Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

[ellarose]

Did Guinevere remember how Merlin took her body away from her? Oh, how could she forget? What could possibly be as haunting as being a captive of her own body— her intentions frozen still, every muscle and limb betraying her? Driven to dance upon spikes and, worst of all, hold her love at sword point! Material possessions weather and wear or they get stolen. In the wastes, her name and soul were the only things in this world that truly belonged to her. Trained eyes, movements, impulses-- for as long as she can remember, her body provided the sole foundation that her life rested upon. Until her friends came along, the only things she could truly rely on were herself and the sword. The sword, which has always been an extension of herself.

Now Guinevere's body is the foundation that the earth depends upon as well. Rather than allow her the choice of using her gift-- curse-- whatever you might call it to help people in need, they decided to take and take and take for themselves, to use her as a source and nothing more. And when chaining her down and dulling her senses with drugs didn’t work, they went as far as to siphon her soul from her body. They’re essentially doing the same thing to her that the rotting earth eventually did to the creatures that inhabited it. Infecting and creating those vile mechanical beasts.

"Richard." Guinevere says gravely, nodding along as Morgan indicates the man in question. When she goes on to mention that she's surrounded by enemies, she exhales a vexed, huffy breath. "...Yeah, well, what else is new?" Her voice is low and husky with exhaustion. More ruffian than queen. “I was in danger either way. Sounded like these guys wanted to get rid of me long before someone else interfered. Caught these snippets about Arthur not fulfilling his promises and me standing in their way. And surprise surprise, they were planning on drugging me again! I might be queen, but no one’s really been taking me seriously, have they? Like those guards back there.”

Whatever. Guinevere knows respect needs to be earned, anyway. Even alongside Arthur as king, she hasn’t served as their queen for all too long. The only way she can prove she’s worthy is by keeping a level head and making decisions with everyone’s safety in mind. There’re some nasty cockroaches living in Camelot, sure, and those who swear by Arthur’s backwards values. But there’re good people too. The elderly, the children, and those who just don’t know any better. And surely some of them are capable of change! As queen, Guinevere feels a strong inclination to protect the people of Camelot, whether they like her or not.

“Maleagant’s tip brought me here... but I only told Lancelot.” Guinevere replies absentmindedly, her mind already hurtling miles ahead. Suspects are an issue, yes, but there’s no point in panicking when, in her humble opinion, nothing’s changed. She’s been surrounded by vultures from day one— with only Morgan and occasionally Lancelot acting as her allies. Better to move onto the next task than stir doom and gloom around in their heads.

“Merlin threw a piece of metal at me the first time they turned me into their human puppet. I can’t say exactly what was done to me the other night, but... doesn’t it seem pretty likely that they’re using tech from the wastes to do all this?” Guinevere turns towards Morgan, raising herself to her full height, eyes serious. “I heard you got a sample, when the... uh, the other Guinevere healed that wolf.” In other words, they have valuable resources. She presses her fingers to her temple, finding with dismay that it does nothing to ebb her impending headache. There’s so much information she’s learned over the course of the past few weeks, so much that’s been crammed into her head that she isn’t sure if she has room for anything else. Magic, past lives, the souls of dead husbands wreaking havoc, murderous cultists, spikes, spikes, spikes—

Red flashes behind Guinevere’s eyes and she winces. The soles of her feet warm before they go completely numb. Shoving all the hurt deep inside, she sharpens her resolve.

“Morgan, will you run tests on me?” Guinevere asks, angling a hand towards her chest. The concept of being a test subject after, well, after everything sounds about as unappealing as dancing on a bed of spikes again— but she trusts Morgan. And if it’s for useful purpose, then she’ll see it through with her head held high. “It’s like you said. I’ve already been through it. If you find something unusual in me, we can tell the people there’s a sickness going around. We can have everyone in the kingdom examined to ensure that something like this doesn’t happen again. And who knows, maybe we’ll find a way to catch the son of a bitch who did this in the process.”

Right. Keeping the people in the dark about all of these developments will undoubtedly make them suspicious. Suspicious and untrustworthy. They need to act rather than twiddling their thumbs and cowering in the shadows! Otherwise, the culprit may get away with making another move, with taking more lives. Gods forbid, next time the victim may be someone close to her— and not just some arsehats who used to kiss Arthur’s boots. No way is Guinevere going to let that happen under her watch!

 

[Syntra]

Ah, so it had been Maleagant’s tip! How very interesting, wasn’t it? Interesting as in suspicious, Morgan didn’t fail to note-- coincidences were rarely just that, after all, and this one was juicy for sure. How, hmmm, convenient for him, right? That he had provided information that painted him as a reliable source, without actually helping them in any meaningful way! (Three traitors, three witnesses, three corpses. The one responsible for all of this, Morgan decided, is a surgeon, not a butcher. That much is clear. Both of them wielded sharp instruments, yes, and both also dealt with blood, though you know what the key difference between them was? A surgeon favored precision to force, subtlety to flashiness. With all the skill of a master pianist, he played his precious symphony, right to its conclusion-- to the rising crescendo, one composed to awe the masses. And, the kicker? This pianist had disguised themselves as an audience member, as clueless as everyone else! No, there was precisely zero doubt in Morgan’s mind that Maleagant was involved, in one way or another. I wonder, really, what exactly he told Gwen. She had always been too trusting for her own good, but her love wasn’t stupid, you see? Arthur had never been able to see that, the fool that he was, but Guinevere had a keen mind, with a knack for analysis. So, what did that mean? That arguments must have been presented, and she must have considered them convincing enough to give him a chance. And, for that reason… well, for that reason, the sorceress had to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t that she enjoyed keeping secrets from Guinevere, but truly, was there any other choice? Only an illusory one, between protecting the peace they’d seized for themselves and handing it over to an enemy! Which, no, thank you very much. Sooner than that, Morgan would kiss her dead brother’s shoes. I’ll tell her later, once I’ve gathered enough evidence. Now isn’t a good time.)

“A good idea,” the sorceress nodded. “Tests might be exactly what we need. I don’t recommend running them now, though-- for an endeavor this intense, you should be well rested. Perhaps in the evening? In the meantime, we should… uh, get rid of the bodies, probably. Before they attract any undue attention.” Panic was about the last thing they needed, so no, there would be no grand spectacle. There wouldn’t even be a funeral, come to think of it, because hmm, wouldn’t that be a terrible waste? To throw away three perfectly good bodies, possibly full of substances she would like to study? If they had worked for the cult, then it wasn’t far-fetched to think that they may have used, say, medication that Morgan had never seen before-- indeed, examining them may yield interesting results. “Sir Lancelot, can you bring them to the catacombs? I would like to work on the bodies in private.”

“W-work on them?” Blood drained from Lancelot’s face, and no, Morgan did not want to know what he was picturing.

“Yes. Is there any problem with that?”

“No, o-of course not. I will get it done, lady Morgan.”

***

The night came, and with that, everything was ready… more or less. “How do you feel?” Morgan asked, before letting Guinevere lie on the bed. “If you are too tired, we can always postpone the tests. Should any of this cause you discomfort, no matter how slight, you ought to tell me. It isn’t supposed to hurt, so don’t think that you have to grin and bear it. In fact, you shouldn’t. There may be some lingering strangeness, and a sense of being outside of your body, but no more than that.” Their bedroom, usually so light and airy, was dark now, with the curtains closed-- swirls of smoke were dancing in the air, too, and filling it with an otherworldly fragrance. “Thyme, lilac, and marjoram,” the sorceress explained. “Herbs that will allow you to drift away, in other words. Focus on the scent if you can, and let it carry you away. I will be touching you, though only to ground you. I need you to describe to me what you will see there, alright?”

And, with that, Morgan put her hands on Guinevere’s forehead. (The spirits were floating around her, just like always, and really, wasn’t it the easiest thing in the world to reach after them? To ask them to come down, before claiming their magic for her own? The sorceress didn’t think so.)

Guinevere found herself in the wastes, then, with flaming red skies above her head and ashes instead of soil. So deep the layer was, indeed, that her ankles were buried in it-- in those remnants of the old world, remnants that had never been and would never be. Aside from her, the scenery seemed to be lifeless. (What was this, even? Purgatory? Her personal version of hell, maybe?) “Can you hear me, Guinevere?” Morgan’s voice reached her ears, from a great distance. “Just nod if you can. Alright, focus on what you can see. Now, can you tell me what you feel? Whether something there feels… off? You said that Merlin used something mechanic before-- can you perhaps see it there? Or not necessarily that very thing, but an item that resembles it, maybe. Something metallic, threatening, controlling? If so, can you touch it for me?”

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere stares determinedly at the crimson skies above. The air is stale and dead, there’s not even a breeze present to keep her company. Yet it’s so cold. It clings onto her, it’s reach extending to her bones, like an anguished ghost desperate to take possession of her. Aside from that, the only sensation she derives from this lifeless place are the particles of ash tickling the skin between her toes. The lulling scents of thyme, lavender and marjoram that permeated their room were quickly replaced by the sulfuric, deathly stench of the place. After assessing her surroundings properly and carefully, prepared to be her very best to solve the problems plaguing her kingdom, she gives Morgan a delayed nod to her first question. She can hear her. The sound of her love’s voice is the only warmth she derives from this place.

Guinevere understands on a deeper level than ever before now that it’s the sort of landscape that would make her ancestors scream, wail and weep. Hell, she grew up in the wastes and her eyes are stinging and gleaming. She blinks hard, tamping down on the urge to cry out like a baby. The earth hurts, the earth is broken and so is she. Because they’re one and the same. But she has to forge forward. To make things better, she has to.

“It feels hopeless. Like the end of the world.” Guinevere admits, her voice echoing back in the emptiness. At least she has Morgan to talk to. She might not be present in body, at least not here, but she always is in spirit. That’s something she can count on. “It’s even worse than the wastes. And still.”

For all Guinevere’s failings with words, that’s the best description she has to offer. There has to be something more to find. She just isn’t looking hard enough. She’ll never be enough if she doesn’t put in the effort.

Curious, Guinevere takes a few experimental steps forward. Relief pools through her when she finds that it doesn’t hurt. Her feet aren’t torn to ribbons here, the prick of pins and needles gone and she can explore freely. Sinking to her knees, she cups ash into her palms, spreading it around to search for something like Morgan had described. The ground beneath the ash was bare. She buries her fingernails and starts to dig, hoping to feel a flicker, or a shift in the atmosphere. Nothing.

When Guinevere stands, the only thing she has to show for it are dirtied fingernails and skirts. She shivers. If anything is off, it’s this cold feeling she’s been getting. The first resemblance it brings to mind is the feeling of Arthur’s hands on her. “Is it supposed to be so cold…?” Her teeth are chattering now. Rubbing her arms, she walks onward to explore deeper within the desolate setting. It’s getting colder. This information may serve to alarm Morgan, though, so she keeps it to herself. She can handle this, after surviving the wastes. She isn’t a delicate bird, a damsel who needs to be saved over and over again. She can and will find something! She can be useful, too. As the resilient person she is, not just the magic inside of her. This can’t all be for nothing.

‘Guinevere! Let’s play hide and seek.’ A voice, slippery like an eel, enters her ear. ‘If you win, I’ll reveal myself.’

“Morgan, I’m hearing a voice.” Guinevere blinks confusedly, looking around. There’s no figure, not even a shadow to be found. “They want to play a game with me…?”

‘Cover your eyes! You’re cheating.’ Guinevere swallows the apology that’s about to rise up in her throat and closes her eyes, vaguely afraid to spite it. A sound like cracking bones replaces it.

Um. What’s happening? What’s going on? Guinevere's inclined to peek, but decides to follow the rules of the game lest she be punished. It’s not like there’s anywhere to hide, with their surroundings reduced to ash and all. There's not a single tree or stump to be found. That said, however… she couldn't even see the source of the voice in the first place.

“It might be a spirit? It's pretty bossy, honestly. But I can't see where it's coming from.” Guinevere whispers now, a little nervous to catch the voice’s attention. Morgan should still be able to hear her even if she quiets her voice, right? “…Is this, like, a riddle? Where do you hide when there’s no place to hide?” Spirits can hide themselves within living creatures, within nature... but there's none of that here. That mechanical virus, on the other hand, can drive them out. This horrible place is undoubtedly barren because of that. Whatever mechanical thing she's been tasked with finding is responsible for this. What does it even do with all that power after it siphons the life out of everything? Revel in the death and chaos it had wrought? Does it go underground or take to the skies? Or... Guinevere shivers as the cold pierces through her again. She wishes she didn't have to ask for the answers, she wishes she knew enough to find them for herself. But she'd be a damned fool not to lean on her love a little. "Any ideas?"

 

[Syntra]

Hopeless, like the end of the world. What did that mean, exactly? Morgan hadn’t really performed this ritual many times before-- if she had to be completely honest, this was the first instance of it, not counting the trial she had run on herself. Back then, it… certainly hadn’t felt hopeless? Bleak, certainly, though not nearly comparable to the wastes. The realm where her consciousness had been transported was similar to Camelot, to the point that she had suspected her mind had used it as a blueprint, and hey, perhaps that had been the case! You couldn’t create something out of nothing, according to all the major principles. …perhaps, however, there was something deeper behind it. Could it be the reflection of one’s soul, captured by the most accurate mirror in the world? The state of one’s psyche, bare and vulnerable? If so, then what it said about Guinevere couldn’t have been good, the sorceress was aware. Still, there’s no point to actually spilling the beans. Not now, anyway. What would it have brought her, aside from more distress? More distractions for her to occupy herself with, instead of focusing on her goal? No, her love’s mind had to be clear-- clear and sharp, like the swords that she wielded so well.

“Good,” Morgan whispered. “Very good. Look around, and take in all of the details. There’s no need to rush, so feel free to take your time. I can keep you here for… well, for as long as you’d reasonably need.” The stream of magic that was flowing from her hands was constant, yes, but not particularly intense-- a trickle more than a river, really, and at that level, Morgan could probably do it for days. “Be my eyes, my love. That’s what I need right now.”

Cold, though? Hmmm. The tomes… hadn’t actually mentioned that? They had covered some of the more unusual reactions, yes, but not this one. That wasn’t a surprise, of course, as the human mind was an instrument so diverse that covering all of the possible responses would have easily required an entire library’s worth of books, but that didn’t mean it made her happy, you know? Or secure, or delighted, or anything that wasn’t ‘insanely worried.’ “I don’t know,” the sorceress admitted, not willing to lie just to placate her. “I don’t think so. As long as it isn’t unpleasant, however, I don’t think you have much to be afraid of. You must tell me if it starts to feel off, however-- the ritual isn’t terribly dangerous, but it also isn’t risk-free. I count on you to know your own body.” Because, truly, would there by anything more condescending than to claim Morgan knew better? That, from her own elevated position, she understood the inner workings of Guinevere’s mind? No, surely not! Arrogance was to wisdom what poison was to one’s stomach, and she couldn’t afford to fall for that trap.

“A voice?” the sorceress asked, worry leaking into her voice. “I don’t think there’s supposed to be anything like that, Gwen. Stay on guard.” That being said, though… a metallic tracking device also wasn’t supposed to be there, now was it? This was an anomaly, shining bright in the darkness-- something that drew one’s eye, and thus also something to focus on. A clue, if you would. “I doubt it’s a spirit,” Morgan said. “Few spirits are disrespectful enough to invade such a personal space, especially without an invitation. No, everything about this feels off.” Should Guinevere play this game, or retreat when it was still possible? Without knowing the stakes, it was hard to tell, and Morgan found herself standing at a crossroad. It’s like… like standing at the edge of an abyss, with a blindfold over your eyes. How far could they go, exactly? Where was the cut off point, the point of no return? The uncertainty was looming above her head like a dark cloud, but the time for doubts had passed-- they had to act, then and there. “Alright,” the sorceress whispered, “let’s see what it wants. If it tries anything fishy, Gwen, you must alert me immediately. We do not want this to escalate, now do we?”

Hide and seek, huh. That had never been Morgan’s favorite game, and something told her that this experience would not change it. Shouldn’t both participants agree first, in order for this to be considered fun? This entity had pushed it on Gwen, whether she liked it or not, and the sorceress couldn’t help but wonder what its motivations were. (Could her love be agreeing to more than just a game? What if this was a contract, disguised as a child’s play? This thing, regardless of what it was, could be operating under a very specific set of rules, and… ah, but they didn’t really have a choice here, did they? They’d come for answers, so only with answers could they leave! And you never received those for free, that much was obvious.) “It must be hiding inside of you,” Morgan finally spoke. “In your mind, not in the landscape that you can see. Therefore, it is nowhere, and yet everywhere at once. Am I correct?”

 

[ellarose]

“…Oh. I see.” Guinevere does and she doesn’t. Kind of, but not really. How is it that she’s the equivalent of magic with skin and bones when she’s still so very confounded by it? Though her life before Camelot was littered with misery and strife, at least she could see the obstacles in her path. Confront the monsters she had to fight head on. The straightforward approach suits her better, all right? Standing beneath the open sky, sword in hand, wind tossing her mane of curls, playful smirk on her face. That’s where she's confident, where she's Guinevere. Now standing up to her ankles in ash and needing answers more than ever, she finds herself dealing with disembodied voices and metaphorical obstacles yet again. With nothing to hit, in other words. Instead, she grapples with a throbbing headache, an infuriating symptom of her own confusion. What an embarrassment. Standing alone, she admits that she hasn’t felt confident in a very long time. And she doesn’t really know what to do with that. The cold stings along with the hurt it invites, touch as sharp as a razor blade. The tip ghosts over her, like a threat, but it hasn’t carved inside yet. She can keep going. She will keep going, damn it.

Guinevere hasn’t traversed the depths of hell just to become… a shadow of who she used to be. It didn’t destroy her. It didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.

'Keep telling yourself that, Guinevere.' The voice taunts. 'This place is just as barren as you are.'

“You’re here.” Guinevere opens her eyes and addresses the voice, sharp and poised. Morgan’s advice isn’t going to lead her astray, she knows. The landscape stretching before her, all ash and fiery red skies, hadn’t shifted an inch. Carefully, she skims the terrain for anything out of place. “There’s nowhere else to hide. Come out and face me.” She clutches her fists with bravado. "Or fight me if you want, I don't care!"

Nothing. Guinevere tenses, biting her thumbnail when her own voice echoes back at her. Still nothing. Apparently, this voice is taking her about as seriously as her subjects do. Which is to say, not at all. Shit's sake.

“Fine. If that’s how you’re going to be…” Guinevere rises to her toes, relishing the painlessness of it. Hm. Truthfully, she’s been nervous to experiment with the elemental magic her past selves introduced her to during the fall of Camelot. Too busy as well. (Because goddamn, she’s not invincible. How can she be expected to lead a kingdom and tame her oh so miraculous, mysterious magic at the same time? Especially when the kingdom in question attaches magic to such a damaging, misunderstood stigma? She has to make herself so small and quiet when she’s anything but. And, honestly? She’ll never learn like that. She’ll never gain the confidence she needs like that. Never fix the whole freaking earth like that. Queen is a grand title, yes, but it’ll never garner her enough respect to ferry her through the rest of her life. Titles are shallow, always have been.) Using her magic here, though? There’s no one around to hurt with her chaos and her accidents. A place like this serves as an ideal training ground, doesn’t it? Which is exactly what she needs! Training. Plus, Excalibur is comfortably sated tonight. She bled plenty after deserting her wheelchair like a fool. (…Emily’s words, not her own.) Might as well put it to good use. Her blood is so valuable and precious, after all. “Let me try something else.” Reaching within, she searches for familiarity. For sensations of the past. The tickling like the wings of a bird under her collar bone, the sparks at her temples and in the soles of her feet. Serving all her damaging thoughts as kindling to her inner fire, she builds and builds before expelling it.

With a gasp so very small in comparison to the magic she’s unleashing, Guinevere releases wild currents of wind that sweep through the ashes. They scatter everywhere, revealing the plain earth hiding beneath. The ashes whirl round and round, emulating the negative thoughts in her head, until they band together and spin themselves into a whole ass tornado. Oh.

“Oops.” Guinevere blinks once, watching after it. When it harmlessly disappears over the horizon, though, she grins broadly.

“Morgan! I made a tornado.” She beams like a little kid, giddy and light as the wind herself. “It was pretty sick. Now I'm going to try something else.”

Without missing a beat, Guinevere instinctively uses this high to her advantage. Clutching her toes into the dirt and grounding herself firmly, she focuses her energy beneath her instead. I know you're there. She uses a hushed, soothing voice to coax it out, You're sleeping, just like I was. But it's time to wake up now. Blades of grass, mushrooms, flowers rise up to meet her simplest whims, unfurling and stretching out at their own pace. That's it. With her encouragement, they grow grander and greener. Wow. Ha. Who's barren now? Not her! That'll show the voice. At this rate, her soul will be fine in no time. Man, she wishes Morgan could see this! Together, they could finally stretch out in the grass and rest for the first time in...

Guinevere shelves her daydreams for later when the cold brushes her heels. A touch of darkness, reeking of death alongside the fragrance of the flowers. Wait. Something else is rising from the earth. The presence is all wrong, rife with malice and ill-intent. That's when a metal hand, too icy and hard to be made of flesh, snatches her ankle. She stares wide-eyed as a dirty, humanoid thing digs itself out of the earth. Earlier, Maleagant said that her visions had meaning. And she dreamed of this, didn't she? It seemed so silly at the time, when she jolted awoke in her bed safely next to Morgan. She dismissed it as a byproduct of sleep deprivation and an overactive imagination. Or maybe the stew she ate that night. Now, though...

Now she's standing face to face with a zombie-fied Arthur, a monster made of metal and flesh in equal measure. His laugh is a horrible sound, a screeching, staticky blend of every type beast she's had to face in her life. "Zombie Arthur. He's real." Shit, shit, shit!

"So, um... I didn't touch him. He touched me." As fucking usual! Guinevere kicks to try and shake him off. He grips tighter, laughs louder. Fuck! Does that make a difference in the grand scheme of things, that he got to her first? Does Morgan sense anything? He pulls down, as if to drag her into the hole he dug, and she kicks harder. No way is she going down at the hands of this... ridiculously horrific thing. "It's Arthur. Well, it is him and it isn't? He's part metal. That, uh, counts as threatening and controlling, doesn't it?" Nah, she doesn't even need to be told. It's pretty much on the nose! Straightforward. A monster right in front of her, a monster she can fight. Huh. Technically, this is exactly what she wanted.

"Morgan, don't pull me out yet. I think I can handle this." Guinevere insists quickly and vehemently. 'I think' may not be all too reassuring. But, ah, she doesn't have the time to reflect on her levels of self-confidence or her precise wording! "Do you think I could summon Excalibur in here?"

As if replying in the real world, the sheathed Excalibur begins to glow in the dimly lit room behind Morgan.

 

[Syntra]

Were you familiar with the kind of silence that only seemed to exist to draw attention the coming storm? The proverbial taking of breath before the world decided to scream, scream, scream its lungs out? Because Morgan was. She knew it, knew it as well as she knew the pulse of her own heart, and this... this felt exactly like that, for better or worse. "Gwen?" the sorceress asked. "Gwen, how are you doing?" Not too well, something told her, but for once in her life, Morgan decided to be an optimist. Perhaps she was just being paranoid for no reason...? Statistically speaking, there had to be a point in their lives where a) she was wrong, b) the object of her fears wasn't going to try to murder them, and those two might as well intersect!

...or not. Morgan couldn't see what Guinevere could see, mind you, but what her love said? Oh, that reached her ears, loud and clear. "Guinevere," she began, her brows furrowing, "if it isn't cooperating, maybe you should retreat. We don't know what this creature might be planning. What if the cost is too high? I'm sure I will be able to find another way to--" '--find another way,' the sorceress meant to say, but words not listened to were words wasted, and she wasn't one to squander resources. Fine, Morgan rolled her eyes, don't listen to me. It's not like I enjoy my opinions being valued or anything-- talking to the walls is my greatest hobby, after all. (This was like the Maleagant debacle all over again, she realized. An unfair comparison, perhaps, but how was she not to draw parallels here? The pictures were practically identical, with their message being 'Morgan's being a worrywart, so let's disregard her'! ...it hurt, you know? Being respected, though in name only. Being listened to, yes, but only when her opinion happened to correspond with Gwen's own. Was that her idea of queenship? Had it always been? It hadn't seemed that way in the beginning, but... well, maybe she'd been too much of a coward to truly look. When staring into the sun, it was easy to get lost in its radiance, you know? Easy enough to forget that your eyes would get burnt, too. ...still, as much as she'd like to bring Guinevere back, Morgan knew better than that. Doing it against her will wouldn't win her any favors, alright? She probably could drag her back kicking and screaming but the victory would have been hollow-- hollow, and tasting of ashes.)

"A tornado?" Morgan raised her eyebrow. (That was... new, she supposed. New and yet old, considering the previous Guinevere and her affinity towards wind-- with her mind's eye, she could still see her, dancing in the grass. ...would Gwen ever be this free? Not if the people of Camelot had anything to say about it, but gods, was it deeply, terribly unfair. Just, what kind of monster would clip a bird's wings just because it had them? Did they derive pleasure from the anguished screams, or did they only do it to bring it closer to their own level? Disgusting, indeed.) "Fine, I'll assume it was a good thing. You'll have to show me when you get out of there, too! I wonder if the skills will carry over to your physical self as well." There was no reason they shouldn't, as it was still Guinevere who had accomplished it, but magic worked in mysterious ways, so Morgan didn't dare to guess. Perhaps there was some kind of interference between the real world and her inner realm? Often, the two were surprisingly disconnected, and... Arthur. Shit. Duh, of course it was him! Even after dying, her sweet brother didn't have the decency to leave them alone. (Naturally, Guinevere wanted to hear nothing about strategic retreat. Why should she? Something, something, honor, something, something, death wish-- in her love's eyes, there were many reasons to engage him, and Morgan knew in that moment that logic wouldn't help her. Ugh, fine! Waving her sword around it was, just like countless times before. The only problem with that, though? Getting the actual, physical Excalibur into Guinevere's mindscape, which seemed about as feasible as pushing a mammoth through a keyhole.

Think, Morgan. Think. What is it that you're doing wrong here? The sword responded to her love, so clearly, something could be done about it. Why can’t magical artefacts come with manuals? she thought, bitterly. Oh, just how much easier everything would get! Then again, perhaps pushing the mammoth is a sign of foolishness-- perhaps I should merely open the door. Open the door, huh. What did that mean for a place with no entrances, though? With no entrances, and no physicality to speak of? I have to speak its own language. The Excalibur desires blood, so blood is what we should offer. Guinevere’s blood? No, not that, because it had feasted on it already and remained here, separated from its mistress. Where was the problem, then? Where, where, where? Maybe it isn’t supposed to be summoned per se, the sorceress realized. Blood means blood ties, too, and while Arthur isn’t here, I am. Hmm, hmm. What a funny little brainteaser, wasn’t it? “Guinevere,” she said, her voice sharp like a knife. “No, I don’t think you can transport the sword to where you are. You should still be able to control it remotely, however, and I am Arthur’s sister, bound to him by blood. Can you… I don’t know, slice me? To see if it does something to him.”

Meanwhile, the corpse of Arthur approached, the ground beneath him shaking with each step. “Guinevere… mine!” he howled before lunging at her.

 

[ellarose]

"Slice you?" Guinevere repeats, incredulous. 'No' is her gut's immediate response. No, no, no. That's dangerous, unbelievably dangerous! And she's not adverse to the idea just because she's squeamish about making her love bleed-- although that certainly is part of it. When Morgan said she needed her hands around her throat, her dutiful side won over and she supplied them. Even when squeezing down and listening to her pained gasps caused a part of her to die on the inside, she followed through because it was the necessary course of action to get them out of there. Because it wasn't real. Since her relationship to Excalibur is still uncharted territory, she doesn't know how effectively she'll be able to wield it. Let alone like this, from such a distant position. She can't see Excalibur, she can't even see her! Her love can handle a simple cut, yes, and sometimes bleeding is the cost of a spell. But the risks of seriously harming the real Morgan in the real world is tangible and she refuses to chance it. She'd never forgive herself if she got hurt. People can say whatever they want about Guinevere and her insatiable appetite for danger-- but isn't this a golden example of how Morgan has similar tendencies in that? How often has she fought battles in the wastes using spells that seriously hurt her or knocked her out cold? How many times has Guinevere dealt with that excruciating vise in her chest, watching helplessly as blood trickled from her lips? "From here? I don't know what I'm doing, Morgan. I--"

Unfortunately, a certain bastard doesn't let her finish that thought. His unpleasant words crawl over her skin like a spider in the shadows of the night. Welp. Arthur really went and lost his last remaining braincell, didn't he?

"You're dead. Give it up already!" Supposed to be dead, anyway. Does this tie in with what Maleagant said about his spirit? Except no, there's no time to think about this. Skipping a few steps backwards to avoid Arthur's attack, Guinevere raises her hands and focuses on the earth below her. Magic zings to life in her fingertips as she calls up a thick vine, which bends and strikes like a serpent on the hunt. It works... to an extent. Her efforts do put a few extra feet of distance between them. The poor vine, though, withers and crumbles to a pitiful pile of ash upon making contact with him. Mindlessly, he continues to forge his way forward. She responds by sending one vine after the next into his path, each one fated to the same pitiful state of decay. Making a gradual retreat, she moves her arms in sweeping arcs to block his constant pursuit. She stares forward with focused dismay, like a queen guiding and sacrificing one soldier after another in a bloody war. If nothing changes soon, he'll have her at checkmate eventually. The trampled grass and flowers beneath his shambling feet drain of their luster and bow their heads in mourning. The vines she wields as weapons are brittle now, barely possessing the force to move him an inch. To make matters worse, Guinevere can feel all the lives he's taking. Their wretched screams of agony nip at her ears, they swim in her brain like a sea of echoes from her slain ancestors, torn away from her arms in lives long past. "This is getting really fucking old, you know that?"

I'll use this. Guinevere considers the festering wound unearthed from her heart. I can use my pain, their pain, and make it his--

What? Two more metal hands snap out of the earth at either side of her, seizing both of her ankles and yanking hard. Guinevere falls to the ground, abundantly thankful that the soft grass is still there to break it. One little setback. This is fine. She can still fight her way out of this! Desperately, she kicks her legs to free herself... when two more hands rise to restrain her wrists as well. Upon struggling, she finds she isn't budging an inch. They're ironclad. Like chains. The warmth leaves her body entirely when Arthur finally closes in, laughing that hideous laugh.

In the real world, Excalibur loses its shine and clatters to the floor. And... is that the sound of someone pounding on the door?

"Mor--" Guinevere starts to scream, but Arthur smashes his filthy hand over her nose and mouth to stifle any noise.

"Nothing..." Arthur's face, or whatever was left of it, twists into a hideous smirk. "Without me. Nothing."

Guinevere tries to bite down, but her teeth clash with the harshness of metal. She wants to avert her eyes from his rotting face, but he holds her still. And to her growing horror, the unshakable cold that worked its way inside of her is now working itself out. Flakes of frost coat her toes, turning them blue. Ice travels in a slow gait up her body, intent on freezing her solid. As if this isn't enough torture, realizes she's sinking as well. So he's trying to bury her alive. Trying and succeeding, at that!

Huh. This also aligns with what Maleagant said earlier, with the king wanting the queen to be buried alongside him. Because she can't exist without him, apparently. Because she's nothing without him. These coincidences can't be coincidences! So, what else did their ex-cultists visitor have to say?

Didn't Arthur want fire, though, not ice? Or perhaps that's the angle Guinevere needs to work with to get herself out of this. This virus can siphon life from the earth, but it certainly can't contend with fire. How many times has the comfort of a glowing campfire kept her warm and sane out in the gray of the wastes? And, yeah. Fire she can deliver. She's familiar with fire, she can wear it like a second skin. In fact, she does. Her eyes blaze first, a brilliant light flashes, Arthur shrieks, and-- everything goes dark.

Although only a few seconds pass by in the real world, Guinevere feels as if she blacked out for an eternity. When she finally opens her eyes again, she discovers herself lying alone in a field of ashes. Along with Arthur, she destroyed everything she created. Staring at the sky with glazed eyes, reflecting the ruby red of the clouds above, it dawns on her that she's right back where she started. With nothing. The landscape is hopeless, like the end of the world. Like failure. Like... her.

"Morgan. I'm okay." Guinevere says quietly. Her throat is raspy, no doubt from breathing in smoke. "I want to come back now."

 

[Syntra]

It wouldn’t hurt, Morgan knew. Not really. What was some broken skin when weighed against the agony of ignorance, after all? Against stumbling in the darkness, and knowing not where to turn? A sword was just that-- a piece of steel, simple and straightforward, regardless of who used it. So what if Guinevere’s sword had a name, along with a fancy destiny? Oh, that changed nothing about its basic functions. A weapon desired blood, always, so blood it would get! (If that was the tax for learning more, Morgan would pay it gladly. The price wasn’t even terrible, really, when you considered the alternative-- it was either a sword now, or a dagger later. Now, a dagger didn’t sound like a bad deal, but the catch? The catch was that it would be wrapped in shadows, and stuck into her back when she wasn’t looking! Oh no, no, no, Morgan would rather exchange that for the modicum of control this situation provided, thousand times over.) “Do it, Gwen,” she encouraged her. “No need to worry. It will be… uh, almost safe? Not too unsafe, if nothing else. Think of it like surgery. In order to save a patient, you have to cut their flesh sometimes, you see?” The analogy was far from perfect, even the sorceress acknowledged that, but it did serve well in pointing out the obvious-- that the body was a mere shell, and sometimes, shells had to be broken. How not? For something new to be born, the old structures had to be sacrificed sometimes, to make space for it. “I will speak with you the entire time, too. It will be as if you were there, in that you will know what’s happening at all times. If anything gets out of hand, I promise that we will stop immediately.”

Except that, no, that wasn’t how it was meant to go down-- mostly because it wasn’t going to happen at all. “Guinevere?” Morgan asked, impatience leaking into her voice. “Can you hear me?” There was absolutely no other reason why her love should ignore her, you see, and no, worries about her safety didn’t count! Just, when had been the last time Morgan had endangered herself? (Today, an annoying voice in her head supplied, and yesterday as well. Possibly the day before yesterday, too, if you adjust your personal definition of what is dangerous a little bit. Still, though, that didn’t matter! Or it shouldn’t matter, at the very least, because her plan was absolutely foolproof. …besides, every single thing that was worth it had to be paid for, in one way or another. That was how the world worked. Would you give up something valuable for free? No? Then why did you expect the gods to do so, if not out of foolishness? The world belonged to those who had the courage to take it, and Morgan refused to cower in the corner! …although, had something happened in there? In that cold dimension, devoid of life? Gwen was to face Arthur there, over and over, because fate was apparently a broken record-- it had no other tricks up its sleeves, it seemed. One would have thought that the gods, with their literal power of creation, would have come up with a fresh way to torture her from time to time, but no, apparently! Her stupid brother it was, again and again and again. …would they ever be free of his shadow? Even as a corpse, rotting deep in the bowels of the earth, Arthur just couldn’t let go! Oh, I’ll make him, alright. His throne? His wife? The bastard can dream on.)

“Gwen,” she said, this time more softly. “Gwen, should I pull you out of there? Clench my hand if that’s what you want.” Her love didn’t do that, though, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t, and Morgan felt strangely powerless-- like a leaf floating in the wind, unable to control its trajectory. (Had she damned Guinevere, perhaps? Lured her to her downfall? The examination had been her idea, from start to finish, and in that, there was a responsibility! She was meant to be her guide, her compass, which, yes, she had dictated her path-- except that it had led to the abyss, deep and dark and cold, so, so cold. …or maybe not. All of a sudden, Guinevere was… talking to her? What? What was happening here, even? The meaning of all of this was slipping between her fingers, as if she was trying to grab a handful of water!) Alright, she decided, first things first. The stream of magic that was flowing from her fingers, gentle but steady? It dried up, gradually, so as not to shock Guinevere’s system, and just like that, her love was allowed to wake up.

“Well then,” Morgan exhaled, obviously relieved. “Just how alright are you, on a scale from one to ten? Be honest, Gwen. And will you tell me what exactly happened in there? Did he… make it impossible for you to control the Excalibur somehow?”

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere's eyes open slowly. Her senses are immediately contented to breathe in the scents of the herbs Morgan prepared, replacing the stench of that ashy abyss. Better yet, she gets to replace the desolate landscape with the image of her love's beautiful face. (It clicks like a puzzle piece that it would have been infinitely more bearable in there if she were there beside her. Hearing her voice is one thing, but the apotheosis is in those fleeting moments where they're standing side by side. Maybe then she could've done what was asked of her! Maybe then... it would have worked out. Because Morgan, unlike her, knows how to get results. Don't mistake her tone for bitterness, though-- because she's not bitter. Not even slightly. After all, the sorceress studied endlessly, worked herself to the bone for the understanding she carries with her now. Guinevere will never not be in awe of her for that! Why would she avert her eyes from her love's accomplishments out of something as petty as jealousy-- why would she make a deliberate choice to overlook her the way the people in this godforsaken kingdom do? The way Arthur did? No, she refuses to fit that boring pattern, thank you very much!) Next to that, though, Morgan's beautiful. Always has been. Guinevere's soft and tired enough to tell her that... but then the questions come and she resigns herself to listen to them. Right, right. There's a time and place for everything. She blinks a few times, feeling quite lost in the world as she tries to gauge herself amidst it, and stares helplessly at her hands. "Five." Is the first word that comes to her. She might've been a zero if someone had asked before she saw Morgan's face. Now she might be a three, in all actuality. Five is a good medium. Doesn't sound like a blatant lie, in other words. She's content to swerve the subject from herself to recount what happened... until she remembers what it was that happened.

"Arthur and his mecha-zombie friends were trying to bury me alive, so I was a little preoccupied." Guinevere notes darkly. She glimpses Excalibur across the room, mildly curious. "Our connection wasn’t disturbed. Or at least I don’t think so? I set the bastards on fire." Keep it together, Gwen. She closes her eyes, wresting with the rising storm. Even after unleashing those flames, she's still holding onto so much rage. What is she meant to do with it? Because pressing down on it is starting to hurt. (What did you expect, child? A little voice chides, If you keep setting yourself on fire to keep others warm it will always end in ashes.) Every time she tries mending her heart, it falters again. Just breaks into pieces. Working so strenuously to separate herself from her emotions evokes the sensation that she's floating away, clinging to the ceiling instead of lying there in bed. The tired shell of her that remains speaks in an unusually hollow tone. "It’s an endless cycle. A curse. No matter what I do, it always ends in ashes."

Guinevere’s confident that those words didn't make any sense right after they left her mouth. They felt like were coming off of someone else's tongue altogether. Someone wiser, perhaps, someone who knows her roots better than she does. Well, that’s fine. Why should she try to make sense of anything in a world that simply refuses to offer her that courtesy? When her very state of being is some kind of anomaly? Rather than communicate with words, what she really needs right now is to—

Abruptly, Guinevere snatches one of the nearby pillows into her arms and buries her face against it to smother an anguished scream... Ah. She hasn’t been here in a while, has she? This is one of her early Camelot tactics, come to think of it. A pre-Morgan outlet if you will. Because the last time she resorted to this was after Morgan accused her of having an affair with Lancelot. (And oh how things have changed since then!) When she was truly alone and vocalizing her unfiltered thoughts was no longer an option, she needed this. To scream silently, until she rendered her throat raw. Wasn't like anyone cared if she stopped talking when no one cared to listen to her to begin with. (It would've been more cathartic to cut Arthur through with Excalibur back there. To use the sword, her weapon of choice. Her choice. Her agency. Her confidence. The satisfaction might counteract whatever cagey emotion she’s feeling now. For months, she's been like a petal floating on an endless stream of magic. Isn't there a way to work with it? A balance where she can control the flow of her own destiny as well as embrace it?) After essentially letting all of the air out her lungs, she tosses the pillow away. It hits the foot of the bed and then plops uselessly to the floor. Needing a little something more, she slams a fist down on the mattress, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. To top it all off, one of the potted plants shatters, soil spilling and greenery overflowing.

"Why is this happening?" Guinevere knows it’s an arbitrary question, one without an answer, but she asks it anyway. She buries her hands in her hair, fingernails pressing into the roots and cutting her scalp. As if she might physically be able to extricate the memory of his hands on her. "Why is this happening again? When does it stop?"

Out of breath and misty-eyed, Guinevere realizes a touch belatedly that she more or less just had a breakdown. A breakdown in front of the woman she loves and respects. All her scars are on display, and… well, she's opened herself up fully to the point that the shame of it crawling like pinpricks on her skin. Morgan, though? There's still so little she knows about her love in comparison. Is that even fair, at this point? She swallows, stopping herself before she can venture any further down that path. No. Until she's calmed down, she won't be in the right frame of mind to reflect on their relationship.

"Arthur won’t be satisfied until I’m down there with him. It’s just like Maleagant said." Guinevere finally brings it up, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes to stem any tears. "He told me earlier that he can hear his voice. And I know how you feel about working with him, but..." She reaches for Morgan's hand, then, a bit reluctant. "I think we owe it to ourselves to see where this goes. If there's a chance that we can end this for good, I want to take it."

 

[Syntra]

Five. Five wasn't too bad, Morgan supposed-- the halfway point, not quite okay but also not... well, not terrible. (Would she have wanted a better result? Most certainly, yes, but life was rarely as kind as to just give you what you wanted. Oh no, no, no. In order to secure that, you had to rip it away from its jaws, regardless of how sharp its teeth were, and regardless of how deep into your flesh they went. Which, yes, she'd do it! Over and over again, the sorceress had done exactly that, so there was no point in trying to break the pattern. The only peace I will ever get, it seems, will be the peace of a grave. For now, though? For now, Morgan had to make do with a five-- with a promise of a better future, spun out of dreams.) "Alright," she whispered, hoarsely. "Alright, we can work with that." Numbers were never final, you see? You could add to them, or subtract from them, as long as you knew how the equation worked. (Did she know that, though? Morgan had thought so, but lately... well, lately, Guinevere had been acting strangely, undermining what had previously been guaranteed. What had been set in stone, really. Never before had she even considered that her love might trust an ex-cultist over herself, and-- No, that's not really it, she reminded herself. This is not some weird competition, for gods' sake. Had they been two characters in a ballad, this might have been the moment where a love triangle would be introduced, but no, they didn't live on the pages of some cheesy novel! Their bond meant more than that, Morgan was aware, and thinking otherwise would just devalue it. ...yes, yes, she knew that, with absolute certainty. In time, that would silence those treacherous voices in her head, right? For knowledge conquered everything.)

"That's not true," Morgan protested, before touching her love's shoulder gently. "Every cycle has its end, Gwen. We've broken one already-- it was supposed to be us who died, remember? Not Arthur. Fate plays cruel games with us, yes, and the dice are rigged, but that doesn't mean that we cannot win at all. We already have. This is just... just the aftermath," she flicked her wrist. "It's a messy epilogue, I will grant you. Even so, aren't we in a better place than we used to be?" Compared to their previous life, this was nothing short of a miracle! ...still, pointing that out to Guinevere, who had just witnessed horrors beyond what she could imagine, likely wouldn't win her any favors. "We cannot give up now," she announced, somewhat needlessly. Had that ever been an option, after all? Perhaps in a dream, sweet and detached from reality, but nowhere else. Her question, though...

"I don't know," Morgan admitted. "I mean, this is... this is entirely new. We had never gotten as far before, so I cannot really give you any estimate here." Which, ah, how useless! Why couldn't she provide a better answer? Something that would soother, and remove her fears? All the knowledge in the world was worth nothing, nothing, nothing, when there was no material benefit to it! "I suppose we can only wait. What should unravel, will unravel. I cannot form any plans now, but if we stay vigilant and react to what happens, we shall prevail. Flexibility is the key to victory here, I think." And, no, that didn't exactly fill her with a sense of safety! Morgan's mind craved a plan, an outline to follow-- not having it felt like balancing on the edge of a knife, and the sorceress' feet weren't used to that. Even so, was there some other path? No, which meant they were out of luck.

Ah, there she went again, mentioning that terrible man. Could they go five seconds without his name being uttered, hmm? Despite her personal feelings on the matter, however, she couldn't deny the validity of Gwen's words. "I see your point," Morgan conceded. "Still, does it not strike you as strange that those men conveniently died right after they were revealed as potential sources of information? It's very... very convenient." That being said, following the trail might not be the worst thing to do. Was there any other way to uncover his motives? The web he was tangled in was a complex one, and seeing where the threads led... well, Guinevere was correct in that it could help, in one way or another. "What does he want from you, then? I cannot imagine that he's helping for free, out of the goodness of his heart," she said. "I need to know everything. What exactly did he tell you? Did he mention anything suspicious, perhaps?"

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere relieves her scalp from the bite of her fingernails, progressing downward to the tips of her curls to twist and tug instead. Inhale, hold seven seconds, exhale. Repeat. She allows herself the luxury of a simple breathing exercise while she waits for the red skies in her heart to turn blue. The effect is reminiscent of how they’d painted a calming blue over the imposing reds Arthur initially chose for the royal bedroom’s walls. (Is there a symbol hidden there as well? Like washing over hellfire with cleansing waters or something to that effect? Pfft. Nah. Sounds way too silly. Chucking the thought into the metaphorical garbage bin she reserves for all of her dumb ideas, she gives a big sigh.) This a delicate topic they're breaching, she knows, and an intrinsic part of navigating Camelot is knowing when to think before articulating her thoughts. Using raw emotion as her compass, allowing her feelings to lead… or rather drag her behind them like a wild stallion isn’t going to impress her love. While she’s surely lost part of herself during this journey, she’s also found another. She’s learnt plenty, thanks to Morgan and the spirits. And she's capable of a hell of a lot more than most give her credit for.

“It does.” Guinevere confirms. Despite their recent disagreements on how to handle this whole Maleagant situation, she isn't oblivious to the coincidences either. Her eyes, no longer tearful, are hardened and serious now. “The killer wasn't exactly subtle about it. Cut their tongues out and everything.” She draws in a sharp breath, remembering the scene of the crime. Because, fuck. Pretty bold of the bastard, too. As if they meant to say ‘I know that you want answers and you’re not getting them.’ Vicious voices overlap, weighing heavily upon her shoulders. ‘You were too late' and ‘you failed’ being the most difficult to stomach.

“Maleagant confirmed my suspicion that Arthur was in with the cult before the fall of Camelot. Do you remember his reaction when I mentioned them at dinner with Eugene? He had the audacity to pretend that it never even happened! And afterwards…” The determination in Guinevere's expression flickers as the memory passes through her mind. Arthur was... angry that night. To put it lightly. The storm that transpired bears no description, no repeating, so she buries it with a steeling breath and pushes onward. “I got a taste of what was going to be my future. He wanted to marry you off and then…” And then what? “Well, Maleagant didn’t give me specifics. He said they increased drug production, so I can only imagine." She makes a sour face. "As a guard, apparently he wasn’t allowed to hear about their plans beyond that. Lancelot gave me the tip about the men Arthur trusted most. It sounded like a few more of his knights and guards might've been in on this, too. I know how this looks. And I’m not ruling him out completely, but that's got to mean Maleagant isn’t our only suspect here.”

Guinevere gnaws at her lip and picks aimlessly at a knot she discovered in her hair. Uninvited, she flashes back to the green of his eyes, the striking sincerity of them. Ugh. Maybe there is a part of her, the soft spot at her core, that doesn’t want it to be true. But it might be. Morgan certainly seems to think so. And disregarding the possibility out of some misguided sentimentality would be pretty damned foolish of her. Reminding herself to stop fidgeting, maybe to act a little more like the queen she is, she lowers her hands to her sides and takes another deep breath. There’s more. There’s so much more.

And so she goes on to relay the rest of their conversation in a similar fashion. Guinevere endeavors not to omit a single detail, to show Morgan she truly paid attention. (…Because clearly, she still has to prove that she’s not as gullible as she looks!) She divulges the bits about Arthur finding people in the wastelands, as well as the implications of their disappearances afterwards. She recounts Maleagant's curiosity about the symbolism of her recent dreams and his notable reverence for the roses in the gardens. Then she describes his supposed ability to hear Arthur’s voice, the desires for fire and her burial… and finally, she closes with the tragic story about his sister.

“We might be in a better place than before, but… what about the people living outside of these walls?” Guinevere finishes somberly, gesturing towards the window. “I was prepared to sacrifice everything because I know what that’s like. There’s nothing worse than starving out there. Watching the people you care about get picked off because they’re too exhausted to carry their weapon, let alone their own weight.” She grits her teeth. “It gets worse out there every single day. No wonder they’re all being driven into a corner, pledging their lives to those sketchy cultists. At this rate, it’ll only be a matter of time before they outnumber us. Unless we stop them, they’re going to snatch away everything we’ve fought for. And they’re going to ruin more lives in the process.” She shakes her head, incredulous. "Fuck, they're using me as an excuse to murder people! Back there, even... that 'flower bride demands your sacrifice' shit? What was that?"

There’re still people mixed up in that cult who need help, even if Maleagant's story is bogus. Kids who don’t know any better. Good people, driven into a corner with nowhere else to turn. Forced to ignore their own morality to fill their empty stomachs, or to save the people they love. There're also helpless people in the wastes getting picked off to serve their purposes as well. (For what reason? If only Maleagant had been more specific.) In the grand scheme of things, what is one person’s life compared to all of theirs? Guinevere stares at her hands. What price will she have to pay to fix this? First it was her freedom. Then it was her blood. Now what? Her life?

"So, it occurred to me that I need a space to, uh, explore my own potential. To train. I was using my magic freely just now and it felt good. Safe. At least until Arthur turned up. If I can prove that I'm capable, maybe they won’t…” Band together to sacrifice her? Treat her like a human-sized doll again? No, those at the head of the cult rely too much on their precious hierarchy to accept her freedom. The only solution is to destroy them. Guinevere finds it difficult to sit up when her mind is being stretched in too many directions at once. “Okay, it might not convince those assholes at the top. But I might be able to convince the rest of them. We also need to verify whether or not Maleagant's telling the truth about Arthur's voice.” She glances between Excalibur on the floor and Morgan, then, boundlessly curious. “And... we ought to try and learn about your connection to Excalibur, too. Unless you had a special spell for those gnarly wings that you've been keeping from me all this time?"

 

[Syntra]

“Yes,” Morgan smirked, “you could say that they weren’t trying to hide their intentions. I mean, he might as well have sent you a letter.” But that was the concerning thing about this, wasn’t it? Because, for all intents and purposes, it meant that the killer wasn’t afraid of them-- that he was dangling the truth in front of them like you might a carrot in front of a horse, really. (Was he that sure of himself? And, more importantly, were those feelings justified? Morgan thought she knew Camelot better than anyone else, with it being both her home and her cage, but that from that very knowledge stemmed her caution. Half of what happened in the castle happened in the shadows, you see? That some of those were dark enough that not even her eyes managed to pierce it wasn’t a surprising revelation, as distressing as it was.) “The bastard,” she cursed under her breath. So her brother, in addition to being an incompetent idiot, had also played with fire? Again, not shocking, but certainly… hmm, unpleasant. Jarring, even. Everything about this contradicted his usual modus operandi-- drunk on his own glory, Arthur would never have swallowed needing an organization as lowly as some backwards cult... or would he? Maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought. Yes, maybe, but maybe Maleagant was simply lying. Now, it wasn't like Morgan to defend him, though believing every word that fell from the newcomer's lips would have been foolish, right? Like falling for a trap that didn't even have the decency to have a delicious bait in it.

"No, he isn't our only suspect," Morgan agreed. "And now that you mention it, I believe that we've been too lenient with those who willingly tied themselves to Arthur. Yes, some have only done so out of opportunism, but what about the rest of them? Those who genuinely adored his way of thinking? That's disease, Gwen, and I don't think that it's curable." A patient only sought out a healer when the illness was bothering them, after all-- when their blood boiled, and their bones threatened to snap. Those guys, however? They benefited directly from the ideology, in the same way that a plant was nourished from its roots. How not? According to Arthur's teachings, they were superior because they a) knew how to swing a sword, b) were men, c) could nod their heads more reliably than his own shadow. Ah, what a simple existence, in this nest of safety! ...no more, though. Morgan may have wished for reconciliation once, but she also wasn't going to feed the snakes who planned to strangle her.

"The people outside..." the sorceress sighed, allowing Guinevere to see just how tired she was. (The dark circles under her eyes? Those wouldn't disappear anytime soon, Morgan wagered, because there was always something to do. Always, always, always! Whenever they made a step forward, it seemed, some sinister force brought them two steps back.) "I hate to admit it, but they'll have to wait. We need to clean up this mess first, otherwise some kindly soul is going to stab us in the back while we work. Afterwards, we can focus on making meaningful changes to their lives." ...was it just her, or did it sound like an excuse? It's not an excuse if it's true, she reminded herself, but somehow, her own reasoning struck her as hollow. Hadn't she just admitted there would always be some sort of crisis? Ugh, they really weren't kidding about power being uncomfortable to wield. Not that she was a stranger to that, with magic coursing through her veins and everything, but... well, this was different. More mundane, and strangely enough, also more cruel in its casualness. Just, how easy was it, to sentence thousands to what surely amounted to death with a single 'not now?' All too easy, as it turned out.

"No, I wasn't secretly training to become an angel," Morgan quipped, a half-smile playing on her lips. "Very well, that sounds reasonable. I can... sort of conjure up an arena for us, for that safe training. It would and would not be similar to what you went through, in many different ways. No problem, really. What you said about the knights, however... I think we should focus on weeding out the traitors. Who knows what kind of information they have access to? They may know more about Arthur," or Maleagant, as she was hoping, "than they let on. It's time to put down the kid gloves, Gwen-- the mercy we've shown them over and over has clearly not been appreciated. Fine, I won't shove it down their throats. Let us speak their language!" ...in a way more refined than they could even dream of, of course. "So, what you're saying is that they think Arthur's spirit is still here? That it's lingering, and waiting for its turn? Alright, then. I think we should take advantage of it. What if I were to, say, produce an illusion that would match their beliefs? I could ask them to prove their loyalty to him, via something that would be easy to spot, and then we'd cast out those who would out themselves as traitors."

 

[ellarose]

Wait, Morgan says, and Guinevere only possesses the strength to nod in response. Because it's reminiscent of all those failed attempts to get Arthur to notice her gang, all those times he told her a lady must be patient. ('One day, my love. One day.' He promised as if he were noble and good, all while she stared at the maddening abundance, overflowing on his dinner plate.) The people of this kingdom don’t understand, couldn’t possibly understand that time isn't a luxury survivors in the wastes are afforded. Without the protection and rules that governed life in Camelot, one simply had to fight and take whatever they could get when the rare opportunities presented themselves. No matter how dangerous, they risked their necks for practically nothing, because the alternative was always— always— death. 'You can’t save everyone, Gwennie.' She recalls Jennifer telling her, over and over again. All those times they stole food from other kids on the streets, even those weaker and smaller than them. 'It’s either them or it's us.' Harsh. But she'd been right. It was the nature of their reality, however difficult that may have been to face. Now they have the means, though! Guinevere's dormant abilities might as well be resources of their own. She holds opportunities in the palms of her hands, opportunities that she can extend to those who ache for it desperately. They way she did, once. If only she were free to...

But, no. The truth is that Morgan knows what she's doing. She isn't ignorant to life in the wastes, not completely. She's traveled with her, slept in tents among her gang and experienced a taste of the life she lived outside firsthand. The fact that they’re equipped with the means to save everyone, well… Morgan has the sense to understand they need to be well-prepared, to get this right instead of getting themselves killed. Dying won't save anyone, now will it? (Unless the price truly is her life, that is...) Point is, these aren’t the same empty promises Arthur fed her. Their feet are set on the right path this time. And although it’s a long road, at least they’re taking steps in the right direction. While she'd prefer to take strides, or even amp it up to a sprint... well. She's stuck in a wheelchair now, for goodness sake.

“Set a trap, catch the traitors. Sounds good to me.” Guinevere agrees firmly. She glares down at her arms, still purple and bruised from the needles the cultists prodded endlessly at her veins. It aches when she makes a fist. Can't save everyone, right? Might as well reserve her goodwill for those who truly deserve it. And if she's learnt anything, it's that not everyone in Camelot is soft and delicate. Not everyone is painstakingly sheltered and weak, not everyone was brainwashed or capable of change. The crimes of Arthur’s men go far beyond them harboring dislike for her in their hearts. Dislike she can handle, you know? Who cares if they call her a bitch behind her back? She's been called worse out in the wastes! But she heard more than that. They were planning to drug her, take her who knows where-- because Arthur couldn't deliver on his promises. Surprise, surprise. Now she's suffering because of the debts he owes his men. Like hell is she going to pay them. They’ve crossed the line and now there’s no going back.

“We could do it when I summon the knights and guards to the throne room to address the murders. That way we’ll have a good reason to round them all up in one place. The sooner we act, the better. Tomorrow'd be ideal.” Guinevere suggests. Hopefully they'll sort this out before the murderer strikes again, before more chaos and mess can be strewn around for them to clean up. She and Morgan have enough work to do as it is! Gods. She sees her own exhaustion reflected in the shadows under Morgan’s eyes seizes her heart and doesn’t let it go. No wonder they've been on edge recently! We’re not alone in this. She has to remind herself. Not anymore. They have her gang now. And Caelia, Marietta, a handful of maids and… um, Lancelot. For what that’s worth. She reaches again for her love's hand, stroking over her knuckles with the pad of her thumb. “Shouldn’t underestimate the ladies, either. My gang’s been keeping a close eye on them, so we can trust them to handle that side of things.” The ladies have less to gain in the version of Camelot that these men want. Guinevere knows this most of all, seeing as she’s the freaking queen and she still struggles to keep everything in order. Still. There are Iphigenias living among them, the types of women who are easily sated by protection, food and fine dresses.

"We have a plan, then." Good. Once Arthur's followers are taken care of, they can see to the rest of it. Train, stamp out the cult and finally help those who need it. Whew. Won't be nearly as easy as it sounds on paper, but... at least they have something, right?

Guinevere notices Morgan’s half-smile and butterflies flutter about in her heart. She thinks of just how much they’ve bolstered her through… well, all of this. When the weight of the world nearly shatters her, the sight of her smile lends her the will to endure it. What would I do without her? Then, recalling the guilt roiling in her gut after their confrontation, she softens considerably. Sometimes it's necessary to slow down, if only to acknowledge and take care of the people who make this life worth living in the first place. They're tired, yes. But she still owes it to Morgan to treat her the way a lover ought to.

“You’re already my angel, with or without the wings. No training necessary.” Guinevere says, caressing Morgan’s cheek. She leans forward and kisses her boldly, unable to help it when she breaks into a dopey grin against her lips. “…Was that too cheesy?” She giggles, intoxicated by the warmth of their proximity. After going for so long without it, she's contented to drown in it. She kisses her again, deeply this time, meaningfully. Her fingers drift down her neck and find purchase on her shoulder. This is what she longed for, when she was tied up in that horrible cell. When only seconds remained before the cultists barged in. They’re in Camelot for now, safe within the confines of this room. They not going to save the world tonight and there's nothing they can do about it. So why not make it theirs, if only for a moment?

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” Guinevere whispers when she finally pulls away to breathe, soft and intimate in the dark. Her eyes sparkle in the candlelight. “Will you lay with me? I want to be close to you tonight.”

 

[Syntra]

…ah. How long had it been, since the two of them had kissed like that? Far too long, if you wanted to know Morgan’s opinion. (Guinevere, the queen, and Guinevere, her love, seemed to be two different people from time to time-- two different people that demanded different things from her, and occupied different timeslots in her schedule. Now, don’t get her wrong! The sorceress had expected this in advance, mostly because nobody but Arthur had ever thought that ruling was a lifetime of vacation, sponsored by one’s subordinates. Oh no, no, no. Guidance Morgan had promised to her, so guidance she would provide! …still, was it so wrong of her to hope that Guinevere, her love, would get to shine more often? That she’d shed her mask, and emerge from her chrysalis? If not wrong, then it certainly is selfish. ‘Selfish’ derived from ‘self,’ though, so wasn’t it normal to feel that way? Inevitable, in a sense, much like raindrops always falling downwards? Let me tell you, Morgan would have loved to delve deeper into the topic, but quickly, her mind became occupied with… ah, other things. Things of much more intimate nature.)

“It would be my pleasure,” she whispered, all strife forgotten. What were their problems in comparison to… well, this? To what they’d built together, out of dreams and hopes? Nothing, the sorceress knew, and perhaps she would do well to remind herself of that more often. “After all, it is responsible to release the tension from time to time. A heavy head only ever comes up with heavy-handed solutions, I’ve heard. Now, we cannot risk that, can we?” The trap, Maleagant’s presence, the spirit of Arthur apparently looming in the darkness-- somehow, all of that seemed irrelevant in this moment, with Gwen so close. (Why else did moonlight exist, if not to give silver to her golden hair? If not to paint shadows across her face? Other reasons paled before that, really.)

“Come, then,” she offered her a rare smile, one of those only Guinevere was allowed to see. “Let us not waste another second. Knowing how things go around here, hesitating will only lead to us stumbling into another quest. I don’t know about you, but I’m not in the mood for that.” Not now, and possibly not for another year. Just, ugh! Why did everything have to move at such a breakneck speed, and yet not move forward at all? It felt like a storm captured in a glass, indeed, with them being at the epicenter of all of that. (Perhaps that was everything they could reasonably hope for, at the end of the day. Unlike their previous selves, they’d escaped from their chains, but what if there was nothing more than that? What if fate had never had another plan for them, and now they were sentenced to sort of… hover in the nothingness? No. No, that cannot be true. Fate doesn’t exist-- not beyond what we choose to make it. Anything else is but an excuse.) “If I am to be honest, I would like to do entirely different things,” she smirked, pulling Guinevere even closer.

***

The moon was still hanging in the sky when something woke Gwen up-- it could have been two am, or even earlier than that. The world was deathly quiet, with most things asleep, and yet, yet there was this… sense of urgency? An alarm bell ringing in her head, loud and insistent. (How could Morgan not hear it? Were her ears full of cotton? They must have been, surely, for she snored quietly on her side of the bed, hugging her pillow with both hands.) ‘Wake up,’ a voice whispered, sharper than a dagger. (Something about it was familiar, the grim recognition pressing against her mind, but what was it, exactly? The answer eluded her, for one reason or another.) ‘You dare to sleep now, of all times?’ The man sounded almost scandalized now, as if he had caught her stealing from his vault. ‘That is not what you should be doing. You promised, Guinevere. You promised to be faithful to my cause, and yet you waste your time here. Don’t you know that I have a need of you? That you are nothing without me?’ Ah, yes, now that was the same old song-- the one Arthur had played, over and over, till it had become something of a background noise. ‘Arise at once and join me, my sweet wife. Come to me, where you rightfully belong. Are you trying to tell me that you don’t miss me?’ She couldn’t see him, obviously, but somehow, it was as plain as day that he was smirking. ‘We may have had our differences, but you have to be aware that our fates are tied. How do you think I found you in the wastes, hmm?’

 

[ellarose]

Sated by Morgan’s love and warmed by her closeness, Guinevere really ought to have slept peacefully until morning.

...Except an unnervingly persistent spirit is determined to see to it that she doesn't. Typical. This is Arthur, right? It has to be. He really couldn't have waited until a reasonable hour before he started in on his bullshit? Like, excuse her for daring to sleep at night along with the rest of the world!

Yes, I dare. Fuck off. Guinevere presses one ear to her pillow and mashes the heel of her palm against the other. Doesn't help. Restlessly, she turns over once, twice, until she's practically thrashing from one side to the other as Arthur’s dumbassery persists in spite of her efforts. His words swarm her the way flies hover about a corpse, only they're infinitely more irritating. Blah blah, fate, blah blah, you’re nothing without me, blah. Fuck. Off. It's the same old song, she knows all the words by heart, no doubt it'll fade into white noise eventually. But before she can close him out completely, his voice begins to permeate, like an otherworldly echo beckoning to her from deep in the catacombs below. Sweat beads at her brow as it draws more from her than she’s willing to give. Hasn’t he taken enough from her already? Silken ribbons of urgency wrap around her heart and tug, tug, tug. The mounting urge to follow the pull is nearly irresistible. Don't. She scolds herself. He wants to bury you alive, remember? It's not fate. He's just a sore fucking loser. Stubbornly, she draws her legs up to her chest, as if that might hold a makeshift shield to the unseen magic reaching to lure her out.

With an exhale of frustration, Guinevere’s sleep-fogged eyes snap open. She rises very slowly as not to disturb Morgan and drops her head in her hands. It's so heavy, bogged down with a murky soup of everything that's transpired over the past couple of months. She kind of wants to cry. To sob, maybe to scream at the top of her lungs... but it isn't worth the energy.

Truth is, she hasn’t slept through the night in weeks.

Guinevere peeks through her fingers at Morgan, still fast asleep beside her. The sight eases her, it softens the ache. Feather light, she brushes a rouge curl from her face with the pad of her thumb. And despite everything, she can't help smiling at that. It's just so rare to catch sight of her with a single hair out of place in Camelot. (Rare for anyone but her, maybe, and that knowledge always caresses her with a little thrill. Because Morgan trusts her, silently gives her permission to see this side of her that others don't have access to. Makes her feel leaps and bounds more special than the title of queen does, that's for damned certain.) Oh. It’d be so easy to paw at her shoulder, get her attention the way Toastington does when he demands a belly rub. But she looks so unguarded, so beautifully untroubled... and recalling those dark circles under her eyes, she doesn't have the heart to wake her for this. Christ! She's not a baby, who needs to be cooed at and rocked gently back to sleep. And she's asked so much of her love already. Morgan’s going to be busy conjuring illusions and running all kinds of tests through the next couple of days. She needs the rest. The sorceress will be a hell of a lot more useful than the queen is, when it comes to getting actual, meaningful shit done in a castle filled with traitors and vile spirits.

What does Guinevere have to offer, after all, aside from her status as a symbol? Bad jokes and occasional bursts of the magic bullshittery she's been 'blessed' with?

Stop. Guinevere chastises herself halfheartedly. Isn't she buying what Arthur's selling, by doing that to herself? Nothing without me, his voice repeats. She can almost see him shaking his head sagely, like he knows all of the world's secrets while she knows... Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Flashes of Arthur's maltreatment cloud her vision, they swallow her like a hungry ocean. Like the earth itself. Guinevere bites her fist to stop herself from screaming out. Determined not to wake Morgan with this nonsense, she slips of bed and limps her way into the washroom. As she leans forward to splash her face with water, she startles at her reflection in the accent mirror on the wall. The glowing of amber, the stark contrast of a bone-white tooth in the darkness. She swears she caught a glimpse of her fae traits, her fangs. She swears it. Tired blue eyes stare back at her now, judging and growing more and more unconvinced. Hesitantly, she traces her fingers over her familiar face, her hair... her hair. The memory encompasses her. Arthur yanking on her hair like a leash, the press of his knife to her neck before she opened the ground beneath them.

She yanks at the ends of her hair, the way she tends to when she's anxious. Then she reaches for her dagger.

When fresh rays of sunlight stream in through the balcony window and touch the royal bed, Guinevere's side is still empty. Upon checking the washroom, Morgan will discover a trail of long gold coils-- not sunlight, but hair-- leading where Guinevere dozes against the wall. Stirring at the sound of the door, she's immediately self-conscious. Uncertain fingers fluff through her newly short waves, cropped to her shoulders. Oh, jeez. How is she going to justify this? Evidence of her late-night meltdown might as well be strewn all over the floor. "A heavy head comes up with heavy-handed solutions, right?" Right! Heh. E-exactly. Speaking of which, it is so much lighter now. Messier, too, if only for the haphazard job of it. Suits her better, doesn't it? Well, it suits Guinevere, that is. The queen of Camelot, though? "It's, um, a fashion statement." Her cheeks turn poppy red. Is Morgan going to hate it? Is she going to question her sanity? "...We can tell the people it caught fire or something. I mean, it's only hair. It'll grow back eventually."

 

[Syntra]

The sleep was blessedly deep, much like the darkness between the stars, and Morgan... well, Morgan was finally able to rest. Not that she hadn't slept lately, of course-- the human body had its limits, and the sorceress would have exceeded them thousand times had she not allowed it to recuperate. Still, there was a difference between falling asleep next to her love and passing out while reading, you know? Gwen's presence was soothing, it turned out. It was like... like honey you took to ensure good dreams, really. Gods, Morgan had almost forgotten what it felt like, to lie like that and not worry about the weight of the world that rested on her shoulders. …would it have always been like this, if they weren’t who they were? If they’d been born common, and stayed that way? Not really, she realized almost immediately afterwards. Not unless we were also born in a gentler era. You know, like the ones described in the old books-- when gardens had still flourished even outside of Camelot, and when one’s greatest worry had been… uh, not being able to get the tickets for the concert of your favorite band. And, indeed, that such times had existed at one point? That seemed downright surreal to Morgan, not gonna lie. (From time to time, the sorceress had wondered whether the old world wasn’t just a convenient lie-- the flicker of candlelight in the darkness, meant to illuminate their way. There wouldn’t be anything necessarily bad about that, of course not, and Morgan could even see the benefits of such mythology, but had people’s lives ever been as easy…? Could they ever return to that? Doesn’t matter, the sorceress thought, her eyelids still heavy with sleep. It being a fairytale is not a concern. We’ll build such a world, using it as a blueprint. What would be existence without dreaming, after all? An empty shell, cold and cruel, like winter itself.)

"Gwen," she whispered, without bothering to truly open her eyes, "what's the time? Don't tell me that we have to get up already." ...what? Occasional laziness had never killed anyone, and Morgan felt like she had right to indulge in it from time to time. For too long, she'd been prim and proper-- her spine always straight like a ruler, her smile unwavering. Why not let go of it all for once, huh? It was so easy to do with Gwen, who only laughed when she truly felt like it, and who... wasn't there. Quite distinctly at that, too. What? It wasn't like her love to wake up earlier than her, so immediately, Morgan was on guard. Had something happened? Had a tragedy struck? With her heart stuck somewhere in her throat, the sorceress leapt on her feet...! Only to see the hair lying on the floor, like the petals of a dead flower. Oh, gods. Just, that couldn't be good! Hair was often used in magical rituals, often erroneously, but with great gusto. It wasn't unlikely that some villain had thought they could gain an upper hand like that-- the only question that remained was how, pray tell, they'd managed not to wake her up as well.

...of course, that mystery soon solved itself. It turned out, you see, that the perpetrator didn't exist-- or at least not in the traditional sense of the word. Gwen's expression, one that could be compared to that of a puppy that had just torn your favorite shoes apart, was more than telling, now wasn't it? With her mouth agape, Morgan just... stared, really. Stared and stared and stared, as if her eyes alone could provide answers, but obviously, that wasn't the case. "Heavy-handed solutions?" she asked, uncomprehending. (Solutions to what, exactly? To having to brush her hair every morning? The sorceress couldn't imagine a lot of problems that could be rectified like that, though perhaps it was just her lack of imagination. ...not that Guinevere looked half-bad, mind you. The cut emphasized how big her eyes were, and also showed more of her face, but that wasn't really the main concern here. No, the main concern was... aargh, Morgan didn't even know! Yes, it was only hair, most certainly, except that cutting it in the middle of the night was weird. As weird as, say, choosing to sleep on a bunch of rocks. Technically, there wasn't anything wrong with that, but what would you go with it? That was what Morgan worried about.)

"Caught on fire?" she repeated, feeling more and more at loss with each word. "You mean during the great inferno that nobody noticed? If it's a fashion statement, Gwen, then you should own it. Say that you wanted it that way. You are the queen, what are they going to do?" Gingerly, she picked up the scissors and patted the bed, hinting for her love to sit there. "Let me fix it for you-- it's a little uneven in the back. It does suit you, by the way. How come that you can pull off pretty much any style you want? This kind of hair always looks so bad on the men that I almost feel sorry for them." Almost, of course, being a key word there. "Anyway, care to tell me what it was about?" Morgan gave her a small, tired smile. "Somehow, I doubt you woke up and simply had to follow your dreams."

 

[ellarose]

"I dunno. Execute me?" Guinevere snorts, realizing precisely how stupid it sounds as she says it. Sheesh. At what point had Camelot's silly customs laced her in like one of those damned corsets she struggled to get out of? Luckily Morgan's words snip right through it, releasing her from its claws and allowing her to breathe in as much air as her lungs can accommodate. A relieved little laugh bubbles out along with her exhale. Sure it sounds dumb, but at some point all of those lessons she used to scoff at became a matter of life or death. The smallest gestures could make or break them in a game of strategy. Probably speaks to her inexperience that she's still fretting over frivolous details that may cause only the likes of Iphigenia pause. The pre-Arthur Guinevere would have owned it, that's for certain. Hell, she practically wore her gown sideways when she and Morgan first met and said those very same words with gusto! Will that version of herself ever find her way back? Or will she be second guessing herself this way forever now, hyperaware of every step? ...Maybe not as long as her love is around to supply her with a much-needed reality check. I'll work my way out of this, she tells herself, I need some time. That's all. Though it seems like its been an eternity, her life in Camelot is still a fresh wound. Over the past couple of months, she's had her entire world uprooted more times than she cared to count. After everything they've suffered through, the tragic fates she's witnessed of their past lives, it makes perfect sense why she's afraid of making a dumb mistake that'd kickstart even more trouble.

Thing is, Guinevere doesn't want to be afraid anymore. The desire flares up like the embarrassed heat in her cheeks. She doesn't want to experience this weak, collapsing feeling in her chest over meaningless shit like her hair or her clothes... the same way she doesn't want to tense up with fear every time she hears the sound of Arthur's voice. But wanting something is never enough. She learned that lesson long before she first picked up the sword. From her old man, who was unflinchingly firm about rationing their food, even when she and Jen wailed through the night with hunger pains. Forcing them to work for every bite from the time they were big enough to stand, to ensure they'd be strong enough to face the deadly world outside their tiny bunker. This isn't the same, though. No matter how hard she fights, she can't force these feelings to go away. She can masquerade like her former self, yes, but recovering will take more than just shaking it off her shoulders and flashing a bold smile. Eventually these scars will heal, like all the others. She'll move past this. Or at least she sorely hopes so.

"Okay, I see your point. Guess I'm on edge lately. Life's been a clusterfuck." Guinevere bites into an uncertain smile. Dipping her head in an uncharacteristically shy nod, she perches herself cross-legged on the bed in front of Morgan, wiggling her toes to work through her nerves. "...So you don't hate it?" Unlike her sister, she's never had an emotional attachment to her hair. Always grows back after a cut, right? It's honestly one of the very few consistencies in her life. When it comes down to it, she genuinely cares what her love thinks of it more than anyone else. It does suit you, Morgan says, and the words warm Guinevere to the core. Morgan has this way of making her feel seen, even when she's not sure she sees herself. Her toes unfurl and the tenseness melts from her shoulders when her love's fingers brush through her hair. It's nice. The sensation, yes, but also the way it feels to sit this close to her. "At least it's not as chaotic as my exploits with dye. Can you imagine the look on Iphigenia's face if I held court rocking the pink hair?"

Did gangsters in the wastelands heckle her endlessly for the pink hair? Of course they did. But that only made it ten times more fun to beat their asses and flip it over her shoulder afterwards.

Seems like a lifetime ago. Arthur's such a wimpy punk in comparison to those men on the outside, really. He deserves to be dirt beneath her feet by now.

"I couldn't sleep." Guinevere confesses, sobering. "If I gave you one guess as to why, you'd probably guess right." She purses her lips and her brow furrows. Ugh, Arthur. The bastard. Even beyond the grave, it seems like they have to work him into every conversation. "I heard Arthur's voice in my head. But it wasn't a nightmare and I... I think it might've really been him. He was giving me the usual spiel about fate and shit. But it also came with this feeling, like-- like there was a trail I needed to follow. Someplace underground." Luring her closer to his corpse, probably. Ew. She wrinkles her nose. "'Course it smelled rotten, like an obvious trap. Pissed me off that it took every fiber of my being not to follow. Then I started thinking about the way he used to touch my hair and it pissed me off even more... and one thing led to another."

 

[Syntra]

"Why would I hate it?" Morgan raised her eyebrow, as if it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. (The scissors danced in her hands, snip, snip, snip, and locks of golden hair fell on the pillow. Don't fail to dispose of it, the practical side of her said, but the romantic hidden inside? Well, the romantic hidden inside may have hoped to perhaps keep one of them, as a memento of sorts. Of course that that could never be, though-- hair was a powerful magical conductor, and storing it like that may have been dangerous.) "It's still you. And yes, I would have loved you with the pink hair still, even if I'd find it hard to defend that in the court. Maybe I would have claimed it's the mark of the chosen one? I mean, the gimmick worked for Arthur, so I don't see why we can't lean on it from time to time. It would be infinitely more true in your cause than it has ever been in his, too." Not that the denizens of Camelot had ever cared about something as useless as the truth, sadly enough-- as long as they could wear their blindfolds, made of sating and gold, they would have been satisfied with pretty much anything. And, honestly? To this day, it surprised her that Arthur hadn't claimed himself to be one of the gods descended from the skies, kind enough to walk among mere mortals. His precious subjects definitely would have believed it, had he sweetened the lie properly!

It was almost as if her thoughts summoned the topic of Arthur, and Morgan's smile soured somewhat. (Ah. Well, memories ran deep, didn't they? Deep like the currents in a sea, unseen, but still powerful-- still in control. The association may have seemed random to her, though if Gwen felt that way... well, it was understandable. Logical, even. That her brother had taken so much from her love that she hated a part of herself now was heartbreaking, of course that it was, except that crying over it wouldn't solve anything. It wasn't even her grief per se, dammit!) After a moment of silence, long enough to fit all of the eternity, the sorceress planted a tiny kiss on the back of her neck. "You know what? If you feel that way, you don't need to have long hair. You really, really don't. So what if you don't look like their dream queen? Their dream queen would have sat in the corner and delivered one heir after another, so it isn't like you ever stood a chance of fitting that image. They'll learn to live with their disappointment, I'm sure. Hell, if you want to, I can... I can even find you some hair dye," Morgan suggested, feeling daring all of a sudden. "I can make you one. Beetroot makes a rather long-lasting shade of red, and... and if I research the topic enough, I could probably come up with wilder colors. Cyan, maybe. You'd look good with cyan, too." ...was she rambling? Maybe, but Morgan sensed instinctively that there was no way for her to help-- that Guinevere was standing in quicksand, and sinking deeper, deeper and deeper with every passing second. Just, how could you soothe one's wounds when they weren't even open anymore? When they hurt with this... this phantom kind of ache? Like a limb that had once been there, but was now lost, gone and buried. Closure, she realized. Closure and time. The latter Morgan couldn't provide, though as for the former? If nothing else, she could try.

"Underground, you say," the sorceress whispered. "It might very well have been more than just a dream. I mean, it's hard to say how these things work exactly. Can you tell where he was leading you? Do you... do you think it might have been the catacombs?" she suggested, with a serious look in her green eyes. "The place is overflowing with magical energies. I believe it might have been caused by the Excalibur's proximity-- I don't know why it happens, but it's easier for magic to concentrate itself... well, in depths. Close to the earth. Like water, it flows in the downward direction, and stays there. Perhaps it contaminated the location, sort of? And if Arthur's spirit somehow stayed in this world, it would make sense that it would gravitate towards a space he was familiar with."

Gently, Morgan squeezed Guinevere's hand. "Do you want to go explore them? Maybe we won't find anything, though in that case, I suppose it might at least give you some peace of mind." Maleagant probably factored in all of this somehow, too, but... no, she wasn't going to bring up him of all people now. Way to ruin a moment, you know?

 

[ellarose]

"Cyan? My, my, Morgan le Fey. What's gotten into you?" Guinevere laughs, her crinkled eyes sparkling and lending the sound a note of sincerity that's been absent for a while. When they first started their lessons, she never would have imagined a future where Morgan would entertain-- let alone encourage-- her delinquent fantasies. When she was still carefree, when she didn't yet take Camelot seriously, she used to be the one who rambled on and on about every rebellious notion that popped into her head. All the while, the sorceress would arch her brow and coldly deal out all the reasons why her ideas were terrible. She never took offense, though. Guinevere was pushing her buttons for fun at that point. (Yeah, yeah. She was a damned handful. But Camelot bored her to tears! Testing Morgan's patience was her only source of amusement, aside from sparring with Lancelot and, heh, throwing things at people when they weren't looking. To be honest, she genuinely liked that Morgan didn't put up with her shit with the saccharine, fake politeness everyone else showered her with. Even if she was cold, she was real with her in the way the others weren't. Or as real as she could be, with her guard intact. It blows her mind even now that she's allowed to see past it.) The juxtaposition between the Morgan she knew and the Morgan she knows now is just another reminder of how far they've come. Turning to her love, Guinevere takes one of Morgan's copper curls between her fingers and brings it to her lips. "You know, the bottle I used back then advertised a color like yours. I always thought it was so cool." Of course... then it turned a cotton-candy pink. It was embarrassing at first, but she quickly shook it off and claimed it as her own. It couldn't cancel out how freeing it felt to deviate from Jen. She mirrored everything about her twin sister for so long she'd forgotten what it was like to be Guinevere. Kind of like now.

"That's okay. I'm happy with it like this." That's the truth, she finds as she stretches over on the bed to get a glimpse herself in the fancy vanity mirror across the room. Shaking her head like a dog does getting out of a bath, she beams at the way her golden waves stick out around her shoulders. Her hair's so fluffy and light now! There's just enough of it to pull back into a stubby little ponytail if she wants, which is all she really needs. It's practical, feels healthier, and it'll be so much easier to take care of. One less thing to worry about, in other words. Wishing she could twirl around in a little happy dance and knowing she can't with her feet bandaged up, Guinevere settles for grinning at Morgan instead. With the early morning sunlight warming her skin and bringing out the gold in her hair, she might as well be glowing from the inside out. "I really am. Thanks."

Guinevere squeezes Morgan's hand back, then, listening to her explanation.

"...Yeah. Had to be the catacombs." Guinevere confirms, straining to hide her worry. "It felt the same as when Excalibur started calling out to me. And the disturbance zone, come to think of it. The spirits there wanted me underground, too." There were instances when the magical pull had been so strong that she'd practically been forced to go wherever it wanted her to go, if she didn't want it to shred through her. If they don't settle this soon, she fears one day she'll lose the fight and sleepwalk right into Arthur's clutches. Not because she's weak or susceptible to his bullshit or anything like that. But because there's complicated, sinister magic at play here and the sleep deprivation is going to wear her down fast.

"We have a lot to do. We still need to find the traitors as soon as possible. I... I don't want anyone else to get hurt." Guinevere chews the inside of her cheek, uncertain. Normally she'd find it selfish to prioritize the source of her nightmares over the affairs of the kingdom. With a killer running loose, it's only a matter of time before they strike again! Except all of this feels connected, somehow. All of the threads lead to Arthur. So exploring the catacombs couldn't possibly be irrelevant, in light of everything that's been happening recently. "Then again, looking into the catacombs could give us some useful intel. We can even use it to our advantage, to make your illusion more convincing... right? So it'd be worthwhile to try." Explore the catacombs in the morning, hold court in the evening. They can still accomplish everything, if they're efficient about it.

Once they gather her hair from the floor and dress for the day, the catacombs are precisely where they go next. Lancelot carries Guinevere down the narrow staircase (after a considerable amount of gaping like a fish at her new haircut) and as he does, a sharp chill runs through her. More than anything, it's a reminder that the last time she was here, Merlin tossed that horrible metal thing at her and essentially turned her into a doll. Then he had to carry her up this staircase, too. Just like Arthur... or perhaps one of his knights carried her all those other times she'd passed out down here. Now here she is again, hurt and incapable of walking thanks to the crimes of those same bastards. The only difference now is that she's still standing (...as in, uh, living more than legitimately standing) and they're dead. Or they're supposed to be, anyway. "Thanks..." She offers, deflated as Lancelot gingerly sets her in the wheelchair he'd carried down for her earlier. It's not that she's ungrateful. It's just frustrating, you know? Needing help with something so simple. Not to mention that navigating a wheelchair through these narrow passages is going to be a pain. Regardless, neither she or Morgan are the type to back down from a challenge. They must press on. Once the knight makes his obligatory promises to come back after a certain time and leaves, Guinevere turns to Morgan.

"I'm not feeling anything... yet. I'm just kinda cold." Guinevere bites her lip. A lot like last night, honestly. "Maybe we need to go further? The, um, the bodies are down here too, right? Should we check on them while we're here?"

 

[Syntra]

“What’s gotten into me?” she grinned, mischievous lights dancing in her eyes. “I just do what I’ve always did, Gwen. Image is important, and so I must advise you in all things fashion-related. If you’re going to take Camelot by storm, I’m going to make sure that you’ll do it properly. You’re a queen now, aren’t you? If you’re going to be rebellious, my love, you ought to do so with style.” Frankly speaking, Morgan’s own words amazed even her, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing-- no, no, quite the contrary. (Guinevere wasn’t the only one who didn’t thrive in the shadows of Camelot, you see? A flower couldn’t grow without the sun, and while the sorceress had grown somewhat accustomed to the conditions… well, that didn’t mean that they were ideal. Not at all. Like a tree who didn’t have enough space to grow, her spine had become a twisted thing-- bent beyond recognition, unable to ever straighten up. There were times where she liked to deny it, of course, but realistically? Realistically, Morgan le Fey was more than aware of how her life till now had left its marks on her. Just, there was no way it hadn’t! …that being said, Guinevere was a breath of fresh air. She had helped her demolish her prison, so didn’t it also make sense that she’d learn how to appreciate the new scenery thanks to her? That, with her, she’d finally spread her wings? All too often, it was the sorceress who was stuck with the role of the mentor, but that didn’t mean that her love had nothing to teach her.)

“A-ah. You really think so?” Absurdly enough, Morgan felt her cheeks turning scarlet, and no, knowing how stupid it was did not improve things in the slightest. "I have... never really thought about it." Yeah, because it wasn't like you could write essays on your hair color! Geez, why did her brain have to stop working in such a crucial time? "I mean, maybe I should have, because I don't believe it runs in the family, but yes." What did that mean, even? Gods, if Morgan could crawl under a duvet and pretend that she had never existed in the first place, that would have been awesome. Thankfully, though? Thankfully, Guinevere changed the topic, which allowed the sorceress to retain a modicum of dignity. "Alright, the catacombs it is. I am not promising that we'll find out anything relevant, but it's better than nothing." Yes, better than nothing, ie. better than whatever clue Maleagant had provided. (How long till Morgan believed him? Till hell froze over, at the very least. Just, who in their right mind would trust an ex-cultist? That he had seen the light just when Guinevere had managed to save herself already was suspicious enough on its own, but that he'd supposedly escaped all of his crazy brethren? That he, alone, had persisted, while the rest of those maniacs had tried their hardest to stop him? Because unless they handed out 'thank you' participation cards to ex-members, that was exactly how that was supposed to have gone down. And you know what? Morgan had her doubts regarding all of that!

Anyway, there was no point in lingering. The catacombs waited, with their all of their secrets, and if they were to uncover at least a half of them, they had to hurry. "I've never liked the place," the sorceress confessed as they descended, darkness swirling around their ankles. "It did not help that Arthur used to threaten me with them," and had acted on those threats, too, "but that isn't the only aspect. No, it's... deeper. Much deeper. Like a memory that you aren't really aware of, but that also refuses to let you go." Perhaps the spirits were whispering warnings into her ears, in the same way a mother might sing a lullaby to her child? Maybe, maybe not. "Well, we've barely got here. Indeed, the bodies lie much deeper, and that is where we must go. Has Arthur ever offered to introduce you to our dear relatives?" the sorceress smirked. "Most of them lie here, forgotten to all. I have to say, our family... hasn't been the most lucky one out there. It's ironic, really, that it's me who happens to be its last surviving member," she chuckled. "Me, the stain on their precious honor. Is it wrong that I find pleasure in knowing that I will bury the line, too? Because I'm never, ever having children." As far as Morgan was concerned, they deserved to die out-- their genetic material wasn't nearly as special as they'd thought it to be, and certainly wasn't worth her debasing herself.

"That being said, can you sense something out of ordinary?" She couldn't, but that didn't mean that it would be the same for Guinevere... and it wasn't, indeed, because for her, the ground shook. The stench of death filled the cells, so pronounced it made one want to throw up, and then? Then the dead started crawling out of their graves, their flesh rotting, their eyes but empty sockets. Uh oh. "Guinevere!" they called out, with a thousand voices. "Guinevere, Guinevere, have you come to join us?"

 

[ellarose]

"I don't blame you." Guinevere remarks empathetically, peering at the flickering shadows cast over the stones in the candlelight. They're just shapes, but they resemble monsters in this creepy ass setting. To be fair, she can't imagine anyone genuinely liking the catacombs. It's not exactly the chillest hangout spot. However, it's even fairer to say that Morgan has far greater incentive to hate it than most people. (Seriously, fuck Arthur. It tore her apart when she heard the news that he locked her down here the night of the banquet. Gods. What a mess that was. Guinevere hijacked her plans, invaded her mind, choked her, and then... ugh. Even though she negotiated for her freedom in the end, she still had to act like a total asshole and avoid her afterwards!) So, yeah. The fact that she's down here yet again, braving an undoubtedly traumatic place for her sake doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated. She reaches for her love's hand and squeezes. "...Thanks for coming down here with me."

Something deeper, hm? Once Guinevere might've found the sentiment abstract and confusing. Now, though? It strikes a memory of her own.

"Maybe there's a reason for that. I saw Arthur kill me in a place like this... one of the other versions of me, I mean." Guinevere scratches her cheek. It's still weird, putting it into words. Even after traveling in time, with a kingdom to run she still hasn't had the time to process that they've been involved in some cursed cycle of reincarnation for centuries. The Guinevere who died then was the Guinevere who had spoken so enthusiastically about exchanging letters before sending her Morgan off to find the Lady of the Lake. 'Once I am powerful enough, I will return for you. I promise. 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.' What became of the Morgan from that timeline, she wonders. And what exactly did she mean by becoming powerful enough? Morgan's connection to the sword, her wings... could all of that be a part of something deeper? Morgan couldn't save her back then, but she did save her from dying underground with Arthur the other night. The lives they're living now must be the furthest they've ever gotten... and yet they still have so far to go. It seems there's another half of their past together that's missing. Memories that Excalibur still has yet to reveal to them...

"...No, never. Arthur blabbed about our future children more than anything else." Guinevere practically gags on her answer. Come to think of it, Arthur never said much about his family, unless it was to boast about his status and birthright. That negligence went both ways, too. He never cared to ask about her family either... not that there was much to tell. She hasn’t seen even a trace of her old man since she and Jen were kidnapped as kids. Is he alive? Is he dead? Hell if she knows! And she knows even less about her mother. With Jen wandering the wastelands, her little family is completely broken. Each piece scattered to the winds of the wastelands and shrouded in mystery. Meanwhile, Morgan's family is all around them. Really solidifies the fact that their lives up to this point have been so different. Still. To think that she'd taken on the Pendragon name and still knows next to nothing about their history. From Arthur's perspective, her only purpose was to provide him with heirs. So she supposes it makes sense that all he thought to speak to her about were babies and the bright future he expected for his legacy. Their agreement-- if you can even call it that-- was completely loveless. So to care about her life as an individual or genuinely open up to her himself? Nah, he would never.

Guinevere knows from what little Morgan's told her thus far that she would not like her folks. Not even a little bit. Between those scars on her shoulders, talk of exorcisms, and Arthur sending her to the catacombs... she shudders to think of what hell they put her through. "I get that. And neither of us will continue it now." She reassures. And she won't. Not with Arthur anyway. Ugh. Will she need to have children someday, though? Is that truly the only way to ensure that the earth survives? Does she have a choice? The flicker of the silver harp and the implications Maleagant spoke of glimmers at the back of her mind and she pointedly avoids it. "Morgan. It's okay if you don't want to talk about it... but your family. What ha--"

Guinevere stiffens sharply, her question whittling away as the ground rumbles beneath them. "Wait a sec. Did you feel that?" It's almost as if the question she nearly asked unearthed something cursed. "Guinevere, have you come to join us?"

"No, like hell I am. I'm not dead yet. I... I don't belong here." Guinevere struggles to iron the tremor from her words. Recoiling from the stench, she presses her hands over her nose and mouth, watching wide-eyed as the corpses crawl from their graves. She'd have backed far away in a heartbeat if not for her wheelchair and the narrow, winding halls. All she can do is draw her knees up to her chest in attempt to keep them from grabbing at her ankles with their decaying, bony fingers. "Stay back!" She kicks out, flinching from the impact when her foot strikes one of their skulls. Her wounds scream in protest and fresh blood stains through bandage. Even worse, it's wasted effort, because it's not enough to stop them. They're corpses, for fuck's sake. Of course they don't feel pain! They continue to climb all over her chair, all over her. Feeling cold and familiarly helpless, Guinevere clenches her eyes shut as if to block them out, completely unaware that Morgan doesn't seem to be seeing or hearing the same things she is. The hands of the dead are all over her. They're freezing, coaxing and reaching inside her chest as if to rearrange her insides and provoke her into moving towards their embrace. Promising she'll be warm once she joins them, the way she's destined to. "The earth will not rest... the dead will not rest... until we claim the flower bride." She thrashes and her efforts do nothing to shake them. "Morgan..." She hates that she's whimpering. She hates it, hates it, hates it. "How do I make them stop?"

 

[Syntra]

Arthur, acting his usual asshole self? Yeah, not exactly the biggest surprise under the sun. Still, from his warped point of view, wasn’t that a wasted opportunity? A swing not taken? He could have blabbed on and on about the powerful Pendragon name, and yet, yet he hadn’t. Most curious, indeed. “I have to admit,” she chuckled, “that the revelation does puzzle me. I mean, he didn’t even market his future heirs properly! I would have thought that he’d feed you all the stories about our ancestors’ glorious deeds,” exploits, more like, “in order to make it seem like being a part of this family is a win.” And, technically, it was. How many survivors from the wastes could so much as dream about the privilege they were living in, hmm? How many could even go to sleep, knowing that there would still be a roof over their heads once they woke up? Not too many, Morgan would wager. …and yet, despite that, it was difficult to see the prison bars of her cell as a blessing. It just mattered little that they were made of gold, all things considered. It was sacrilegious, yes, and probably also more than a little thoughtless, but when had that ever stopped Morgan le Fey? Maybe the sorceress was just… interested in seeing what she would have been like, without that metaphorical boot on her neck. Without being twisted beyond recognition, sooner than she even could straighten up for the first time. “Maybe he had a rare moment of clarity and realized that that was impossible.” Yeah, that, or he simply hadn’t cared about the opinions of his future wife. Why, after all, should she feel honored to continue that bloodline? It wasn’t like the silly little thoughts that she dreamt up from time to time mattered, or anything silly like that!

“There isn’t that much to say,” she shrugged. “A lot of mystique, a lot of mystery, but I suspect that a lot of it is just a shiny veneer. I doubt that we were too special, in the context of everything else. We were just lucky when it came to… hmm, when it came to acquiring certain properties. When you’re rich enough, it’s easy to make others accept your version of the story.” Of course, it didn’t make it any easier for people to believe, but what did it matter? When nobody dared to voice a single doubt, what they truly thought became a non-issue-- a fly buzzing in the background, its input meaningless. “The followers flocked to them on their own, and you can probably imagine how eager they were to prove their loyalty.” No, ‘constructive criticism’ wasn’t something that the Pendragons were used to receive. …would she have been like that, too? Had they actually treated her as one of their own, and not a stain on their precious, precious reputation. “Sometimes,” she said, in a low, whispery voice, “I almost regret that they’re all dead. I would have loved for them to see this-- for them to witness the implosion of their dreams.” The desire was childish, Morgan knew, yet why not? Her inner child, the one who had been broken over and over, deserved her treat from time to time.

Still, it’s strange, she thought, passing by their graves by like that. Morgan had never been one to suffer from nostalgia, so she had rarely visited out of her volition-- Arthur’s ehm, ehm, creative use of the place hadn’t helped, either, but more than likely, she wouldn’t have avoided the place all the same. After numerous years, it just felt… strange. Unnatural. (Was it just her, or was something hanging in the air? Like a thunder, signalizing the arrival of lightning? Morgan’s eyes couldn’t see anything, but eyes weren’t the only sense to perceive the world with, and… and Guinevere seemed to agree, although in a way she certainly hadn’t expected.) “Gwen?” the sorceress raised her eyebrow, feeling just as alarmed as her love. Gods, was her heart thumping wildly in her throat! “Gwen, what is it that you’re seeing?” Pranks weren’t entirely out of the realm of possibility here, not with Guinevere’s disposition, but her fright just seemed so authentic that Morgan didn’t even consider that as on option. (Could the Excalibur be sending her messages? The Excalibur, or perhaps something more sinister, slumbering underground? Sometimes, it was… better not to think about these things, really, if you wished to have restful sleep.)

“Gwen, I don’t know what is bothering you, but if you can hear voices, focus on what they’re saying. In one way or another, they are providing a guide on how to approach this. Give them what they want, but not in a way they might necessarily expect.” That tended to work with the spirits-- those that weren’t too friendly, anyway.

 

[ellarose]

“You mean…” Guinevere’s teeth chatter in the breaks between her words. “You mean you can’t see them? You can’t even hear them?” Well, duh. That’s what ‘I don’t know what’s bothering you’ implies. But how!? This vision is so real, so encompassing, more so than any of the voices she's heard in the past. Corpses crawl all over her, the cringeworthy texture of bone and rotted flesh scraping over her arms and legs. Hell, the smell of death itself assaults her nose enough to make her physically recoil. Each of her senses are so thoroughly overwhelmed that she can't help but wonder how a sorceress of her love’s caliber can’t sense even a spark of it. Now it's up to her to translate yet again, to repeat the horrible chanting in her ears. “They want the 'flower bride' to join them.” Bitterly, she spits the cultist speak out as if she's referring to some distant stranger instead of herself. The sorry, soulless excuse of a person she could have been-- might have been-- if she didn't fight it. If she let those bastards decide her role. But there’s no denying what runs in her blood and what it means. She crumbles. “They want me to join them. Morgan, what if…”

Guinevere’s words snag painfully on the memory of Morgan’s tearstained face, of her hand outstretched towards her in the abyss. Something ancient and ravenous waiting at the earth’s depths expected to swallow her whole… only to be denied at the last moment. Perhaps they’ve unwittingly angered something monstrous, something larger than themselves and larger than fate itself. Sate the beast, restore the earth? She's had that gut feeling all along, as much as she tries to push it down. The cost, though, is leaving her love behind. Again. Leaving her behind and staining yet another lifetime in blood and tragedy. Selfish. Guinevere accosts herself. You knew it was selfish and you kissed her back anyway.

It's not fair. It's far too much for one person to carry the lives of every living thing on this earth alone. Every choice she makes is equivalent to a force of nature, her indecisiveness and inaction will rob people of their lives. It's not fair. But this is how it is. And it’s been so thoroughly branded into her by now that this is her responsibility, hers alone to bear... unless. Unless this magic is just fucking with her. Like the fleeting vision she caught in the mirror last night, those glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Constantly questioning what’s real and what isn’t... it gets exhausting. She's trapped in a perpetual nightmare where she’s always unsure, afraid, and seven steps behind all of her adversaries. Fucking hell. They ruined you. He ruined you. Now you’re losing your goddamned mind.

"Tsk, tsk, Guinevere. Foolish as ever, I see. We haven’t ruined you. Let me explain, my love." Guinevere blinks and she discovers herself in a hazy field of roses. Arthur is lying next to her… the bastard reaches for her face and she finds she can’t pull herself away. The press of Arthur's skin on hers is magnetic, but not in a good way. Never in a good way. Nah. His touch is as possessive and disturbing as ever. "It’s really quite simple. You're self-destructive. For if you had simply done as you were told, you wouldn’t be suffering this way. I would have guided you, would have helped you bear your burden as fate intended." Ugh. This is the same old shit. The same old useless shit!

“Fuck off, Arthur! I don't— ack.“

Guinevere's mildly shocked that she can still speak while frozen in place in every other respect... except her comeback is short-lived when his hands crush her windpipe and snuff the words out. The roses swaying around them burst and scatter into a sea of ashes. She finds herself drowning in them alongside Arthur. He cackles, tightening his grip.

"Don’t you see!? This is what happens when you kill the true hero of the story, Guinevere! The fabric of your reality falls apart. The queen isn't meant to live without her king. Oh no, no, no. She's supposed to die from grief in his absence. Especially when she carries the shame of murdering him on her conscience." Arthur’s eyes are hateful, boring into her. Guinevere stares back unblinkingly. Although she can't breathe, she doesn't shy or flinch away from his gaze. While she's had her reservations about killing him in the past, she truly doesn't feel an ounce of shame for what she's done. Not after everything he's put her through. Not after everything he's put Morgan through. And the lady of the lake and everyone else, for that matter. "You were always such an insolent creature... but soon you'll learn. Now that I’m dead, there’s no reason for anyone on this hopeless earth to go on living. One by one the people around you will die... until you join me, my love. That’s a promise." He smirks. "Perhaps I’ll take one of your precious friends next, to make you understand the consequences of your actions."

This vision is torn away so fast that Guinevere's eyes have trouble adjusting to the darkness of the catacombs at first. The corpses are gone, as if they had never been there at all. Blinking rapidly, the magicked fog that clouded her eyes clears to reveal the horror dawning in them. So, yikes. Apparently in the real world, she was being choked by her own two hands. Releasing herself from her ironclad grip, she wheezes for breath. Is this the same sensation that came over those men, before they slaughtered themselves in cold blood? Is this the sort of power that Arthur’s spirit possesses? And if he left her, does that mean now he’s gone on to target someone else? Like Sam, Tamara, or Adrianne—

They're survivors. They're unbelievably strong and capable of defending themselves, more than any of the knights in their shiny armor. And yet these affirmations do nothing to comfort her. Because if this magic persuades them to turn their weapons on themselves, like it just persuaded her to fucking strangle herself...

Not them. Please, not them.

“Morgan, my friends. Go check on my friends!” Guinevere pleads. Time is ticking and she feels every wasted second like a stab to her heart. This damned chair! She won't make it out of the catacombs fast enough. Not like this. She isn't going to save anyone like this. Morgan, though. Her love stands a chance. “There's no time to explain. Whatever killed those men... I think it's going to target them next! Hurry and make sure they’re okay. Please.”

Guinevere clutches the arms of her chair. Her frantic mind races miles ahead, imagining solutions in favor of envisioning her friends corpses on the ground, their blood pooling over Camelot's pristine floors. Calm down. It's going to be okay. Morgan will make it. Or-- or if Malegant's connected to Arthur, like he says he is, maybe he'll sense something's amiss. Maybe he'll make it in time to warn them before anything happens! He couldn't stop those traitorous men from dying... but they could have easily died before Maleagant ever stepped through Camelot's gates. So maybe this time will be different.

...There's no denying it, is there? Arthur's still here, he's dangerous and he needs to be stopped. Guinevere has to stop him.

 

[Syntra]

“Guinevere. Guinevere, what are you doing?!” Not that it was necessary to ask, mind you-- Morgan had her own two eyes, and with those, she could see that quite well. ‘Why are you doing this?’ would have been a better question, but could you blame her for her brain hiccupping? Seeing Guinevere choke herself just wasn’t something that filled her with a sense of peace. “Can you hear me, Gwen?” Immediately, her hands flew to her love’s neck, but… damn. Damn, damn, damn! Why did it feel as if her fingers were made of stone? They just wouldn’t budge, no matter how much strength she put into her attempts! (A distant memory resurfaced in her mind, blurry around the edges and yet crisp in the details. Something about Guinevere offering to teach her the way of the sword, and her… refusing? She could hear her older self clearly-- ‘magic is my weapon, I don’t need to learn that.’ Well, perhaps she should have accepted back then, because at least physical exercise would have helped her to get stronger! …as always, hindsight was 10/10. Panic was rising in her throat, bitter and all-encompassing, but, in the end? In the end, Morgan suppressed it. You cannot choke yourself to death like that, the sorceress reminded herself. The muscles will always weaken before that can happen. Unconsciousness was the worst case scenario here, and while not pleasant, she could deal with it. Besides, if nothing else, then maybe her words could reach her? Voices, as she knew, could travel across entire dimensions, if charged with the right energy.) “Gwen. I don’t know what it is that you are seeing, but it’s not true. Let go. You’re hurting yourself.” Despite her being a shaky mess, the sorceress tried her hardest to remain composed-- to sound as herself, in other words, and not some cheap replica. (Guinevere knew her as her rock to rely on, always steady, always there. What would be gained from her losing it now? Nothing, nothing, nothing, and so she had to swallow those feelings. …plus, who was she to break down? She wasn’t the one burdened by the visions, by the crown, by the weight of the world resting on her shoulders.)

Seconds passed, or they may have been minutes, really, when Guinevere finally opened her eyes. “Gwen,” Morgan repeated, relief flooding her system. “I…” I, what? ‘I was worried?’ ‘Powerless to stop this?’ ‘I am sorry?’ All those I, I, I sentences seemed worthless-- horribly self-centered, and missing the point, too. “…what happened?” she ended up saying. “I tried to reach you, but you weren’t listening.” More than likely, her love hadn’t heard her-- for all Morgan knew, a storm may have been raging in her ears, loud and overpowering. “Your… friends?” the sorceress raised her eyebrow, hopelessly confused. (Gods, what was going on around here? Were they speaking the same language, even? Because nothing, nothing about this made a modicum of sense! …which, of course, ultimately didn’t mean anything. Morgan hadn’t witnessed what Gwen had, you see? So, yes, her worries may as well have been rooted in reality, just like they may have been based on pure delusions. A coin toss, really.) “Why? How do you know all that?” Now, despite her doubts, it wasn’t as if Morgan planned to ignore her wish. No, not at all. It was just better to know what you were getting yourself into before jumping straight into the...

“Queen Guinevere! Lady Morgan!” The voice cut through the silence abruptly, and it cost Morgan all of her self-control not to flinch. Just a maid, she told herself. Not a villain that came to stab you. Do you think that someone like that would simply announce their presence? The realization should have brought her relief, but it did very little in the way of that-- it was hard for her brain to produce any serotonin when the woman sounded this distressed. (Whatever she had called them for, the sorceress was fairly certain that it wasn’t about, say, asking them what they wanted for dinner.) “Yes?” she asked, her voice cold and measured. “I assume you are aware that we are busy, are you not?”

“Indeed, I am,” the girl nodded, “but… well, lady Adrianne disappeared.”

Immediately, Morgan’s mouth felt dry. “What do you mean, disappeared? How?”

“Well, she… she was there, and then she wasn’t. A black fog surrounded her, and before anyone could do anything, she was just gone! It was,” the girl shuddered, and hugged herself with her skinny hands, “magic. Dark magic. The castle is cursed!”

 

[ellarose]

"Why...? Does it matter why!? If they're in serious danger, we need to act before--" Before what? Before a maid can seek them out in the depths of the catacombs and deliver the worst possible news? Because with mortifyingly impeccable timing that's exactly what interrupts Guinevere, stilling both her lips and her heart at once. Disappeared. The word bludgeons into her heart like a sledgehammer and smashes it to pieces. What's left of it now? Of her? Hell if she knows. At the moment, she doesn't know anything except for the word, battering into her gut until she's sore and sick with it. Disappeared, disappeared, disappeared.

There's a rock lodged in Guinevere's throat. She can't utter even a syllable around it. Morgan's words are a faraway echo and the maid's response is even fuzzier.

Adrianne. Guinevere remembers the warmth of her embrace after Jen abandoned her, whispering into her hair that she mattered and always had a home with her. The definition of their love saw plenty of changes over the years, sure, but that doesn't change the fact that she's family to her. Irreplaceable. She and the others gave her a reason to move forward in spite of their bleak reality in the wastelands. What's the point of Guinevere's sacrifice, traveling to Camelot and murdering her own identity to become Arthur's obedient little wife if she ends up losing the very people that she fought for in the first place? What's the point of any of this!? Her mind is on the fritz, overflowing with imagery she recognizes from her life, as well as those she doesn't. Displaced memories that don't exactly belong to her, but also do on some level. She sees the smiling eyes of old friends, children of the forest, past sisters and mentors. Her love. Then the tone of her reverie twists like a dagger and she sees the red of their blood, splattering to the ground as they're slain in the forest. And then she pictures Adrianne, uncharacteristically frightened and suffocated in a smoky fog. Their pain sears through her, leaving her hot with fury and grief. How many people have been stolen from her now? Stolen by Arthur's greed, in his pursuit of her and the power that Excalibur possesses?

No amount of power is worth all of this. Guinevere closes her eyes. And though she doesn't expect an answer, she receives one. But you have it nonetheless. Use it and take back what's yours.

The kingdom is falling apart. Her gang is being targeted. They need her. Guinevere's eyes flash when she opens them. She lifts her chin regally, reclaiming her presence even in her wheelchair.

"I see. We'll take care of it as soon as we can." Guinevere assures the maid with numb confidence. If she's sure of one thing, it's of this. Now's the time for action. They can't keep twiddling their thumbs, debating what needs to be done, waiting for the stars to align... they need to do something, before they've got nothing left to lose. "Send for sir Lancelot and then get some rest."

The maid nods and scurries off. "...Fuck." Guinevere huffs an audible breath and bows her head low, cupping her hands behind her neck. The freshly shortened strands of her hair brush airily over her wrists. Feels like the weight she physically chopped from her shoulders the night before was just replaced tenfold.

Even if Morgan left the second she suggested it, she couldn't have possibly made it in time. She'd likely have encountered the maid at the top of the staircase. So there's no one to assign blame to right here and now, not really. No outlet for the anger bubbling up inside of her. Part of her is inclined to turn it on herself, to blame herself for not having done something sooner to prevent this. Maybe if she had trusted Maleagant sooner, his warnings about Arthur's hostile spirit and the dangers of it...

"Maleagant was right." Guinevere confesses quietly. Even so, there's not a trace of brittleness about her to detect. Because there's an undeniable fury resting just behind the soft of her mourning. "I heard Arthur's voice just now. He said he'll take everyone until I join him. There are going to be more victims, unless..." She swallows and hardens. Even then, giving up is a last resort. Like hell is she going to serve Arthur what he wants on a silver platter! She'll steel herself and do it if she must, if that's what it takes, but... that's not how she intends to go, all right? "Look. I'm not planning to lay down and die, okay? Maleagant said there might be a way to trick him. If he has a plan, I think we should hear him out. We have to figure this out before someone else gets hurt. I can't just sit around, waiting for the safest option to present itself. I have to do something. I have to." She balls her hands into fists in her lap. Don't get her wrong, she knows perfectly well how her love feels about this. "Morgan, come with me this time. Please?" I need you.