that once stood in front of them is in shambles, much like the great hall around them, and a road of endless possibilities stretches out beyond it.

When Morgan suggests making it up to her later-- with that look, no less-- Guinevere finds herself blushing. "Later... later sounds good, though. Really good." God, she sounds like a freaking dork! But how can she be anything other than stunned, really, that all of this is real? The fact that soon, they'll be able to spend time together... uninterrupted, without the usual paranoia-- it's like something out of a dream. Rubbing the back of her neck, it takes her a second to catch her breath. "I get what you mean, though. Used to feel this way all the time on the outside. Well, except the scale of all this was..." As usual, her love finds the perfect words to encapsulate it, really. A lot. It was a lot.

"Hah. I'm not dealing with it. Not even close." Guinevere admits, glimpsing the sword at her side. Excalibur's voice quieted down when they returned. No longer demanding, no longer pushing. No longer crying out in pain. Either it's attuned to her emotions, or it's finally allowing itself to rest after years of searching and pulling for her. Maybe it's a mix of both things. "When there's something else to focus on, I just shove it all aside." That's what it was like in the wastes, too. No time to dwell or nurse her own wounds when there were people to take care of and monsters to fight. That was always a good thing, though. Feeling needed, having something to do... that's what kept her sane. In Camelot, where her uses were dwindled down to being a pretty doll-- it gave her too much time to think. To overthink.

"I don't think any of it set in yet, to be honest." Guinevere bites her lip. It's a lot to the extent that it feels unreal. Like a strange fever dream. Reincarnation? Dying by Arthur's hand over and over and over? Becoming one with the elements themselves? The fact that she's not fully human and that she and Jennifer are the only ones left? Oh-- not to mention the cherry on top of it all. The fact that she might have caused the whole freaking catastrophe! "I think I was reliving moments from my other lives in my dreams, ever since we went looking for Viviane. But I still wouldn't have guessed that... we've actually lived other lives." She couldn't have guessed that, really. Who could? Which is probably why Excalibur had to show it to them. She traces her fingers thoughtfully over the hilt. "If I actually..." She shakes her head gently. "I need to amend whatever happened in the past. I have to figure out how I'm going to restore the earth."

"Not that I have the energy for that right now." Guinevere sighs and attempts to expel the crushing weight on her shoulders with a breathless little laugh. She bolsters herself with a smile, then, and gives Morgan an openly affectionate look. "It is a lot. But when I realized that knowing you and loving you..." Another blush graces her cheeks, with the transparency of her own words. "That it's been a constant in my life, probably for longer then I'll ever really grasp... it's reassuring." Ever since she stepped through Camelot's gates, the world flipped upside down and imploded on her so many times! And through it all, Morgan has been at her side to set her right again. To teach and support her. Even now, as everything changes again... the fact that she loves Morgan hasn't. Probably never will. And now they're free to explore an actual future with together, without Arthur and all those suffocating boundaries in place. They survived. Sappy as it may be, the scale of their romance is undeniable, isn't it? A true and beautiful thing to come out of so much pain and bloodshed.

 

[Syntra]

"Is it?" Morgan smiled. "Don't tempt me, Gwen, or I will rip half of my wardrobe into shreds. I shall walk in the halls of Camelot like this, every freaking day." ...wow. Scandalous, right? The Morgan from before wouldn't have dreamed of such a thing, but perhaps Guinevere's attitudes truly were contagious. Somehow, though, she didn't mind succumbing to such an illness? Not when doing so felt like this-- like getting rid of a weight that had been crushing her for ages, never allowing her to breathe. (...wasn't it a cure, then? A sign of a curse broken? And, just like with so many curses, its death had been marked by a kiss. A true fairytale ending-- once that she hadn't even dared to imagine, really. Because, weren't witches supposed to lose in fairytales? To be punished for seizing power in a way the world didn't approve of? Not in this one, apparently.)

"Mhmm," the sorceress grinned, in a manner that was so thoroughly unladylike that it would have earned Gwen a slap on the wrist during their early lessons. But, hey, why not? The curtain had fallen, and keeping up the appearances was pointless now-- much like continuing to play the music after the audience had already left. (Of course, eventually they would have to return to their roles. Not entirely, for Arthur's disappearance had cut their chains, but in some capacity at least-- because Morgan doubted that the nobles would approve of the kind of, uhh, relationship they had. Saying their metaphorical 'to hell with you' to an incompetent king was one thing, though this? Adopting new values overnight, basically? No, she didn't think so. Perhaps in time they would learn to accept them, but trying their luck now, with Guinevere still technically being married... no, just no. She could already see the insults they'd hurl at them-- adulteress for Gwen and temptress for her, all made even more spicy by the inevitable conclusion that she, Morgan, had used dark magic to seduce their righteous queen. So, since sabotaging her own efforts wasn't exactly her plan? As always, her place was in the shadows. From there, she'd whisper into Gwen's ear, and build a new future brick by brick-- something sturdy enough to withstand the test of time. At the moment, however? The lords and ladies were oh so busy licking their wounds, which meant she could afford to be slightly less careful. And, hey, if someone paid a little too much attention to them, they could always say they were celebrating! Since nobody could reasonably blame the queen and her best friend for savoring their victory, with the monsters gone. ...all of them, both real and metaphorical.)

"Something tells me you're looking forward to it, my queen. Hopefully I will be able to service you in the most satisfying manner." Did she enjoy teasing Guinevere like this, dancing around that which could never be said aloud? Well, perhaps! The sorceress had a taste for danger, after all, and this was the most dangerous game of all. (Plus, watching her cheeks stain crimson? Oh, Morgan would never tire of that. The knowledge that she had this kind of effect on her-- well, it did things to her, alright. Pleasant things, with butterflies fluttering in her stomach.)

"Wise words," the sorceress nodded. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Besides, I shall stand by your side always. It will be a daunting task, that I am sure of, but together, we'll find a way." A way that would allow them to be happy-- none of that self-sacrificial nonsense. Morgan just needed her, you see? And if the gods demanded her blood to flow, then she'd burn their heavenly thrones to ashes. They couldn't have her, dammit! Not after she had waited literal lifetimes for her, again and again and again. "But, yes. It feels like you're my anchor, you know? No matter what happens now, I'll have you." This was a territory uncharted, one they had never explored before, though honestly? Morgan wasn't afraid. Fear was stagnation-- a dark beast in your heart, eating away at you bit by bit. What was happening now was the very opposite of that, and she... well, she was excited to find out what lay beneath it all. Beyond the bars of her cage, really.

"I don't know. It feels like it was meant to be, somehow, and that puts me at ease." Perhaps she should focus on this feeling, rather than on what they had lost-- on the gentle caress, instead of all the slaps in her face. Yes. Yes, that sounded like a plan! From now on, Morgan would look forward, her gaze bright and hopeful. Dwelling in the past? Oh, nothing good had ever come of that-- of resentment, and unwillingness to move on.

"However," she continued, daring to brush her thumb against her hand lightly, "if you're tired, my queen, you shouldn't push yourself. You've done more than enough, I think. Not resting is irresponsible, you see? Because for what we're trying to do, you need to be at full strength. In fact, I think I'm morally obliged to give you a nice massage. I know a lot about the anatomy, and not using that knowledge would be such a shame." 'Yeah, and not using it in other ways would be a shame as well,' her eyes said. "Will you allow me to take care of you?"

 

[ellarose]

"Yeah." Guinevere says, her eyes softening with thought. All her life, she's never known anything that lasted. Stability was stolen away from her the instant she was taken from her father. From then on, she perceived the world as a whirlwind of high stakes danger and snap decisions. There were so many people and temporary homes she's said goodbye to. Even Jen left eventually. Though she still has her gang and will always have her gang in some capacity... her experiences in Camelot changed her life so entirely, in a way they may not understand. The knowledge that her friends were out there waiting often helped her to hone in and focus when she needed to. It's not like she could pack them up in her bag and bring them with her. She bit off more than she could chew when she made a gamble with her own life and accepted Arthur's offer. Underestimated the dangers of a place that appeared so glitzy and elegant and shallow on the surface level. Separated from her family and tossed into foreign waters, the sharks would have eaten her alive if Morgan hadn't been there for her.

They survived Camelot together. Survived their travels in the wastes together. And now they can just... be together. No matter what waits for them on the horizon, they'll confront it hand in hand. There's hope to build a better future. Maybe even a home where she can finally stay. The thought alone almost makes her misty eyed. Geez! Who would've thought she could be such a sap? (Well, maybe Morgan brings that side out of her. Having seen her at her most vulnerable points... and still accepting her. Putting on her tough as nails gang leader front in a place like Camelot was discouraged from day one. And sure, Guinevere's still a tough gang leader, but that's not all she is. Bluffing, sometimes acting stronger than she was-- that's how she survived in a treacherous wasteland. She always had a talent for seeming open without being completely open. There was a part of her she always kept guarded, maybe without even knowing it herself. Magic uncaringly smashed through her boundaries, put some of her worst memories on display... and Morgan doesn't look at her any different for them. Doesn't see her as the fragile little doll Arthur was trying to turn her into. Guinevere can be Guinevere, without having to fit a specific mold. Sometimes strong, sometimes weak... and either way, she's still enough.) What also strikes a chord is that there's a reason to want to live her life to the fullest. For those versions of themselves that died too soon, too young. The bloody fight to get to this point can't have been for nothing, right? She's got to atone for a colossal mistake one of her past selves might have made, but that doesn't mean she should just curl up and die.

Oh, Guinevere's in so much trouble. With just the stroke of her thumb, Morgan leaves a trail of electricity along the back of her hand that sends a current through her arm. If she wasn't weak in the knees before, she definitely is now. Good thing she's sitting down, huh? She might have swooned like one of those overdramatic ladies in a storybook! They've been deprived of each other for too long, damn it! The desire to pull her closer and taste the sweetness of cake on her lips is irresistible. Knowing she can't-- not here and now-- makes that even more difficult to cope with. Except there's that promise for later, right? God. Just thinking about it is so--! She blushes red, she's so warm that she might just dissolve into flame again. Trying her best to cool down, she reassures herself that she'll find her chance for revenge... later. Because she can be smooth, too! Just, uh, not right now.

"Y-you're right. You're always right." Guinevere stammers helplessly. Morgan keeps finding ways to surprise her. Offering to tear up her pretty dresses and reducing her to a stuttering mess with confident ease. Even back in Excalibur's realm, when she couldn't reach for her magic at first... the way she found it in her to take Arthur down was so badass! Now that they're nearly free of Camelot's restrictive lifestyle, she's sure she'll only continue to surprise her. "Probably because you know so many things." What is she even saying at this point!? "There's so much you can still teach me. We-- we really should continue where we left off with our lessons..."

"L-later, of course. Because resting sounds..." Guinevere swallows. She can't find the proper words to play along with at first, so she communicates her answer by scooping her hair over one shoulder and shifting in her seat to allow Morgan better access. (How often do others take care of her--? Or rather, how often does she let others take care of her?) Facing away from the other woman helps her heart calm down, maybe a little, but anticipation keeps her on her toes. "Yes, I will allow it. I-- I'll trust myself to your capable hands."