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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

Ah, damn. Damn, damn, damn! To say that Morgan liked Adrianne would have been a stretch, but to hear that she had disappeared… no, that did not please her. Not one bit. What on earth is happening here?! (The whole deal with Arthur’s spirit seemed suspicious, and not in the way that the Lady of the Lake and Excalibur mysteries were-- those had been drenched in magic, with the answers half a dream and half a nightmare. This, though… Something just didn’t add up here. Presumably, magic was responsible for Adrianne’s situation, right? How come that Morgan hadn’t felt it, then? A disturbance this large should have been like a tidal wave, not a splash in a pond! …and yet, yet it had happened, unless she was willing to call the maid a liar. The maid, and Guinevere’s friends as well, and pretty much anyone involved. It had been easy enough to do with Maleagant, with his suspicious origins and everything, but to blame the rest of Camelot as well? No, Morgan knew better than that. The doubts that she nursed, however justified they may have been, could not prevent her from seeing the truth.) “…what?” she asked, her eyes wide. “I mean, yes, I will go with you, but…” ‘But this is ridiculous,’ some part of her wanted to say. Ridiculous, and an obvious scheme, too. The reason why there was no magical fingerprint was that Maleagant had arranged for Adrianne to be kidnapped, or… or something. Nothing else about this made sense! Even so, Morgan didn’t really think that Guinevere would appreciate her input here. How could she? Adrianne, who had been her family for so long was missing, and no number of theories could fix that. “Nevermind,” the sorceress shook her head. “There is no time to waste. Let’s go, then.” Yes, let’s go, and see what the man has to say.

(Distantly, Morgan wondered whether she was perhaps… well, defective. Unfeeling, with her heart colder than a glacier. Wasn’t she supposed to be panicking right now, with Adrianne gone? With this dark fog that had infiltrated their safe haven, smothering them all? The atmosphere was heavy, indeed, as if a storm was about to break out, and despite that? Despite that, Morgan was calm, her heart rate normal. That’s because I scarcely know her, the sorceress tried to explain to herself, but… well, something about it felt empty. Like an excuse, rather than an explanation. Surely, this couldn’t be some misplaced jealousy, lurking in the depths of her heart? No, no, that would have been far too childish for Morgan le Fey! Childish, and ultimately harmful as well. Guinevere didn’t need petty mind games right now-- what she required was support, and also the expertise of the only person in the castle who might grasp what exactly was going on here.) “If this Maleagant knows something,” she piped up, “I’ll make him tell the truth.” And if not… well, at least we’ll know for sure. “We’ll find her,” Morgan added. “No matter where she is now, I’m certain that we will uncover that mystery soon.” Because, really, what would be the point behind killing her? Those three no name men had been murdered unceremoniously, for the knowledge that they had possessed, but Adrianne was different-- Adrianne was leverage, and as such, more valuable alive than she would be dead. The kidnapper must have understood that, right? Otherwise her corpse would have stayed there for everyone to see, serving as a gruesome warning.

Camelot was quiet, as it should be, but she could sense the tension in the air-- the unspoken promise of something looming behind the horizon, just out of sight. (Had the castle always been this silent? It had always seemed as busy as an anthill to Morgan, with the staff working to maintain the illusion of effortless comfort, but now… now the place almost struck her as dead. Lifeless. Everyone is hiding, most likely, her mind came up with an explanation. And didn’t it only make sense? If there was a dark witch, sneaking around and claiming the lives of the innocents, nobody would want to stay in her way! As ridiculous as that imagery was, people probably found it to be a rather convincing argument.) Swiftly, the sorceress knocked on the door. No reply came, though-- only silence, so deep that it was almost deafening, and… a quiet moaning? Gods. Without waiting for Guinevere’s approval, she opened the door. Magic was tingling in her hands, ready to come at the slightest hint of her command, but what she saw there? Well, let’s just say that it shocked her into inaction. Maleagant was there, yes, but he was lying in a pool of blood-- his eyes were glassy, though not unseeing, teetering between wakefulness and the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

“My… my queen?” he rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper. “I… I am sorry. I tried to stop him, but I wasn’t powerful enough.”
 
"Oh. Shit." Guinevere, on the other hand, is shocked into action. She lurches out of her chair unthinkingly, silently hissing through her teeth as she's given another cruel reminder of just how mangled her poor feet are. Undeterred in spite of her own pain, she presses on, limping urgently and clumsily to Maleagant's side. On her knees, she feels the warmth of his blood soaking right through her dress. It makes her cringe-- not for the garment's sake, but for Maleagant's. Oh, fuck. He lost so much blood. How many times has she been in this position before, wildly searching for the source of a wound before it's too late? Ah, there it is. A nasty, open gash in his side. Just a few centimeters away from being fatal... but like this, he ought to be spared with the right treatment. With the hands of someone who's done this countless times in the past, she presses both of her palms to his chest to staunch the bleeding.

"Your hair, my queen." ...What the hell is he on about? Is he delirious? "It suits you."

For a moment, Guinevere's face becomes warmer than his blood on her hands. Oh, right. She cut her hair. But why is his observation heating her up like a stovetop? Something about her body's response doesn't feel entirely natural, almost like someone flipped a switch inside of her. (Yeah, right. Like that makes any sense at all!) No, no, no. This is all in her head, like everything else lately. And who can blame her? The chaos squeezed into last few minutes have simply been too much for her to process all at once. Just about anyone would be overwhelmed and flustered in her shoes. Besides, the state of her hair matters just as much as her bloodied dress does. Which is to say not at all.

"Beautiful." Malegant's hand presses over hers. Guinevere blinks perplexedly at it, genuinely wondering whether or not she's hallucinating again. But... nope. This is real. When her eyes widen and flicker reluctantly to the floor, his own gaze slides surreptitiously over her shoulder at Morgan in the doorway. Then he looks away again so fast that it'd have been easy to blame it all on a mere trick of the light.

"Um." Guinevere shakes her head to break out of her daze. So that was unexpected. Clearly he's just feverish. People say all sorts of weird shit when they're feverish. Like. How does she even respond to that? Morgan's standing right there! Their conversations have all been strictly business. Up until this point, at least. "No, that's not... just stop talking." Please. And more importantly... "What happened? What do you mean you tried to stop him?"

"Forgive me. I... I overheard Arthur's intentions. He meant to hurt your friends. I was going to warn them, but..." Malegant shakes his head, as if ashamed. He moves his hand away from hers at last. "Would you believe me, my queen, if I told you I was stabbed by my own hand?" And with that, he grasps Guinevere's sympathy in an instant.

"I believe you. He just did the same thing to me. Lady Morgan can even attest to that. I... he made me choke myself. Down in the catacombs." Guinevere decides to withhold information about the other murders. But there's no denying that had been the truth in their case as well. "He's getting restless now. More people are going to get hurt if we don't do something to stop him soon."

"The scoundrel. I am sorry to hear that he hurt you, my queen. It is most unfortunate, but I fear you are correct." Malegant nods sagely, his stare fixed on intently Guinevere even as he addresses Morgan for the first time since they arrived. "Lady Morgan, if you would be so kind... would you mind finding me some help? I believe the queen is most capable of taking care of me until--"

"No." Guinevere's response is sharper than she intends. But no, absolutely not! With Arthur's spirit out wreaking havoc, she doesn't want Morgan out of her sight. She can't lose her too. She can't. "Lady Morgan is an excellent healer. You'll be safer in her hands than anyone else's. She's saved my own life countless times now." She turns over her shoulder to gaze imploringly at her love. "You'll help him, won't you? And then we can discuss what needs to be done."

...Maleagant's expression may have darkened the moment Guinevere turned her back to him. But then again, it also may have been a trick of the light. Who knows at this point?
 
...excuse me, but what the hell?! Morgan rarely chose such words, even in the privacy of her own mind, but it was undeniable that the situation required it. Just, what was that supposed to mean? Where did the bastard find the energy to comment on Guinevere's looks, hmm?! (It was silly, the sorceress knew. Gwen was attractive, and, as such, naturally turned men's heads-- she had witnessed it happen countless times, mostly because... well, they had acted with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. In a way, she couldn't even fault them. Was it not normal, to let your gaze wander? To dare to hope, regardless of how ridiculous your dreams were? That being said, Maleagant voicing his thoughts was going a step too far. Guinevere was his queen, for one, and so he had no right to treat her like... like a serving girl in some cheap tavern! Such a woman might have welcomed his advances, indeed, but Gwen... Gwen blushed, as if she enjoyed the attention. Ah, okay. You know what? That was fine. Morgan le Fey wasn't a jealous type, so the exchange didn't actually bother her at all, thank you very much. Her love's heart belonged to her and her only, and some brainwashed nobody could hardly change that. Right? Right! It wasn't as if doubts were eating her from the inside or anything silly like that, hahaha! Morgan didn't at all wonder whether... whether Guinevere had only gone for her because, compared to Arthur and his lackeys, she was a slightly less despicable option. Nuh uh, all thoughts of that nature were entirely foreign to the sorceress.)

"You shouldn't waste your breath," she recommended to Maleagant, sharp and curt. "The bleeding will only get worse. You know, since your lungs are working harder?" A wonderful argument, truly, and not at all suspicious! How much would Guinevere resent me for letting him drop dead? Which, all things considered, would be a valid course of action-- the problem would essentially solve itself, so to speak. No cultists, no issues! The man had infiltrated their home and poisoned her love's mind, so allowing him to fall victim to his own inherent mortality seemed like the logical step. When weeds took over your garden, you didn't water them, now did you? And if he died as a result of this wound... well, Morgan couldn't even be blamed here, for her hand wasn't the one who had dealt it in the first place. Yeah, except that I'd be betraying her trust as well. Do I really want this relationship to be built on deception? Pretending to be incompetent was a form of lying, no less insidious than anything else!

"Sure," Morgan nodded, "I will take care of him. Nobody is dying on my watch." Sadly. "Besides, sir Maleagant, I have to admit that I have a few questions for you once you feel better. I've never been one to let my brother stand in the way of my curiosity, you see? Or anyone else, for that matter."

"Ah, of course," he smiled, a steady stream of blood flowing down his lips. "I didn't... didn't expect any less from you, lady Morgan. Everyone knows what you are like." Was it just her, or was that a jab? Morgan's eyes narrowed, but she approached him nonetheless, inspecting the wound from up-close. Hmm, it really does look as if he was stabbed. Anything else could easily be a lie, but as for the source of the injury? Oh, Morgan believed him, alright. The circumstances in which he had received it, on the other hand... well, let's just say that she did have her doubts.) "Queen Guinevere," the sorceress turned to her companion, "will you help me move him to his bed?" Because, yes, no matter how much she resented him, leaving him on the floor didn't seem like a viable course of action.

Carefully, Morgan placed his arm over her neck, and then... Huh? It was tingling, in the same way a shiver running down your spine might, except that about ten times stronger. It wasn't magic, not quite, but it also wasn't not magic? Morgan would have loved to theorize about the phenomenon more, but her mind felt heavy, heavy, heavy, as if weighed down by rocks, and... what was she doing here, anyway? And why? Wouldn't it be easier, simpler, to just rest for once? Especially now, with her legs turning into cotton candy, with her arms turning into mist.

"He's here," Maleagant whispered, and for some reason, his voice alone cut through the fog in her brain. "He's here, and she wronged him. Of course that he wants his vengeance." Which, once again, what? Morgan only heard those words as if they were coming from a great distance, filtered through entire oceans, perhaps, but... ah, alright. It did sort of make sense, she supposed. Why else would there be a bloody stain blooming on her chest, growing larger and larger by the second?
 
“Morgan...?” So fuck proper, fuck all of Maleagant’s opinions, Guinevere can’t be arsed to remember titles and formalities when Morgan is bleeding. “You're bleeding!" Yes, way to state the obvious genius! "Are you...” Okay? No, obviously not. When a sharp pinch of grief closes her throat, she throws her clumsy attempts at articulation away and settles for sinking onto the floor at Morgan's side. Leveling herself to peer into her eyes, she tries to hold her gaze as if that might prevent her from drifting off. "Morgan, I'm right here. Stay with me. What's happening to you?"

No one struck her. No one could have gotten close enough as long as she was there… because Camelot be damned, Guinevere would have wiped the floor with anyone who dared to come at her love with a weapon. They'd be busy picking their teeth out of the goddamn carpet! And yet there she sits, bleeding. Out of nowhere, with no visible attacker in sight. How did this happen!? Except that the question of how didn't really matter right now. It wouldn't matter at all until she knew whether or not Morgan was going to be all right.

Guinevere’s vision blurs through tears and she blinks frantically to clear them. This panic she's feeling won't help anyone, not her and certainly not her love. Her hands hover uncertainly over Morgan’s chest as she tries to locate a wound. Gods, there’s blood everywhere. Morgan’s. Maleagant’s. It’s exactly like Arthur said. One by one, the people around you will die until you join me.

“Why is this…” Happening? Who the fuck knows? (Arthur's disembodied voice will surely claim that he knows, which to be honest, is the reason why she stops herself from finishing the question at all. He's predictable enough to say something stupid, like Morgan deserves this for betraying him, and that is not what she needs to hear right now-- no fucking thanks!) The real question is what is she supposed to do? What can she do? Guinevere doesn’t know. But she should know, shouldn't she? She should, as queen, as someone who's meant to be depended upon. And it doesn't escape her that everything is turning out exactly how Arthur said it was going to. Sure it sounded like bullshit initially, but she's had enough of this. If joining him ends everyone's meaningless suffering, then... then that's it, isn't it? There's no way she can cling to denial and fantasies of the future forever. Adrianne, then Maleagant and now Morgan. All within minutes. Her thoughts are scattered, her hands trembling and stained in the blood of the people around her, and she certainly isn’t equipped to keep either of them from dying. This is going to take far more than applying pressure and tearing the fabric of her sleeves to create makeshift bandages. People have died in her arms like this before. Because she was the one they were stuck with and unfortunately for them, she only had a baseline idea of what she was doing. And sure, sure, no one would expect a frightened ten year old girl to know how to save someone as they bled profusely. Doesn't change the fact that the guilt still weighs her down to this day, regardless of the reasons why it would've been impossible for her to have done anything different. If Morgan dies here and now for seemingly no reason, because of Arthur's petty grudges and her own damned incompetence-- “I… I need to go find help. I—“

With shaky urgency, Guinevere takes Morgan's hands in her own and presses them both down over the wound on her chest. Perhaps as long as she can stay awake and keep herself from losing too much blood before she returns with help--

And suddenly sparks flare up beneath their fingertips, igniting with heat. Excalibur flickers erratically through its sheath at Guinevere's side, as if having a reaction to Morgan's blood, and a flood of voices and imagery rushes through her mind.

'Let my own blood be the seal.' There's a woman's voice, distant and yet familiar. Wizened and scorned and elegant all at once... the whisper of a sorceress casting a spell. Every word holds gravity that Guinevere feels pulling, pulling, pulling in the depths of her soul. For some reason, it makes her want to cry. As if there is some hidden, grave meaning to them. A meaning that some ancient, buried part of her resonated with.

This scene is quickly stripped away and replaced with something else.. '...We drank of the Holy Grail together, my love. And now our fates are tied forevermore.' Uh huh. A voice that irritating could only belong to Arthur. Naturally. Also, she genuinely recognized this one. She met the first Arthur face to face when she was dropkicked into the past. A real charming fellow, really, with his love for mansplaining and punishment. 'My love? You have lost the right to call me that, you vile, despicable lout. If you do so again, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the wolves. You tricked me.' The vicious hiss in reply just as naturally belongs to her. 'I am the king and I shall do as I please! You will burn at sunrise, Guinevere. Now, do not mistake this punishment for cruelty. I am being merciful. Your soul will be cleansed with fire and you will repent for your sins in the next life.' Okay. Yeah, Guinevere already knows how that goes down. But what the hell is the Holy Grail? '...If I am to burn, then at least tell me this. Where has lady Morgan gone? I know she hasn't abandoned me.'

'Lady Morgan?' He's laughing, the bastard. Of course he is. 'Why, she is already dead.'

There's a period of silence after these words. Guinevere's heart breaks anew. Is this the heart of her past self, that remains somewhere inside of her still? Or the heart of her present self, who met that kind, adorable and somewhat awkward version of Morgan not too long ago? The one who said the word fiddlesticks and believed in her wholeheartedly when she told her story? She had asked what was going to become of them back then, and... Gods. She deserved so much better. They both did. So many times, they've died in agony. Her Morgan can't die now. Not again. Not like this.

'You are the flower bride.' An unfamiliar voice slips in, serpentine amidst other faint echoes of the past. 'You are springtime and life. Let your instincts take over, child.'

If Guinevere is going to do anything with the magic swelling up inside of her, she's going to use it to save the people she loves. She's going to save Morgan. Even if it's the last thing she does. Her breaths are sharp as she reaches as deep as she can for the potential sleeping in her. It's like swimming down to the depths of the earth, passing roots older than her own soul, struggling not to choke on the soil. When she finally finds what she's searching for, relief hits her like an anesthetic and relaxes her body and soul. Hmmm. This is natural, isn't it? This is a part of her that got sealed away a long time ago. Her faltering heart fills up like a balloon, it's string cut loose from the heavy anchor that was holding her down. Free to soar, free to wield the magic she possesses without that shackling fear of consequence. Losing Morgan is the worst case scenario right now. So what if someone sees her casting magic? They'll just have to deal. Because Guinevere's tired of hesitating, tired of denying who she is. Most of all, she's so goddamned sick and tired of losing people. Of feeling powerless to stop it when in all actuality she has this potential resting eagerly within her. A creature of fury with sharp teeth and claws, waiting ever so patiently behind her goodwill and restraint. I am the flower bride. I can restore life... I can save her.

Guinevere's eyes overflow with a luminous, ethereal blue. And beneath her hands, Morgan's wound slowly begins to seal itself shut.
 
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The world around her was spinning, spinning, spinning, like some crazy merry-go-round-- not that Morgan had ever seen one of those things, of course, but memory was a funny thing, wasn’t it? Right now, it was pulling that imagery out of the non-reality she had witnessed on the pages of books, only slightly less ancient than, say, the era in which dinosaurs had roamed the earth. Nonsense, her rational side protested. Don’t you know that thousands of years separate those time periods? Which, duh, she very much did, but emotionally, it… checked out, sort of. Weren’t they similarly distant, after all? What difference did it make, indeed, if both of those things were equally unreachable, equally shrouded in mystery? In bitter longing? (The blood kept falling on the carpet, the sorceress was aware of that. Drip, drip, drip, it went, in this lazy rhythm, and on some level, Morgan found it to be calming. Whether it was because the sounds synchronized with her own heart so perfectly, or because some part of her had been hungry for this very thing for so, so long, that much she couldn’t tell, yet for the first time in ages, she felt… at peace? Something close to that, anyway.)

“Haven’t I warned you, my dearest?” Arthur’s voice had always been annoying, but right now, it was like needles in her ears, white hot and downright insufferable. Couldn’t he shut up in death, at least? (In her death, he most likely would. That, if nothing else, was a fine consolation prize-- considering that she was pretty close to that state now, the absolution was finally within her reach. Rejoice, or something! ...why, then, did the joy also feel empty? Like a cheap lemonade, too sugary for her to feel the real taste? Morgan would have loved to think about it harder, but her own thoughts were too heavy for her to hold, too tangled for her to unravel. Had it always been like this? ...no, the sorceress couldn't remember.) "This is what happens, my dear, when you try to defy the natural order of things," her brother said, almost tenderly. (Arthur and tenderness, pffft. That was something he knew about as much as a wolf surrounded by sheep knew restraint, or the mythical Herodes charity. No, cruelty was his second name, and even in her dream-like haze, that didn't escape Morgan. Why was Gwen listening to him, again?)

"Not that I blame you, though," he smiled, contempt practically dripping from his words. "Too much power was entrusted in your hands, my Guinevere. How could you possibly handle it on your own? You, being... well, yourself? You were always destined to fail, little one. With that brand, you were born, and just like that, you will also die. With nobody to support you, you are but a blade of grass in the wind. Maybe you shouldn't have killed me, hmm? I could have been your pillar," Arthur hissed, somehow restraining himself from adding the 'you bitch' that was so obviously meant to be there. What a sweet guy, right? "And now, now everyone gets to die for your mistakes. Some might call it cruel, some would prefer the term 'learning experience'. Which camp do you belong to, hmm?" (Clearly, nothing had changed here. Not even death had managed to strip him of the love for his own voice, that much was clear-- things like gravity, water flowing downwards and Arthur's vanity seemed to be the universe's constants, eternal and unchanging.)

"Despair not, however. Foolish as you might be, you are still my wife," he reminded her, his words once again sickeningly sweet. (You know, like rotting wine? Yes, what an apt comparison.) "I am ready to forgive you, if you only do the one thing that is required of you. Don't you want to save your friends? Or my worthless sister, at least? She's always been a stain on our family's honor and you allowed her to stain you, too, but I am not without mercy. Even cockroaches such as her have a place in this world, I suppose." Oh, Morgan had a few choice words to say to that, but she could no longer see, no longer hear, and, ah, how come she was suddenly surrounded by mist? Mist thick like milk, and colder than ice, and cold, cold always had a way of getting under your skin-- a way of stealing every bit of warmth from your veins, really. (Morgan did try to fight against it, for the record. A leaf carried by the stream couldn't decide its own fate, though, and so she was drifting, drifting, drifting... until someone pulled her back up, with the kind of resolve that bordered on violence.)

Coughing, the sorceress opened her eyes. Gods, why were they so heavy? Everything in her wanted to sleep, to sleep and maybe to never wake up, because by that point, that was the only thing that could cure her exhaustion. Ugh, really. Was it such a crime that she wished to rest? Finally, Morgan's eyes focused, and the shadows dancing in front of them gave way to a... face? A golden-haired woman's face, so beautiful she might as well have been an angel. "Ah," Morgan breathed out. "What happened? Who... who are you?"
 
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Guinevere can only stare at Morgan, who stares back at her like she's... like she's nothing more than a stranger. Her eyes are open. Just as gorgeous a green as she always remembered them, a precious reminder of countless buried memories, perhaps as many as there were stars in the sky. A green reminiscent of the world that long since died around them. The world she once loved dearly... but not quite as dearly as she loves the woman right in front of her. Yes, her eyes are open. This is a merciful thing, considering she thought she was going to lose her forever and everything. But at what cost? What happened? You fucked up again. That's what happened, dumbass.

"Hey." She laughs. It's a mangled noise, all broken around the edges. The sound of a woman watching as her whole future, her hopes and her love crumble away into dust. "I'm the one who makes shitty jokes around here and..." And Morgan's still staring at her like a stranger, devoid of that warmth that was exclusive for when she looked at Guinevere. Through all of this shit, she spoiled her rotten with the sweetness she hid behind the scary witch masquerade. She was her rock, her comfort, the air in her lungs when she struggled to breathe beneath the weight of all the responsibilities that came with being whoever the hell she was supposed to be. (Always something more than just Guinevere. But Morgan always looked at her like just Guinevere was enough and that had helped her more than words could convey.) Now her gaze doesn't even carry the irritation that once fueled their early encounters. There's no spark of recognition to be found at all and it freezes her to the core, this emptiness is colder than even the most deadly of her death stares. Every individual, panicked breath Guinevere takes is the equivalent of staking a sword through her heart. And to think for a second there she thought she had the power to do something and do it right. This is her fault, isn't it? All of this is-- "And this isn't funny, Morgan. It's not, so... cut it out already."

How could you possibly handle it on your own? You being... well, yourself?

"My godde--" Maleagant's voice is distant through the haze. It might as well not even exist within her impenetrable sphere of concern. "My queen, you're glowing!"

Glowing, he says. Pfft. Guinevere couldn't think of a more ill-fitting description for her current frame of mind! She can't tear her focus away from Morgan long enough to realize that he means that she's been physically glowing ever since she activated her magic, dripping from head to toe in a shimmery veil of light.

"Witchcraft!" A new voice snarled. Despite the danger it promised, the threat is just as distant to her as Maleagant's warning was. Even when Guinevere is roughly yanked from the ground by her arms, she can't find it in her heart to really care. Some power-hungry noble barged inside... because of course he did. Should she even bother feigning surprise at this point? They were all biding their time like vultures, like Iphigenia spying in the library, waiting for the day she inevitably slipped and fell. Failure, failure, failure. "I knew it! No wonder Camelot is cursed. Our so-called queen has been tampering with the dark arts."

"Unhand her this instant." Ah. Maleagant at least sounds indignant on her behalf. He struggles to sit up, still clutching his wounded shoulder, and very much looks the part of the hero-- willing to fight even after he's been struck down. He gestures to the blood on the floor and then to Morgan. "Is it truly such a dark art if she used it to save lady Morgan's life!?"

This kickstarts a full-blown argument over Guinevere's 'true intentions' and the nature of her magic. Because apparently every man on this earth thinks they know her better than she knows herself. (And let's be honest, even she doesn't know herself well enough half the time!) But it's all just noise, warbling around the fact that Morgan doesn't remember her. Morgan's the only one who knew her, probably better than she knew herself, and now she doesn't even know her name. Guinevere's nothing more than a fucking blade of grass blowing in the fucking wind! Which... well, that just pushes the final nail into the coffin, doesn't it? She acknowledged it was selfish to kiss her back. To invest in a love that's doomed. If she disappears now, she'll spare Morgan the pain of suffering that loss. Right? Guinevere settles shit with Arthur, probably dies, the earth is born anew and... maybe her love will get to live on in a world that treats her kindly. Find love elsewhere, with someone a little less... well, cursed? Tragic? Yeah. And while it's unspeakably... unspeakably agonizing, Guinevere's willing to do that. Because Morgan deserves the world, after all the shit she's been through.

"Excuse me for saying this, good sir..." Guinevere growls in the back of her throat. "But don't fucking touch me!"

Ah. Well, that collection of words caused all of them to collectively shut the fuck up. The noble drops her, probably to clutch his pearls. Well, what do you know? They're finally listening to her. Might've been satisfying if her heart wasn't just shredded to pieces.

"While I've got your attention, let me give you all a solid piece of advice. Wake the fuck up! You're all gonna die if you keep sticking your heads in the fucking sand. I don't understand how you all have the energy to cannibalize each other over a stupid crown in a world like this. It's dying, in case you haven't noticed!" Guinevere vents, unable to stop herself. And why the hell not? Morgan possesses what little remains of her self-restraint and she's... she's-- "Take a look behind the fancy curtains and you'll figure out Camelot is a lie. All of your resources? They came from a magical sword! You lot aren't nearly virtuous enough to be 'blessed' by some omnipotent, holier than thou forces. You're a bunch of sheltered, stuck-up brats and I'm over playing your meaningless games." She shakes her head, almost reminiscent of a disappointed mother scolding her children. "Like, you're all insufferable. Truly, truly insufferable. And even so I genuinely wanted to do right by you guys, make things better. But whatever. Dreams just love to crash and burn." She throws her hands up in a big, dramatic gesture of exasperation. Her eyes flick over to Morgan... and she she practically flinches away from the pain it dredges up. If only she could impart the fact that she loves her more than anything. She wants to say it one more time, at least. But... she can't. Might confuse her, might make things worse. "I'm out. Have fun playing castle or whatever the fuck you do around here!"

Guinevere's presence in the room is swiftly replaced with a gust of wind, swirling restlessly and sweeping Excalibur from the floor. In this form, she bursts out into the hall, weaving through corridors, beyond Camelot's gates and into the wastelands. Her destination? The blood cult's hellish village where king douchebag's spirit surely lived. All of her favorite things, clearly, wrapped up in one package and tied together with one big shitty bow.

The room she leaves behind is left in a stunned silence for a long while. Then noble barks commands at the knights and they rush out in a panic, leaving only Maleagant and Morgan inside. The man seems somewhat shaken, taking a moment of his own to recover before kneeling at the sorceress's side. There appears to be genuine concern shining in those bright green eyes of his. "Lady Morgan... are you all right?" He asks quietly, "We were so worried about you. Don't you remember what happened?" He pauses as if uncertain. "And... if not, just how much do you remember?"
 
Morgan wasn't sure of too many things right now, but one aspect of this mess, at least, seemed crystal clear-- she should not have to feel this confused. (Indeed, that sensation was most alien. Everything felt too fast and too slow at once, like... like a snapshot of a storm, forever frozen in that single frame. The painter who had captured the scene must have been messy, too, because the contours seemed all wrong, too. Ugh, just keeping her eyes open was a chore! Besides, did the woman have to stare at her like that? Her gaze was sharp, sharp like a dagger pressed against her throat, and Morgan… well, she didn’t know whether she liked that. It felt invasive, you see? As if this total stranger could strip her with her stare alone, and see her very essence.) “The one who makes shitty jokes around here?” she repeated, her brow furrowed. “That is… nice, I suppose, but it doesn’t really answer my question. I mean, I’m fairly sure that many people around here suffer from the foot in mouth syndrome, so it isn’t really all that descriptive. Might I request your name instead?” Because that was the usual protocol, thank you very much! You shouldn’t have to jump through such absurd hoops to get your conversational partner’s name, but hey, Morgan was used to… used to… what, exactly? The sorceress couldn’t tell. The answer was there somewhere, that much was true, but buried under the sands of time, far outside of her reach.

“I mean no disrespect, of course,” she added quickly. “I just prefer more transparent ways of communication.” Obviously, since pretty much anyone who had a modicum of respect for themselves did! Still, for some reason, Morgan found it difficult to snap at this woman. (Possibly because of the aura of despair surrounding her? It was tangible, almost-- a plea unspoken, a scream stuck somewhere in her throat. Have I gotten this soft over the years? Mercy tended to be a stranger to Morgan le Fey and yet, yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to react with her usual venom.) “Well, I would assume that that’s because it’s not supposed to be funny,” the sorceress clarified. “I am genuinely asking here.” Not to be too cruel, but that wasn’t a difficult concept to grasp, now was it? Morgan didn’t really think that demanding information was that unreasonable, though apparently, she was mistaken. Perhaps she should start getting used to being wrong, however, as it didn’t seem that the mysterious woman was too eager to share her knowledge-- instead, she… proceeded to have a breakdown of sorts? Maybe it was some queer tradition around here, come to think of it, as almost everyone joined her. What? Queen? The word felt like a slap, like an equation whose solution didn’t match up with the numbers provided, though there was no mistake. There couldn't be. The context spoke clearly, as did everything else-- this castle had a queen, somehow, and this queen wielded magic. (Oh, gods. How many times had she dreamt up the exact same scenario, with her wearing the crown? With her good-for-nothing brother sleeping in the dirt, feeding the worms? Finally, he would have been useful for something, and she... well, her talents would not have been wasted, for one.)

"Leave her alone," Morgan hissed, feeling compelled to speak out. (Yes, the women had no manners, but could you possibly blame her? Impulsiveness was contagious, and when surrounded by ignoramuses, one's self-restraint often threatened to snap.) "You can comment upon this when you actually understand what you're insulting. Curses, pffft. Do you also believe that there's a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow?" Not that rainbows actually had ends, or at least not in the way those cretins expected, but still! "If I were you, I'd stick to speaking about things you actually know something about. I do realize that some of you may be required to shut up forever, but trust me, that will only do the world a favor." ...alright, where had that viciousness come from? Morgan tended to use her words like scalpel, swift and precise, though this... this felt like a waterfall, streaming from her mouth whether she liked it or not. Ah, how infuriating!

The queen made her grand escape, and suddenly, Morgan found herself facing yet another man she didn't know. Great, just great! (Could she trust him? His eyes told her that, yes, this knight did deserve that privilege. The alarm bells in her head, though? Oh, those were going off, to the point that her ears were ringing. How could Morgan believe anyone, after all? With her memory being replaced with a gaping black hole, she was a sitting duck, merely waiting for a wolf to tear her throat out. Gods, she never should have made it so obvious that her head wasn't working properly! Internally, Morgan was kicking herself, but that alone couldn't solve her problem. What to say here, hmm? How to avoid the traps waiting for her?) "I am quite fine, thank you. The concern is truly moving. Still, I know more than you might possibly expect, good sir," she said, deciding to go with a good, old-fashioned bluff. If he was an innocent, the sorceress was going to embarrass herself horribly, but if not... well, things might just get a little interesting. "Do you think I have no idea what you've done?"

Meanwhile, darkness welcomed Guinevere outside, soft and velvety. The dead leaves were whispering in the wind, too, caressing her hair like her own mother once might have. "Are you running away, child? Is that the path that you have chosen?"
 
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Maleagant stares, the corner of his mouth twitching with noticeable bewilderment on his otherwise impenetrable expression. Before he comes up with a response to that, he breaks away to cough into his hand, blood dripping between his fingers and down his arm. Why is he coughing up blood, anyway? Is it because of his injury, or--?

"Oh, lady Morgan. I am relieved to see that you are as skeptical as ever." Is he now? He wears the pained smile of a tragic hero as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He treats her as if her personality is perfectly familiar to him, as if they were friends in the time between when her memories ended and began anew. "However... surely you have mistaken me for someone else?" He squints at her, then, studying her ever so carefully. Clearly he is making efforts to hold his intense interest under a guise of concern. But underneath that? Underneath that rests something else, something unsaid. "After all, you have known the queen far longer than you have known me. Unless that truly was a joke you played on her highness just now?" He grimaces, glimpsing the doorway Guinevere and everyone else had just burst out of. "Truthfully, I did not expect her to..."

Maleagant stiffens and bites his lip. Then he backpedals and rephrases.

"I am quite concerned. I feel I ought to speak up on the queen's behalf. Convincing the people to forgive her may be a daunting task, but... I owe it to her, you see. She carries such a heavy burden upon her shoulders. Not everyone is capable of understanding magic and the immeasurable good it can do for our world. You understand this lady Morgan, do you not?" When he smiles again, it appears a touch more strained. "I suppose this... emotional response is in her nature. It is tremendously difficult for her species to lie, you see. Research has even proven that in extreme circumstances, it can have adverse effects on her health. And this environment is simply... well, you understand. Perhaps better than anyone?"

Maleagant breathes out a somewhat winded laugh, as if that had taken a lot of him, and continues. "Queen Guinevere always has been impulsive--"

"Impulsive. And hot-headed and loving and unbelievably stupid. But that's why we love her. Pretty bold of you to talk like you know her, sir Maleagant." Emily appears in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically sharp. Her worry vibrates behind her wall of sternness like electricity, the kind that just won't stay still. In comparison to whatever modicum of concern Morgan might've glimpsed in Maleagant's eyes? Emily's is raw and tangible and certainly real. And under her glare, it seems that the man sitting in the room with them is even more strained in keeping his personality in check. "I heard you needed medical assistance in here?" Usually, she's so soft that people often wonder how someone like her could've grown up in the wastelands. But her next words? Well, they're spoken in such a way that makes it perfectly clear where she comes from. "I'd love to help... but Adrianne was going to tell me something about you before she disappeared. So I'm content to let you bleed out unless you tell us why you're really here."

-----

Guinevere bows her head, unsure if she's ever going to find the strength to lift it again. Among the dead trees she's perfectly statuesque with the exception of the wind tousling her hair and clothes. She peers despairingly at her reflection in Excalibur's blade. Running? Is she running? Somehow, that sounds terribly unfair to her. Does this voice really have the audacity to accuse her of being a coward!? After she married Arthur, escaped a blood cult and faced her fear of magic to embrace her identity? Hell she's to possibly sacrifice herself on some magical altar for the greater good! After everything she's done, everything she's lost, this voice is going to forget all of it and condense her choice into running away? But then again, when she thinks of Morgan and everything she just left behind...

Desperate for a distraction, she quickly traces her finger across the sword's edge, pressing in to draw blood.

"The path I've chosen is action." Guinevere replies tightly, clawing her hands into the dirt at either side of Excalibur. "I have the sword and the blood in my veins. What else do I need? Tell me and I'll... I'll do whatever it takes."
 
"Oh, I don't doubt that you are. Everyone is always overjoyed to see me doing well, I've learned." If there were any constants in Morgan's life at all, then that she was an annoying mosquito to those around her-- that her death would have been a blessing, not a cause for tears. (Did he think he was going to win her trust with those words, oh so saccharine sweet? Because he had just managed to do the opposite, really. Lies were a delicate instrument, you see? Go too far, tip the scales into a position too favorable, and anyone with two brain cells to rub together would start to question things. No, Morgan le Fey wasn't one to believe that a pile of glass was actually made out of diamonds! He could save that nonsense for... for someone who didn't know as well as she did how the world worked, and what it could offer to those like her. To outcasts.) "Oh?" she tilted her head aside, all innocent. "Something tells me that I don't make mistakes, though. I mean, I am quite used to not doubting my perceptions of reality. Wouldn't you agree with me, my good knight, that those who try to plant those thoughts in your head never have your best interests at heart? It's a dog-eat-dog world, after all. If you cannot rely on yourself, then you're a lost case." And, really, what was he thinking, with that fake concern of his? Morgan was kicking the darkness around her blindly, that much was true, but it was also true that she had struck something. Obviously, the right thing to do was to dig deeper! Gold could only be found in the earth's very veins, after all.

"I believe that you are dishonest, and also a fraud. A roach that pretends to be a butterfly. What do you think about my analysis?" Only amateurs lied no matter what, you see-- those with a cartoonish understanding of the human psyche, who believed in the firm boundaries between black and white. No, it didn't work like that! What you needed to do to win was to shock your opponent, and sometimes... well, sometimes, honesty was the best policy. Where lies served as a scalpel, the truth could be a giant hammer, you know? An ideal instrument for cracking skulls open, in other words. (Yes, that was exactly what he deserved. His queen this, his queen that-- Morgan may not have remembered who the golden-haired woman was or how she had come to know her, but the contempt he held for her was almost palpable. 'Her impulsive nature?' Really? He might as well have been talking about an unruly dog, or perhaps a parrot who wouldn't repeat the one phrase he wanted it to say. It was disgusting, on a level so visceral that Morgan almost wanted to barf.)

"Well? I'm waiting for my answer, dear sir. Has a cat gotten your tongue?" Perhaps, perhaps not, but it didn't seem that she'd ever receive an answer to that question-- not with the new piece on their metaphorical chess board, anyway. (A woman, she noted. Someone who knows what she's doing. Because, the aura that was surrounding her? That aura belonged to a professional, and could only ever be attained through knowledge. Through... Wait. There was something else hanging in the air, wasn't there? It was almost sparkling with energy, like a powder keg drenched in gasoline. The blood. The blood, of course! How could I have been so stupid?) Before Morgan even consciously picked up on her thought processes, her hands were aflame with magic-- with magic she directed towards the man, swift and merciless. With a quiet 'thump,' his body hit the floor.

"He was going to do something," she explained to the newcomer, not looking the least bit guilty. In fact, Morgan seemed... satisfied with herself? "And while I don't know who he is, letting him do that felt like a distinctly bad idea."

***

"Whatever it takes, whatever it takes," the voices mocked. (Somehow, they seemed like echoes of the ages long past, dead and buried.) "One step forward, two steps back. That's how it always goes with you, it seems. You've chosen action, perhaps, but when have you ever stopped to think? Guinevere, Guinevere." In a better world, one might have compared the little speech to that of a disappointed teacher, but who would have thought of that here, where teachers were a dying breed? Who, who, who?

"It's not about the sword, nor is it about the blood. You've always had both of those, child, and look how those things have served you." Usually well enough for her to end up on a stake, with flames licking at her feet. Reassuring, wasn't it? "What else do I need," they scoffed, in an annoying, high-pitched tone. "You need to get a grip, Guinevere. Who are you, a person or a tool? A slave, or a queen? You're a leader, so act that way. People rely on you. Stop for once, and think about that which you have now that you didn't have before. What destroyed you in your previous lives? How can you avoid it? Nobody but you can answer those questions, so do it. Try, for me at least." ...wait, didn't the voice seem familiar? Like, terribly so?

"And yes, before you ask, it is me. Vivienne. Glad to see you."
 
Maleagant holds his jaw firm, perhaps clenching it as not to let it drop and indicate just how deeply her words dug into the very core him, unearthing the rot and wriggling worms behind his pristine mask. The heroic concern is still present, yes, but it's a mockery of what it once was now. Every muscle twitching under the strain it took to hold it in place. And those kind green eyes of his? They're bright and glowing brighter by the moment with ireful intent, a threat unspoken. A threat which only a sorceress of Morgan le Fey's caliber is capable of discerning, as it turns out. Witch. You've always been a nuisance. His voice hisses in her ears while his lips are unmoving, it slithers about the room like a snake of fog. The venom packed into that 'always' is more poisonous then their short meeting really warrants. Perhaps as if he's indicating some other lifetime, a feud long forgotten and buried. Perhaps even more so than that petulant half-breed. It is almost laughable, how easily you've forgotten her. And you're supposed to be the great Morgan le Fey? Ha! The girl's spirit is nearly broken... the game nearly won.

The brightness in his eyes also fogs over, distant and faraway as Emily barges in and while Morgan readies her spell. Magic holds a veil over his perception of the present and he falls to the floor without comment. What could he have been up to? Well, it seems they won't know now. But perhaps that is for the best, as Morgan says, considering this man is inclined to eliminate any source of incriminating evidence against his character. Like Adrianne.

"Wow. Ruthless." Emily blinks twice, genuine surprise flickering in her eyes as she looks from Maleagant's crumpled figure to Morgan. Then she breaks out into a tired but equally genuine grin. "I like it."

Emily gets a better look at the room, then, perhaps noticing that there is more blood than Maleagant's wound warrants. And, well, backtracking enough to notices something peculiar about the words Morgan just said.

"What happened here?" Emily peers into Morgan's eyes. "What do you mean, you don't know who this is? Morgan..." She bites her lip, unsure of what to say. Then she throws her fists down at her sides in a burst of irritation. "...Fuck!"

Emily blushes at her own vulgarity, then, pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead. "Sorry, you must be really confused and I'm not helping. Just... God! What a mess. Of course he went after you and Adrianne. We should've paid more attention to him. We should've done more." She shakes her head, perhaps to shake of the 'we should've' mentality. Any woman from the wastelands know that kind of mentality is useless. "That's sir Maleagant. An ex-cultist. No, a cultist. One of those scumbags who kidnapped and tortured Gwen." She can discern just by looking at her that Morgan... probably doesn't remember her. And if she doesn't even remember her, then? "Do... do you remember Gwen? How far back do your memories go?"

Emily takes in a sharp breath. She is a healer too, yes... but she's never repaired a mind before. Her expertise involved, well, injuries of the physical variety.

"Okay. Okay. We'll figure this out. It'll be okay." Emily says it quietly, like it's a personal mantra more than anything. "As unappealing as it sounds, we probably shouldn't let that douchebag bleed out. If we want answers, we should probably..." When she glimpses the spot where the man had fallen, though? She pales. "...What? He's gone."

----

"Vivienne." Guinevere whispers, for once sounding as tired as she feels. As if the lady's name is a secret code only the earth knows, Excalibur flashes and the dead forest around her turns itself upside down. The landscape stretches a calm, glassy pool before her. The surface reflects the brightest stars she's ever laid eyes on. It's like dipping her feet into a night's sky when she sinks her legs into it, almost out of instinct. The bandages flit away like a scrap of paper in the wind and her wounds began to heal themselves. "...Do you have to mock me like that? I am trying." She blinks, feeling a harsh sting behind her eyes. But she stubbornly refuses to let any tears fall. She's had enough of being ridiculed for failing, over and over and over. Crying because her feelings are hurt is childish, she knows. "Besides, I've gotten enough of that condescending tone from Arthur, thanks. Haven't slept in weeks because of it. So like... if you're trying to get results from me? Just know I'm not gonna respond like a good little girl. I don't wanna take that shit anymore. I'm a person. And a person can only take so much before they break down."

Guinevere kicks her legs, watching as the motion disturbs the water, sending ripples across the endless surface.

"People rely on me... but they don't really. They rely on me as a concept. But I'm not a fucking concept." She kicks her reflection in the water specifically. "I don't remember everything about my past, Vivienne. I know that the humans killed all my sisters a long time ago. And now everyone wants me to bear magical heirs to help them fix the mess they made. And those other versions of me...? They had family around to teach them about themselves. Me? I didn't have anybody! I don't know shit! Not unless someone like you decides to show up with some answers every now and then. Like, I think I'd be a lot wiser if I actually had access to... the wisdom." She scrunches her nose. "Does that make sense?" She blinks. "Morgan's the only one who..." The syllables of her love's name turn everything else to bile and she forces herself to swallow the rest of the thought down before it can choke her.

"What I do know is... I grew up in a wasteland. I can wield a sword better than I can wield magic. Never been good with metaphors and riddles, 'cause I've always had to face my problems head on. You're setting me up to fail here, Vivienne." She sighs. "Being queen... feels more like a shackle. It makes me into a symbol. Just like everything else. And I'm not built to play a bunch of mind games in a castle when I could be out in the world searching for the actual root of our problems. The people outside of Camelot? They matter, too. And if I have the power to help them, I want to use it soon... because their time is running out. I can feel it."
 
...she liked it? Alright, that was a first. The reactions to her magic usually ranged from gasps to screams, the only real difference between the receptions being their intensity, but, well, Morgan wasn't exactly going to complain. "Technically, I wouldn't say I'm being ruthless," she said nonetheless, unable to suppress some of her more pedantic tendencies. "It's only ruthlessness if it isn't necessary instead. Considering the bastard was probably about to fry our brains, I did feel... hmm, incentivized." And, hey, it had been nice, kind of-- knowing exactly what to do, even amidst the chaos. Zero percent of this made any kind of sense, and yet, with the threat lurking just beyond the corner? The cinders in her chest were lit aflame once again, so bright that they shamed the stars. (Entire galaxies had been born and died within her, all within the blink of an eye. Creation and destruction were two sides of the same coin, she had known in that moment-- it only took a gentle shove, left or right, cut or mend. Of course, Maleagant had made it exceedingly easy for her to decide!) "That’s what I want to ask as well,” the sorceress shrugged. (No, the enemy of her enemy was not her friend, but that the man had targeted this woman as well did mean something. And, what was that? Well, in regards to this matter, at the very least, Morgan could trust her… to whatever limited extent that she could trust anyone besides herself. Which means just slightly more than I’d trust a hungry shark. What an awesome, awesome situation to find myself in! Thank you, gods, for testing my patience in such wildly innovative ways. Truly, without you, I would be dying of boredom.)

“Yes, fuck seems apt here,” Morgan smirked. “Crude, but effective. Nonetheless, no, I do not know who Gwen is. Someone powerful, I’d presume?” The name itself wasn’t ringing any bells, but for reasons beyond her comprehension, it did strike her as important-- the answer to a question she had forgotten to ask herself, really. (It tasted sweet on her tongue, too, like the candy she had used to steal from the kitchen, in the past so distant it might as well have never happened …had she enjoyed saying it once, perhaps? Ridiculous, the sorceress shook her head. It’s not like I was ever able to waste my time on such frivolities. I’m not a lady from a song, for gods’ sake.) “And… that is a good question, actually,” she frowned, as if she had just taken a bite from a lemon. “Come to think of it, I remember surprisingly little. I know who I am,” roughly, “but not much else.” Was she suffering from amnesia, then? No, no, the symptoms of that condition didn’t match up to what Morgan was experiencing-- the gaps in her recollections seemed deliberate, their edges too smooth, their placement too perfect. “I’m fairly certain that he had tampered with my memory,” she concluded, wiping off the blood running down her nose. (Some of it got in her mouth, too, and strangely enough? Strangely enough, the taste was… pleasant, almost. Grounding. The spirits asked much of her, yes, but in return, they offered so much more-- the entire world at her fingertips, wrapped with a gift bow. Who could possibly resist? Not her, that much was certain.) “I mean, he had obviously cast something even before that last attempt of his. See the blood? I know magic when I see it, and this is it.”

That he was a cultist of all things shouldn’t have come off as a surprise, yet somehow, it still did. “A cult? Seriously? Don’t the rats have better things to do with their time? I’m thinking they aren’t struggling nearly as much outside, given that they can still afford to waste their efforts on worshiping random rocks.” Nothing would have made Morgan happier than slaughtering the man like the pig he was, but… yes, that would be difficult to do, considering he was gone. Curses! “…contingency,” the sorceress whispered, somewhat impressed against her will. “He must have set it up in advance. ‘If x happens, then action y will follow automatically.’ There’s no way he could have disappeared, though! Teleportation just isn’t feasible-- not with the amount of energy you can get from the spirits, anyway. It’s not enough to…” Ah, no, this wasn’t the time for a lecture! Get a hold of yourself, Morgan le Fey. “He’s still in there somewhere,” she interrupted herself. “Quickly, we must…”

Before Morgan could even finish her sentence, the torches in the room went out, burying them in darkness.

***

“Queens are concepts, Guinevere,” Vivienne corrected, oh so softly. (The waves of the lake sang in the background, some symphony that Guinevere didn’t know. It was calming, though, and one’s mind drifted so easily while listening to it!) “It’s how this works. Do you truly believe that a leader is there to inspire every single one of her subjects personally? Don’t make me laugh, child. You don’t even remember all of your people’s names, let alone their faces. How could you possibly hope to touch their hearts like that, hmm? Like a fellow person? No, a concept you are and a concept you must be. Be who you were born to be, Guinevere. That isn’t a difficult thing to wrap your mind around, now is it?” …huh, weird. Vivianne had never spoken to her like that before-- in this tone that most of all resembled Arthur, with his ‘I know better than you do’ attitude. “Truthfully, I would have expected you to grasp it by now. Will you never learn? I had higher hopes for you than that, I must admit.” The surface of the lake wrinkled then, countless bubbles rising from its bottom, and when Guinevere looked there? A tentacled monster was rising from the depths, covered in wide, bloodshot eyes. Uh oh.

“I’m afraid you will have to die, then. I apologize-- it truly is nothing personal.”
 
“You’re not Vivienne.” Guinevere accuses hotly. She's been uncertain about a lot of things, lately. But if she’s certain about anything, it’s this. Vivienne is an old friend, older than she can possibly conceive in this moment. And Guinevere knows her friends. The real ones, anyway. Hell, Vivienne practically raised her like a mother once herself! (...Wait. Where did that memory come from? But in this moment it’s clear to her, as if she’d known it all along. The woman had chuckled softly at her childish antics and silly expressions, hugged her when she cried, eased her doubts with gentle words while she combed through her hair with a silver brush… Wow. To think that someone actually nurtured her like that once. The concept is unfathomable and so, so very faraway. And at the same time she knows it to be true as if it'd just happened yesterday.)

“Seriously, dude? How dare you pretend to be Vivienne!? She’s way cooler than you!” Don’t take it personally, the thing says. Yeah!? Well, it sounds pretty damned personal to her. Guinevere lunges away from the bubbling pool and onto her feet, surprised that she’s not as rusty as she thinks. You're stronger than you think. Muscle memory is a beautiful, glorious thing. Leveling the monster with a steely glare, she snatches Excalibur into her hands and spits at the ground. Stronger than they give you credit for.

“Sure, sure. You wouldn’t be the only one to try and fail, buddy. I could use the exercise!” Guinevere smirks with an arrogance she almost forgot she possessed, readying her stance and the blade in her hands with practiced finesse. Strangely enough excitement takes precedence over everything else in this moment. Over the inadequacies, over the responsibilities and pain. In order hold onto her sanity (if it hasn’t slipped beyond her grasp already) she needed an outlet like this. A temporary escape, something to charge towards with certainty in her pumping heart and purpose in her eyes. And if this monster represented her shitshow of a life in some way then she was ready to fucking kill it. Like, why’d it wait so long, really? Heh. This slimy-ass thing won’t even know what hit it. Won’t even have the time to regret it’s stupid, stupid choice when it’s reduced to nothing but chunks of disembodied meat on the ground. Her voice lowers to a growl. “Never tried calamari before. I hope you don’t take it personally when I cut you into fucking pieces and roast your sorry remains over the fire!”

Yeah. Guinevere might as well satiate her appetite with evil squid, if she’d never get the chance to try pizza. Morgan’s favorite.

No, no, no, no, no. Not now, heart. Shut the fuck up!

Guinevere deftly dodges tentacles and charges towards one of its ugly red eyes. She raises her sword and fueled with every emotion in her body, stabs one, and then another…

——

For a long while it’s quiet. Too quiet. It seems that all Maleagant’s spell amounted to was blanketing Camelot in a veil of darkness and uncertainty. Could Morgan have cut him off just before he did something catastrophic? Or did she simply delay something that was inevitably coming...?

In the meantime, Emily gathers the rest of the gang (plus Lancelot) in attempt to… well. Fill in some of the gaps in Morgan’s memory. Inevitably, there's absolutely no way to sugarcoat it. This entails dropping one bombshell after the next. Like, Arthur got married to Gwen. The Excalibur exists and, surprise surprise! That's what was responsible for giving Camelot all it's resources. Morgan and Gwen staged a coup and Arthur’s fucking dead now! Gwen made a place for her wastelands gang in Camelot (which, by the way, are who these numerous strangely intimidating, unknown women are) And now Gwen’s the queen, the sole ruler… and she’s missing after flying off the handle.

“So? I know it’s… a lot. It was a lot, trust me. But I get the sense we’ll need your magic more than ever if we don’t want everything to go to shit.” Emily tries. Something shifts in her eyes, a sort of sadness, like she wants to say more than that. But if the story itself is overwhelming enough without bringing their emotions into the mix. “Maleagant knew that. That has to be why he targeted you."

"The bastard." One of the woman hisses, her voice low. Many of the other women in the room mumble in agreement.

"He might be biding his time now, but… well, I know you sense it too, Morgan. Something’s coming. And I know all of this must sound beyond far-fetched and confusing beyond belief right now, but...” Emily shakes her head somberly. "I'll try to help you however I can. But my magic expertise is severely lacking compared to yours. Like, the way you took out that giant beast that kept harassing us? I could only dream of doing something like that. It was badass." Oh. But of course, that's yet another thing Morgan won't recall. Oof. "Uh... Point is! We need you. Do you... um... have any questions?" Probably a stupid question. But, uh, it seems terribly impolite not to ask it, too.
 
”Boo hoo, you’re not Vivienne,” the voice mocked, a few octaves higher than usual. (Was it trying to sound like her? Because nothing about it resembled her actual way of speaking-- not-Vivienne’s words scraped the ears, like nails against metal.) “What do you even know about her? What do you know about anyone? Even your precious Morgan forgot you, so very easily. To her, you must have been an afterthought, too. If not, would you have slipped from her mind like that, in the same way you forget yesterday’s dinner?” …wait. How did it know? Were its eyes all-seeing, capable of perceiving the world in its entirety? Mighty beasts of the old had been capable of that, presumably-- long before the era of steel, when terror had been brought by claws and teeth, the earth had been teeming with creatures beyond human comprehension. Was this a remnant of such an age, then? A giant sleeping deep underwater, waiting for the stars to align favorably once again? It was that, or… or it was involved, somehow. “Don’t make me laugh,” it spat out viciously, its numerous eyes blinking in unison. “You’ve never been worth more than the dirt beneath your feet. Your mother knew that, too, didn’t she? That was why she abandoned you. You, and your good-for-nothing sister, and everything to do with your cursed bloodline.”

Clank! Bang! Guinevere danced as well as she always did, in perfect rhythm with that unheard melody, but… well, she might as well have been trying to fell a tree with a toothpick, it seemed. Her hits landed to be sure, but as for the monster? The monster appeared entirely unbothered. (Its scales were harder than diamonds, too. Every blow, every desperate attempt, produced a loud, keening shr shr shr, though no blood ever came out. Damn, had the beast been born wearing armor?! Not even Arthur’s knights protected themselves so perfectly, and many of them seemed to want to turn themselves into walking cans!) “Laughable,” the mass of tentacles sneered. “Is this the might of the Excalibur? The most you can give me? I cannot believe that you died for this, over and over and over.” The voice belonged to a single entity, but also to many of them at the same time-- if Guinevere listened closely, she could hear Arthur in there, but also Jennifer, Vivienne, and, yes, even Morgan. What on earth?! “Stupid. Useless. Ignorant.” And, terrifyingly enough? The Excalibur, too, was listening. (Swords didn’t have feelings, obviously, nor did they have opinions, though perhaps magical artifacts did? Because, really, for all intents and purposes, it seemed as if Gwen’s sword was giving up. The blade, always so shiny, grew dim-- it paled into a reflection of itself, a mere faded out memory. The sparks that always seemed to be dancing on its surface were gone, too. Just, what was happening?)

“You bore me to tears,” the monster snarled. “Get lost.”

And, with that? With that, it rose even further, splashing water as far as the eye could see. All of a sudden, the air smelled like pure heat. If a volcano had a particular smell to it, one would expect it to be exactly like that-- vaguely reminiscent of sulphur, yes, but also much more than that. Why, though? Why would a lake carry such smells? An interesting question to be sure, but one that was quickly overshadowed by the fact that the kraken opened a giant maw, previously hidden beneath. Uh oh. (It was full of teeth, yellow and crooked and covered in… in… no, some substances weren’t to be named.)

“Come, Guinevere. Come home, right where you belong.

***

To say that Morgan was confused would have been quite the understatement. Some part of her believed that this was merely a dream, concocted by her subconsciousness to escape the cruel reality-- a sweet placebo, maybe, swallowed to make the pain go away. (No, even she wasn’t immune to such foolishness. In her mind, she’d painted countless worlds, worlds where touch wasn’t a cause for panic, but… well, not even in her fantasies had she ever gone quite so far as to suggest a scenario quite like this.)

“So,” she looked from one unknown face to another, the doubts plain in her eyes, “what you are trying to say is that this Guinevere of yours married my darling little brother. For some reason, we immediately became best friends. Together, we overthrew Arthur’s regime, and then… what? What were we trying to do? And why? I do apologize for my lack of enthusiasm, but I do not see why any version of myself might wish to act like that. I’ll be happy to be convinced otherwise, though.” Because, contrary to what everyone around here seemed to think? ‘Amnesiac’ wasn’t the synonym for ‘stupid!’ That this Maleagant was a foe was obvious enough, and so it was also a narrative Morgan was ready to accept-- for her, enemies tended to appear like mushrooms after a rain, anyway, so an additional specimen didn’t even faze her. The more, the merrier, as they said! That she was supposed to have actual friends, however… oh no, that didn’t sit right with her. Not at all.

“If you are just feeding me those ridiculous stories to convince me to help you,” Morgan began, contempt dripping from her words, “you can spare your theatrics for someone who cares. I have already decided to end the cultist, so there’s no need.” Absentmindedly, she waved her hand. “Now, I assume this man spent at least a night in the castle? Show me to his room, then. If I am to track him down, I will need something that belonged to him.”
 
"Trying to get under my skin, asshole!? Joke's on you then, 'cause I don't blame Morgan for forgetting me!" Guinevere bites out, swinging doggedly at the thing from different angles to find a weak spot. It's got to be there somewhere. She just hasn't found it yet! Anyway, how dare it bring Morgan into this? How dare it even think to imply that she's uncaring enough to treat someone she loves like an afterthought? She hits harder and harder yet, pure anger building behind every swing. "Morgan thinks everything through. Probably more than she has to. I know she didn't forget me on purpose. She forgot because-- because--" Because? That's yet another question she doesn't have the answer to. But the answer doesn't even matter in this context. It doesn't change her stance that it's not Morgan's fault. She didn't blame her for disappearing back when she got kidnapped by a blood cult, did she? No way is Guinevere going to blame her love for forgetting when her memories were stolen by some mysterious entity or some shit. She grits her teeth. Salt in her fucking wounds, really. This thing must hold all these cards because it's responsible for it, huh? "Because some fucker decided to fuck things up! Hell, it was probably you. You seem like a proper." She hacks again, again, again to no avail. "A proper. Fucking. Douchebag."

"Might not be that smart... might not know much..." Guinevere pants, losing steam but not heart. "But I do know Morgan. And she's gentle and she's kind and she's so fucking smart. Doesn't take love lightly." Grew wings just to catch her in the freaking abyss! Got her a puppy. Frustratedly, she huffs out when no part of the monster gives for all her efforts and stumbles backward to catch her breath. To remind the thing she's not giving up yet, she flips it the bird. "And by the way, I didn't forget what I had for dinner last night!" ...Yeah. Um, yeah! Way to tell him, Gwen! But it is the truth. She's grateful for every bite, damn it. Kinda a symptom of growing up in a desolate fucking wasteland. How much has she sacrificed for the taste of something other than grit and blood and bile? Now she's willing to die to give others that luxury and--

It keeps digging and Guinevere keeps on swinging. But this is starting to feel like the losing battle it's doomed to be.

"Makes no difference to me. Sword's still a sword without all the sparkles." She clings onto her bravado like a flimsy shield, tries to keep her spirit alight when even Excalibur gives up on her. Clang, clang, clang. Her brows furrow and she staggers to her knees, caking them in dirt. Come on. Get back up... Excalibur is supposed to be her partner, right? If it abandons her now, what does she have left to rely on? Desperate, she cuts her hand on the edge, searches desperately for miracles in the blood dripping across the dimming blade.

Nothing. Guinevere lifts her gaze, staring blankly into the gaping maw. The monster's breath is hot but it chills her to her core. Smells like death.

Baiting her with Morgan and her abandonment issues, her insecurities, using all those voices united as one against her. Of course it hits where it hurts... but it's notably hollow. A bunch of empty threats and nothing more. This is a trap. Morgan taught her well enough to spot them by now, all right? And as far as traps go, this one is pretty damn obvious. There's no proof that selling her soul to this horrific monstrosity is gonna do the earth any good, either. She's not out here to give up, all right? Sure, she might not succeed. (Probably won't if she's being honest. Just being realistic, here!) But at least she can say that she tried.

"You're the stupid one..." Guinevere informs it. She sits cross-legged at the entrance of what has to be hell and spits in it's general direction. "If you think I'm gonna walk in there willingly. But that shouldn't be a problem, right? Since I'm worth less than dirt and all. You don't need me, dude! Why don't you go bother somebody who's actually worth your time? Oooh. King Arthur's corpse oughta be real tasty. Haven't you heard? He..." She snorts. Then she giggles until she's howling with laughter. "He's the chosen one. Mark my words, you'll remember that meal for years!"

-- --

"Theatrics. Do we look like we're all fucking around here?" Liv stands up to her full height, brows furrowing and hands rolling into fists. "Like we're all gathered 'round here wasting our precious time just to play a big practical joke on you? Get over yourself. Guinevere and Adrianne are missing and you don't even care--"

Emily tugs insistently on Liv's arm to stop her from going on a rampage (...in part remembering just how quickly Morgan acted on her instincts with Maleagant) and intervenes quickly in attempt to prevent any further incident. The girls are all on different pages right now-- volatile shades of righteous fury and fear and sadness. They all need to be on the same page and a brawl amongst allies is the last thing they need right now!

"She doesn't care because she doesn't remember, Liv. She's lost months... and a lot has happened. You'd be confused, too." Emily stands up for her, hoping to amend this before it can devolve into some further, unmanageable level of chaos. She presses her fingers to her temples, fighting off an impending headache. "We have more important things to be focusing on right now. If we really want to help Gwen and Adrianne..."

"They're all cowering in the hall." Mia interrupts as she scampers into the room, returning from stealth duty. "Everyone's freaked out about curses. Lots of opinions getting thrown around... and some of them are starting to call it Guinevere's curse. I don't like where it's going." She sticks her lip out and looks over at Lancelot. "Mister Lance, you should go talk some sense into those prissy weirdos before they grab their pitchforks."

Lancelot looks at the women in the room uncertainly and then stares for a longer moment at Morgan as if there's more he wants to say. But then he nods. Sam and Tamara rise with their own weapons in hand. "Well tag along." Tamara chimes in, punching Lancelot's arm (apparently hard enough that he has to rub it afterwards) spinning her dagger between her fingers, "Just in case."

Mia frowns, then, evidently upset that she missed most of the conversation. She gazes at Morgan with big, sorrowful eyes. "You don't remember Toastington? You don't even remember your wife?"

Panicked, Emily coughs into her hand, knowing precisely how that accusation might be taken in this context. "...So! Maleagant's room, right? That's where we were before." She breezes towards the door. "...Come on, there's no time to waste!"
 
Ah, yes. What better way to earn a stranger's trust than to try and guilt trip her, right? Wonderful manners, worthy of a queen's court! "Thank you for your contribution to the discussion, Liv," Morgan rolled her eyes. "Blaming me for my condition sure is a... hmm, a fresh approach. Obviously, I only lost my memories to spite you personally! Indeed, how could have I been so blind before? Now I see that everything about this has been my former self's plan. Will you tell me more about how I am the worst? It really makes me want to be as helpful as possible." On the official scale of pettiness, this must have earned the 10/10 ranking, but honestly? Morgan felt that she deserved it. Robbed of her memories was bad enough on its own, as well as being stuck in this pseudo-murder mystery, however being mocked like that... well, that certainly took the cake. ('You don't even care,' she'd said, and fair enough, that was right. Why did the accusation cut so deep, though? Why did it threaten to tear her apart? Not that you'd know it from her expressions, of course, because she was Morgan le Fey and kept her cards close to her chest, but still!)

Thankfully, not everyone around here was completely brainless. Emily, the sorceress reminded herself. That's her name. Unfortunately, not everyone seemed to share her level of connection to the reality-- least of all the mob, who was currently doing what mobs were the best at. "How sweet," Morgan smirked. "It is heartwarming, truly, to see that certain things do not change. Trash always remains trash, it seems." (Unexpectedly, there was a pang of sympathy in her chest. This Guinevere was a total stranger, yes, but didn't they share similar enough fates? In a different version of this event, it easily could have been her name they were cursing, her reputation they were dragging through the mud. Queen or not, they still don't like it, do they? A woman who wields a modicum of power.

"Keep them out of my way," Morgan advised. "I am in an ill mood, and thus in no condition to be dealing with idiots. If they so much as touch me, there will be consequences." Normally, the sorceress valued more subtle tactics of dealing with the pests, but this situation was so removed from any sense of normalcy that she felt absolutely justified here. "Fine, fine. Let us go to his room, then, and..." ...and then the child spoke. The word may as well have been a spell, really, because Morgan froze-- immediately, all the blood rushed right to her cheeks, too, and not an insignificant part of her wanted to die.

"W-wife?" she stuttered, hating just how pathetic and small her voice sounded. Get a hold of yourself, Morgan le Fey! "I cannot have a wife. What makes you think I'd even be interested in one?" ...yeah, that sounded believable.

***

Meanwhile, the beast kept making those... those strange, belchy sounds. (Was it laughing at her? It was hard to associate something like that with the creature, but yes, it appeared that that was exactly what was happening.)

"Baiting you? But there's no need for me to do that, child. I'm merely stating the facts. There you are, all alone, abandoned by your precious friends. Why do you think they let you go like that? They could have stopped you, or gone with you, but no-- all of them know what you are worth. The answer, of course, is nothing. What is the point of a tool that refuses to listen, after all?" (A tool. Well, wasn't that... familiar? Who had it been that had fed her with lies like that, over and over and over? A lot of people, come to think of it, but Arthur had loved that narrative more than the others. Could the monster have something to do with him, then? If nothing else, it for sure was a reflection of his pathetic, rotten soul.)

When Guinevere refused to obey, the beast smiled, revealing its stained teeth. "Ah, how cute! The tool does learn, after all. Well, well, would you look at that! Never thought you had it in you, dear Gwen." (Gwen. From that disgusting maw, it sounded like a mockery-- a violation of everything she'd ever held precious. By what right was it using it?! Truly, this situation was only getting more disgusting by the second.)

"Even so," it sighed, "there's no escaping you fate, you see? I'm sorry you were ever tricked into falling for that lie." The waves rose once again, tall and overwhelming, and... oof. Was it stepping out of the water? Stepping out of the water, and grabbing her by the ankle? Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit! "You see, the choice was never up to you. How sad. Home calls to you, so return you must!"
 
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“But you do! And you promised me that you’d take care of her.” Mia claims, wielding seriousness better than most full-grown adults in Camelot. She crosses her arms and raises her chin defiantly. “No matter what you think you know, just know that Gwen’s totally in love with you. She probably ran away because her heart’s broken…” She looks and sounds teary, then, looking a little more like the child she is. Small and scared. “Morgan, you need to remember for her sake! She needs you.”

One of the women reaches and pulls the girl into her arms. Emily sighs, torn between comforting her and focusing on their task.

"I know how you feel, Mia. But this situation is..." Emily shakes her head, crouching so she's approaching Mia at her eye level. "When a person forgets things they can't force themselves to remember them. That's not how it works. Morgan didn't mean to forget Guinevere. A bad man stole her memories away." Yes, a 'bad man' who also happens to be missing right now. Just like Adrianne and Guinevere. There's no time to waste! "We need to go now. We're still going to find a way to help her, okay? Gwen saved me all those years ago... it's about time I returned the favor." Because that's the only thing they can do, right? Improvise through the shitstorm. Roll with the punches until they physically can't take it anymore.

With that, Emily leads Morgan into the hall. She's quiet on the walk as she considers the most conscientious way to approach the topic... and any concerns the sorceress might have had as a result. "Gwen... She's, uh, not your wife by the way." She says awkwardly, "But you are, um..." Oh no. Is this a bad idea? How does she even phrase it? "Never mind. Sorry. I know this has been a lot. And I'm sorry about Liv, she's... uh..." She might've added more but it's kind of hard to when they find themselves in Maleagant's doorway. A flashing light immediately catches her attention in the darkness.

"Wait. That's Excalibur! It certainly wasn't in here before. And why is it flashing like that?" Emily squints. Sure enough, the legendary sword itself is lying there on the floor in front of them. Except... She shakes her head, confused. "But those knights said that Gwen took Excalibur with her when she left. So..."

-- --

Guinevere cries out when the thing grabs her. She kicks her legs wildly and sinks her nails into the dirt in attempt to anchor herself to solid earth. Desperately, she chances a grab for Excalibur, stretching out as it rests just beyond her reach... almost, almost-- yes, there! Gasping, she maneuvers it around so she's pointing the tip of the blade towards her adversary. Yes! Good. Maybe now she can--

The sword shrivels up in Guinevere's hand and her hopes shrivel with it. Staring in pure horror, she watches as it thins out, bending and twisting into a thorny rose. She pricks her fingers on it, drops of blood dribbling down her hand, and it decays. Red petals scorch to a burnt, deadly black. "...What!?" What? Don't tell her she's been trying to clobber a monster with a rose this whole time! Is that why her attacks were ineffective? Well, no fucking wonder! But how? "So stupid." She chastises herself fiercely, hot tears burning at the corners of her eyes. How could she be so dumb? "How did... why did..."

Roses, roses. Why does that sound so familiar, anyway? There's no time to think about why this is so significant, however, as Guinevere's hold falters. She slips backward and sinks her hands back into the ground like claws. "No! No, no..." The creature can only scrape her backward inch by inch while she fights it with ever fiber of her being. The thing violently drags her through the dirt, catching her skin on twigs and causing her fingernails to bleed. It's a slow and bitter fight to the end. But the end comes and when it does, she cries out in frustration. The sound is wounded and almost animalistic, it almost seems to echo across the entirety of the wastelands. With her last gasp, she accepts the inevitability of her fate. Of her death. And then she disappears over the edge, into the monster's waiting maw.
 
…pfft, children and their whims. Why had she believed the accusation for even a second, anyway? Given that pigs would fly before Morgan le Fey was allowed to have a wife, it was actually fairly embarrassing. (Wishful thinking, probably. In the privacy of her mind, the sorceress could at least admit to that. Not that she had ever consciously dreamed of a wedding, of white gowns and rings and myriads of flowers, but the cultural image was there, you see? It wasn’t meant for her, but… well, all too often, the heart wanted things specifically because it couldn’t have them. Ah, no matter.) “I didn’t promise you a thing,” Morgan corrected. “Maybe some other version of myself did, but that woman is dead. I am not beholden to her.” Right, and most likely, the events they were describing to her were also edited beyond recognition. Assuming there even was anything truthful about it in the first place, how could she know that they hadn’t twisted the facts? She couldn’t! Reality, too, was like a mirror, and depending on the angle, it could show pretty much anything. (…certainly not a wife, though. Not to her. Even if the laws of Camelot got bent enough to allow for this, it just wouldn’t happen! Loneliness was safe, safe and familiar, and to discard that protective shell, Morgan would have had to lose her mind. Which, no, thank you.)

“But yes, I do agree there is little time. Let us not waste it.” The sooner they dealt with this Maleagant, after all, the sooner this farce could end. (What, exactly, was waiting for her there? A twist, perhaps, or maybe a happy ending? The final knife in her back? The sorceress didn’t dare to guess, but if her so-called friends expected her to throw away her caution, then they were sorely mistaken. I haven’t survived for so long by placing my trust in those who aren’t worth it, Morgan thought. And who, pray tell, had that privilege? So far, only a single name had managed to make the list-- her own, drawn in golden ink. It was safe to say that others weren’t joining it any time soon, either.) “What?” the sorceress raised her eyebrow, watching the other woman like a hawk. “What, exactly, am I to her?” Again, it wasn’t as if she actually believed their words, but it was good to… uhh, gather intel. To find out from which direction the winds were blowing, in other words. Once you knew that, you could decipher your enemies’ intentions easily, you see? Right! That was the reason, not any stupid, unrealistic hope that might have been blooming in her heart.

…those notions, however, were abandoned swiftly as well. That sword… could it be? “Stay back,” Morgan raised her arm, as if she meant to put a barrier between the weapon and Emily. “The magic radiating from the thing is so strong that I’m shocked that we haven’t been fried yet.” (How come that they hadn’t noticed sooner? Because it wasn’t there, she thought. It couldn’t have been. The human eyes were fallible, yes, but you couldn’t overlook the sun itself, now could you? And this sword was shining just as brightly, with the same desperate intensity. Oh, gods.) “It’s calling for something,” the sorceress said, unsure of how she knew this, but knowing it to be true nonetheless. Although… “No, not something. Someone.” It was most likely a bad idea, but at this point, she saw no other way. “I’m going to touch it. No matter what happens from now on, do not join me. Should anything suspicious happen, run away, barricade the door and pray for the gods’ mercy.” Reassuring, wasn’t it? Yeah, except that it wasn’t Morgan’s job to make people feel better about themselves.

What is it that I'm doing? A good question, but somehow, she felt that it didn’t need to be asked. (The sword just… wouldn’t hurt her, alright? For that, they knew each other way too well.) Hesitantly, Morgan extended her hand. The air around the Excalibur was sizzling, which almost, almost made her turn back, but ‘almost’ was the key word here. So, instead of that? The sorceress touched it, and then she saw the stars.

As it often tended to be true, of course, those stars were drowned in shadows. The sword in her hand was flickering defiantly, but what could mere candlelight do against the emptiness of the universe? Against the darkness older than Earth itself? Very little, that much was obvious. Sigh. And so Morgan wandered, blindly, searching for… for something she couldn’t even imagine, to be frank. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?” Bizarre as it was, she also knew the answer to that, somehow.
 
Home. Guinevere grasps an inkling of coherence, finding herself enwrapped by thousands of ribbons to a pillar of some kind. Against her back the texture is gnarled like a tree but also soft like flesh. Around her, she can hear and feel the pulse of a beating heart. Several of them, in fact. And they don't belong to her. The ribbons (though she has a hunch they aren't actually ribbons) snare tighter around her, as if they sense that she's awakened. Might have laughed if she brought her sense of humor with her when she fell. Nah. Couldn't struggle against them even if she wanted to. Strung up this way, she feels like a girl in one of those stories she heard as a kid. Like, the one who's chosen and left out by her village to feed the monster who's due to come. It's too dark to see, but she must resemble some vampiric, gothic painting of a nightmare. All scraped up, covered in dirt, blood, and drenched in whatever unnamable monster ick is sticking to her. Doesn't really bode well for her, does it? She's not dead. Not yet. But death is surely coming. Is this home...?

Who knows? And who fucking cares? Guinevere will never see it that way, no matter what the all-powerful, all-knowing voices claim. Home is even simpler for her to define than her own identity is. 'Cause it's when she's at Morgan's side. Duh! And now that dynamic's been stolen from her. Whatever future she might've duped herself into believing in has slipped far, far, far beyond her reach. Fate picked her clean. Took her childhood with ease. Took her body and her free will away through the greedy hands of Arthur and that horrible cult. (And did that put a dent in her self worth or what?) Now, as if that's not enough, they've taken her heart, too. She fought hard, all right? She kept it strong through all of this and now even it feels like it's going to give. Maybe it already has. Morgan's there, yes, but her love for her has all but disappeared. And it's too much. I can't do this on my own.

Alone in pitch darkness, Guinevere finally gives herself permission to cry. And yeah, even she'll admit that she cries pretty damn often. Except it's not all that often that she cries these bitter, pitying tears for herself. Because she didn't venture out here to give up! She still had some fight left in her. But now everyone she ever loved is going to think she gave up. In their eyes, it will be just another classically stupid, self-sacrificial stunt from Guinevere! Which is fair, she supposes. She selfishly wanted to go beyond than the pitiful damsel role she'd been designated, dictated and defined so strictly by all the men in her life... but she didn't think things through.

'Shh. Don't cry, child. You are home.' The voice has no right to be this soft. Like a lullaby. 'Rest now. You will not be leaving. Now, tell me. Do you remember your name?'

"It's Guinevere..." Though her voice is a low rasp of exhaustion, she's annoyed enough to add, "...bitch."

'Be at peace, for we are merciful. And soon you will feel nothing.' The 'ribbons' grow needle-sharp points that burrow into her skin. Guinevere cries out as they send shockwave after shockwave through her. It's agony, like a monster sinking its claws into her soul repeatedly. And as the thing feeds on her blood, veins of light trickle across the vast darkness like cracks of lightning. Reminds her of electricity. Is this some kind of man-made machine? Or is it a mutation of whatever virus created the mecha-beasts? Whatever it is, it isn't natural. Hurts like hell. 'You have traveled outside of your physical body before, yes?'

Guinevere's in too much pain to answer. But she knows she has. Months ago in the disturbance zone, the other night in the cult's village. That strange separation, like she was standing outside of herself. And whenever she ventured too far from her body it felt viscerally wrong. That's kind of how she feels right now.

'Stay still. This is a delicate process, you see. We are going to cut the thread that tethers your spirit to your body. We have run out of options. Afterwards you will be free to go wherever you like! And rest assured, your flesh and blood will serve it's intended purpose here with us... as our serene, beloved goddess.'

Those cultist bastards! Another shockwave rockets through Guinevere before she can give the voice a piece of her mind. They really are going to turn her into a doll, then. And then what? Her spirit will be doomed to roam the earth like a ghost for the rest of her days!?

'Hello? Can anyone hear me?'

"...Morgan!" The unmistakable sound of Morgan's voice inspires a near herculean strength from Guinevere. Because she needs to warn her. Whatever is going on down here... it's not natural. The cult is messing with magic it truly doesn't understand. As fucking always! And there's no telling what's going to happen as they inch closer to their goal. She might be doomed, but if she can save one person... it might as well be the woman she loves most. "Morgan, what are you doing here!? You... you need to get out. It isn't safe!"
 
Silence. Silence as deep as an ocean, embracing her from all the sides, so vast that Morgan wanted to scream. In a way, it... resembled being wrapped in a blanket? Tightly enough for the fabric to choke the life out of you, slowly, over the course of time. (No, nobody could hear her. Naturally. Certain things didn't change, you see-- the sun always set in the west, the moon always followed the earth, and Morgan le Fey... Morgan le Fey ended up alone, inevitably.) What have I done? the sorceress thought, blinking furiously in the darkness. By now, her eyes should have adjusted, but no, of course that they didn't! Still, still could she see nothing, feel nothing, remember nothing. Maybe there is nothing to see. Some sort of magically induced vacuum, perhaps? ...that, or it could have reflected her own emptiness, just as easily. (Magic, too, was a mirror. Should you gaze into it, you'd only discover what was inside of you, hidden from the gaze of others, which... yes, that was why many reviled it. Ignorance was just a part of the equation, and the rest of it? Fear, pain, anxiety. The sense of something much bigger than you were, watching you from within yourself. It wasn't for everyone, you know? To realize how small, how insignificant you were, and to face that realization, instead of looking away. Ah, for that, Morgan could thank her family, indeed! They'd taught her that she was nothing early on, before she had even remembered her own name. Knowing that, accepting the spirits' conditions had been easy.)

I shouldn't have come, she said to herself. There's nothing to be gained here. More than likely, they merely lured me into a trap. How not, with all the talks of friendship? Just pretty words, meant to hide the ugly truth. Fake embellishments. The sword flickered in her hand, though, and for some reason? For some reason, Morgan found that oddly comforting, much like the light of a bedside lamp. ('You have to walk,' she heard, echoing in across those endless hallways. 'Walk, walk, walk. To find your happiness, you have to search for it.' Which, what? Happiness? Don't make her laugh! Answers were all Morgan le Fey had ever dared to hope for, however painful they might be. Truth was worth it, you see? Even in the world that closed its eyes before it, and overdosed on dreams.)

For a long while, all the sorceress could hear was the sound of her own footsteps. (Perhaps surprisingly, that was comforting. When you could only rely on yourself, loneliness was a shield, you know? The only cure to betrayal, to disappointment, to drowning in your own tears. Better not to open up at all, really, than to contend with such poor odds! ...only chronic gamblers would do that, Morgan was convinced. The ones too addicted to the thrill to feel their own wounds.) Of course, she also knew that the peace wouldn't last. The sword had led here for a reason, and soon enough, that reason would reveal itself to her-- the magical thread was there, and just like the one that had belonged to Ariadne, there had to be a point to it. And, the conclusion? As always, it proved to be entirely unsurprising.

Ah, Guinevere. How have I not thought of that before? Everything always seemed to center around her in the end, just like planets revolved around their sun. Dangerous, though? A dry, humorless chuckle bubbled past her lips, and Morgan didn't even attempt to stop it.

"Has danger ever stopped me? You claim to know me, Guinevere, but that doesn't sound like something I would do." For her, you see, that had never been an option-- balancing on a knife's edge was a skill she had had to master early on, and those things never quite left you. Not even if you wanted them to. (Especially not then.) "I cannot see your face," Morgan informed her, for reasons she herself didn't quite understand. "I feel like I should, though." Hesitation rippled through her, akin to a tidal wave, and the sorceress... well, she didn't know how she was feeling, actually. Disoriented? Lost? (Hope was a powerful drug, indeed! The ones who had injected it into their veins deserved every single consequence attached to it, and much more. Fools, all of them. Fools, fools, fools!) "Tell me something about myself," she whispered, despite her caution screaming at her to stop. What was the point in listening to it, anyway? They were both there, trapped in this strange kind of hell, and words certainly couldn't make it much worse. No, Morgan would indulge her curiosity. "Something only I'd know. If you are familiar with me," enough to be called her wife, "you should be able to do that. Well?"
 
"...No." Guinevere concedes with a knowing sigh. Fucking hell. "Nothing stops Morgan le Fey." Her hold on her responsibilities and everything she ever set out to accomplish is slipping. It's falling into a realm that's warped beyond repair. It's so sad it almost borders on ridiculous. And yet Morgan talks as if she's looking for a spark. As if there's still hope to be found when there truly is none. This is the end, isn't it? But when she asks Guinevere her question, she can't help forgetting that fact... if only for a moment.

"Something about you, huh. Like the fact that you're the most beautiful sorceress I've ever laid eyes on?" Guinevere grins in spite of everything, as if acting unashamedly herself might fix this. Forgetting that Morgan won't be amused. Won't blush or give her a hint of that lopsided smile she's come to love. Her smile slips and she coughs awkwardly. "Sorry, no filter. You told me that I make bad manners look stylish once. But I don't think you appreciated that early on." Like she obviously wouldn't right now, seeing they might as well have been whisked back to day one. Any trust or fondness she earned from Morgan is lost now. Those moments between them only exist in Guinevere's mind. She's alone now, to such an extent that she's starting to wonder whether she made it all up to cope with her dumpster fire of a life. Just... how could her everything become nothing so damn fast? It's not right. Pain scrapes down to her core and builds a home in her heart. Her heart which won't be her own for much longer, at this rate. At least the cult bastards are going to put her out of her misery forever, she guesses. "Heh, we got off to a rocky start, you know... we were so different."

Wrangling with another shockwave, she yelps quietly. Shit, this hurts! Well, of course it fucking hurts. Her soul is being torn out of her body. Obviously there's not enough time to tell their whole story from beginning to end. Morgan's not herself and soon enough Guinevere won't be, either. They're being erased from their own narrative. What's the point of talking, anyway? But for a reason she can't define, she keeps going.

"But we're both fucking stubborn. Got a taste for danger. And trouble. Of course you'd be here right now." Guinevere's eyes and nose burn fiercely and she struggles to speak around the tightness that snares her throat, "I came out here... thinking I could fix things and disappear. Then you wouldn't have to suffer anymore. I know it's been hard... all those years alone in that stupid backwards place. With all those rules and that fucked up family that didn't love you the way you deserved to be loved. I wanted to see you free, you know? More than anything."

Yeah well. Guinevere can cheese about how much the muchness of her feelings till she's blue in the face. Even the most poetic, romantic sentiments won't hit their mark. Morgan needs specifics if she's going to even consider believing her. It's the personal, hard earned little details that'll really floor her. At the very least, maybe it'll get her mind off of the fact that she's about to fucking die. Might as well spend her last moments cherishing the happier moments on their memory lane before it's all lost to obscurity.

"Your favorite color is blue. You let everybody believe that it's black... but it's really blue. After you told me I replaced all of Arthur's gaudy reds and golds in the royal bedroom with blue. Check later if you need proof." Guinevere smiles, sinking deeper into her thoughts. "I grew up in the wastes, y'know. So you introduced me to a lot of new foods when you started teaching me magic. You love coffee and herbal tea. Pizza, too. Our first kiss tasted like banana cupcakes. You kissed me, believe it or not!" Morgan probably won't-- in fact for all she knows she might be pissed at the insinuation that she would care for anybody that way-- and Guinevere keeps going before she can be accused of lying. "We made magical vows. You gave me that locket with your mother's picture in it. I gave you my mother's ring... it might be around your neck right now. If you, uh, kept it on." Yeah. Unless the unknown necklace made her suspicious and she tore it off. Guinevere shakes her doubts and keeps going. "...Pride and Prejudice is one of your guilty pleasures. You're actually a total romantic and I love that about you. You'd imagine the story with girls, 'cause everything is better with girls. It's your deepest darkest secret and I swore I'd take it with me to the grave."

The next shockwave leaves Guinevere breathless and dazed. 'Let go, Guinevere. You know it's futile.'

"Which... I guess I'm going to fulfill that promise soon." Guinevere admits softly. She's slipping. Shit, fuck, goddamn it. This is brutal. This was such a bad idea. Hearing Morgan deny their love in her last moments... what a tragic fucking joke her life turned out to be. "Why am I telling you any of this, anyway? None of it matters now. I'm being erased, Morgan. This is my fate. This has always been my fate." She takes in a sharp breath, "But it doesn't have to be yours. So get the fuck out of here already! Let me do one thing right by keeping you safe. I love you."
 
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Why have I asked that question at all? What is it that I'm searching for here? Because, really, this was just an exercise in suffering-- the last futile tremors of a fly, trapped in a spider's web. Did she not understand that? (Once things had progressed that far, you see, there was no going back. No way out, no excuses. A tumor could be cut out, yes, but when it had devoured all of your flesh, then what would be left? Yourself? Pffft, don't make her laugh! No, if some untarnished version of her had ever existed, it was sleeping in a shallow grave, along with her ambitions and dreams. This woman... Guinevere, was it? Yes, Guinevere. Well, Guinevere wasn't holding a key to a better future, that much was obvious! Morgan would still be Morgan, no matter what, and that... that came with certain implications, for better or worse. Mostly for worse, if she were to be honest. You couldn't teach a fish to fly, and just like that, you also couldn't teach her to love. Broken things tended to stay broken, you know? Eh, no matter. It's not like listening to whatever she says can make this even worse, somehow. A sorceress should be open to new conclusions, shouldn't she? No, let others close their eyes before the truth! Since Arthur and his clowns had had such wonderful results with that.)

"Don't be ridiculous," Morgan snapped. "Fixing things by disappearing, huh? That is a coward's way. Others..." Emily, and Mia, and all those people whose names she had forgotten, "...others say that you are precious to me. Important. I don't know what that means, but if it's true, why would you abandon me?" The lack of any consistent logic was staggering, indeed, though come to think of it... well, it did make the narrative slightly more believable. The pattern just struck her as familiar, alright? Morgan didn't even have to see it to recognize all those curves and sharp twists, and just how cold they felt beneath her hands. (In the end, everyone had always left her. It was destined to happen, much like all the stars in the sky were to turn to cinders one day.) "I don't..." Well, what? What were the words trying to fight their way past her lips? Morgan herself couldn't tell, because what Guinevere said next scrubbed her thoughts clean.

The color thing, of course, could have been a coincidence. Anyone might have been able to guess, so building her hopes on this would have been foolish, wouldn't it? Oh, for sure! Except that the details kept coming, coming and coming, each of them an arrow in Morgan's heart. Just, how did she know? How, how, how?! (Nobody knew about the Pride and Prejudice thing. Nobody. A sorceress lived by her reputation, you see, and there were fewer secrets that could shred it so thoroughly. The demoness from the depths of hell just couldn't enjoy silly love stories, dammit! And editing the plot in her mind so that the protagonists ended up being girls? Gods, that line of thought was so painfully familiar that it only could have come from her. That can only mean one thing, though. That... that...)

Morgan's lower lip trembled. Had they been in a story, the darkness would have dispersed by now-- sunlight would have shattered it, and she would have been facing the other woman. Ah, too bad that reality had no sense for dramatic irony! (Still, still she could see nothing, still was her memory full of holes. Morgan could guess what was missing now, solely by the shape of those cavities, but that couldn't very well replace them, now could it? Just like knowing that you had had a hand once only provided poor comfort after someone had chopped it off. 'I love you.' How many times had she heard the phrase, said with that very same voice? How many times had it meant the world for her? Even now, there were faint echoes of something much stronger than she was, but... well, they were just that. Echoes, drowned by the sands of time. Were they real, even? Should she fling herself into that abyss, not knowing if it had a bottom? Not knowing what waited for her there? Damn, damn, damn!)

"Guinevere," the sorceress whispered, softly, before her hands found her companion's face. There was a strange wetness on her cheeks, and shockingly enough? Morgan discovered that she, too, was weeping. Oh well! It probably came with the territory-- with losing so much that you couldn't even comprehend it. "Gwen. What are you saying? What fate? I've only known you for about three seconds, and I can tell that it isn't you. Don't be stupid." Once upon a time, Morgan might have known what to say, how to soothe her, but she didn't remember, didn't, didn't, didn't-- "You can't. I forbid it. If you go away before you explain all of this, Guinevere Leodegrance, I will never forgive you!" Great, wonderful tactics, 10/10. Just the right way to make someone want to stay, really! (Her voice broke, too, and in that moment, Morgan hated just how pathetic she sounded. Why did it have to fail her now?)

"I don't..." she shook her head, "I don't know. I'm sorry. It's my job to know, but I don't. Some sorceress I am, right?" There was one thing that Morgan did know, though, and perhaps she ought to cling to that. "Stay, Guinevere. I need you to." Yes, for some reason. It was impossible not to want that, really-- just like sunflowers couldn't help but follow the sun, Morgan, too, couldn't tear her eyes away. "I trust you. I want to trust you." And, after saying that? Blindly, the sorceress leaned closer, closer, ever closer... till she closed the gap between their lips for good. (Retracing her own steps might work out just fine, right? Since she'd kissed her first and everything.)

As if in response, the Excalibur began to shine, with all the brilliance of their galaxy.
 
"Don't apologize..." Guinevere's tears slip freely, one right after the other, and she can't reign her composure in enough to keep talking. It's not Morgan's fault. None of this is. Why won't she leave, though? Why won't she do this one thing to set her broken heart at ease? Just go, she wants to scream until her lungs are raw, go someplace safe. Don't let me drag you down again. Guinevere's life out in the wastes was it's own special type of agony. But it did give her certain experiences, you know? Meeting new people, trying stupid shit with friends and exploring new haunts. She got to speak her mind unashamedly, go where she wanted whenever she wanted to, hell-- she even got to wear her hair however the hell she wanted to without any restrictions! Turned it fucking pink and everything. She's been around and lived some life out there. Morgan, though? She never got to do that. And she deserves it. She deserves the world she never got to see beyond Camelot's walls. Fuck and the world ought to be floored by Morgan le Fey for exactly who she is, too. (She doesn't even know if they could handle her, if she's being honest. She's just that stunning!) Even now, though... she doesn't seem inclined to let Guinevere sacrifice herself on the altar fate's prepared. Me and my big fucking mouth... Her big gay mouth. Why didn't she insult her!? With the slate wiped clean, she could've made her think she was an enemy or some shit, convince her that she's scum that deserves to die. Yet she physically can't do that with Morgan. There's not a bone in her body that wishes her harm, even as a farce. It's not in her nature to be anything other than soft when it comes to the sorceress. She can't be anything other than the safety she's always wanted to be for her, so that maybe someday she might really...

Trust her. 'I trust you. I want to trust you.'

Guinevere's eyes widen at the sudden, unexpected warmth of Morgan's lips pressed against her own. Her eyelids drift shut and she kisses her back with all the passion one might plant into their last kiss on this earth, wishing vehemently that her arms were free to hold her her close. Another channel of electricity runs through her, the world explodes with light and...

She's confident that their love is strong enough that if this were one of those stories, the world would've flourished anew well beyond this point. They'd be out in a green field of wildflowers right now, able to hold each other and giggle at the exhilaration of avoiding death by the skin of their teeth. Then the credits would roll! Maybe with like, charming pictures of their life in the future appearing on the sidelines. Ditching Camelot altogether, going on adventures, trying new things and shit. Being Guinevere and Morgan. 'Cause they were always more than a frivolous queen and an evil sorceress. Maybe Guinevere would finally try a banana. Maybe Morgan would change her hair! (Although it doesn't need changing, either. Guinevere liked her hair from the very beginning. But her love is beautiful enough to make any color of the rainbow look good... as long as she's doing whatever the hell she wants for a change? She'll love it-- her-- all the more for it.) And yes, maybe Guinevere would finally get to play the role of the instructor and teach Morgan how to use a sword! They'd truly be unstoppable then.

When Guinevere opens her eyes again, she's relieved to discover that she's no longer attached to that contraption. But she's lying in a bed of ashes. Morgan is on top of her and Excalibur rests idly at their side.

"Where..." The realization winds back and smacks into Guinevere like a punch to the gut. They're in a desert of ashes. Hopeless, like the end of the world. "We're in that world. In my head. The one you took me to before."

Except the present version of Morgan isn't going to remember that. Mindful of that fact, Guinevere reigns back the muchness of her feelings as not to scare her off. She blushes and gingerly slips out from under the sorceress as not to startle her. Sitting up, she clutches fistfuls of ash and peers down as it sifts through her fingers. Shit. This must mean that in reality, she's probably still hooked up to that grotesque contraption. The cult is still trying to dissect her soul from her body and nothing has really changed. Did the kiss bring Morgan into her mind, kind of like that night that she got sucked into Morgan's? And what does that mean for Morgan, if they accomplish that while she's in here? Nothing good, if Guinevere's able to wager a guess.

"I thought you were smart, Morgan le Fey. Are you sure you want to put your trust in a woman... a stranger like this?" Guinevere really expects it to be Arthur. But the man approaching them is distinctly not Arthur. "She's like a vessel that needs to be filled. Promising sunshine when in reality she's empty and hopeless."

Maleagant stands at a distance between them. Guinevere finds she's got no will to fight this. It's the truth and Morgan can see it for herself just by looking at this place. Something about that vessel comment struck. The deepest darkest weakness in her, the emptiness Arthur carved in her, the achilles heel she tried to stifle behind a smile this whole time.

"This desolate landscape reflects it clearly, does it not? This volatile half-breed ended the world in a past life. Yes, her reasons are lost to time. For all we know, it might have been a stupid, childish mistake... but by the gods it was a damning one. And now she must take responsibility." He pounds his staff to the ground and a door appears within a cloud of inky black smoke. "Morgan le Fey, I am a merciful man. I will give you one last opportunity to leave if you wish."
 
Of course, Morgan knew how kissing worked. It didn't exactly take much brainpower to figure that out, you see? Lips against lips, flesh against flesh-- a primal code for 'I care for you,' baked right into their DNA. A promise of safety. (The books she had read sort of confirmed it, too. The language was usually more flowery than that, but wasn't that still the underlying assumption? 'I'm here, standing this close, and won't hurt you. You can trust me.' Ah, yes, it had to be something like that! As divorced as they'd like to be from their animalistic side, they were still ruled by their instincts, by impulses older than the civilization itself, and... well, to put it plainly, these things just weren't that deep. Most human interactions, the sorceress felt, could be reduced to mere programming. How not? They had to be! And the romanticization was just something they did to convince themselves that there was an actual meaning to their existence, cold and lonely and so, so empty.)

So, before their lips met? Morgan wasn't expecting much of anything, really. She did expect some softness, yes, and also warmth, but certainly nothing life-changing. It was just... human contact, wasn't it? Not that radically different from holding someone's hand, or maybe caressing your friend's hair. Ultimately, there was no special meaning to the action aside from what they themselves had assigned to it! But, you know, while all of that was true, Morgan still wasn't prepared for the absolute fireworks that exploded behind her closed eyes. (Gods, she would have thought, except that her mind was wiped clean. Just, totally blank. It was too much-- too much of sensation, too much of feeling, too much of her, and in that moment, Morgan wanted to drown in it all. Ah, what a sweet taste that would be! ...how many times had she done this before? Not nearly enough times to get sick of it, that's for sure. If that is even possible.)

When she opened her eyes again, her cheeks were colored pink, and her breath ragged. "I, um. That... that was something, I have to admit. Mind if I write about this in my diary?" Gods, gods, gods, what was she saying, even?! Morgan was not an expert at flirting by any means, but the question still struck her as pretty pathetic. Quick, I need to explain myself! At this rate, she'll think I'm a complete loser. "For, ah, some textual analysis. I have discovered over the years that writing my thoughts down helps me... uh, categorize them? Yes, indeed, there is nothing better than journaling!" ...aside from actually possessing self-respect, which was something Morgan could apparently only dream about now. Ugh! How come words betrayed her so easily? Always, always they had been her weapons, and now that very blade had cut her own throat. (Guinevere loved her, she'd said. Despite her being herself? The sorceress couldn't imagine how that worked, if she acted like this every time she gave her a kernel of affection.)

If nothing else, Maleagant's arrival at least disrupted her strange trance-- immediately, Morgan was on guard. A vessel to be filled? A volatile half-breed? Ah, indeed, those were the words of someone to be trusted! Not of, you know, an absolute psychopath. (She'd seen it play out, over and over. Hell, the same tired scenario defined her life, too. A woman with power? Why, such a woman was to be hated and reviled, and put on a tight leash. 'It's for your own good, my dear!' they'd sung, with poison dripping from their mouths. 'After all, you are too unstable to know the limits of your own strength. Too uncontrollable.' Even without her memory, Morgan recognized the pattern, and you know what? She didn't like it. Not one bit.)

"A merciful man, you say?" The sorceress took a step forward, her expression downright icy. "No, I don't think that that's the case. What I do think, sir Maleagant, is that you are a coward. Like a dog, you run away with your tail between your legs whenever there's so much as a chance that you might not win. That is why you backed out of our magical duel, didn't you? You knew you were outclassed. You knew I was Morgan le Fey, and that you were a nobody. And now, now you have the gall to pretend that you're offering me some sweet deal? Oh, please! You are only trying to cheat me out of my victory."

"Insolent woman," he sneered. From behind his back, he... pulled out the Excalibur? It looked like the sacred sword, at least, even if the energy surrounding it felt much darker. (An imitation, maybe? One spun directly out of nightmares.) "You never learn, do you? Well, don't say I haven't warned you. Remember, you only have yourself to blame! When the rest of this world turns to cinders as well, I want you to know that it's your fault. You and your damned selfishness!"

...cinders, huh. How, exactly, did those come to be? Why, via fire, of course. That aspect of the puzzle wasn't a mystery at all. "It's only this way because you bastards burned her," the sorceress blurted out, suddenly very sure of that fact. (Where had the knowledge come from? Morgan didn't know, nor did she care.) "An empty vessel? Don't make me laugh. You took everything from her, spat upon her, and then called her ruined. Well, yes! When people hurt you, you are injured. Injured isn't broken, though. It also isn't an invitation to do as you please with that person." Ignoring the glowing sword, Morgan turned around, and grabbed her companion's hand. "Can you hear me? This is your world, Guinevere. I... I know that this isn't your fate. A woman who spoke to me so passionately cannot be dead inside. I refuse to believe that. Look at me! Look at me and make it bloom."
 
Staring at Morgan, Guinevere's stunned into silence as the sorceress unhesitatingly supplies her defense. Despite her memories being gone, she's filled with conviction that what he's saying is untrue, immediately pinpointing the reason why this place is nothing but ash. It's only this way because you bastards burned her. Remembering in a flash how the flames lapped at the soles of her feet, she winces and lowers her eyes. As if it's something to be ashamed of, something she deserved. But... she didn't. She didn't deserve that. (It happened so long ago. That doesn't change the fact that it happened. Even now she can see the gruesome memory so clearly. The mocking laughter of the subjects. The loss of her love, which weighed her so heavily she didn't even struggle. The pain.) Excalibur must have showed her the joy her first life carried within her for a reason. Running barefoot in the grass, smiling only when she cared to smile, playing all those harmless little tricks. Saving the white stag for no reason other than the fact that her heart ached for a creature that Arthur and his knights would hunt for sport. Untouched by human conventions and light as the air she wielded, she might as well have embodied life itself. Then she was cast out of her home. Forced to wed a man she'd never love, made to lay in his bed and sit at his side like a bird in a cage. When she sought her own escape, she ran into the forest. Gathered those poisoned berries and tried to... Morgan revived her, though, unable to let her give up even then. She salved the pain in any way she could, became her sole sense of relief. But then those bastards took her away as well. And it was too much. They broke her down and burned her. Of course this is all that's left.

Over and over, Arthur's been able to claim her narrative for himself. Over and over, Morgan's been separated from her.

They finally ended Arthur's reign and the cycle of tragedy it wrought-- and now what? This conniving asshole enters the picture, hoping to divide and conquer by stealing Morgan's precious memories away? Looking at it that way it really is such a cheap fucking trick. After everything I've been through... am I really gonna let myself fall here?

Meeting Morgan's eyes, Guinevere finds she still can't speak around the tightness in her throat. (If she remembered that she'd been burned, surely that means there's hope that she can remember everything else as well? And even if they don't come back on their own she has her diary, doesn't she? Adorable as it was for her to mention it, it also carried all sorts of promising implications. Of course her love will trust memories she'd recorded in her own handwriting! Also... She put her trust in you, too.) Clutching onto her love's hand, a fierce wind begins to pick up around them. It blows the strands of their hair and then gradually begins swirling the ashes all around them.

"You cannot hold me accountable for something I've never done." Maleagant interjects, cautiously readying the false Excalibur. "And I would never do anything to harm the goddess."

"...Then you're a damned hypocrite! By that logic, you can't blame me for the catastrophe." Guinevere lashes out as the wind howls. It's true that her past lives are all a part of her in a way she might never fully understand. But her experience-- her life-- is still hers. The only actions she truly has to own up for are the ones she's taken in this life. And she spent a majority of her days fighting to survive in a wasteland, all grit, teeth and blood. Suffering in this world she's been blamed for destroying. Suffering to learn to fix it. Suffering for the fact that she's daring enough to try doing so by her own will. "I was born the year everything went to shit. You can't blame a newborn for the end of the world!"

Guinevere sweeps the ashes up into a tornado. Rather than allowing it to spiral it beyond her control like last time, she flings it towards Maleagant, knocking him backward with satisfying force. She hopes it hurt. Though it can't compare to what he's put her through. Not one bit.

"I'm not as stupid as you think. I've learned from experience that people are more than where they come from." Yeah! Just look at Morgan if you need proof. "So when you appeared in Camelot I decided I would give you a chance." Guinevere recalls the way he spoke about his sister, the way he'd made her sympathize with him. Making a toy of her heart just like all of the men in her life. She seethes. To think of all the unrest he caused between her and Morgan. Should've freaking known her love would be right! She always is. "You fucked up! And you've taken advantage of my kindness for the last time."

Before he can open his mouth to speak, Guinevere commands an even stronger wind to push him out of their vicinity. He might be back... but for now? For now he's not their problem. Rain slowly begins to pitter down from the sky, gradually dotting and wetting the scorched earth. It pours harder by the second. Huh. Will this contribute somehow? Plants do need a little water and care to grow, after all.

"Morgan... you remembered. How much do you remember now?" Guinevere asks softly, watching her carefully as the rain speckles their faces and sticks their hair to their skin. She tucks a strand out of Morgan's face to get a better look at her eyes. Every time reminds her they're the prettiest shade of green she's ever seen. "Do you know how I'm supposed to make it bloom?"
 
A goddess, he'd called her. An object of worship, to be adored and revered, but also one to bear the weight of all those expectations, heavier than the world itself. Not a person, in other words. Wasn't it funny how that worked out? ...no, it wasn't. Not one bit. "No, of course that you'd never harm her," Morgan spat out. "As long as the machine operates as intended, there is no reason for you to do that, now is there? I'm sure you think you love her, too. I mean, why not? People can love coffee, and also their favorite bench, and, yes, even an instrument that works properly. It's only natural-- if it makes your life easier, you may say that you love it. I hope that you haven't fooled yourself into thinking that makes your feelings noble, though? Because they aren't. If anything, they are a sign of cowardice. Why would you want someone else to solve your issues, huh? Do it your own damn self!" The words felt foreign in her mouth, as if they didn't quite fit its shape, but... well, they struck her as appropriate. When faced with such spinelessness, you see, even good manners faded! (He deserved not a second of her consideration. They'd taught her how to laugh and please, and how to ignore her own pain as well, but Morgan le Fey wasn't a dog. Oh no, no, no! The things they had beaten into her, with bitter tears streaming down her face? They hadn't become her skin. The behaviors could still be cast aside, like clothes that no longer fit, and beneath all of that, you could find her.)

Guinevere, too, woke up from her stupor, and wasn't it kind of glorious? To watch her advocate for herself, with flame in her eyes. I could see myself loving her, the thought popped up in her head, uninvited. Earlier, it would have scared her beyond words, but now... now, the sorceress wasn't so sure. Maybe she did love her already, via some strange muscle memory? That, or perhaps Morgan was just destined to fall in love with her again and again, every single time they met. Oh, gods. Delusions of grandeur it is, then? Clearly, the amnesia must have impacted the rest of my cognitive abilities as well. Rest in peace, Morgan le Fey, for you have succumbed to the family madness. And, indeed, that conclusion sounded just about right! ...except that some part of her just knew that she was hers, in the same way that stars belonged to the sky. Not even her love for sarcasm could change that.

There was no need for Morgan to participate, so she didn't. (This Maleagant had wronged Guinevere, hadn't he? Taken advantage of her trust, as she had said? Then it was her right to punish him, and always had been. Vengeance could only be claimed by those who had been wronged, otherwise it became a mere spectacle. A tasteless distraction, built on the ashes of justice.)

"I... I don't think I remembered," Morgan shook her head, her gaze falling somewhere at her feet. (Was that a disappointment to the other woman? Maybe, but she had nothing else to offer. No, Morgan wouldn't call a piece of coal a precious diamond! ...regardless of how much she wanted to.) "In that moment, I just knew. I cannot rationally explain it. Can you imagine how frustrating that is? If someone presented such an argument to me, I would laugh them out of the room! And yet... yet I find myself unable to ignore that voice. For some reason, it's all I can hear." Gently, she interlaced their fingers together. "If you're seeking answers from me, Guinevere, then I am afraid that I cannot provide them. If I ever knew them, they're lost. I suppose that I can offer you my thoughts, however?" Because while memories could be erased, what made her her just... couldn't. The essence of her self was written in her very bones, and the bastard's spell hadn't gotten nearly as deep!

"What I think," Morgan began, "is that the earth isn't dead at all. It cannot be. That which is dead can never rise again, so how do you explain Camelot gardens? The patches of land that are fertile? No, we aren't dealing with a corpse here. Just like you, it's still alive, but... sleeping, perhaps. Waiting for the golden opportunity. If I'm understanding this right, then The Catastrophe happened in reaction to something they did to you, right? As a protective mechanism, maybe? When someone tries to choke you, it's normal to bite their hand. What if... I don't know, what if the earth is stuck in that defensive position? It doesn't feel safe, so it cannot let go. It's hurting itself, but that is still better than being hurt by others. At least with self-harm, you can control the intensity, you see? There's no ambiguity, nothing you can't predict." Led by some mysterious instinct, Morgan dropped to her knees and began to dig through the ashes. Nothing, nothing, and more of nothing, but then... ah-ha! Blades of grass, newborn and weak, but undeniably green. (The most beautiful color she had ever seen, hands down. Oh, gods! Long ago, when her research had started in earnest, Morgan hadn't actually believed it would bear fruit, yet here she was. Here they were.)

"See? They've been there the entire time, waiting for you. Praying for you to wake up." With a gentle smile, Morgan clutched Guinevere's hand. "I don't believe the earth yearns after a sacrifice. Why should it? This entire mess has been triggered by one, so solving it the same way... That just strikes me as fighting fire with more fire. As counterproductive. No, Guinevere, I think it wishes for you to thrive. Tell me, what do need to achieve that?"
 
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