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Futuristic The Wastes ( ellarose & Syntra )

Have you ever had your soul straight up yanked out of your body? Grabbed by an invisible hook, and pulled away? The laws of probability dictated that you hadn't, which you should be thankful for! Because Morgan le Fey could attest that it was not pleasant. Far from it. (There was a weird pressure in her ears-- water that was and wasn't there, the surface of it rippling, rippling, rippling, giving birth to whirlwinds of blood. Morgan expected to look down and see it pooling below her feet, but, the problem with that? Well, she'd need to have feet! Or legs, or arms, or any of the usual human components.) Human components, the sorceress repeated in her head. Could I sound more like an alien? Might as well start wondering what the water that falls from people's eyes when they're sad is. And, yes, on some level, Morgan did realize that it was just her mind dealing with the aftermath of the shock, but she also couldn't help but be reminded of Arthur-- of him, and all those words that had somehow gotten under her skin. ("Of course you can never understand that, sister. You don't think like a normal person does. Why would you? You're drunk on dark magic, and the gods hate you for that. I don't think you can even call yourself human.")

Ridiculous, she thought. If you're going to start listening to him, you might as well divine weather reports from tea leaves. Which, by the way, didn't work! Magic wasn't guessing, based on shapes that you did or did not see in a random item of your choice. Magic was about control, about binding that which didn't want to be bound, and that took effort. Actual skill, too. No, focus, Morgan reprimanded herself once it became obvious that she, in fact, wasn't alone. That Guinevere of all people was there, as lost as the sorceress herself. (Maybe even more than that. And, honestly? Morgan did sympathize. It was one thing to jump off a cliff, knowing that the rocks beneath could shatter you-- it was a sorceress's job to do that. She did so gladly, despite everything. Being pushed off one, though? Without any warning, too? No wonder that she was scared. Courage only carried you so far, and those who would allow it to take them even further were utter fools. The fact that she spoke to herself to cope wasn't even...)

Wait. A disembodied light? Alright. Alright, that meant that Morgan ought to update the information she was working with. Guinevere wasn't talking to herself-- she was talking to her. How, though? Spirits were like wind, in that you could see the effects they were having on the world rather than them themselves. Wind, or magnetism, or gravity, or any of those forces that Arthur had shuddered from and called ‘incomprehensible.’ Why was she somehow an exception, then? Why Guinevere Leodegrance, who had taken everything from her? With her strong arms, she had ripped every rule that had ever applied to her life to shreds! (…or not. See, maybe there was something about her that warranted the creation of new rules, rather than wanton destruction. The missing pieces in the mosaic of her knowledge, in other words. What was up with Guinevere, those mysterious voices, and the Excalibur itself? The sorceress didn’t know, and that both infuriated and intrigued her. A territory uncharted right on the horizon did tend to awaken such feelings in people, she supposed. …no, this wasn’t about her being fascinated by the woman, or by how stupidly attractive her smile was. Her interest was purely academic here, thank you very much!)

“Is that what I look like?” Morgan asked, her voice quiet and distant. “How disappointing. As far as forms went, I was hoping for something like starless night. That would have matched my reputation far better. I…” she began, suddenly sounding a bit sheepish, “…I did try to tell you. You told me to stay put. I get it, though, because I wasn’t a part of your precious group. No need to actually consider the fancy piece of luggage you hauled from Camelot.” (No, that didn’t hurt. Morgan had always been alone, and thus she was used to it. So what if old scars awakened from time to time? That only meant that the tissue wasn’t dead—a cause to celebrate, not to weep over her cruel, cruel fate.)

“I wouldn’t just climb out of here if I were you,” the sorceress quipped. “Look at the walls.” And, when Guinevere did so? She could see that they were covered in long, thin lines-- the traces of claws, teeth, nails, or whatever it was that the monster that had left them behind possessed. “There’s a reason that thing dragged us down here. If I had to guess, I’d say that this is that monster’s burrow. I… some of my research suggests that even the most bizarre of monstrosities retain some instincts from their previous lives. Maybe it’s some sort of repetition compulsion? I haven’t quite been able to determine that,” Morgan continued, her tone growing… well, less combative. Smooth, almost, when she was talking about something that she didn’t consider to be the height of annoyance. “The main point is, there are bound to be traps up there and you won’t be able to deal with them easily when most of your strength will be focused on climbing. Let’s just… explore one of those tunnels,” Morgan suggested. “They are bound to lead upwards.”

The sorceress wanted to add more, but then a pair of large, fluorescent eyes blinked at them from the darkness-- eyes that looked positively feral. “Pshh! Can you see?” she whispered to Guinevere.
 
"...You can talk?" Guinevere blinked slowly, perplexedly. What the fuck. What the fuck!? Well, duh she could talk! Because she just did. But she, uh, honestly hadn't expected Morgan to answer her question. (Or more accurately, complain about her form the way she did. 'Cause of course... she wasn't a starless night or wearing a pretty dress or her favorite shoes, obviously!) Geez. And now it was only a matter of time before the Camelot lady accused her of being fucking simple for reacting like a dumbass. While she had (somehow) been able to gauge that the light was the woman's soul just from a glance, hearing her voice come from it as well confirmed the absurd gut feeling for her and sent a shiver coursing down her spine. She deserved to ask some questions, didn't she? And to have some answers. Why was she seeing or hearing any of this? Until she was brought into Camelot and had a magical sword shoved into her chest, she hadn't been able to see souls floating 'round in the wastelands like fireflies! If she had, then maybe she would have tried her hand at working for that old fortune teller in her shack. It'd sounded like a sham back then, but hey! Maybe this weird, enlightening experience would make a believer out of her. Criminy.

Fancy piece of luggage? Guinevere tilted her head at that one. On some level she guessed this sounded like acknowledgment. An inkling of understand that she knew where she stood out here. Which, wow! Who would've thought? Something about that label felt too simple, though, and she wasn't near skilled enough with words to put her finger on the reason why. Maybe because pieces of luggage didn't summon death tornadoes or appear in her weird-ass nightmares? There was more to this woman than the weight of her unconscious body on her back. More than luggage, in other words. Right then and there, though, she had more to worry about than defining what Morgan le Fey was or wasn't supposed to be to her.

When Morgan proceeded with her explanation and illuminated the dirt wall in front of her, Guinevere silently listened. The markings were there, sure enough, now that she could actually see them. Squinting, she panned her gaze upward. "Repetition compulsion?" She sincerely tried not to sound as confused as she felt. (And seriously, why did this woman know so much about some random, underground spot in the wastelands? Why would a woman be so interested in monsters from the wastes when she had an assumably charmed life in Camelot?) She wouldn’t initially have thought the monsters themselves competent enough to devise their own traps— that was the kind of shit she expected from human beings, who could be monsters in their own right. The animals who mutated in these ways are commendable foes, sure, but they can only do so much. Outsmarting the fuckers has always been part of the trick to staying alive out in the wastes! But considering the fact that they’d started mutating and feeding on humans, well… maybe there was a layer of credibility to all of this that wasn't there before. "So you think they were using Betty to get... uh, smarter?"

Guinevere begrudgingly fastened her daggers back onto her belt, having decided that Morgan was not feeding her total nonsense. Maybe she doesn't keep up with the fancy terminology, but she's faced near enough monsters to know that they do retain their animal characteristics in a fight. If these fuckers are taking humans now, then there's no doubt in her mind that they could be capable of creating traps. Especially since this one used Betty of all people, who had assisted in making many traps to catch the monsters. Those bastards. So now they're going to start feeding on them, using their friends and their own strategy against them? Times were hard enough out there as it was.

"Well, fuck me." Guinevere exhaled through her teeth, bringing her fists briefly to her temples. She ran multiple scenarios in her head, accounting for this information alongside their rations and the coming winter. "If that's what they're doing, we're fucked. We've been scraping by as it is. Fuck." Then she reminds herself that just because Morgan was a little flicker of light doesn't mean she wasn't there. Shit. She couldn't let herself have a complete nervous breakdown right there in plain sight, even if it felt as if she was alone in the dark down there. (Dark as her fucking future looked right about now, really.) It wasn't just that, though. It was the weight of sorrow sitting on her back, from having just lost another friend. Stacked on top of that is the fear that she was going to lose more of her gang this way, and that a vicious cycle like this might just be what causes them to implode after all of this time. Maybe I should've taken king douchebag's offer after all. If I did that, then maybe...

No. What's done is done. Keep moving forward. Guinevere reoriented herself, pushing the heels of her palms against her eyes to stem the flow of any frustrated tears.

"Following a pretty little light into a dark tunnel. This bodes well for me." Guinevere commented with a rough-edged ease that betrayed none of her panic as she lowered her hands, turning to do just that anyway. She gripped the hilt of her sword, squinting to try and acclimate her sight to the darkness underground. "I'd suggest you scout ahead for me for efficiency's sake, but..." The complete darkness that'd plunge her into would plummet her chances of survival if something did show. However, she noticed the eyes glowing in the dark at the same time that Morgan did.

"Of course I can see it!" Guinevere hissed her whisper back, instinctively readying her blade. Wouldn't have survived for so long in the wastelands if she couldn't! Aside from the monster's eyes, though, the darkness made it impossible for her to see exactly what kind of bastard they were dealing with here. "I-- I might need a little more light to see it completely, though. Think you could manage that? You're like a match right now and I need a whole fire."

The eyes became larger, indicating that the creature was moving closer. The scraping, 'scritch-scritch' noises it made when it moved told Guinevere without even needing to see the fucker that it either had insect legs or it was slithering. Or both. Needless to say, those weren't the sounds that clunky metal legs or paws made. She held her blade in front of her and swiped experimentally, aiming for the eyes. They disappeared for an instant and her sword cut through nothing but air. Shit! 'Guinevere, Guinevere.' The voice from before taunted her again. The creature's eyes snapped back open and they took advantage of their situation, pulling a cheap hit of their own as it slammed hard into Guinevere's side and rammed her into one of the tunnel walls. She bit the inside of cheek and cringed at the way she landed on one of her many recent bruises. Spitting blood to the ground, she scrambled up to her feet and grabbed her sword again. (Having kept track based on the way it sounded when it landed in the dirt.) Pressing the point into the ground between her boots, she used her blade to help her stand again. The monster didn't allow her a chance to make a second attempt at running it through with her blade, though-- it pinned her to the wall with a slithery, tentacle-like arm. The arm split into thousands of little veinlike arms, that began to make roots over Guinevere's heart before spreading over her, over her collarbone, around her shoulders, moving in a crawl to her waist. They stuck her to the underground wall like a grotesque, rust-colored spiderweb.

'Guinevere, Guinevere. Do not fret, child. Sweet, naive child.' The eyes squinted in an expressive gaze that mocked something nurturing and motherly. It was jarring to say the least. Monstrosities underground were not supposed to talk. They weren't supposed to have brains. This made them infinitely more terrifying. Her breath hitched and she struggled to no avail. The thing caressed her cheek. 'You don't understand your purpose yet, do you? Well, I shall make you understand. All I need is a sample of your blood.' The veins poised themselves into needle-like points at her wrists and stabbed inwards. The voice laughed. 'You're going to want to take notes on this, sorceress. Yes, I know you're here. And I know how much you value your research. Don't free your love just yet. Wait... wait and see what happens. Then decide if it's worth it.'

The glowing eyes vanished, as did the creature, and left Guinevere slumped against the wall. The vampiric thing attached to her continued to drink her blood like it was starved for it, networking it into the dirt wall behind her. Her love? Pffft. Sure. Seemed like that voice was in cahoots with the voice from that mind trap before. Or was it the same voice? "It's... a trap, right? Like you said." She tried to keep her focus even as her vision clouded and her ears rang. She was paling rapidly. "Research... you're from Camelot, right? Why are you so interested in the monsters, anyway?" She struggled again to no avail. Well, the thing had no idea what it was talking about. Nothing noteworthy was going to happen! She was nothing more than an average fucking human being, who would die from blood loss if she couldn't escape this trap soon enough. Beneath the restraints, she tried to maneuver one of her hands so that she could take a dagger from her belt. Just a little more... then she'd cut herself free...

Then, something interesting began to happen. Interesting being that fresh, green blades of grass and tiny little buds began to flourish all around Guinevere, framing her like an aura. The flowery aroma was unfamiliar, wonderful, and yet... strangely nostalgic? Touched with only the golden light of Morgan's soul, the sight looked almost heavenly when compared with the gray of the wastelands waiting for them above. "W-what... what the fuck?"
 
"Yes," Morgan rolled her (purely metaphorical) eyes, "I have, indeed, been blessed by the gift of speech. Great of you to notice. Now, if you actually listen to what I say from time to time, we may even get somewhere." ...what? It wasn't exactly fair of her, but the fact that she'd been yanked out of her own body kind of was a mitigating circumstance here. The sorceress felt she deserved the right to sarcasm! "But yes," she sighed, "I think that that's what they're doing. Hooray, right? Your life is about to get that much more interesting." And, no, it didn't seem that much had changed at a glance-- Morgan still delivered her insults with the elegance of a striking cobra, and with a cobra's empathy as well. Except there was a shift, you know? An invisible one, like the movement of the tectonic plates, and no less real for it. See, some part of her brain, the one dedicated to running background analysis on literally everything, had to admit one thing: Guinevere wasn't stupid. Crass, yes, and with the fashion sense of a drunk hamster but not unintelligent. Easily, with the precision of a watchmaker, she was able to distill information from her words-- to fight her way to its very core, through all the terms she could not have understood. That was... um, impressive. Or it would have been, had Morgan associated such descriptors with blonde women living in the wastes! Blonde women that totally weren't her type--

"A match?" the sorceress asked, sounding utterly scandalized. "Well, I'm sorry that my soul isn't shiny enough for your needs. I will try to ask for my warranty claim when I die, solely so that I could serve as your bedside light when I return to haunt you. What intensity would you prefer? A bonfire? An exploding sun?" Still, it wasn't that she didn't understand the need for light, and so the sorceress did try to amp up the output. ('Try,' of course, was a good way to describe it. Don't judge, okay? Morgan had never tried to use her own soul as a flashlight.) "I don't think this is going to work. My essence seems to be..." What? Drained? A small, paltry thing, already giving too much of itself away for it to be truly sustainable? Yeah, not exactly the things you'd want to share with a stranger. "...nevermind. Forget it."

And forget it Guinevere most likely would, because there was no better way to bury those inconvenient questions than under a layer of panic. Just, what was that thing?! Morgan could only stare in horror as it targeted the woman, cut off from her powers, cut off from anything that might help, and, damn, damn, damn. The cold dread settled in her stomach, burning its way past her organs, which... was kind of peculiar? Considering that she didn't care for Guinevere at all! If the warrior dropped dead now, she would shrug at most, and go on her merry way. Not a single tear would be shed. Just... another casualty of the wastes, really. (Was it even practical to remember her name? People living their miserable lives there seemed to have a shelf life shorter than the average banana, Morgan observed. Why, then, was her chest clenching so painfully? As if she had actually lost something other than her precious time!) "What? My love?" the sorceress repeated, entirely bewildered both by the voice and the words it was saying. (Why did every force in the universe seem hellbent on forcing her into someone's bed? A prevalent theme in the tapestry of her fare, unfortunately-- first, it had been Arthur and his oh so benevolent king, and then, well, her. Guinevere. An upgrade to be sure, but... wait, what?! No, no, no! The sorceress hadn't just thought this, and since there weren't any witnesses, she would have a grand time lyin-- uh, reporting on it. Right. That was totally what she'd meant.)

"How not?" Morgan snapped, trying her best to sound unaffected. "You really think I just sipped on my favorite tea all the time, and waited for the sky to fall on my head? Because that's what's going to happen one day, mark my words. The clues point to an obvious conclusion, and that is that the disturbance zones are growing. Soon, nowhere will be safe. Arthur may have been an idiot who refused to see it, but not all of us suffered from the same affliction. I... actually wanted to do something about this. Still do, I suppose." Ah, yes, the epic vows of the heroine. 'I suppose,' the greatest sign of one's conviction! But it was true that Morgan felt sort of stuck in a limbo, not sure whether to turn left or right. (Depressing, wasn't it? That Arthur, the ugly, black stain that had cast such a large shadow over her life, was still controlling if from beyond the underworld. Clap clap for the dedication, Morgan guessed!) "The access to my magic is restricted, but I think I can probably free you if--"

If, if, if. All the words deserted the sorceress, though, when... new life sprang at Guinevere's feet? Plants and leaves and roots, far more beautiful than any jewelry she had ever received. A piece of hope, amidst the monochrome wastes. "Gods," Morgan whispered, all the dots connecting in her brain at once. A game-changer, that was what they had! A true breakthrough-- something she'd been praying for years and years and years, back when every prediction of the future seemed bleaker than the one before it. "That was what that thing meant! It's in your blood, Guinevere. Somehow, it woke the earth up. I... gods, I cannot believe what I'm seeing." And, what was worse, she couldn't explain it, either. Presumably, Guinevere had bled before, right? "It cannot be your blood alone, though. I mean, some other condition needs to be triggered before... before this happens. Otherwise, flowers would be blooming upon every battlefield you've ever visited. You would have noticed, I'm certain." Casually, she floated closer to Guinevere, and focused her thought into a single, concentrated stream. Burn! And, because magic was thoughts? The restrictions indeed were set on fire, freeing Guinevere at once. "Come," Morgan urged her. "We need to explore this system. The creature seemed to know something about what had just transpired, and it is imperative that we find out. My research... damn, this changes everything! I can't believe I've spent so many years on... nevermind. Nevermind, I could just about kiss you right now."

"Tell me, Guinevere. Has there been any incident revolving around your blood? Anything at all that stands out?" Maybe, maybe not, but as they ventured into the darkness, there were other things that stood out. You know, like the knight from their vision, throwing his net at Guinevere! ...a net that sparkled with electricity, sending shock after shock through her limbs, her torso, her everything.

"There you are," the man grinned. "The false queen ought to pay her debts! If you won't come to me, then I will come to you, you silly thing. The king will reward me, oh, he will! With your blood. Give it to me, and fulfill your purpose."

Something was wrong about this situation, though-- something the sorceress couldn't put her thing on, at least until... "Guinevere!" Morgan shouted. "I can't sense him. He's not really present, no matter how it feels. This is a trap of the mind. You have to... disengage. Not be there. Focus on something else, if you, uh, if you can."
 
"Blood's not... blood's not supposed to..." Guinevere stammered incoherently, observing plants fresher, brighter and greener than anything she'd ever seen before push their way free of the dirt around her. (Some of the older women in her gang had memories of playing outdoors as children, making those younger then them infinitely jealous with their stories around the campfire. The earth was completely barren when she was still a baby, rendering her none. And she'd seen some pictures, obviously, but they did little justice to the real thing.) Next to the bulbs of little wildflowers unfurling, even the grass fascinated her and this was plain to see in her big hazel eyes. She had never seen anything this beautiful before. Aside from women. Obviously. (And yeah, she's freaking like a monkey reacting to magic tricks. Mind blown. Geez. She's only acting like a fool because of the blood loss, obviously! Otherwise she would've held onto her cool, tough image with an ironclad grip and-- and-- okay, no. There was no denying anything when confronted with goddamn miracles. The sight of new life growing from the ground moved her in a visceral way, to such an extent that her eyes became sort of misty with it. It was a miracle. It was hope. If this was nothing more than a cruel, magic-tainted vision she wouldn't hesitate to wring that entity's fucking neck.) Flooring as it was, though, there was the remaining pinch of information that all of this had something to do with her blood. Morgan was right that her blood hadn't worked like miracle fertilizer in the past. So why...? And moreover, how? How the fuck was this happening? When she gathered her thoughts, she was able to finally acknowledge that it had something to do with blood, and would remain that way whether she wanted to accept that or not. Though it unnerved her, she was willing to donate if it meant, well... this. "Who's to say it's just my blood? What if this is... is some kind of blood magic? Maybe anyone's blood would work, as long as it's... uh, blood. Because my blood should be just like everyone else's."

Equally surprised and distraught, Guinevere massaged her aching, bloodied wrists when she was freed from her restraints. They were already bruising from the impact. (It accompanied a handful of unpleasant childhood memories and nightmares, which she immediately crushed out of existence with her metaphorical heel without any further examination. It probably wasn't her specifically. It was the magic. It had to be the magic.) After grabbing her fallen sword, she turned around to gaze with awe at the plants that had begun to sprout behind her. Had she and the Camelot lady really just stumbled upon a revelation that could change everything? She probably would have rooted herself there, staring starstruck for hours if Morgan hadn't urged her to follow her deeper into the tunnel. "Wait a sec. I'm... I'm coming." Considering the woman's glowing soul was her only source of light in the darkness, she had little choice but to leave the patch of nature behind. Before doing that, though, she picked one of the tiny wildflowers. Primarily to keep it as proof to herself that this had actually happened. It was so outlandish that she was sure she'd manage to convince herself it was a hallucination otherwise.

"I've never seen something so incredible before in my life." Guinevere, still in shock, registered somewhere deep down everything that Morgan had just confessed to as well. She always thought the people of Camelot indifferent to their struggles. (Would it be so wrong of her to assume that? For all their talk of virtue, not even one soul had attempted to bring even a scrap of food out to them. They'd never dared to extend generosity to anyone outside of their precious gates.) But then again, maybe this wasn't necessarily a desire to save the world for the people struggling in it. It hadn't seem like she was particularly compassionate to their lifestyle when she complained so often about her clothes and appearance. So maybe it was a quest for honor and prosperity, like that delusional Arthur was suggesting. A competitive duel between brother and sister to change the world, in other words. If those visions said anything at all, it was that Morgan le Fey did not get along with her brother. (If the way she freed her and fucking killed him meant anything at all. Which, yeah, it kinda did!) ...She could just about kiss her right now? Wait, did she just miss something just then!? What!?

"...Yeah, well, good luck with that. Your soul-light-thing might be beautiful, but you don't got any lips." Guinevere huffed. Um. As if she meant to imply that maybe she wouldn't mind kissing Morgan had she been there in the flesh. Which-- no! She wasn't going for that at all! Wasn't fucking flirting. Her brain was all messed up and scattered from those revelations, and the weird scenes in that dream world they'd been in before. Obviously! This also reminded her of their heated dispute in the dream world. "And as you've seen, I have a girlfriend! A real girlfriend, with real lips, who enjoys kissing me. To hell with that 'she's not real' shit, pffft."

Guinevere was grateful for the change of subject, but not that grateful when it dawned on her what the new subject was. Anything with her blood... well, maybe. But it was nothing she was particularly inclined to talk about. She'd been a child, her memories blurred and unhelpful. Like a piece of paper with irreparable water damage. Why put in the emotional labor of reliving those scenes when Morgan would undoubtedly sigh over how unhelpful they were, just like everything else? Also? It'd be downright stupid to open up to someone who stabbed her in the back when they first met. "Other than the fact that my enemies love to see me bleed?" She scoffed, gingerly tracing the scar under her eye with her thumb. "...Not really. It can't be me. It must be some kind of magic at work here. I would've noticed otherwise, don't you think?"

Before Guinevere could dig her heels in on this argument, a net was thrown over her. While she slashed her sword in an arc to cut through it before it could make impact, it just... phased right through and took her down to the ground, sending hot bolts of electricity coursing through her veins.

"I don't owe you bastards anything!" Guinevere lashed out, the pain finding a suitable outlet in her anger. Debts, false queen, silly thing, her blood? Every word fanned the flames that swirled with the electricity in her soul. It roared in her ears along with her blood, blurring everything that Morgan's quiet soul voice said. The blood dribbling down from her wrists blotted the soil below and her skin began to take on a glowing sheen of it's own. As did the drops of her blood, as a matter of fact. "I dunno what 'my purpose' is, but I do know it's as far away as I can get from you and your douchebag king! He's dead as a fucking doornail, by the way!"

"What are you talking about? He's right here, Guinevere. You silly creature." The knight smirked. Creature? What the fuck was he on about!? He gestured his arm to the right and when he did? An entire forest formed itself around them. Flourishing to the point where birds sang and the branches wore so many leaves that they rustled on a midday breeze. The net which captured Guinevere was now hanging from a sturdy tree branch... and she chewed at the net furiously with her sharp fangs in a desperate attempt to free herself. (Fangs?) Her features, too, were sharp and not quite human. Beautiful, striking, and yet ominous in equal measure. She was still Guinevere... but not quite Guinevere, either. Not the gang leader from the wastes who existed in present day, that was. And sure enough, Arthur was standing with the knight in the grass below they trap they'd set for her.

"Ah, there! The trap worked splendidly. I told you I did not imagine her! The angelic maiden in the woods." Arthur was not quite Arthur, either. But he was certainly a version of him. (Looked real fucking proud of himself, didn't he? Did he always need to trap his 'bride' like she was an animal to be hunted for sport? Apparently so.) Guinevere hissed like a demon when he called her angelic. "Well, admittedly... she will require a little refinement to make a proper bride and queen."

"A little?" The knight asked skeptically. "...What is that in her hair? A nest? And look at how she glares at you."

"All qualities that can be amended, my friend. Is her beauty not legendary? It is certainly worth the challenge. And is this not how the most remarkable love stories begin? Much like a mare, all women can be tamed with a firm enough hand." He wore a knowing grin that sent a shiver down her spine. He meant 'broken', right? The young (asshole) king waved his hand dismissively and then stroked his chin. "She will learn quickly with proper guidance. I have already considered enlisting lady Morgan's help for the task. She reads far too much for a woman... it is unnatural. I believe it would be wise to occupy her attention with a project of this nature. Perhaps it will do her some good to refresh her memory of the way a proper lady must behave in my court."

"Ah. You are most generous for thinking of her that way. Very well, your highness."

Guinevere struggled violently as they lowered the net from the tree and loaded her onto the back of their horse-drawn cart. A whip cracked and the hooves began to strike the ground, wheeling her away from the forest. With teary eyes, she noticed the beautiful gold light flickering nearby. "Spirit..." She whispered, outstretching her hand to it and betraying a flicker of fear now that the horrible men were no longer looking upon her. "Will you help me? I mustn't leave the forest this way. It is my home."
 
It's not real. It isn't, it isn't, it isn't.

And, indeed, Morgan knew that she was right. You see, reality didn't generally stretch like bubblegum-- it didn't wrap its countless limbs around you, and it didn't tear you away from what you were experiencing. More than a hammer, it worked like a river! With all the transitions seamless, smooth, earned. Natural, in other words. She's dragging me down with her, the sorceress realized. There's a connection between us, and she's tugging on it. Poisoning the very well I drink from. They were both wearing the same oxygen mask, except that Guinevere had put hers on backwards! Causing the string to break, of course, because it hadn't been calibrated with that in mind. Ugh, awesome. Fantastic, even! Did you perhaps think that Morgan did not wish to end up in another nonsensical vision? Why, finding new ways to fail rudimentary magical tests was quickly becoming the sorceress's most beloved hobby! What's next? Me forgetting how to read, and setting out on the grand ABC adventure? Finally realizing that resistance was futile, Morgan let go, allowing the tides to take her wherever they would. (Guinevere would pay for that incompetence, she decided. And, no, it didn't matter that she had called her soul beautiful! It wasn't even a factor in her perception of the other woman, and... uh, Morgan hadn't enjoyed hearing that. In fact, she hated it. Considering how terrible her fashion style was, it probably meant that it resembled a shiny disco ball! Which was bad, for reasons. Everything that spilled from Guinevere's lips was bad, solely because it was Guinevere saying it. Normally, Morgan would have reprimanded herself for the use of circular logic, but this was justified! See, whenever she spoke like that, the warrior... made her feel strange. Not herself. Some other, inferior version of Morgan, whose brain had metamorphosed into cotton candy. And that was a disadvantage, okay? Therefore, building all those walls around herself and booby trapping them was the only acceptable course of action here.)

Still, when the forest sprang into existence? Morgan couldn't help but sigh in admiration, wanting to lose herself in the shades of green. Green that was life-- a stark contrast with the grey, monotone ashes, indicative of death and decay. The harbingers of the end that was coming for them all, really. (Yes, the sorceress had seen the Camelot gardens, and no, they hadn't been the same. Not even remotely. They'd been dying as well, you know? Slowly, like a patient whose nervous system was failing, but dying nonetheless. The simpletons had looked at them, and seen hope-- something to fight for, to risk their souls for. Morgan, though? What her eyes had seen was an ancient relic, hooked on life support. Something about as sustainable as Arthur's need for constant praise. Just like him, the gardens had required more and more and more, only to give them less! Diminishing returns, she'd said. In a few years, we won't be able to feed all the castle dwellers anymore. For that, he'd had her beaten. The truth was a bitter medicine, eh?)

And maybe, just maybe, her own thoughts shaped the imaginary world as well, because the bastard was somehow there. Ugh. How many times would they have to kill him, both him and his various mirages, before he had the decency to get lost? Most people got the memo the first time around, but no, not her beloved brother! (Practically against her will, Morgan was reminded of the vampire legends. What did she have to do, pierce his heart with a stake? Roast him with some garlic, and feed him to the wolves? Not that she'd ever wish Arthur on the majestic creatures, but, you know. For the greater good and everything.)

Meanwhile, Arthur continued being Arthur, which apparently revolved around him kidnapping unwilling women. Marvelous. Was he consciously trying to become the greatest stain on the face of the planet, or was he just that naturally good at it? Wait. Is that... Guinevere? It was and it wasn't, in the same way that a portrait with your likeness did and didn't capture your essence. The idea was the same, even if not necessarily a 1:1 equivalence. (Anger was boiling in her stomach, hot like the hellfire itself. Just, how dared he?! How dared he speak of her as if she was an animal? This particular flavor of anger tasted familiar, too, and if she had to withstand its foul aroma for another second, Morgan knew that she would explode.)

It's not real, she told herself again. What did it matter, though? Arhur's smugness very much was, as well as Guinevere's fright, and she... she was meant to protect her, the sorceress realized. (Ah, that was what tasted so bitter about it! Failure, wrapped in the sweetest of intentions. Stumbling over the same obstacle, again and again and again, and falling to her death. How did Morgan know? She didn't! And yet she did, with the same certainty with which she knew the color of her own eyes.)

"I cannot," she shimmered in the sunlight, casting sparks all ovet the nearby pond. "Because I'm not here. You aren't here, either. Metaphysically, this is a..." What, exactly? A simulation? A horrendous what-if scenario, summoned from the depths of her mind? Something else entirely? Eh, whatever! No point in feeding her more terminology that she wouldn't understand, Morgan realized. "...a dream, I suppose. Your dream, Guinevere, and your fear is a tether." And while the sorceress couldn't fry their brains the way she would be able to in reality, she... might succeed in holding her hand through it. In guiding her where she needed to be. Hmm, hmm. What was fear's greatest enemy, again? How to allow her to focus on literally anything but the panic gripping her heart? Because that was the chain, the leash holding her in place--

"You alone can get us out of here. The world that you can see? It responds to your whims, because it lives in your mind. I might influence it some, though. For example..." Morgan focused, really focused, and, bam! Arthur, clad in his glorious armor and everything, slipped on a banana peel. Heh. The sorceress had always thought his attire a little ridiculous, but it did make a nice, satisfying sound now. Almost like knocking over an empty can! (A great metaphor for Arthur in general, by the way.)

"Your majesty!" one of the bootlickers shouted. "Oh no, oh no. What happened? What vile villain prepared this trap for you?"

Arthur gave him a stare that could only ever be described as suspicious. "Are you making fun out of me?"

"I wouldn't dare," the henchman promised. "I just... it hurt me to see you fall like that, my king." It won't hurt you as much as what I'm going to do, though.

Because, when the man offered Arthur his hand? Morgan once again gathered all of her thoughts... and the poor guy's arm detached at his shoulder, making the king fall on his royal ass once again. And, as for what followed? To say that it was mass hysteria would be an understatement. Quite an understatement. The afflicted man screamed bloody murder, before choosing strategic retreat. The other knights all took a step back, suddenly so synchronized that even ants in an anthill would grow green with envy.

"Aaah! Gods, protect us!"

"Did... did you see that?"

"We are cursed! This whole quest is cursed, is what I'm saying!"

Needless to say, all the color drained from Arthur's face as well. "What are you doing? Don't just stare at me, help me back at my feet! We are in mortal peril here."

"See?" Morgan smirked. "Try your hand at it, Guinevere. Show him that he should be afraid here, not you."
 
"Meta..." Guinevere began to repeat, her brow furrowing with confusion. Metaphysically? Fortunately for her, the spirit (?) gauged that she might not understand the meaning of this term (she didn't) and specified that she was talking about a dream. A world of her whims. Had that been the case, though, wouldn't it have created a comforting space for her? Perhaps a nice moss-covered stump, speckled with shade and rays of warm, warm afternoon sunlight in equal measure. (That imagery brought with it a sensation of dissonance. The forest was her home... and yet she also got the distinct sense that she had never experienced a forest that way either. Was it familiar or wasn't it? Two separate identities, two separate lifetimes warred within her mind for dominance.) While she was greatly confused, she bared her fangs. "...What are you talking about? I fear nothing." The two identities agreed on this as she lifted her chin with pride. They were also both lying and probably should have sensed that the spirit would pick up on that kind of bullshit. But wouldn't anyone be scared, to be trapped like an animal and carted into an unfamiliar kingdom... all with the express purpose of becoming that vile man's bride? The word 'no' did not exist to a king. He had chosen her and so she would be his. She shuddered as memories she had not yet experienced rolled through her mind in fragments. Pieces of nightmares she had, pieces that forewarned the man's arrival in her camp. (In her camp? Well, yes. Her camp. It existed above the ground... wait.) These doubts, these terrifying memories, they flashed through her mind and her chin lowered. "There is no going back, is there? He is going to ruin me. No. He already has."

Guinevere held her scarless arms. There were no scars that she could see and yet she felt them beneath her skin. None of it made sense. Still, she looked to the spirit for much-needed guidance when she claimed to have an example for her. The world was within her mind, was it not? A dream might pull from existing memories, but that did not make them real. She could understand at least that much. Focusing her thoughts in such a place, however, was no simple task. Focus on the spirit, she decided. The spirit would help her align her thoughts where they ought to be.

Blinking through tears at the sound of the commotion, Guinevere clambered up as best as she could in the tangles of net around her to see what was going on around the cart. Arthur had slipped on... a bright yellow banana peel? She blinked again and started to rub the tears from her eyes with wonder. Clang. The noise was abrupt. Kind of... comical, really. A tiny smile played at her lips. He deserved to be made into the fool he was, for trapping her this way. For speaking at her rather than with her about what she felt of these crude arrangements of her fate.

"You did that? Truly?" Guinevere asked, her voice sounding softer than it ever had. It was tinged with fondness and mischievous charm. Her impressed little smile turned into chiming laughter when the knight's arm fell off and the 'strong' and 'noble' men proceeded to panic and flounder about like chickens with their heads cut off. "You are like a goddess of vengeance. It is what they deserve." She matched Morgan's smirk with a wicked smirk of her own. (Morgan. Morgan. That was her name, wasn't it?) She directed her attention to the panicking men. "Your so-called 'gods' will not save you now."

Every version of Guinevere present wished to contribute to this game of making fools of grown men. Unified, it offered her strength. A wind picked up her blonde curls, which began to glow with a brilliant, silvery hue.

Guinevere closed her eyes and upon her will, she vanished altogether. Or rather, she did not vanish but become the wind itself. Slipping free of the nets with ease, like air, she swirled playfully into the air and unsheathed Arthur's sword from his belt like a ghost. It seemed to levitate as she held it menacingly above his collapsed form. "W-wait. I'll take her back to the forest. Please-- please spare me!" He was scrambling to rise on his own now that his knights had all but abandoned him. Mercilessly, she willed his armor to be heavier to keep him on the ground where he belonged. Then, gracefully, she materialized again... sinking slowly from the air as a woman, her bare feet landing gracefully upon his chest. She brought the sword down in a flash and cut off the king's head in one swift strike.

All at once, the bright and green world around them flickered away to reveal the dark tunnel. Guinevere stood there with her own sword in her hands, lodged in the dirt instead of Arthur's throat. A fierce wind was beginning to die down around them. (A draft? Did that mean they were near the surface...? Unless that wind was actually...) The electrifying net was gone, as was the knight. Lifting her sword, she examined it for blood. Not a drop had touched it. It had been so real and yet it was evident it must have all been in her mind. It had to be.

"That... that forest. It was all so real. And kind of... familiar? But I've never seen a living tree before in my whole fucking life-- I--" Guinevere tamped down on her panic. She was supposed to fear nothing, right? "I need to get out of this tunnel. I'm obviously hallucinating down here. Lack of air to the brain or... or somethin' like that. Right?" She turned to Morgan. Morgan, who was still a little beam of light. Because that made perfect sense, just like everything else! "Fuck. I'm probably just talking to myself down here."
 
Dreams, thoughts, memories. The line between them could be blurry, Morgan knew-- not one set in stone, but drawn in sand, changeable with each gust of wind. And, really, who could tell which was which? The bridge between magic and the real world was barely holding together, and just walking it devoured all of her energy. Don’t look down, the sorceress reminded herself. Don’t look down, or you’re going to fall. (Arthur, the Excalibur, and Guinevere herself, all parts of the same equation. Where did she fit in? Did she, even? Pride had convinced her that she was the main character here, one that was meant to take the throne, but that, too, could have been an illusion. The same affliction of mind her brother dearest had suffered from, come to think of it. Maybe she’d inherited more than just the family name? A similar kind of madness, crawling so deep in the subconsciousness that she couldn’t ever hope to see it. It was feasting on her, injecting mercury into her veins, and-- No, stop. This isn’t productive, either. You’ve chosen your path, so now you need to walk it. Succumbing to despair was for the heroines of romantic novels, who actually could afford to spend the day buried in self-doubt. When it came to magic, though? You had to grasp the reins, firmly enough for your hands to bleed-- because, see, when you didn’t, it found other ways to hurt you. Less controlled ones, too. Blood for blood, life for life. Told you all that you needed to know, eh? If you had the ears to listen and heard, really heard, what all of that meant.)

When Morgan le Fey finally opened her eyes, she found herself transported back to the dark cave, the taste of fresh air still on her lips. (She did and didn’t miss it. Not even Camelot had ever been like that, you know? In comparison to that forest, it had been like… like the radiance of the stars versus a pitiful, dying torch. Two completely different experiences, with only the faintest of similarities between them. The sorceress wanted to return there, back to that green paradise of old, but really, how much of it had ever been real? The thread from which magic spun its stories was usually made of desire, not something real. Visions often said more about yourself than they did about the subject they were portraying. How foolish would it be, then, to yearn for a lie? A beautiful lie, but a lie nonetheless? Unless it isn’t a lie, she thought, not willing to close that door forever. Unless it somehow connects to that bigger piece of puzzle, with the sword and Guinevere’s blood. That it could have been anyone’s blood? Oh, the sorceress believed in that about as much as she thought that, left to his own devices, her brother would have built the next library of Alexandria!)

“You’re welcome,” Morgan began, her voice as cold as ice. (In direct contrast to Guinevere, everything about her way of speaking was tightly controlled-- a leashed wolf, going mad with the scent of blood, but still somehow clinging to self-restraint. In a way, it was scarier than if she actually shouted.) “Because, in case you noticed, I saved you in that realm. What happened there was no hallucination, nor are you hallucinating now. You are right, however, in that we need to get out of here. Not before we find out more about what is happening and retrieve my body, though. You do realize that we still need to do that, right? Since I am not too thrilled about spending the rest of my existence as your flashlight. Especially since I’m apparently so unsatisfactory as far as sources of light go! Sorry to say, but my ambitions aim much higher than that. Should you wish for a convenient servant of your own, you will have to look elsewhere.” Now don’t get her wrong, it wasn’t that the sorceress didn’t understand why Guinevere was losing her mind. Almost anyone would be, in that scenario-- the clues were scattered, and, what was even worse, pointing in all those contradictory, fantastical directions. Strange whisperings, magical swords, and the glimpses of a reality that had never been? No wonder that she was reeling! Still, acknowledging just how out of ordinary all of this was would only undermine her ability to stay calm. (She needed to be her anchor, Moran realized. Where had that realization come from? The sorceress didn’t know, and she wasn’t too keen to investigate its origins. What she did know, though, was that she couldn’t abandon the confines of their dynamic now. By giving her someone safe to be mad at, she could… hmm, preserve the equilibrium. Stop her from crumbling. Something told her that Guinevere was water, you see, and becoming harsh with her would only make her harden into ice. Cruel, but effective.)

“Just walk,” she sighed. “You haven’t forgotten how to do that yet, I presume? Walk, breathe, and everything will be fine. When you do collect your thoughts, I’d be thrilled to hear more about your blood, too. What, you think I haven’t noticed you’re lying? Or, if you aren’t straight up lying, you haven’t told me everything. Like it or not, there’s something special about you. As stupid as Arthur was, I’m beginning to think now that there had to be a reason why he insisted on marrying you and you specifically, despite the match bringing him no political advantage. Am I right, or did he suddenly develop a savior syndrome?”

They moved forward, with Morgan following… well, her instincts, mostly. A soul always sort of sensed where its body was, you see? In the same way that you could sense your own limbs, even if you weren’t necessarily using them. (Everything, everything was connected, if you were wise enough to listen. There was no sound without, action, no action without sound, and when you could differentiate between the cause and the consequence? That was where your answer lay, buried among falsehood.)

Indeed, following that trail did bring some fruit. They walked ever deeper, and with each step, the narrow tunnel was widening-- like the maw of an animal planning to swallow them whole, oh so eager. Such a comforting mental image, the sorceress thought. Thank you, brain, for providing it. I shall be forever grateful.

It wasn’t quite as comforting as what they saw once they reached what had to be the burrow, though. So, the good news? The good news was that Morgan’s body was there. The bad news was that thousands of tiny monstrosities, exact copies of the big one from earlier, were gathered around it! And the bloodlust was palpable. “Had it… snatched me to feed their young?” the sorceress asked, not even bothering to hide her shock. “I didn’t even know they could reproduce in natural ways. If they are evolving in that direction, then… gods, the implications are terrifying.” …yes, she might have been focusing on the wrong thing here.
 
"Uh huh. Can't imagine how much it must fucking suck to save someone without receivin' any proper credit for it. Oh, wait..." Guinevere scoffed. "I would know a thing or two about that, wouldn't I?" Saved her from that fire and what thanks did she get? A knife in the back! Not to mention the fact that she took her to camp instead of leaving her there in the ruins of Bobby's camp. And did she get any thanks for that? Nope. Given shelter and protection through her beauty sleep in camp, too-- if there were any thanks she hadn't been present to hear them. The lady was kinda useful when it came to navigating all this confusing magic shit, sure, but that didn't mean she had to act so presumptuous over every little thing! Always whining about how she was there to 'shine shoes' or act like her 'servant' when she was free to go her own way whenever she damn well pleased. Not only was Morgan from Camelot-- she unquestionably had status in Camelot as the king's sister. She was probably used to being tended to by maids and the like. And now, after enduring a few days in the wastelands, she's already complaining about having to pull a little weight-- so much so that she implies that she's been carrying her on her royal back this whole time! Apparently it doesn't occur to this lady that Guinevere survived as long as she had in the wastelands without relying the uppity, prim and proper sorceress around. (Probably only exists to her only now that she's been perceived, like a character in some story appearing from thin air.) The annoyance properly grounded her as she marched forward, seething and examining her sword. (Cut that bastard's head off with it. It'd been satisfying, sure, and so real... It'd felt so real. Like she was living in someone else's body all while understanding every single thought.) She's seen a lot of weird shit lately. Weirder than usual. Having her rightfully freaked reaction completely undermined and scoffed at made her feel the fool.

That's probably why Guinevere stayed silent as Morgan proceeded to accuse her of lying about her blood.

"Well, 'scuse me if I don't wanna share fun facts about my blood with the lady who stabbed me in the back." Guinevere huffed, rubbing her wrists. Speaking of weird shit. Her blood. What the fuck was all of that about? It tied itself in with all of those nightmares she'd been having lately, it did make some degree of sense with king douchebag's logic for taking her of all people away from the wastelands. Like, he marched in without knowing her face. He came with a name and that was all. (A name that seemed to carry over to all of these 'alternative' versions of her. And those 'alternatives' was already a whole can of worms.) "Never got it tested to see what type it was as a kid. Could be type E for all I know." Guinevere only knows that they're organized by letters, all right? She doesn't know that 'type E' isn't a thing. "Never grew flowers with it before either, so there's not much to say about it. Figure you must know your own shitty brother better than me, so you'd have to tell me what his motives were."

Guinevere immediately frowned when they found Morgan's body near the entrance. The sight was viscerally horrifying for various reasons. One was the implications, of course, as the woman so eloquently put into words herself. The bastards are procreating and spawning faster than ever now. But then there's also the fact that some other creature must've got to Morgan's body at all when she had very clearly left her gang with instructions to watch over her. While they had no emotional attachment whatsoever to the woman from Camelot, they wouldn't have just handed an defenseless woman over to the beasts without a second thought. Must've put up a fight to have hauled her off this far without being followed. The palpable fear that she might have lost more of her gang while she was underground pulsed through her and she tore forward without a second thought, slashing herself a path through the tiny bastards and making her way straight for Morgan's body. Fortunately they're weak as shit like this, puny and underdeveloped. She throws her over her shoulder, kicking at the things, squashing them with her heel and slashing through them as she makes way to dive out of this cavernous mouth they've made into their burrow.

"...A whole fucking nest. It's just one thing after another." Guinevere pants heavily as she lays Morgan's body on the ground a safe enough distance away. "We need to head back to camp for supplies. If we set it on fire, it should kill enough of those bastards in one fell swoop. Buy us some time to move camp. It's about time we left this spot behind, anyway." She has to sit for a second. Just a second, maybe, while she waited for the lady's soul to slip back inside her body. (The mother's got to be nearby too, if the one that nabbed Betty wasn't it. Considering that something had moved Morgan from camp while they'd been away, she guesses that it's even uglier.) "Unless you were gonna suggest some kind of spell to take care of this?" She raised her eyebrows, articulating that she was going to wait to hear her out this time around. Honestly, this question was a precaution more than anything else. Not that she felt they could rely on magic to solve all of their problems or anything... but the lady's magical stunt before was needlessly flashy and reckless. Moving onto the next reasonable thing without consulting her 'superior' opinion out here was just liable to cause more problems with her.
 
Blood. Blood, in which all the secrets dwelled. Relationships, hereditary diseases, and, apparently, fate now as well-- everything could be read from blood, if you had the wisdom to understand its script. Morgan had known from the very beginning, but gods, to think that it was true to this extent! That maybe, just maybe, the answer to the questions she'd been asking herself was hidden in Guinevere's blood, of all places. That Arthur had known something she didn't. (From his dead lips, no more clues would spill. Just, ugh! Even in death, her little brother had found a way to turn himself into a giant nuisance. Had he consciously tried, or had he been that naturally good at getting in her way? ...oil and water, that was what they'd been. And, fortunately, those two substances didn't mix.) "You seem like more of a 0 to me," the sorceress frowned. "Whether you're a plus or a minus, that remains to be seen." It wasn't that she expected Guinevere to have encyclopedic knowledge about the human body, but being ignorant and still running your mouth about the topic were two different things. Quite different things, too. In that attitude, she could hear the echoes of the Camelot rumors-- the lords and ladies talking, talking and talking, without ever saying anything for real. Still, at least I got her to snap out of it? In that sense, Morgan supposed, she'd earned her victory. (That it tasted like ashes in her mouth, dry and unfulfilling, was another matter entirely.) "Fine, fine," she rolled her eyes, annoyed that Guinevere dared to point that out. "You did save me. What would you have me do, give you my satin handkerchief? I do apologize for not being a proper lady from the songs, but most of my wardrobe burned down in Camelot. Once I get my lips back, I can only offer a kiss." ...what? What the?! Morgan seriously regretted that all the technology from their long lost past had been rendered useless, because she would have loved to get a brain scan or two. Why was it that her thoughts always turned to kisses when Guinevere was involved? They just seemed to flow into that direction, much like all the rivers inevitably converged into a sea, and no, she didn't like it. Not at all. It, um, must have pointed to some illness of the mind? A parasite egg, laid by that awful, awful voice. Of her own accord, she never would have fantasized about those big, strong arms holding her, or those lips on her skin, or-- ah, damn.

Thankfully, there were way more pressing matters for her to pay attention to. You know, like the apocalypse unfurling before her very own eyes? Not wanting her own strange thoughts to catch up with her, Morgan focused on reclaiming her body. (It was kind of like sneezing, in that it was and wasn't pleasant. Releasing the tension did feel right, but the process of getting there? Not great. Not great at all. She was being stretched, in all the directions of the compass, and the pressure, gods, the pressure! Akin to trying to fit two hands into a single glove, and failing miserably. 'Morgan. Morgan, don't you want to join us instead?' ...and, for the briefest second, she did consider it. Wouldn't it be nice, after all? To leave her body to rot, and embrace the infinity that lay beyond the mortals' grasp? To reach for the stars? Except that, no, spirits weren't doing that-- they were but imprints in the mud, fossilized by time. Screams captured in a bottle, really. Understanding that on an intimate level, Morgan forced herself to push through! ...only to regret it a heartbeat later. Typical.)

"Remind me to never do this again," the sorceress moaned as she held her head in her hands, each inhale a cacophony of pain. Ugh! Was it going to explode? (At this point, she would have considered it to be a mercy. The earth under her feet had turned to sea, and the waves were coming, coming, coming-- one after another, like a bad habit you couldn't shake off.) "Gods, I feel like I've swallowed a colony of bats. They're having a party in my stomach as we speak, too." The words that Guinevere uttered? They were coming to her with a great delay, as if they'd crossed a whole galaxy just to deliver the message, and Morgan couldn't help but laugh. That was it? The grand plan?

"Fire? Do you have a smeltery in your precious camp? I'm... sorry to say that, Guinevere, but I don't think you can produce a high enough heat to actually melt them. At best, you'll slow them down. At worst, you will wreck this place, alongside with any evidence that might be hiding here, fail to destroy them, and cause the fire to spread uncontrollably. Congratulations, we're a step closer to the actual apocalypse!" Destruction, Morgan knew, had to be wielded-- a sword, as opposed to an explosion. How to apply the axiom to this situation, though? Hmm, hmm.

"Your blood," she finally said, grasping for the one spark of inspiration in the darkness. "It's connected to life, and so it must be connected to death as well. These things are a circle. If I'm correct, it may be a catalyst of sorts? Lend it to me, Guinevere, and I'll see what I can do."
 
"Oh, trust me. Last thing any of us wants or needs out here is a 'proper lady'. Those dogs at Bobby's camp might've been an exception but you ought to throw that idea in the garbage where it belongs." Guinevere rolled her eyes and provided air quotes for 'proper lady' with her fingers. (Didn't she know firsthand, what life was like for somebody who tried to get by on their looks? A melancholic pain cut through her side and she ignored it.) Also promptly crushed any small inkling of embarrassment she was feeling beneath her boot. Wasn't her fault she grew up in a world without schools, now was it? She was dumb and she knew it-- but it didn't fucking matter out here! There had to be something useful going on in that brain of hers to have survived out here for as long as she has! "The real zeroes are people who think they can traipse through the wastelands without learning nothing about physical combat. Sure your magic's fancy and shit, but what happens when it breaks your body down? One day you'll push too far and there'll be no going back. If not that? Then it'll happen little by little. You'll get worse and worse... and in the winter, when resources are low, you won't be able to bounce back. I've seen it happen, you know. Don't wish it on anyone. Not even yo--" She might have continued down that path, because she had her own set of valid points to make about their circumstances-- but then kissing was brought into the equation again. Her cheeks bloomed pink against her will and she kicked at the dirt, turning slightly away. Why was it that the subject of kissing was always brought up when they were together, anyway? Morgan herself had to have brought it up herself at least twice by now. "Kisses from pretty ladies are nice, sure, but in case you've already forgotten-- I have a girlfriend!" 'Kisses from pretty ladies'... what the fuck was she going on about, now!? Obviously, she was tripping. There was no other explanation for any of this.

"Hey, lady..." Concern flashed briefly in Guinevere's eyes, replacing whatever the fuck she'd been feeling before, when Morgan groaned and held her head in her hands. (Magic backfired. Always did. Always, always, always.) She was going to make a move to check on her when the other woman laughed. It struck her like a slap to the face and she halted in her approach. Instead, she stubbornly moved backwards and crossed her arms over her chest.

"...We're all some kind of joke to you, aren't we? It's gotta be so funny that we swing swords at beasts 'cause we don't have the means to rely on some sophisticated, overcomplicated magic system." Guinevere said flatly, even while she steamed. She gripped the hilt of her sword tight enough to irritate the blisters through her gloves, resisting the temptation to throw it. Throwing things helped when it got this bad. It was also unspeakably stupid when it involved the weapon she relied on for survival. "But we got by like that before you showed up with all your wastelands 'expertise'. Fuck. Acting like we don't know how to melt a couple of those suckers when we've been fighting 'em all our lives... we don't need evidence, either. Do you think any of us has fucking time to study these bastards when we're trying to stay fed and warm? We need to destroy those fuckers before they destroy us. You saw what they did to Betty."

Tiredness crept into Guinevere's expression when she thought about it. Another friend lost. ('You could've stopped it.' A nagging voice loved to taunt her. But she'd been recovering in Em's tent. There was nothing she could have done.) Later. Mourn later. Move forward, forward, forward.

"I see you, you know. You've got a death wish, haven't you?" 'You would know, wouldn't you Gwen?' Guinevere tightened her ponytail and turned to face the direction of camp. She brushed at some dirt that'd been smeared on her cheek underground. "Won't even begin to guess why. You use more magic today and you're gonna end up in Em's tent again." Strangely enough, she was repeating words that her friends had spoken to her in the past. Consumed by grief, taking on more battles than she could handle because her ambitions were bigger than she was as a delicate human being. "...She'll have to use more of our resources on you. If I give more blood, I'll get tired too. It's not sustainable. We're moving camp after this fight. No one's going to want to carry our asses along with everything else." And fine, she also didn't want to experiment with her blood. At least not now, while the stakes were this high. It sounded like a gamble and a colossal waste of their time. And if there was any fear associated with it, she buried it so deep inside of her that it was no longer an issue. She'd keep it boxed up along with everything else she was better off forgetting.

The ground rumbled like thunder and there was a familiar crackling of joints sounding off in the distance. Guinevere steeled the dread that began to rise in her to resolve as she whipped around in the direction it had come from. Appearing from another gaping hole in the ground was the mother. Crawling on unsettlingly long legs and towering so high that she could've sworn the head touched the clouds. The shadow blocked out the sun, casting shade over Guinevere and Morgan. It was practically godlike in scale, unlike anything she'd ever seen before. Shit. No, shit was a fucking understatement.

"Motherfucker. The fucking mother. Fuck." Guinevere readied her blade, deciding to depend on muscle memory when the rest of her emotions squirmed with something akin to fear. No more time for debate. Despite her heart pounding, warning against it, she brazenly charged the bastard to keep it's attention fixed on her. Naturally, she felt death nipping at her heels with every step she took. "I'll keep it busy! No more arguments-- go-- go warn the others. Get backup. Now!"

Guinevere charged the one place that would assuredly keep her haphazard plan from going awry. The mouth of the tunnel they had just left, where the babies were. (While she didn't suspect these things of feeling affection for one another, she supposed the mother would care what happened to the bloodthirsty little heathens.) And sure, it was unspeakably dangerous... but this way, Morgan could make it to the others. At the very least, she'd be able to alert the them without drawing the colossal beast right into camp. It'd be a bloodbath if they were taken off guard by something like this. It'd undoubtedly be able to take out all of the tents with one swoop of one of those giant arms. Which it definitely did to Guinevere, as it knocked her down and snared around her waist, lifting her high into the air. Seeing the creature's soft center from above, she could make out the shapes of several human faces stretched in screams-- and their hands pressing against the flesh as if to try and escape it.
 
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‘What happens when it breaks your body down?’ The question might as well have been the spark to Morgan’s gasoline, because the sorceress looked at her with so much fire that hell itself would have cowered in shame. “Oh, goodness gracious!” she put a hand over her heart, sarcasm dripping from each word like acid. “You mean to say that magic has drawbacks? In all my years of studying this very topic, I have never once come across this arcane piece of information. Truly, it must be the most well-guarded secret in the entire world! Not like the peasants have been whispering about it from the dawn of time, or anything silly like that. Thank you, lady Guinevere,” the sorceress added a small curtsy, “for opening my eyes like! Before you came into my life, I was as blind as a newly born puppy. Will you please, please, teach me how to tie my own shoelaces next? I am dying to drink from the wealth of your knowledge.” And, yes, perhaps Morgan had gone a bit overboard, but it was the implications that got under her skin. Just, why was she even pointing this out? Did Guinevere think that she hadn’t weighed every option a thousand times over, before finally signing the contract? Before sealing the deal with her own blood? Oh, right. In her narrative, she was just a vapid lady-- a pretty little accessory, wearing all those impractical dresses and lounging in her ivory tower. What problems could she be possibly facing? Running out of her favorite brand of coffee? (It shouldn’t have been this disappointing, Morgan knew. A survivor from the wastes doubtlessly saw Camelot as an oasis, not the prison it had been. When you struggled each day just to keep yourself fed, you didn’t grasp all the nuances-- such as that those walls had been built to keep people inside, as much as they’d guarded them. Still, despite realizing all of that? The disappointment cut deep, like winter crawling into your bones no matter how many layers you wore.)

…kisses from pretty ladies. Somehow, that phrase bypassed all of her defenses, and Morgan flushed. (Her? Was she the pretty lady? The sorceress had owned a few mirrors, so she did, in fact, know that she was pretty. Several people had laid that compliment at her feet as well, and the praise had never warmed her heart. It was a safe thing, you know? A sterile cliché, offered to women because they were allowed to rule over that domain. ‘You look lovely today, lady Morgan,’ wasn't a caress. Instead, it was a slap-- an appraisal of her worth, with an unspoken 'keep it that way' at the end. A threat wrapped in kindness. So why, then, was her heart beating so wildly in her chest? Why did the implication release a swarm of butterflies in her belly?) “A-ah,” she stammered out, suddenly unable to withstand the intensity of her stare. (It was smoldering, like a volcano. The embodiment of doom, but also somehow so alluring that Morgan felt tempted to fling herself into it. Probably, um, some kind of illness? Indeed, that had to be it!)

Thankfully, though? The topic switched to something safer, and Morgan regained the solid ground under her feet. "You are not a joke to me. What, do I need to worship your methods to make you think I'm not mocking you? Go dig up Arthur from his grave, then, and shake his hand. It's the same. But, sure, do turn this into some personal feud! I'm just saying this to be high and mighty, and not, you know, to help. If you do like swinging at targets blindly, then be my guest. Swallow the poison all you like. Gorge yourself on it." Then, for some reason, she got accused of having a death wish. A death wish, of all things. Morgan flinched, and for a fraction of second, there was a surprise in her green eyes-- a quick, panicked 'you caught me,' like a doe that had gotten stuck in a snare. (That wasn't what she was, though. The moment came and went.) "...thank you for the analysis," the sorceress said dryly. "Meeting someone who understands me more than I myself do has been a gift that keeps on giving. Can you perhaps read my future as well, lady Guinevere? Since you can apparently read my mind. Going one step further, I imagine, will be no problem for you at all."

The conversation wasn't something that Morgan would call 'pleasant,' but she sure preferred it to what followed next. "Damn," the sorceress uttered under her breath, shuddering with terror. (The repetition compulsion, she knew. The mother protecting her young, even if the biological links had been all but severed. All utterly fascinating, by the way, if you overlooked their personal role in it! Which was rather difficult, because Morgan le Fey did not plan to become a mechanic beast's food.) Run? She wants me to run? Ha! Maybe in some alternative reality where she hadn't just dragged her soul back into her body, burning down as many calories as if she'd run a marathon. Morgan's legs were jelly, jelly and cotton candy, but... well, her mind wasn't. Her mind was steel.

"Shut up!" the sorceress recommended to Guinevere, burying her own fears. (Her eyes began to shine from within, with this strange, fluorescent light. The stardust, born at the same time as this galaxy. She looked around, and saw, really saw-- the traces left behind by the dead, the wires deep within the monster's belly, the thread connecting the inorganic matter with the organic parts. Life itself, as some would call it.) "And you accuse me of having a death wish? Oh, do me a favor and just... stop. I won't let you be the noble sacrifice. Forget about it, you hear me?!" (Because losing her would be like chopping her own hand off, and feeding it to the hounds. Why? How? Morgan didn't know, but in that moment, she didn't have the energy to argue with it.)

So, the main thread? It was armored in something that resembled titanium, but Morgan still yanked at it. In response, the monster shrieked-- shrieked and bumped its giant head against the ceiling. Stars must have been dancing before its eyes, doubtlessly, and the sorceress only gripped it tighter. (The fresh wave of blood gushing down her mouth? Oh, nothing to worry about! Much like the darkness eating away from her field of vision, one bite at a time.) "I... I will put it in the right position," she said weakly, forcing the creature's neck backwards. "Cut the head off."

Except, as she spoke? The humans captured inside broke the monster's skin, spilling out like vomit. (They were half-melted, Morgan saw that now. Half-melted, and half-transformed? From their heads, wires were growing, similar to the strings of marionettes.) "Guinevere," one of them whispered. "Guinevere, why won't you join us? It's your fault that we are here. Your fault!"
 
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Fucking lady! Guinevere fumed, unable to retaliate. At that point, she'd already run too far to fight her any further. Didn't mean any of her arguments evaporated in the process. Pushing forward, she buried the temptation to take the woman by the shoulders and shake her. (And no, she wouldn't have actually shaken her. That was a surefire way to get compared to a monkey again and... she didn't resort to violence to make her points unless she was dealing with someone real despicable. Or, you know, if the situation genuinely called for it. Drastic times, drastic measures. However the saying went.) Talking to Morgan was a lot like talking to a wall. Of course she hadn't said what she'd said before because she thought the woman had no idea what magic would do to her body. Obviously someone who'd practiced it at her level would know that by now! No, no, no. She was wondering if she'd even stopped to think about the implications of what would happen to her afterwards. After she passed out in the wastelands of all places, over and over again? (...Not to mention the inconvenience it would cause her and the gang. Did the lady expect them to carry her on their backs? To provide all the resources necessary to sustain her? The next time she complained about her 'incompetence' in keeping her alive, she'd just tell her to shove it! Because clearly the woman had everything under control and wouldn't need to hear or follow any advice that didn't exist inside her own fucking head! If anyone was prone to taking things personally here, it was Morgan le Fey.) And really. Why laugh unless she thought they were a joke? To solidify this, rather than take her seriously, she deliberately ignored her request. Instead of getting backup, she stayed there to do... ugh, who the fuck knows what! Casting more magic and no doubt putting herself in yet another situation where she inconveniently passed out before explaining anything useful. They were going to die.

"I'm not trying to be a sacrifice! I'm trying to distract the damned thing until-- until--" Guinevere winced as the creature's arm squeezed her waist, crushing her ribs. It raised her even higher into the air, as if coyly trying to decide what to do with its new toy. Until what? Until nothing. Because her improvised 'plan' required a little something called 'cooperation' and that just wasn't happening here. "But of course there's not going to be any backup, because you're still fucking here!" Focusing on how angry she was with the lady was easier than confronting the horrifying sight unfurling below her dangling legs. The distinctly human figures, squirming around and pressing against the monster's flesh. Fuck. Fuck.

It has to be some kind of sick gimmick. There's no way all those people were... Guinevere shut her eyes to block everything out as she squirmed and focused on maneuvering around for her dagger. (No. Just like everything else that seemed too nightmarish to be true, this was absolutely real. It was impossible to lie to herself on this one. The anger this drew from her was deeper than whatever the lady inspired from her and a red haze spread and spotted behind her eyes.) Eventually she closed her hand around the hilt and wrested her arm free of the creature's grasp, digging and twisting the point into the soft flesh hiding behind the metal plating. It loosened its grip just enough-- she was nearly free-- but then it keeled suddenly, as if it was in pain. (That little stab couldn't have done that. It might've resembled something more like a bee sting-- unpleasant but not unbearable.) But there was no time to investigate that. The arm holding her flailed, releasing its grip of her entirely and she went flying.

"Shiiiiit!" Guinevere sailed through the sky, swearing she'd never been this close to touching the clouds before, and her stomach dropped like an anchor with dread before she did. And drop she did, at a breakneck speed towards the behemoth of a monster. Her legs and arms flailed as she fought to grab hold of something solid to stop herself from falling to her death. Nearing the monster's back, she managed to stick it with her dagger, pushing it deeper and dragging it down, down, down along with her before she finally came to a halt against a plate of metal that served as a decent foothold. Rank purplish blood leaked from the wound she'd created, spattering her face and clothes. Still holding on tight, she coaxed herself through the few tremors she allowed herself to realize that, yes, she was still alive before carefully maneuvering herself around the creature's bent neck to the front.

"Cut the head off. Brilliant." Guinevere muttered under her breath, wiping a sweat-slicked wisp of blonde hair from her forehead. Gradually she regained her sense of self through the panic. (Cutting off the head. As if she and her gang wouldn't have figured that one out on their own!) Yeah, the way Morgan held it still was admittedly impressive. But did she consider the strength it would take to remove a head this fucking big? Had she not seen the way her sword clattered to the ground when the monster plucked her out of the nest and lifted her into the air? "Yeah, sure! Think you can hold it for an hour?" Yeah, probably not. Sawing through this monster's neck with her dagger would be like trying to cut through raw meat with a toothpick. (This was where having a team was useful. Obviously the lady was so skilled that she thought she could topple literal gods singlehandedly with her magic. Plenty of badasses thought 'friendship' was weak baby shit until they landed themselves in a fight they couldn't win and fucking died. Yes, clearly she had a death wish and they were both headed to the fucking grave because of it.) Unfortunately, this petty shit wouldn't do shit. They had to think of something else. "My sword's on the ground, genius!"

Then the half-melted humans from the monster's belly began crawling towards Guinevere. She recoiled at the sight of them, all wires and flesh, scrambling backward and holding onto the creature's flesh to her to keep herself from slipping on the metal. Like everything else lately, they knew her name. (This wasn't right. All her life, she'd been a nobody from the wastes. But within the span of a few days a king had kidnapped her, a magical swords claimed her as its wielder, her blood apparently grew flowers and... and now this? What was this?) Your fault. Your fault, your fault, your fault.

A stone lodged itself in Guinevere's throat. She couldn't speak around it, couldn't even utter an incredulous 'what the fuck' as they reached up for her ankles to pull her down with them. The words 'your fault' are a wrecking ball through her armor and she has to fight like hell to keep her mind from dredging up the faces of ghosts and comparisons. Along with that was revulsion. Were people getting infected along with the beasts now, or--?

"...Why?" Guinevere finally managed. "What happened to you? Why is it my fault?"

A wire snared around Guinevere's ankle, yanking and dragging her down towards them. They latched onto her at every angle examining her with hungry eyes. Eyes which glowed from within in a way that was distinctly robotic. (She dazedly wondered what would happen if she were to sever the wires attached to their heads. She wondered, but when she stared into their eyes she couldn't bring herself to do it. In fact, staring into them lulled her into a trance of calm.) Her eyes slowly closed.

"Yes, that's right. Settle down. Why fight so hard when all you need to do is exist?" One of them pet her hair in a motherly way. Guinevere was suddenly lying in a meadow instead of on a monster's chest, surrounded by women with twigs in their wild, long hair... and fanged, much like she was. This wasn't worrying, though. It was perfectly natural. "Goddess, you've been away for so long. If you return, they'll stop hurting us. Don't you care about us anymore? Don't you want to save us? Just come back. Surrender yourself. Surrender your blood. That's all you need to do." 'Goddess?' That part unsettled her. As well as the mention of her blood. No. There's nothing going on with her blood, okay? Nothing! She tried to sit up and the grip on her hair became tighter.

"Consider this a warning." The voices harshened. Guinevere fought against the grip restlessly. "We're already dead because of you."

"Morgan le Fey." Meanwhile, another voice reached out to Morgan. Smooth, silky, all-knowing. Was it coming from the monster? Or perhaps one of the humans from within the stomach? The lines between the two blurred, as if their spirits had merged. Or maybe it was coming from someplace else altogether. "You can hear my voice, can't you? You're one of the only humans left who can. Deliver her to me and I will answer your questions. I know you have questions." Loose wires at the monster's center lifted Guinevere, who was beginning to stir, and tossed her unceremoniously at the sorceress. "She continues to resist what she is. You're the only one who can guide her."

With that message properly delivered, a self destruct mechanism triggered in the monster. The remaining humans with wires attached to their skulls spilled from the stomach, sparking and bursting, eventually leaving nothing but a mound of corpses and severed wires strewn across the ground.
 
Monsters, magic, cryptic messages from the dead. Humans, half-fused with wires and machinery, their mouths frozen in eternal agony. They wanted Guinevere, yearned for her like a wanderer in a desert yearned for water, and Morgan… Morgan didn’t know why. Couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. Was that what her life was going to be from now on? A riddle after a riddle, each answer only snowballing into a bigger mystery? It’s the blood, she concluded. The life-giving blood, from which everything springs forth. Which, duh! Even a fool’s eyes could see that far, but the sorceress wanted to truly understand-- to take a look at the threads, see where they led, and unravel the mess they had gotten tangled up in. What, exactly, made her so special? Why her blood, and nobody else’s? And what was the role she played in all of this? (‘You’re one of the only humans who can,’ they’d told her. ‘Bring her to me, and I will answer all the questions you might have.’ Tempting, Morgan had to admit. Dangerously so, like the tasty bait wrapped around a sharp, metallic hook. Fish lacked the wisdom to sense the trap, but did she? Was the chance worth the risk? …you see, when things looked too good to be true, they usually weren’t. Cry all you want about principles and fairness and honor, but you couldn’t escape from the clutches of reality. And, what was it? Why, that everyone sought to gain something! When a trade was offered, it often meant that what you were about to give up was far more valuable than what you were getting out of it. A classic sleight of hand, wrapped in shiny paper. In the deepest depths of the ocean, it was said, lived creatures who carried lights within their bodies. Those lights served to attract the prey, to get them to swim closer, and, when they did? All they found was death, waiting for them in between those sharp, sharp teeth. The sorceress could… hmm, see certain parallels here. Uncomfortable, ghastly parallels, whispering warnings into her ear.)

Let’s look at the facts, shall we? Morgan thought at night, when she lay on her cold, hard cot and stared at the stained fabric of her tent. Precious Guinevere, with her magical blood, versus… what, even? Words? A promise? A promise by itself could be worth a lot, but not when spoken by one who had never bothered to introduce themselves, let alone negotiate the details. The voice didn’t ask me, she realized. It commanded me, as if I were a dog. ‘Do this and that, Morgan le Fey, and maybe, if you wag your tail furiously enough, you will get your treat. Awesome, isn’t it?’ A great deal, indeed, if you liked the idea of slitting your own throat! (By themselves, answers were worth nothing. They were false gold, glimmering on the surface but secretly rotten within. All too often, people failed to understand what the real goal was-- not encyclopedic knowledge you could recite from memory, but understanding, derived from seeing how everything connected. Just like the simple act of sneezing inspired a plethora of responses in the body, the smallest change could trigger a chain reaction in the foundations she had built. Isolated, context-free facts? Answers to questions that the sorceress couldn’t form properly yet? All just distractions, and tools that she wasn’t able to use. Even worse, one of them could turn out to be the very sword that would stab her in the back! I will not take the bait, Morgan decided. Not like this. Investigating the entity’s motivations, though? Indeed, that was the path that could lead to interesting places.)

Interesting places, the sorceress reminded herself as they walked under the cold, pale sun, ashes cracking under their feet. The future is brighter than this. It better had to be! One more cracked, bleeding blister on her foot, and Morgan could swear the entire limb would fall off. (After they returned from their latest venture, Guinevere’s decision had already been made. They had to move the camp, she’d claimed-- living in the wastes was a game of cat and mouse, and they distinctly weren’t the cat in that equation. And, rationally? Rationally, the sorceress didn’t comprehend that! …that didn’t mean that she wasn’t cursing Guinevere’s name with every step she took, though. The terrain she had chosen – supposedly for safety – was one thing, but everything else? The attention she paid her? That was absolutely ridiculous! No, Morgan didn’t need to ‘become stronger,’ nor did she have to ‘master the sword.’ Her mind was her weapon, not a primitive piece of steel, and… fine, fine. When questioned, the sorceress had to admit she could see the advantage in, you know, not collapsing on the battlefield, but that didn’t mean she had to like it! Stupid Guinevere and her stupid trainings, she thought sullenly, acutely aware of every single muscle in her legs. The morning jogs were the worst-- an affront against human dignity, if you asked her. An affront against human dignity, and against her specifically!)

Did she consider leaving? Yes, every single day. The urge got stronger, too, every time Gwen’s women felt silent once she passed through-- every time suspicious glares followed her, as if they expected her to try and steal their precious… what, even? Moldy bread? Ugh, give her a break! No, it was patently obvious that Morgan wasn’t welcome here. Still, how was this new? It wasn’t, and with a new goal in mind, the sorceress could soldier on. (The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Loneliness was an old friend, and expecting it to be different now would have been the height of foolishness. Camelot hadn’t been the issue, you know? She was. She, and the cursed start under which she’d been born.)

Barely did they manage to find a suitable place for their new camp and Guinevere was already insisting for her to try her hand at handling a sword. “Are you this eager to see me humiliate myself?” Morgan asked, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I have to doubt your skills if you are looking forward to fighting a complete amateur so much. Is this the only time you manage to score a victory, perhaps? Enjoy it while it lasts, Guinevere, because I won’t remain inexperienced forever.” (Was it a good idea to antagonize someone who so much? No, Morgan knew, and yet, yet she couldn’t help herself. Probably something with the frustrations just… spilling over.) “Well?” the sorceress leaned on her practice sword, in a way that told pretty much anyone that she had never even so much as held it before. “Do show me your magic. I bet that I can beat you before the sun sets.”
 
Guinevere kept herself busy. It was the only thing she could do. Why sit around stewing in unproductive thoughts about her blood, Excalibur, Camelot and all the mysterious voices she'd been hearing lately when there was so much that needed to be done? (There were no answers to be found in her own head. Brooding about it wouldn't do her any fucking good.) And so she saw to it that she hardly had any time for thinking when she buried herself to the neck in work. The first order of business was to pack up camp and move. They'd taken care of the monster's nest-- but the prospect of encountering stragglers, losing Betty... it was time that they moved on. And of course there was more reason for it than just that, too. Monsters lurked everywhere, but those Camelot goons knew their location. Camelot fell, yes, but that didn't mean there weren't stragglers who would come hunting them down the line. (...Morgan had a point, after all, that her brother might not have chosen her at random after all. Who was to say some other entitled douche wouldn't find the blueprints of Arthur's plans in the castle ruins and try to enact them down the line? One of the knights the bastard brought with him, for instance?) And so she held a meeting that night, poring over their maps as they decided where to go next. The process was grueling work. Always was. Packing everything up, trudging through the wastelands with heavy loads on their backs, finding the right spot and setting everything up again. Taking the lead meant setting an example for everyone else. She didn't slow her stride for a second.

It was only after they settled down that night by the fire that they finally mourned Betty. It was nothing extravagant. Never was or could be when someone fell in the wastes. Their routine for losses entailed gathering a few of her things into a little pile and sharing their fondest memories. Everyone was present aside from the lady, who seemed inclined to keep her distance. (The lady didn't know Betty. So of course no one would force her to sit in on this.) Guinevere was inclined to sink into thoughts of 'what if'-- (like what if she had snapped out of that coma soon enough to have stopped this from happening) when the grief actively set in. Before she could succumb completely, though, she focused on being there for Erica in the present. Erica, who was taking it the hardest. Erica, who was still alive. (But for how long? Guinevere noticed the woman shirking her share of rations as of late. She always noticed these things.) Thinking about the past never did anyone any fucking good out here. Taking care of those who were still around was always, always more important.

Guinevere wasn't going to force Morgan to sit around the fire with them. But allowing the woman to isolate herself from the rest of them all day and night absolutely wasn't an option, either. If the lady was going to travel with them, she was going to need to start interacting with everyone. This was as much about building the woman's physical endurance as it was about introducing her to the dynamics of their group bit by bit. Clearly the woman had no experience whatsoever working with others, in the way she took impulsive actions without letting any of them in on what was going on. (Her gang understandably panicked after the stunt before. The circumstances surrounding her arrival were also understandably... suspicious, to say the least. The fact that she came from Camelot of all places didn't help things, either. Often, she overheard whispers along the lines of 'she thinks she's too good for us' and 'she won't look me in the eye, let alone talk to me.' Guinevere had her work cut out for her.) The woman was stubborn and purposefully difficult about everything and this would be no easy task. Even so, she made a habit of rising early to jog with her every morning. One morning Adrianne mentioned that she'd been working herself too hard lately, that she ought to come back to bed and give it a rest for a day. When Guinevere refused, insisting the importance of committing to a routine, she was oblivious to the shadow crossed over her girlfriend's face.

To Guinevere's credit, she did try to make amiable conversation during their morning jogs. "Not a morning person?" She'd quip, running in place backwards while waiting for the lady to catch up to her pace. (Obviously Morgan wasn't a 'jogging' person either, cutting glares at her like she would incinerate her where she stood if she could. In return, Guinevere was wholly unaffected by them. She'd been thrown enough of them at that point that it felt normal. In fact, she'd made a habit of greeting her before their sessions with a 'good morning, sunshine' with a beam to show just how unaffected she was by the lady's obvious disdain.) "Sunrise is my favorite time of day. It's one of the only times where the wastes looks sorta pretty." That was true. The skies were blanketed in wisps of pale oranges and pinks-- glowing and resiliently beautiful in spite of the apocalyptic world it illuminated. The rest of her day would carry on from then, taking patrol, assessing everyone's concerns and organizing hunts. She hardly had time to sleep before she was up again for another jog. Before long, it was apparent that she needed to take the lady's training to the next level.

"Hey, now. I'm not tryin' to humiliate you. Everyone has to start somewhere." Guinevere said earnestly. She meant that. Knowing Arthur and the way Camelot apparently viewed women as things, she wasn't surprised that the woman had no experience with physical combat. (Why would any lady need to know those things, after all, with Camelot's impenetrable walls and knights around to protect them?) But if she was going to live in the wastelands, that needed to change. And fast. It was for her own benefit. "Don't worry. You'll have to work your way up before you fight me. That said, I don't wanna hear any complainin' about your first sparring partner." She nodded to her left and Mia came bounding out with her own practice sword in hand, grinning brightly. Heh. Kid was always so eager to train. Maybe her infectious enthusiasm would rub off on the sour lady? (Sure. On the surface, it might have looked like an attempt to humiliate Morgan-- pitting her against a child and all. Guinevere knew better. Mia was a formidable opponent and getting better every day. These training sessions were for her benefit just as much as they were for the lady's. Teaching them together would be more productive than dividing them into separate sessions.) "Mia's a formidable opponent. You best be on your guard."

"You've never done this before, right? Don't worry, I'll go easy on you!" Mia bowed politely and offered a sage nod. Then she steeled herself and got into position.

"Mimic her." Guinevere suggested. After a moment she frowned and walked up to the lady to take matters into her own hands. Firmly but gently, she took the woman's wrists in her hands and guided them where they needed to be, lifting them and tilting them at an angle. "Hold it like this... and widen your stance. You'll lose your balance otherwise." She stepped back, then, glancing between Mia and Morgan with a critical eye. "Now I want to see you try your hand at defending yourself. That way we'll get an idea of what you need to work on."

"Ready?" Mia asked, her eyes glittering with enthusiasm. Then, whether Morgan was ready or not, she charged forward!
 
Morgan had never thought that anything in the world could be worse than Camelot. The cage may have been golden, but it had still been a cage-- in there, she’d turned into a canary, forced to sing the approved tune. ‘Yes, my king.’ ‘By all means.’ ‘What a grand idea, your grace.’ The banality had crushed her spirit, strangled ideas before they could fully bloom, and Morgan had been sick of it. Utterly so. Even fires of hell would have been a more comfortable place to rest in, the sorceress was convinced! …of course, that was before she had met Guinevere Leodegrance. Guinevere Leodegrance, with her trainings and nicknames and, as it turned out, a serious penchant for humiliation. A child? Truly?! The sorceress harbored no delusions regarding her abilities, but the laws of physics alone crowned her as the victor of this match. (Her height, her weight. The length of her arms, too, as well as her center of gravity. All crucial factors, and all working in her favor! Mia might have been fierce enough, but not even she couldn’t overcome her own physical limitations. Escaping the confines of your own body was a losing fight, as Morgan knew. Like trying to play poker with dice.)

So, all in all, to say that the sorceress looked unimpressed would have been an understatement. “A formidable opponent, yes,” she smirked, her anger quenched for now. “I’m shaking in my boots. Shall you allow me to write my last will? I am not at all certain whether I am ready to confront my greatest fears without the appropriate countermeasures. I’d appreciate a hug, too. You know, for moral support.” (And, to her infinite surprise, Morgan realized that that wasn’t even a lie. Wouldn’t it be kind of nice, to be held by the same strong arms that had… wait, no! It wouldn’t even be acceptable, let alone nice. This was exhaustion speaking, plain and simple. To her well-rested self, the idea of Guinevere touching her was disgusting-- allowing spiders to crawl all over her naked skin would have been preferable to letting those stupidly full lips of her anywhere near her… ah. Why was this fantasy getting so specific, again? Attention to detail was usually one of her strong points, but Morgan did not appreciate the way it sent blood rushing into her cheeks! How terribly inconsiderate of her own body, to sabotage her like that.) “Either way,” the sorceress cleared her throat, “I’m ready.” (…or as ready as she could ever get. Unfortunately for her, though? Those weren’t quite the same things. In fact, they could be as different as agreeing to drink a pint of wine with some maids, and subsequently vomiting your heart out in the great hall after having drunk the whole bottle. Of course, there was nothing even remotely autobiographical about that comparison.)

So, all those laws of physics she had recalled earlier? Morgan could watch in real time as Mia shattered them, along with her own dignity. Again and again and again, she ended up on the ground, her face buried in the ashes. Ugh! How was the girl so fast? She was violating some fundamental principle here, Morgan was sure, and she wasn’t going to let her get away with that. On shaky legs, the sorceress once again stood up. Her chest was heaving, her arms aching from the blows received and exhaustion alike, and…

“C’mon, lady!” Mia giggled, as if all of this was some sick joke. (It was. It was a joke, with her as the punchline. Had Guinevere set her up? Everyone did have to start somewhere, sure, but everyone wasn’t a dark, scary sorceress-- the cause of all evil in this world, ranging from the weather not being that nice today to the Catastrophe itself. What if this was an elaborate scheme to break her? You’ve come too late for that, Guinevere, she thought, with no small amount of bitterness. I’m already broken.) “The way you tried to disarm me? That was almost good. Now try to, you know, not making it as obvious? I dunno if you’ve heard about it, but you shouldn’t advertise your movements. That’s like a big, flashing sign asking to get your ass kicked!”

And, in the following days, Morgan found out exactly how many of those signs existed. Her posture, footwork, the movements of her eyes-- all of those were like an open book to the girl, and the sorceress couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. How many of Arthur’s knights had been gifted with a perception even remotely as sharp? (She still remembered watching them train in the courtyard, back when knighthood had still meant anything to her. The difference was like night and day, really. The knights had been playing-- moving according to the outlined steps, perfectly choreographed and perfectly performed. A glorified ritual, that was what it was! A mating dance, except that, instead of starry-eyed girls, they had been courting their king’s approval. Mia, on the other hand? The girl was out for blood! …something told her that her days would be nothing short of hell. Goodbye, self-esteem, goodbye, sweet joys of life.)

Indeed, Morgan’s assessments weren’t wrong. Jogging, new bruises, expeditions to ensure supplies of water that wasn’t just grey poison-- every minute of the day, it seemed, there was something to do, do, do, and multiple times, the sorceress thought she’d reached her rock bottom. Whenever she’d come to the conclusion, though? Somehow, Morgan was able to stand up! Indeed, spite was a powerful fuel, and one that she knew how to channel all too well. (Perhaps she was getting used to it, even? Once, the sorceress had read that you could even get used to the rusty nail stuck in your toe, and she was beginning to understand how literal the meaning of that phrase was.)

The fencing lessons, too, were getting more bearable. Calluses bloomed all over her hands before Morgan learned how to grip the sword, but, no, she didn’t mourn the lost softness. Definitely not. All her tears had been burned away years ago, and what remained was the thirst for vengeance. That, and a quickly shortening fuse! Work my way up? She’ll never fight me, she thought sourly, watching Guinevere as she stood guardian over their match. It’s always posture this, footwork that. When I master those, her highness will decide that I need write a thousand word essay and on why she is the most beautiful woman in the world before I’m even allowed to challenge her. Look at her just standing there, as if… as if she owns the place. Maybe she technically did, considering that Morgan hadn’t bothered to read up on the changes in property laws after The Catastrophe, but that was beside the point! The point was… the point was… That I want to break her nose, the sorceress realized. The epiphany was sudden, though not the any less illuminating for it. Wouldn’t it be great, to hurt the source of all her issues? It wouldn’t solve all the problems the farce called her life had devolved into, but, according to her calculations, it should feel pretty fucking good.

Well. There was nothing easier than just going for it, was there? ‘Quickness is the essence of the war,’ Sun Tzu had said, according to one of the books she had read. So, what was her next course of action? Figuring she had nothing to lose, Morgan tackled the unarmed Guinevere, ignoring Mia altogether. “No need for me to fight fair when you’re so good, eh?” the sorceress smirked. “Show me how these things are done, Guinevere.”
 
Guinevere caught the sudden movement in her peripheral a moment too late and fell when the lady tackled her. That didn't mean she'd let her guard down for even a second, however, as no sooner than they hit the ground and the words left Morgan's mouth did she manage to find an obvious opening and flip the woman over so that their positions were reversed. Though she accomplished this with relative ease, it was pure survival instincts and muscle memory that brought her to bare her teeth, firmly pinning the woman's wrists over her head with one hand and bringing a dagger to her throat with the other. Her eyes flashed with fury and it took a few seconds for her to realize she wasn't in any real danger. This wasn't an attempt on her life, or another attempt to stab her in the back. The lady was just fucking with her. Wanted to land a hit, undoubtedly for putting her through all of this. (Just because she acted unaffected by the death glares didn't mean she couldn't see them. Unfortunately for the lady, spite was never enough to get by in the wastes. She'd just have to work harder for that sweet, sweet satisfaction. In fact, Guinevere would be damn proud of her when she did pull it off. It'd mean she was doing something right as a teacher.) The crinkle between her brows eased and she put her dagger away, but she didn't soften a single inch. The murderous edge might have disappeared, but she was all steel and gravity as she stared at the woman under her. Her scarred arms and frame formed an impenetrable fortress over her, built strong enough to keep her safe in a world that actively tried to kill her since childhood.

"...You've got the right idea, lady. I'll give you that. You think anybody gives a rat's ass about fightin' fair in the wastes?" Guinevere said cooly, acknowledging the progress for what it was. "Why else do you think little fuckin' kids gotta fight as hard as she does to get by?" She acknowledged Mia with a sideways nod. None of them swung their swords around out here as part of some glorified contest, for praise and 'hero' status. They didn't sit around comparing the size of their muscles as part of some kind of vanity project. You picked up the sword to protect yourself and to protect your own. By any means necessary. Because there wasn't any other option, unless you wanted to become worm food. The woman could taunt her all she wanted with how she would best her one of these days... but it was clear she couldn't conceptualize what two measly weeks of training meant versus a lifetime of fighting for survival meant. She was in the wastelands. Did she think because they sparred fair in camp for instructional purposes that they maintained some sparkly, golden code of chivalry fighting other gangs and monsters? That they never fought dirty to get ahead themselves-- or that they weren't used to those tactics? Pffft. "You're catching on. Now you gotta try and keep up. If you see an opening, by all means take it. But if you're gonna go for a tactic like this, you gotta make sure you got the strength to back it up. Shouldn't rush an opponent like this until you master the basics."

Guinevere knew it had to be a drag. After all, Jen used to train with magic while she trained with her sword. And magic, while it did take patience and practice in a similar way, was capable of packing a satisfyingly powerful punch even when wielded by a novice. Forcing your enemies to their knees with what looked like a thought, tearing them apart from the inside out. (...Yeah. It was intense. And the drawbacks were even more intense as a result. And there was a distinct lack of control when people became addicted to that feeling, in a world that always put them down. Not worth it, in her opinion. Guinevere herself was solid. She could trust her own body in a way she couldn't trust magic.) Either way, magic and swordplay were both skills that took time and effort to hone properly. From experience, she knew that training the body like this was an infinitely slower burn when it came to seeing results.

"You like being in this position or somethin'?" Guinevere taunted with sparks in her eyes, leaning a touch closer while keeping her grip firm as ever. "Because that's where you're going to end up. Over and over again if you try to fight me the way you are now."

In that position. As in underneath Guinevere, with her hips locked between her thighs. They were close enough that she could see how distinctive and striking the green of her eyes were, as well as the way her lips parted slightly and... Recognizing the other connotations that could be associated with everything she was saying, she quickly released Morgan's wrists and brought herself to stand again. With an awkward cough and a desperate need to change the subject, she rummaged around in the pack on her back for a small bundle of cloth.

"...I was gonna give this to you after your session today. I dunno if you've realized, but this marks your first month of training." Guinevere casually tossed the bundle to Morgan. "Found these on our supply run last week. Thought you'd appreciate a matching set." Opening the bundle, she would discover a pair of gloves. Used, as nothing in the wastes was brand new, but reliably thick and still intact. No holes, which made them a particularly luxury item. It took longer than she would've liked to admit, rummaging around to find two gloves that matched... but she figured the lady might be kinda like Jen when it came to her tastes. She scratched her cheek awkwardly. "I get that you hate this. But you're still putting in the work... your hands are proof of that." She frowned, then, a bit suspicious. She wasn't entirely sure if she could trust the lady not to throw them away because accepting them would be a sign of 'weakness' or an insult to her pride or something like that. "Now don't go throwing 'em out because they came from me. Consider it a milestone of your progress. 'Sides, you'll appreciate them in the long run. Especially when winter comes. Don't want your fingers snapping off, do you? You'll never be able to take me out that way."

Guinevere noticed Adrianne signaling for her across camp and frowned. Seemed she was needed elsewhere.

"We'll fight one of these days, lady. You'll work your way up." Guinevere said, watching Morgan carefully. This time, it wasn't a taunt so much as it was a show of her confidence that the lady would be capable, so long as she kept putting the work in. "...You guys keep at it. I'll be back."
 
Ehm.

Have you ever spun a plan, invested all of your brainpower into it, and then watched it unravel before your very eyes? Granted, calling her attempt on Guinevere's dignity 'a plan' might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but the crushing defeat in her chest sure was real. Ugh! Was she reaching for the stars here? Or, like Icarus from the old legends, for the sun? Morgan didn't want that much out of her life anymore-- just that satisfying crack, accompanied by a steady stream of blood. Instead, she ended up under Guinevere, in a position that made it... uh, remarkably easy for her mind to drift. You know, towards all the forbidden topics? Indeed, exactly there. (Heat was pooling in her belly, with all the intensity of a fire storm, and suddenly, her mouth felt very dry. Unnaturally so. 'You like being in this position or somethin'?' Guinevere asked, and damn, did it feel like being caught while stealing cookies! Because it was nice, in a way Morgan hadn't anticipated. It would have been even nicer had they been in a bed, though, with her peeling off the layers of her clothes, and maybe caressing her-- uh, what?! Oh no, no, no, that hadn't actually happened. The sorceress's mind was just running a lot of simulations, you see? To explore the threads of possibilities, running through the fabric of reality like a pattern on her favorite dress. Right! The horizontal configuration must have triggered it, because it was vital to remind herself that, uh, people did various things in bed? Look, give her a second and she'd think of a suitable excu... explanation! Haha.)

"Seems to me that you're the one who is enjoying herself this a little too much," Morgan blurted out, figuring that offense was the best defense. "Seeing as you're quite reluctant to get up. Get off me! What are you waiting for, for me to beg? Do you want me to moan your name so desperately? If so, you'll have to give me a better reason." Uh, a question. Was embarrassing herself every time she crafted a retort going to be a common phenomenon now? The sorceress would like to know, because she'd have to work on stitching her own mouth shut in that case! (Was it too late to change her name, put a paperbag over her head, and live the rest of her life in obscurity? Surely there was a nice, secluded, Guinevere-free cave, where not even her shame could find her. In there, the sorceress would spend the rest of her days writing an essay with the tentative title 'On the Benefits of Choosing Your Words Carefully!')

Morgan half-expected her opponent to throw a rock at her, but when she handed her gloves instead? Sturdy, well-made gloves, as warm as a summer day? The sorceress just... stared, unable to believe her own eyes. (A gift. A real gift, given to her for no reason at all. In Camelot, not even her birthday had been considered a proper occasion for presents-- celebrating her coming into this word would have been considered a treason to the crown, and nobody had wanted to paint a target on their back. Arthur's delicate sensibilities had trumped all, hadn't they? ...not anymore, though. That spell had never worked on Guinevere Leodegrance in the first place, and so she supposed it was kind of fitting. They're just gloves, she told herself, to quench the strange fire in her chest. Except, see, it was more complicated than that. Morgan already understood that, in the wastes, they were far, far more than that: they were comfort and warmth and safety, and, perhaps more importantly, something that Guinevere couldn't have now. She could have claimed them for herself, but hadn't. Why, though? Just to please her? But that made no sense! They hated each other, and--) "I..." the sorceress began, but, of course, that was the moment her girlfriend called her from across the camp. Damn.

"What are you grinning for?" she frowned upon seeing Mia make that face.

"Oh, no reason at all," the girl beamed. "Wanna practice some more, Morgan? You know, so that you can take Gwen down in single combat. I for sure would love to see that."

When Guinevere reached her girlfriend, she found her in a sour mood. (For comparison? Even the average lemon tasted sweeter.) "There you are," Adrianne huffed, leaning against the fence they'd built. "Took your sweet time. Look at this, Gwen. See? A hole here, a hole there. Those weren't there before, and you might have noticed had you not been so taken with your pet project." ...pet project? Ah. Ah, of course. Morgan, wasn't it? For some reason, Adrianne appeared to be allergic to the very sound of the sorceress's name. (The way she'd asked her to be called 'your majesty' couldn't have helped. Damn. Morgan was really talented when it came to making enemies, eh? Not that she had had any shortage of them even before that stunt.) "I'm not claiming that there aren't any benefits to teaching her how to pull her own weight, but this is concerning. Is it going to trump the camp safety now?" she challenged, folding her arms over her chest. "All I'm saying is, maybe you shouldn't waste so much time on that when she's currently struggling to keep up with Mia. The girls are already whispering about it. What, ya thought nobody was going to notice?"

And, really, you could say a lot of things about Morgan, but not that she couldn't choose her timing effectively. Indeed, that was when she'd gathered her courage to join them! "Am I interrupting something?" the sorceress glanced at Adrianne and then at Guinevere, her green eyes a mystery. "I just... wasn't able to thank you properly," her gaze fell on her shoes, as if there was something mighty interesting about them. (Maybe there was. Alternatively, maybe she just couldn't stand Guinevere's own gaze in that moment. Too intense, alright?! Like staring directly into the brilliant sun, and being overwhelmed with the sheer... sun-ness.) "So, I've come to do that. Thank you." Awkward, Morgan realized. Then again, wouldn't it have been even more awkward to not respond to being given a gift? Ugh, the sorceress wished there was an etiquette manual for living in the wastes! Say what you want about Camelot, but at least the rules had been set in stone.

Without thinking about it, she reached into the inner pocket of her blouse, and pulled out an elegant, silver locket. (The last memento of... no, that didn't matter. Not if she didn't want to remember, anyway.) "Here," Morgan handed it to Guinevere. "I want you to have this in return. Maybe, if you have something nice for yourself, you'll understand the value of these things."
 
Guinevere held her breath to keep herself from sighing out. Because a sigh at the wrong moment could be interpreted the wrong way and judging by the expression on Adrianne's face, she didn't want to give her anything more to 'interpret'. Not that there was anything to interpret about any of what just happened back there. (Those flashes, those voices. They'd been coaxed up by magic she didn't comprehend. The lady herself seemed to be in mutual agreement with her that there was nothing 'romantic' to be found between the two of them, despite the universe's insistence to push their heads together and tell them to kiss. She knew it was unnerving... but her girlfriend really had nothing to worry about.) She'd already spoken to her at length about setting time aside to train Morgan. Calling her over for this, questioning whether or not camp safety was still her priority when it was all she ever thought about? "...You know you don't need my permission to fix the fence, Adri. You see holes? Then grab the materials and fix them. Bring 'em up at the next meeting." She frowned and reached for her hand. She didn't want to fight. (Bringing up the others this way... was it really something that she needed to address? She was training Mia at the same time she trained Morgan. It wasn't like they were sitting around painting their fucking nails!) "I'd trust you to keep me safe over any damned fence. That said, we need to make sure we're all fit to fight any bastard that comes our way. So isn't that all the more reason to keep working with her? She won't get any better unless we keep practicing. Least she's trying... anyone who looks over there can see that. I'm not giving up on her." That was that. She wasn't going to budge on this one and that might not have been what Adrianne wanted to hear... but she tried to smile in effort to lift her spirits a little. "You want to come over and have a quick match? Maybe if we set an example--"

Guinevere paused when Morgan appeared, turning around to face her. She scratched her cheek awkwardly and leaned casually against the fence. (Fixing it wasn't the only issue, she knew. They had to figure out why the holes were appearing at all. Could be beetles gnawing through, microscopic beasts. Could be something else entirely. Looked like yet another task to write on her unending list of shit to take care of.) Well, shit. They hadn't been talking about the lady with any ill intentions in mind or anything remotely like that. But it still felt pretty shitty to get caught having a conversation about her. Still, it was unusual for the lady to come seeking her out at all. Usually it was her who initiated their morning routine-- coming by her tent to get her up for her jogs and then again later in the afternoon for the sparring sessions. This hadn't really happened before. So what did she need to...

Thank you? Morgan was thanking her? The same lady who had sassed her endlessly for saving her life was now... thanking her? After Guinevere blinked past the blatant shock, all that was left to be found on her face was a bright, sunshiny grin. Something about her resembled a golden retriever wagging its tail. Progress! That's what this was, right? Maybe they'd never be best buddies-- but that didn't matter. "'Course. Um..." Noticing the way the lady couldn't look her in the eye, she started to feel a bit bashful herself. Uh... polite words. Acceptable words. What were words again, anyway? "You're welcome!"

Guinevere's blush deepened once the words were out. Fucking hell! Why was she acting so fucking clumsy? Now she could feel Adrianne's eyes staring holes through her. (Maybe that was what had been burning holes through the fence all along? Haha... she had a feeling that her girlfriend wouldn't find the comparison all that funny.) Was it so wrong of her to be a little excited about this, though? For her heart to flutter in her chest as she watched signs of progress with her own two eyes? After all, she'd been working tirelessly at this 'pet project' as Adrianne had mockingly named it for weeks now. All she'd been able to coax out of the woman until that point were a series of arched brows and death glares. (Which no doubt had death threats hiding just behind the surface. Guinevere had a theory that on their runs, she didn't voice them half the time was because she was too out of breath to do so.) But she'd seen it so many times before. The stubbornness, the attachment to an image. The fronts that so many girls in their group had held onto like a shield to survive a heartless wasteland. Morgan obviously held up one of her own, despite living in a place like Camelot. There was a value to their way of life, though. To sticking to a solid group who could catch you if you fell. It took time to trust in that. Marking the lady's first milestone for putting in the effort with gloves was meant to be a show of respect, an incentive to keep going. A subtle nudge to say that she had her best interests in mind-- whether she decided to stay in camp with them or go her own way in the future. For once it seemed like the other woman understood her intentions.

"I'll be back in a minute. Why don't you--" Guinevere was going to send Morgan back over to Mia. But the lady started talking again before she could finish the thought. And what she did next? It bulldozed through her shock for the 'thank you' itself and utterly floored her. She stared wide-eyed at the silver locket, her mouth hanging partway open, and she had to remind herself to close it. Despite never having seen something so luxurious in her life, the necklace was hauntingly familiar. The very sight of it captivated her. (...And she had never had a taste for fine jewelry. If people were born with a default taste for that sort of thing, Jen had undoubtedly absorbed it all in the womb and left Guinevere without it.) A sharp chill raced down her spine. That locket meant something. She tried to attribute whatever the hell she felt to shock... but whatever she felt when she looked at it ran much deeper than that. It outstretched its fingers and reached inside her for something long buried and dead. (It touched an old bruise-- an old scar-- an old heartbreak? Or rather, it sucker punched it. It left her feeling exposed and sore.) Suddenly the locket was in her hand-- she was so dazed that she didn't even remember accepting it-- and swallowed hard around the lump rising in her throat. "But this is... I don't..." She stammered. "Are you sure?"

"Understand the value? You think we don't understand the value of anything we find out here?" Adrianne wasn't sure what to make of Guinevere's reaction, either. She was shocked, too. But alongside the shock, there was also a sort of incredulousness. "Well. Too bad Gwen doesn't give a single fuck about jewelry. I hope it wasn't too important to you. We can go into town and pawn it off for something that's actually useful..."

Adrianne tried to take it away from her, either to get a closer look or take it for safe keeping. Before she could, though, Guinevere snapped her hands protectively around the locket and held it to her chest to keep it safe. There was nothing she could say to explain this response. It was just a gut-reaction. A visceral feeling of no. They couldn't get rid of it like that. She glimpsed Morgan to make sure that she was really okay with her taking it before turning towards camp.

"I, uh, I just need a sec. I'll be back." Guinevere managed quietly, distraught, before determinedly striding towards her tent to be alone. Fuck, what was wrong with her? Clearly she needed a moment in private to deal with whatever the fuck gripped her now... because something had grabbed ahold of her and wasn't letting her go that easy.

"Hey." Adrianne watched Guinevere leave and then glared at Morgan. She wasn't sure what to make of any of this. "What the fuck was that? Did you feel like you had to one-up her or somethin'? She spent hours finding you those gloves... and I'm willing to wager you were given that locket without working a single day for it." She was seething now and she wasn't done. She was trying to make sense of Guinevere's uncharacteristically misty-eyed expression before she ran off. The fact that she had run off at all was even stranger yet. "And where do you get off, giving my girlfriend a locket right in front of me?"
 
It took watching Guinevere leave, wrapped in this strange aura of nostalgia, for Morgan to really understand what she had just done. (Just... what? Where had that impulse come from? Was she going to give out her precious belongings to random vagrants from the wastes now, first come, first serve style? Except that, no, that wasn't what it was. Not even remotely. On some level, it felt right for Guinevere to have it-- just as right as watching the moon fill out and then become nothing again, all within the span of a month. Natural, in other words. Alright. Alright, I suppose. Maybe it was inhabited by a spirit who prefers terrible manners. A simple, shortcut answer that Morgan knew to be wrong, but so what? She could still roll it up like an old rag and stick it in the dam of her heart, in this desperate attempt to prevent herself from being... well, overflooded. Overflooded with feelings she didn't understand and didn't want. What was her brain even doing, producing all these emotions? Thinking was its job, thinking and hormonal regulation, not whatever mess it was that it was trying to pull her into! Morgan le Fey and drama? Those two didn't mix. Always, she'd watched the world with calm, analytical eyes, like an uninvolved observer. A spirit herself, unable to cross through the veil of physical reality. Being dragged in the midst of it was confusing, and-- ah. Ah, okay. Someone should have explained to Adrianne that you did not speak that way to her, and since that someone had run off, Morgan would have to take care of it herself.)

Morgan lifted her chin, looking at Adrianne with the same kind of regard you might pay to a cockroach you'd found in your living room. "What the fuck was that, your majesty," the sorceress corrected her, her words pleasant and cool. Delivered with just enough detachment, to mask the wild cocktail of emotions brewing in her chest. (Pawn it? Hope it wasn't too precious to you? The sorceress had been too frozen in the moment to react properly then, but she had registered it, and no, she didn't like it. Guinevere's reaction, though? That was, ah, quite a different story. One written in a script Morgan didn't necessarily understand, but was able to appreciate for its aesthetic merit nonetheless. ...she understood, didn't she? Somehow, despite the endless abyss dividing them, Guinevere was able to grasp her hand and shake it. The connection had bristled with electricity, no matter how short-lived it had been. ...it felt nice, Morgan couldn't deny that. That, and also Guinevere giving her that look and that smile, right after she'd thanked her. Could it be that treating her better would react in being treated better? Gods, Morgan wasn't sure whether she was prepared for such a revelation! ...or even if she wanted Guinevere to behave like that. Some part of her felt it was dangerous-- like opening a cage full of hungry tigers, eager to rip her apart.)

"I thought that we've clarified already what level of familiarity we find ourselves on, Adrianne. I was not aware that you were suffering from memory lapses? In that case, I shall be more than happy to remind you. Although, to be quite honest, I would prefer not to be addressed by you at all. Surely, you noticed I wasn't talking to you?" That should have been it. Morgan should have turned around and gone on her merry way, probably to practice with Mia some more. She would have been able to count this as a victory-- the optics of Adrianne the Unreasonable and her, with her composure carefully maintained, spoke volumes.

Except, you see, Adrianne kept talking. She talked, talked and talked, and each of the words that spilled from her mouth was an additional cut in her flesh. I'm willing to wager you were given that locket without working a single day for it. So, you ever heard of the straw that broke the camel's back? This would one day appear in the dictionary as an example, because it illustrated the situation quite well. (Underneath her armor of indifference, Morgan was fuming. What did this woman know about her? Nothing, aside of the picture of the useless lady she'd painted in her head in order to feel a little better about herself.)

"What?" Morgan tilted her head aside, her green eyes shining with utter contempt. "Would you prefer it if I sneaked into her tent at night, and maybe serenaded her while we were at it? Some strange ideas you have, Adrianne. But, sure, if it helps you sleep at night, I can also be weirdly secretive about it. That ought to make everything safer, I'm sure." The idea that Morgan, you know, wasn't supposed to do it at all? The sorceress sidestepped it with the grace of a ballerina, and instead aimed for the weak spot. The realization that romantic implications were attached to the gesture? Yeah, she dodged that as well, instead focusing on the all-consuming anger. (Maybe the swordfighting training was helping! Guinevere would have been overjoyed to hear that, Morgan was sure.)

"I gave it to her because I felt like it." And you should be glad I'm not feeling like I want to fry your brain right now, because I could easily do that as well. Of course, it wasn't that Morgan was angry at Adrianne by default because she got to kiss Guinevere, or something silly like that. No, not how this worked! She was just upset because of the... uh, attempts to control her? Indeed, that sounded plausible enough. "And, yes, I did get the locket. I didn't work for it, I'll give you that. Doesn't mean I didn't pay, though." Possessed by some kind of madness, Morgan rolled up her sleeve high enough to let some of the scars show-- only a small part of the gnarly map covering her shoulders, her back, her soul, but enough to give her an idea. "Is that valid enough for your tastes?" she spat out, not caring at all how many witnesses there were. "Tell me, Adrianne, oh great arbiter of all things valuable."
 
"I don't want you do it in front of me or behind my back. Did anything I just said give the implication that I want you to try any of that shit at all?" Adrianne fumed, pressing her hands to her temples and leaning back against the fence. She was, quite possibly, regretting that she'd bothered trying to say anything about it at all. They weren't going to come to an understanding. That became all too clear when the lady insisted on the fucking 'your majesty' title again. But allowing all of this shit to fester slowly certainly wasn't an option either. Something about the way Guinevere reacted to the woman was unlike anything she'd ever seen before and it bothered her. (...For Gwen's sake, of course. There was no way she had to feel threatened by some random lady from Camelot. This wasn't about the morning jogs or the sparring sessions. This was all about that weird, inexplicable reaction her girlfriend had to the locket. It was confusing. It told her something was wrong. How often did Guinevere Leodegrance let her guard slip like that in front of people she considered strangers? ...That was just the thing, though. Guinevere didn't look at Morgan like she was a stranger. What did that mean?) "Because you felt like it. And yet you always struck me as the calculating type." She narrowed her eyes. There was an angle here. There had to be. Whether that was manipulation or sinister magic at work. And the lady was likely being intentionally vague and difficult to sidestep that."...And I mean that as a compliment, your fucking majesty. It's a good thing your head's not full of air."

Adrianne fell silent as the scars were revealed, visibly fighting the lump that rose in her throat. It was clear she didn't expect it, but she kept her expression calmly measured as she observed them. There were plenty of ways that she could turn it around to question her further. She could throw a jab, implying that perhaps she paid for the locket by summoning a demon up to give it to her. Was it all part of a freak accident? Except even she had the tact not to push it in that direction. The scars were there, the implications engraved in Morgan's skin as clear as text on a page. (Not all scars came from the beasts. Plenty of them had scars that came from other people. So... it technically wasn't outside the realm of possibility that someone from Camelot could suffer them, too. Even if the revelation was jarring. So those holier than thou assholes hid a particularly sinister dark side, huh. In retrospect, maybe the revelation wasn't quite so shocking after all.) That didn't mean that was all it took to justify whatever it was she did back there. If anything, it just made it all the more confusing. If she'd 'paid' for it that dearly, then why did she just give it away to Guinevere?

"...What. You trying to compare stories, lady?" Adrianne pulled at her own shirt, revealing the severe burns and scars across her left side and stomach. "We've all paid for somethin' with blood, all right? You're missing my point, here... I'm not lookin' to make a contest of this. I just wanna know what your angle is. Now you're admitting that locket's tied to those scars of yours and you gave it away just because you felt like it?" She lowered her shirt again and shook her head exasperatedly. If anything, it made the value far greater than the price attached to it in monetary value. People didn't just give that kind of shit away willy nilly. "If it's that important to you, then why? Why give it to Gwen?"

"...Maybe it's not your damned business why, Adrianne. Have you considered that? You trust Gwen, don't you? Let that be enough and stop with this shit." Tamara pitched in with her thoughts as she strode by, hauling a heavy bucket of materials towards the fence. It was clear she had thoughts of her own about all of this, based on the look that flashed in her brown eyes when she looked between the two of them. Instead of contributing to the discussion and possibly adding fuel to the fire, though, she kept them to herself. Perhaps wisely thinking it wasn't her own damned business to get involved. (She often acted as the designated mother of the group for a reason, after all.) "Now step aside and let me get to work. Gwen gave me a note about the holes in the fence. Either of you two want to make yourselves useful and help?"

"... Nah. I need to go on patrol soon." Adrianne scoffed, kicking at the ground. Chastised by Tamara but feeling that she hadn't necessarily gotten everything off her chest, she narrowed her eyes at Morgan as if to say she wasn't done and then strode away.

Tamara nodded sagely as if she expected this answer from Adrianne, crouching down and examining the holes. "Hm. Mecha beetles? Those little shits..." She mumbled, her brow knitting with annoyance. "How about you, Morgan? You want to help out here?" She didn't look up from her work, but she gave a subtle nod over her shoulder in Mia's direction. "I think Mia'd still like to get in some practice today if you're willing. You should hear her talkin' about your sessions." She grinned. "She's been so excited to have a partner. Sparring with the younger ones wasn't giving her enough of a challenge, y'know?"
 
“Hmm?” Morgan raised her eyebrow, amused sparks dancing in her eyes. “It is a sad thing, then, that I don’t give a fuck about what you want. Not a single flying fuck, actually. Did I do okay, Adrianne? Considering that all of you keep throwing that word around as if it was candy, I’m just trying to adapt.” There was great value in the ability to do that, the sorceress knew, but… well, this wasn’t the matter of adaptability. Not really. You know, somewhere along the line, she had shifted her focus from ‘trying to have a normal conversation’ to ‘wanting to hurt this woman specifically.’ Maybe because she was being so presumptuous? (Morgan had had enough of people assigning motives to her behavior, as if they could peek into her skull and see, truly see, the wickedness within. Ah, behold, the evil witch! Hide your children, hide your women. Run away while you still can, lest your essence would be tainted forever. It was the same old song, really, even if a different pair of lips sang it. And, given that she wouldn’t even get to benefit from it this time around? No way was Morgan going to get her away with that, the same way she had let Arthur’s excesses slide! A king had had his privileges, but Adrianne wasn’t a king. She was a nobody-- a rat that had somehow secured the most delicious wheel of cheese, and now felt superior to everyone else because of it.)

“Did I?” the sorceress stretched her lips a little, so that they formed a small, sinister smile. “Maybe, maybe not. You have to understand, Adrianne, that I wouldn’t be a very good manipulator if I revealed my game. I suppose you can worry your pretty little head about it all the night if you want. Aren’t the wastes so boring, after all? You can thank me for the brainteaser I just crafted for you.” Awesome, Morgan le Fey. Yet another enemy you’ve made for yourself! Might as well start collecting their figures to give it some kind of purpose. The woman was never going to like her, that much she’d been able to tell, but singling her out like that had been wholly unnecessary. In a way, it resembled starting a fire when her own house had already been burning. Still, was it not more efficient than trying to convince her of her innocence? Than confessing that she really, truly did not know why it had been the most natural thing in the world to give Guinevere the locket like that? She herself didn’t understand, and feeding a trustworthy narrative to someone who had already decided not to believe her felt like trying to kiss a corpse awake. Impossible, in other words. Impossible, and nauseating as well.

Morgan did wince when Adrianne revealed her own scars, though not much sympathy leaked into her gaze. “For someone who is not looking to make a contest out of this, you are very eager to show off. All I did was to refute your claim that I received it for free. I imagine, though, that it is hard to wrap your head around others’ experiences when you’ve already made up your mind about what they are like. Any new insights about my life, Adrianne? Care to tell me, perhaps, what my favorite book is? I would love to learn more about myself.” No, Morgan didn’t necessarily resort to violence as her first choice, but it was partly thanks to Tamara’s arrival that she didn’t smack Adrianne with her new gloves. That was how they challenged people to duels in her books, was it not? (…although, yes, that wouldn’t have ended well. Guinevere had given her a taste of what facing a seasoned warrior was like, and she didn’t really want to end up under Adrianne of all people. Of course, not that the sorceress wanted to end under anyone at all! Hahaha. Haha. Ha. Please, just kill me now.)

Thank you! Finally someone with a semblance of common sense. Automatically, Morgan knelt next to Tamara, and combed through the supplies that she’d brought. “Yes. I don’t know how useful I’ll be exactly, but I can, I don’t know, hand you the tools you need. And watch. I can learn, even if I do not have much to offer right now.” (Because, you see, if there was one thing she had learned in the wastes, it was that her hands wouldn’t betray her. The training was already beginning to bear its fruit, and Morgan could almost, almost taste the sweet nectar already. It was… satisfying, in a sense? Striving towards something did feel better than just waiting for Arthur to make his move, and wondering when his patience would run out.) “Has she?” the sorceress asked, startled. Some pink may have graced her cheeks as well, though she would die before admitting it. “I… I mean, I haven’t been doing much. Mostly acting as a slightly more realistic training dummy, with flesh and blood and everything. I do have to admit, though, that it isn’t so bad. Back in Camelot, the most physical thing I was allowed to do was horse-riding.”

The rest of the day passed in relative peace, though the same couldn’t be said about her night. Morgan reached her cot exhausted, with both her arms and her legs hurting, and so the probability of her enjoying a dreamless sleep was at an all-time high. Except, probability didn’t translate into 100% certainty, you see?

Heat. Heat pooling in her belly, in her core, everywhere, really, and, ah, where was she? Because Morgan didn’t recognize the bed, nor the blue curtains hanging around it. Everything felt far too hazy and far too specific at the same time, like a memory shattered. You know what she did recognize, though? The unending cascades of blonde hair, caressing her skin like the softest breeze. Guinevere. Guinevere, who had apparently climbed on top of her. Guinevere, who was grinning. The night robe she wore looked almost more scandalous than if she had been truly naked, with the way it not quite revealed her shoulders, and--

“My, my. You almost look as if you are eager for something. Care to tell me what it is?” she asked, and a shiver ran down her spine. (What the hell. What the fuck! This wasn’t supposed to be happening, wasn’t, wasn’t, wasn’t, and Morgan… Morgan would show her why harassing women in their beds didn’t pay off. Right! She had full trust in her dream self.)

…maybe that trust was a little misplaced, though. More than a little misplaced. See, instead of kicking her out, the sorceress just lifted herself on her elbows, and locked their lips in a messy kiss. “Tell you?” she asked, flushed, when it finally ended. (Her heart was racing, thud, thud, thud, and just watching all of it… ah, damn!) “How boring. Let me show you.” Morgan took her hand, taking great care to kiss each finger before guiding it towards--

Morgan woke up with a jolt, for the nth time that night. Her pulse was still beating at the rate of a machine gun, her palms were slick with sweat, and… gods, gods, gods! What was going on?! She had never had such dreams before, never, and it felt like great injustice to be suffering from them now of all times. Just, hellooo? The sorceress would like to sleep! Ideally without her head being invaded by weird images of situations that had never happened and would never happen. Didn’t she hate Guinevere, after all? The only desire that bloomed in her heart when it came to her was the desire to break her nose!

When the sun climbed over the horizon, she felt just as exhausted, if not more, than before she’d gone to sleep. Ugh, awesome. “Good morning,” Morgan greeted some of the girls, running entirely on autopilot. That was probably the reason she stumbled over something, and… landed directly in Guinevere’s arms? Damn! No, no, no, meeting the one person she didn’t want to meet was not a part of her plan, and-- “H-hello,” her sleep-deprived brain produced. “I hope you, um, had a nice night. Dreamed of something sweet?” What!!! Alright, Morgan le Fey officially wanted to die.
 
After staring at it for what seemed like forever, Guinevere hid the locket away in her spare pair of boots. Yeah, it wasn't a very classy hiding place... but it wasn't like she had a silver lockbox around to keep precious silver lockets in them. Had she the means for classy, then maybe she would have found a classier spot for it. One that would satisfy the lady's sensibilities and everything. (...But the lady had given it to her willingly nonetheless. She'd given it up in exchange for a pair of gloves. Though the difference of price attached to both things must've been drastic, it was apparent in that moment that Morgan understood that the comfort those gloves would offer her was worth a lot. The equivalent of whatever that locket meant to her in some way. Morgan seemed to care about her dress and shoes in the way that Guinevere cared about swords, so... it was just important that she held onto it. It was an affirmation of Morgan's understanding. A symbol of the first moment they'd really seen eye to eye on anything.) She'd never had a taste for jewelry and yet her heart skipped a beat whenever she dangled it in her hands, examining the way the light sparkled against the silver. Why? Over time, she got startlingly close to interrogating the locket. Since swords could apparently talk now, it seemed within the realm of possibility to her that this strangely magnetic locket might have such a voice attached to it as well. When Adrianne asked her why she'd kept it, she didn't really have a solid answer for her. There was just something about it, okay? (Something wasn't very specific. Guinevere had only been able to shrug when Adrianne told her that in response. She flinched when her girlfriend let out a long, infuriated sigh.) Her fingers tingled with the unspoken desire to fasten it around her neck. Not even to see how it would look on her, but to feel it there. (...What? It really didn't make any fucking sense.) But she hid it instead, because she knew she was testing Adrianne's patience as it was. (...Guinevere made mistakes like that before, accepting gifts from friends without considering the unspoken implications behind them. In her mind, though, it was perfectly natural to feel a strong enough platonic bond to someone to appreciate such a gesture.) There might not have been a solid definition in Guinevere's head for whatever kind of relationship she and the lady had. But without a doubt it was absolutely, totally platonic!

Totally platonic. Yeah, someone should try telling that to Guinevere's malfunctioning brain, which insisted on painting a very different narrative in her dreams that night.

Warmth built itself into the kind of heat Guinevere was unused to feeling in the wastelands this time of the year, swathing her in red-hot flames that reached her perpetually frozen bones. They were in a bed that resembled the one from her weird nightmare before, surrounded by those familiar blue curtains. ('They' being herself and Morgan. The lady. But this time, they weren't at each other's throats. Or, well, they might have been... sort of... but in an entirely different way if you caught her drift.) The fireplace cast a flickering, orange glow across the room, romantically illuminating their hair and the edges of their curves. She wore the robe she'd been wearing then as well as the locket around her neck. Those weren't what she was focused on, though. It was kind of hard to focus on anything when she leaned forward, the robe slipping slightly as she unashamedly exposed more skin to the woman lying beneath her. Copper hair was strewn over the sheets like beautiful roots, familiar green eyes stared up at her as if she were the only person in the whole entire world. Then Morgan's lips were on her lips, her lips were on her fingers, and her fingers were on her skin, tracing lower and lower... The world itself seemed to shiver around her with pleasure before it broke into a million pieces, forcing her to stare wide-eyed into the darkness. The heat faded but her heart never stopped pounding like a jackhammer. Sweat stuck little strands of hair around her forehead and she breathed out shakily, rubbing at it.

"...Gwen?" The figure lying beside Guinevere in the darkness stirred. It wasn't Morgan. (And of course it wasn't Morgan.) It was Adrianne. And a sinking realization registered and dragged Guinevere's conscience down, down, down. Whispering that her girlfriend hadn't even crossed her mind once as she'd been dreaming. Fuck. It was just a dream though, wasn't it? It wouldn't make sense to punish herself for the things she dreamed about, for the things she had no control over. (And yet the dream had felt real, as well as the visceral feelings it left her with... and that alone caused guilt to weigh her down as Adrianne leaned over her and caressed her face.) "Another nightmare?" ...She'd been having a lot of those lately. Countless nightmares about that pigheaded king and his unwanted advances, that made her feel death would've been a merciful fate compared to lying in his bed. (Unlike all of those times, though, she wouldn't necessarily classify the one she'd just had as a nightmare. But it felt wrong to call it a dream, too. Obviously she didn't feel that way for Morgan...! But they'd both been enthusiastically willing participants, hadn't they?) "Need a distraction?"

Guinevere bit her lip and then, after a moment of thought, nodded. She owed it to Adrianne to indulge her after that. (She used to be so sure of the way she felt for her. At some point, though, her feelings had gotten all tangled up. She had to see where she was at, see how she felt. Confront the big question mark that floated around where her heart was concerned.) Addressing it sooner rather than later was the way to go about this, she knew. She loved her. That hadn't changed! It shouldn't have changed because of a dream of all things. Having her close was nice. Kissing her was... nice. But Adrianne had never made her feel the way that dream made her feel. (The way Morgan made her feel.)

...And Guinevere wasn't sure what to do with that realization. Rather than finding the clarity she'd wanted, the haze surrounding her only deepend.

That became all the more apparent when Guinevere caught Morgan in her arms the next morning. Diving in to catch her had come out of pure instinct, of course, but... her hands sure did seem to burn where they touched the lady's skin. (Almost as much as her face burned when Morgan mentioned dreams of all things. How, ah, strangely specific? Horrifyingly, terrifyingly specific.) It was only natural to ask about dreams first thing in the morning, right? Fucking right! Still. In her shock, Guinevere nearly dropped Morgan and it became apparent that she had to set her on her feet before that could happen and cause an even bigger scene than they already had.

"I, uh... nothing." Guinevere stammered out, scratching her suspiciously pink cheek. "...I mean I dreamed about nothing. It's none of your damned business what I dreamed about!"

Well, that was an admission that Guinevere had dreamed about something if there ever was one. Fuck! She could just slap herself at this rate. Now, because her brain was no doubt fond of the notion of self sabotage, she found herself desperately waving away the memories of what Morgan looked like underneath her clothes. Fucking... fuck.

"Oh. I dunno if Gwen did much dreaming last night." Fi snickered. Adrianne, who was sitting beside her, elbowed her hard enough to draw an 'oof' from her lips. (Despite the obvious conclusions Fi was coming to about Guinevere and Adrianne, her girlfriend watched this exchange with Morgan with a stare that could easily bore a few holes in her. As if she somehow knew everything.) Nothing had happened, not really. It was a dream! And yet... ugh! This was such a mess. Such a dumpster fire. Needless to say, Guinevere had to get out of there and spend all of this restless, pent up energy somehow.

"Well, I hope you slept well. Because we're upping the ante today. Running two miles this morning instead of one." Guinevere insisted, setting her hands on her hips as she tried to scrape together a semblance of her composure. (She was getting so worked up over all of this that she had to expend that energy somehow, all right? Besides, maybe running would help to clear her head.) "You ready, sunshine?"
 
None of her damned business what she dreamed about? Technically speaking, Morgan supposed, that much was true. There was no social convention that ensured her right to know about her conversational partner's dreams-- such a thing would be unenforceable, for one, and also a stupid point of contention to dwell on. Dreams were just waste products of the mind, weren't they? Memories shattered and rearranged, made to fit shapes they hadn't previously occupied. The attempt of the brain to recycle all the thoughts it had gone through in a day, in other words. They meant nothing! ...which, hmm, also made it strange. Guinevere's reaction, that was. The question did make Morgan want to die inside, but that was thanks to the context, you know? The context of her... ah, interesting night. The context which another shouldn't have been privy to, as it had only happened in her head. Why, then, did Guinevere give her that look? The look that, as far as Morgan knew, meant 'shit, shit, shit, I've been caught red-handed?' My, my, how curious! Curious enough for the sudden need to know to cut through her sense of embarrassment, even.

(Normally, the sorceress would have let it go. The world's heart was beating to the ancient rhythm of magic, yes, but that didn't mean the simplest explanation wasn't likely to be true at all times. A series of coincidences that couldn't be a coincidence? Sorry to disappoint, but it probably was one. Ever the pattern-seeking machine, the mind often connected the wrong dots-- rarely it happened that you saw all of them, and so you only went for the surface-level interpretations. Not even sorceresses were immune to that. Still, though... well, it was hard to ignore the incident that had occurred in that monster's nest. The events had revolved around them being intimate, and, despite it being a vision, both of them had shared it. They'd been aware of it, more than either of them would have liked. Could it mean, then...?)

It was either that, or, as Fi alluded, Guinevere remembering something else. You know, such as her nightly escapades? (No, Morgan wasn't mad. It was kind of sad that Adrianne had turned out to be real, but that was mainly caused by the fact that she happened to be Adrianne-- the woman with the personality of a small, yapping dog, barking her lungs out whenever something wasn't to her liking. Whether it was 'ugh, you're building that fence wrong,' 'learn that hole yourself' or 'stop trying to flirt with my girlfriend,' she always, always had a new complaint to offer! So, yes, that was her problem. What they did in their bed? That was none of Morgan's, quote, 'damned business,' and besides, she had known all along that girlfriends didn't exactly spend nights playing poker. Right! No anger here at all, hahaha, no, no, no. Again, she only bit her lip because she remembered that Adrianne in general existed! ...and that Guinevere existed, because she hated her as well. For, you know, killing Arthur. The audacity actually placed her far, far, far above Adrianne in terms of hatred, and she shouldn't forget about it because of... because of what, actually? Because of her treating her like a person from time to time? (More than likely, that was an act as well. A bid to make her soft, nonthreatening and useful, the way the bastards in Camelot had. After all, had it ever been different? Words lied, but patterns didn't. Didn't, didn't, didn't! ...she hoped they did, though. She hoped for that with such intensity that it scared her.)

"Gods," Morgan groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Two miles? Why must you hate me so? I thought I was supposed to be rewarded for getting better, not punished. Talk about motivation." Still, despite her words, the sorceress already began stretching. It... sort of was the dynamic they'd slid into, you know? Her complaining in order to make it obvious that she didn't actually want to be there, and then trying her best regardless. (Truth be told, it wasn't that bad. Not after the initial few runs. In the beginning, she had thought she was going to cough her lungs out, but, as her legs got stronger, Morgan found out there was some enjoyment to be derived from it as well. If nothing else, Guinevere hadn't lied about the scenery being breathtaking-- each morning, the sun rays colored the grey desert red, and... well, that was nice to watch. Sort of.)

Morgan ran, making a valiant effort to stay by Guinevere's side instead of falling behind. That was another area of improvement-- back when they'd started, she'd only been able to stare at her back resentfully, but lately, that wasn't really true anymore. One leg followed the other, in this steady rhythm, but then... uh, an idea struck. An idea that may have been kind of bad, though that had never stopped Morgan before. Based on her behavior patterns, this should work. Let's test my theory out, shall we?

With a pained groan, the sorceress suddenly collapsed, holding her left leg. "Damn," she cursed, "I must have, ah, stepped on something." (The way her voice trembled? Indeed, Morgan was proud of herself for her advanced acting skills! Thank you, Camelot, for all those times I had to pretend to be someone else. Now I get to reap the sweet, sweet benefits.) And, when Guinevere inevitably rushed to her fallen comrade's rescue? Morgan looked at her with big, innocent eyes, before grabbing her hand and kissing each finger. (The contact was a brief thing-- nothing at all scandalous. More a touch of her lips than a true kiss, certainly. Still, it mirrored the events of that dream rather faithfully, and that was the entire point. How fun, wasn't it?) "Thank you," she said, as if nothing strange had happened. "I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable? It was just an instinct. We used to thank those who did us great service in this manner back in Camelot. I, um, have been trying to express my gratitude more." ...honestly? It was a good thing Morgan was too focused on her plan, otherwise her embarrassment would have killed her. Maybe it still wasn't enough, though! With that in mind, Morgan grabbed Guinevere's hand once again and guided it... uh, somewhere. Yet another fun parallel, if you knew what to look for! "I'd tell you where it hurts," she said, "but I figured it would be better to show you."
 
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Guinevere glared ahead at the horizon, her legs pumping beneath her and her ponytail swishing back and forth as she ran. She urged herself to let go of her thoughts about the dream, instead hold to the feeling of moving her body forward. Damn. She needed to focus. Get her fucking act together! Losing her head to dreams and romantic fantasies set in Camelot of all places was liable to get her killed one of these days, she just knew it. The effects of a sleepless night slowed her usual pace to the point that she was running next to the lady and for once she was clammed up in total silence, lost in her thoughts rather than trying to find something to chat about. The morning air was getting colder every day. Lately they expended resources sending groups of girls off to hunt and, more often than not, they came back with nothing. Stressing out about these problems wasn't going to solve them, she knew, but ignoring them and hoping that they would go away wasn't going to solve anything either. They'd have to act sooner rather than later, before winter had its way with them. (Faintly, the memory of the thorns in her her veins, feeding on her blood and unfurling a bed of wildflowers in the soil flickered at the back of her mind. Terrifying. Beautiful. Fucking confusing. Was it blood magic in general? Was it her blood specifically? There were many answers left unresolved. Seeking out the answers could potentially offer them some much-needed comfort during the winter months. But what if it was a trap? A vision designed to entice her on a path that would lead to ruin? It sounded exactly the way one of those adventure stories she'd told around the campfire would start.) Searching for the answers pertaining to herself felt like... well, was like approaching an active bear trap, knowing exactly what would happen when she got caught in those jaws. As if something inside of her knew her unknown roots were fucked up and that maybe, maybe, this time she would be better off without them. Better of not knowing.

This time... what? What did Guinevere's brain mean by this time? (Geez. At some point her own brain had gone completely rouge, wandering off and finding shit that was completely unnecessary. She wasn't sure where it was dredging up these dreams that felt like memories... but she'd appreciate it if it did her a solid stopped.)

Snapping out of a reverie, Guinevere perked up to attention when she heard the lady cry out. (The worry that tugged at her chest in that moment was completely understandable and not weird at all. She'd have reacted the same way had anyone cried out. Even fucking Bobster. A gasp could be indicative of some monster they all needed to be concerned about! So the fact that she was worried had nothing to do with Morgan herself, or that dream she'd had for that matter and--) Oh. Shit! Speaking of distractions... chastising herself for getting so caught up in her thoughts that she wasn't fully looking out for her, she knelt to Morgan's side to help when--

"Are you o--" Guinevere blinked, some part of her mind undoubtedly ceasing to function as Morgan began kissing each of her fingers individually. (The same way she did in the-- in the--) "O-o-o-oh." She gulped, a shiver that was explicitly warm instead of cold running down her body. Her lips were soft, just like she remembered. (But she wasn't supposed to notice that kind of thing... because she hadn't felt anything! It'd been a dream!) Shit's fucking sake! Her nose and ears were already nipped with a faint shade of pink from the cold, but that shade had since spread and proceeded to take over her whole entire face. (And suddenly the cold wasn't quite so cold anymore. The excitement fluttering in her belly meant nothing. It was her body's natural response to-- to-- ah, fuck! She felt like she'd been caught doing something wrong. But that'd been a dream! And as far as she was concerned, dreams were like... a private thing. Then again, the lady had entered her mind before. It wasn't so implausible that she knew exactly what happened. In fact, that voice had stuffed them into the very same robes and bed that they'd been lying in when it'd told them to kiss.) Maybe it was just a really weird coincidence? She was willing to shove it aside and accept that narrative if the lady was. "Well we don't do it that way out here, so just--"

The helpless little yelp Morgan coaxed from Guinevere's throat with what she did next was a noise that should never, ever come out of the mouth of a warrior from the wastelands. Soft, delicate, susceptible. With words instead of swords, the lady was metaphorically on top of her now. (The same way she'd turned the tables halfway through the dream and flipped her onto the mattress--) Fuck! Why'd her brain have to provide those visuals?

"You're just fucking with me, aren't you?" Guinevere breathed, a flash of something vaguely horrified crossing her face as she yanked her hand away and scrambled back up to her feet. Duh! It had probably taken her long than it would have most to come to terms with it, but there was no other fucking way. The coincidences were too on the nose for her lady not to know what she'd dreamed about that night, from the finger kisses down to the... fuck, fuck, fuck! Would she ever be able to put her reputation back together after that one? "What, did you take another trip inside my head last night or somethin'?"

Guinevere paced, fuming silently. Of course, the implication that they were in her head made it sound like this was her fantasy. Which it wasn't! She had just been thinking about how fucking platonic everything was between them before...

"Or was I in your head? Fuck!" Guinevere clutched the sides of her head. Clearly, she was taking all of this very well. "What the fuck is happening!? Can you explain this?"
 
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The thought hit Morgan belatedly, though, as if to make up for that, also with all the strength of a war hammer-- the bloody, mangled pieces of her brain could have ended up on the grey sand and it would not have shocked her in the slightest. Quite the opposite. (The plan had been good. The perfect way to smoke Guinevere out, if she did say so herself. The one factor Morgan hadn’t counted on, though? Having to look at her. Having to look at her make those faces, and listen to her produce those sounds. It was, umm… interesting. Right. Interesting, yes, in the same way poking a dragon in the eye was an interesting thought, but not necessarily a smart one. Even worse, witnessing the phenomenon seemed to activate some forgotten instinct in Morgan. Wouldn’t it be fun, after all, to discover all the things that could reduce her to this? To a state even more pathetic, where reaching for a coherent thought was a distant dream? There was an appeal to Guinevere, the mighty warrior, moaning her name as she… no, no, no! The appeal didn’t exist. It was, um, just a hypothetical scenario! The sorceress only found herself fascinated by contrasts, thank you very much. Guinevere wasn’t even her type. The woman was, ah, too pretty? Pretty enough to distract her from her research, and that was an automatic ‘no’ from her. Hahaha! Expert reasoning skills right there, Morgan le Fey.)

It was a good thing that Morgan couldn’t see herself in the mirror, really, because her expression was anything but dignified-- had she had to compare it to everything, she probably would have chosen a fish out of water, gasping for air. (She, too, felt hot. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it felt… well, dangerous. Akin to playing the Russian roulette, except with real bullets only. This would end in hurt, wouldn’t it? It had to! The path lying before her had no intersections, no branching points, and the sorceress could tell that what waited for her at the end was the tip of the sword. The tip of the sword, or perhaps a well, deep and dark and bottomless! …uh, what? Lately, there had been these random images floating around in her mind, and Morgan didn’t know what to do with unwanted guests. Did they mean anything? Did they, or was this just her brain failing to comprehend this new reality? …if so, a reset was sorely needed. As in, right now. Malfunctions of this caliber couldn’t be tolerated for even a second!)

As if sensing her weakness, Guinevere proceeded to counterattack. “W-what?” Morgan stuttered, looking about as innocent as a lone wolf found in the midst of a massacred horde of sheep. (Hint: not very much.) “I would never. Look, it isn’t my fault that you don’t understand our ancient cultural practices, and… and it’s actually kind of insulting. Yes!” The sorceress dragged herself back on her feet, making sure to not distribute her weight equally. That way, she would look hurt, right? Right! Foolproof alibi right there! The fact she was a trembling mess must have contributed to the illusion, too. “And besides,” she went on, “it’s rude to…” A trip inside her head? Ugh, fine. A good player recognized when the game was, indeed, over, and it seemed she might have spun the narrative a little too tight. The thread tended to snap when that happened, you know? (A trip inside her head, a trip inside her head, a trip inside her head. Oh, gods. The phrase echoed in her head, over and over, and, in a way, it was calming. Not being alone in this, that was. Nefarious magic aside, it meant that she hadn’t actually had an embarrassing dream about Guinevere! See, this had been forced upon them. No repressed desires here, nuh uh. Just strange, stubborn spirits that insisted on the two of them being… uh, intimate. And, in case you needed to know, Morgan actually hated it! She hated how distracting all of it was, and how her eyes lingered on the other woman’s lips now, and how she couldn’t help but turn into a flustered ball of excitement whenever she so much as brushed against… oh. Oh, no.)

Quick. Quick, think of something smart to say! “I didn’t visit anyone’s head,” Morgan finally said, her cheeks burning. “And you didn’t, either. If we happened to share a dream, then none of us had anything to do with it. I wasn’t fucking with you, by the way. The truth is that I had a theory, and I needed to test it.” Yeah, a theory that revolved around her kissing her damn fingers. Gods! Had devil himself materialized in front of her and offered her to erase her existence from the fabric of reality, Morgan sure would have accepted. Within a heartbeat, too! Any supernatural forces that stood witness to this ignored her, though, and so the sorceress had to make do with evading Guinevere’s glare.

“I’m sorry, alright? I would have asked, but you didn’t seem all too eager to share. It was important for me to know because… because it has something to do with the other strange developments. With that incident from before, too. I mean, haven’t you thought about why all of this is happening? In some way, we must be connected.” A flash of inspiration sparked in her mind, and, guided by it, Morgan finally looked up. “Be honest with me, Guinevere. Have you ever used magic? Have there been, I don’t know, magic users in your family?”
 
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