Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

[ellarose]

“Always. If you think this is the best way, then--” Guinevere answers to Morgan’s query about protecting her without hesitating, but can’t finish the rest of her sentence before the creature is lurching towards her and an arrow is flying towards them! Hissing through her teeth when she realizes she has nowhere else to dodge, she holds her ground and slashes her sword forward if only to push the monster away. Her efforts protect her from the full brunt of its strike, there’s a loud clang as her blade makes contact with it, then it swerves and grazes her arm in the process. (Ouch. Is she bleeding? Well, it’s not so bad. Just a scratch. She’ll take care of it later.) Besides, there are more pressing matters to focus on. Such as the arrows. Of course they’re not dealing with a single mage. Must be a whole freaking gang! Just their luck. How many of them are hidden out here, waiting for their opportunity to strike? If she’s outnumbered in a fight and has to protect Morgan at the same time, they might as well be sitting ducks. “Fuck.” Obviously the creature’s not going to give her time to explain the plan she’s in the process of piecing together, but-- “Oh fuck. Let me try something first.”

The mecha beast lunges after Guinevere again, but this time she takes off running and lets it slither after her. Please work, please work. Rather than letting herself succumb to panic as an arrow pierces the ground at her feet, she clears her mind and seeks out the spirits. So much for magic being a last resort... but the odds are clearly stacked against them, now, and she’ll clearly need more than her sword if they’re going to survive this. Her target is a tree she’d noticed leaning earlier. If she can just give it a push, then... leading it the creature in its path, the crack of bark breaking rips through the air like lightning. The screech that follows tells her the tree landed on top of the creature, just as she'd intended. It doesn’t kill the thing, obviously, it wouldn't be that easy. But it shatters and causes the insects to writhe around in a state of momentary disarray. (The weight of the tree should have smashed at least some of them, too -- maybe that disturbance would distract the other mage, make things easier for Morgan? Ugh, she doesn’t know enough about magic yet to know if it’ll really do that much good.) At the very least, it should buy them some more time.

Circling back towards Morgan, Guinevere keeps herself sharp and lets her gaze sweep their surroundings to find out where the arrows are coming from... to find their archer. Seems they’ve become a bit shy, now that they've seen she can use a little magic of her own, haven’t they? Dismissing the spirits with an earnest 'thank you' before they can sap too much of her energy, her hand sweeps under her nose to clean the blood. There’s a rapid click, click, click behind from behind and she can tell the insects are rebuilding fast. So they need to move faster. “--Do it now, Morgan! I’ve got you covered.” Or, uh, at least she thinks she does? She gets distracted momentarily when that freaking ghost lady decides to flicker in her path again! There's no time for this -- too many threats scattered around for her to humor something that isn't even real. She needs to focus, damn it!

“Thought we’d be easy pickings, huh.” Guinevere addresses the hidden gang and flips her sword expertly in her hand, showing off and talking big to make herself a more distracting target. Acting tough to dissuade any of them from focusing on Morgan, really. (And if they try? Well, there’ll be hell to pay.) If they don’t realize what she’s doing, ideally they shouldn’t see her as a threat. They won’t even see it coming that her brilliant Morgan will take down what must be their heaviest hitter in this fight! Lowering her stance, she holds her sword out with intent to defend. “--You gonna come out here and face me or what?”

 

[Syntra]

Arrows? Damn. How were they going to deal with that? Morgan had a plan for dealing with the supernatural side of things, but not with much else, really. Thankfully, Gwen seemed to have some sort of idea-- and wow, it worked splendidly. (How lucky was she to have her on her side? Immensely, because having someone like her for an opponent... yeah, that would get very ugly very fast. Morgan probably would have ended up dead within seconds, magic or not. Guinevere, after all, was danger itself-- sharper than the sword she wielded, and more durable as well. Only fools like her brother refused to see that. And people like him? Oh, they'd pay for that foolishness.)

"Right," the sorceress said quietly. "Let's do this, then." And with that, Morgan closed her eyes. (It wasn't an easy thing to do-- to let herself be vulnerable like that in this context, when arrows were flying through the air and only the gods themselves knew what the enemy mage planned, but thankfully, Morgan happened to be an expert on difficult things. You know, like not breaking Arthur's nose every time she saw him? Besides, if there was one thing she could believe in, it was Gwen. With Gwen by her side, she couldn't possibly be safer. ...shit, that sounded like some cheesy line from those romance novels she had laughed at in the past, didn't it? Come to think of it, maybe she owned those authors an apology, because a lot of it didn't seem like nonsense to her anymore.)

Once the spirits came, Morgan welcomed them with open arms, and the whole world drowned in hues of blue immediately. (The spirit vision, as she called it. The spirits sensed things more than they truly saw them, but since humans were so dependent on their eyes, the impressions from their perspective still came with a visual-- with a conveniently color-coded visual, so to speak. The brighter the color, the stronger the energy behind it, which meant she only had to look closely. Hmm... Maybe this thread over here? No, that one only looped back to the cluster of mechanical critters. Curses. If only there hadn't been so many of them! Maybe her eyes wouldn't have hurt so much, and-- no. No, she had to focus. Focus, focus, focus. So what if the pain blinded her, made her want to crawl to some dark place and never open her eyes again? Death still wasn't the kind of darkness she yearned for!)

Thankfully, their enemies truly didn't seem to get what Morgan was doing. To those uninitiated, she was basically just standing there, frozen with what had to be fear, and... bleeding from her nose profusely? (A magic user would have recognized these symptoms, definitely, but their own mage was most likely hiding somewhere outside of their line of sight. A blessing and a curse at once, as it turned out.)

"Ah, we've got a feisty one here, boys," someone said, and there was a roar of laughter in response. How many voices? Five? Ten? Too many for their liking, probably. At least the arrows stopped for some reason-- either the archer had run out of them, or there was a more sinister reason behind it. Some sort of trap, perhaps? Because at this point, reconciliation seemed far-fetched. "You sure you don't want to just give up instead?" the man emerged from behind the rocks, along with three companions of his. Meanwhile, the robotic creature behind Guinevere morphed into one giant snake, but it didn't attack. No, it awaited its master's commands, writhing and hissing all the while. "Since it would be a shame to hurt such a pretty face." The man was tall and robust, at least for someone living in the wastes, and dressed in something that looked like leather-- in other words, practically royalty himself. Such nice clothes were worth killing for, after all. (And, more than likely, someone had died so he could wear them.) "So what will it be, huh? Wanna act reasonable or not?"

 

[ellarose]

As the men close in on her like vultures to a feast, Guinevere grits her teeth and holds her fire inside so it doesn’t burn them up. They might be in the wastes now and not in Camelot, where unleashing that fire inside of her would reduce her reputation to ashes in court — but these men won’t hesitate to kill her if she carelessly pisses them off. (Maybe she can get away with acting like a little shit when she’s got her gang there to back her up… but right now she’s outnumbered. Has to prioritize protecting Morgan over anything else, bide their time so she can take that monster out first.) If Jen were here, she would have latched onto that ‘pretty face’ comment and rolled with it. Maybe she’d have buttered him up about his taste for the finer things in life and swindled him. No, yeah. This egotistical guy is exactly the sort that Jen would have eaten for breakfast. But Guinevere isn’t Jen, so she scowls and points her sword out and moves it in an arc to keep the men from moving any closer to them. “Stay back.” If this does break out into a fight, she needs to keep the action as far away from Morgan as possible.

The man who she assumes by now is the leader backs up and holds his hands up in mock surrender with a laugh. As if they need someone to follow to act on their own accord, his posse laughs along with him. (So that’s how it is. His gang’s not with him because they like him. They’re afraid of him. He’s proven himself as the strongest and the rest follow his lead because they don’t want to die by his hand. She’s seen this dynamic enough to know by now. Unsurprisingly common out in a world where only the strong can survive.) “Careful where you point that thing, sweetheart. Somebody might lose an eye.” Okay, whatever. So they’re not going to take her seriously. But in truth, as irritating as it is, that’s actually an advantage more than anything else. Because she’ll make them regret it soon enough. Guinevere doesn't lower her blade, though. Just inches forward slowly enough to keep them backing away, to create a safe distance for Morgan to do what she has to do without getting caught up in the crossfire.

“If you really want to sort this out like reasonable people, then maybe you should call off your giant fucking snake first?” Guinevere ignores all the jeering, standing her ground with a glare that’s downright icy. Every hiss she hears from behind causes nerves to crawl down her spine, gives her the sensation of a thousand insect legs on her skin. Ugh. This is by no means a fair fight — but that’s what it is, to journey into the wastes. Nothing in this life is fair. If you’re lucky enough to survive, you learn that lesson pretty damn fast. Learn to roll with it and adapt. If she already knows anything about her opponent, it’s that he’s full of himself. Maybe she should test just how fragile this bastard’s ego really is? “It’s overkill, don’t you think? Like what, are you afraid you can’t beat a couple of girls all by yourselves?” She continues moving forward with each word. When she feels it's safe enough for Morgan, she smirks and pushes it over the edge. “Or maybe you’re compensating for something?”

One the cronies standing behind him snorts and another smacks him scoldingly for it. The leader’s face blushes a hilariously bright shade of red.

“You bitch!” That ‘sweetheart’ treatment changed real fast, didn’t it? He lunges towards her in a rage. But Guinevere, anticipating this reaction, swerves away in time for him to stumble to the ground. In the meantime, she kicks one of the other guy’s legs out from under him and gives him a shove that knocks him into one of his companions, bringing them down like dominos. None of them are out for the count yet, though. It’s four men and a giant snake against her. (And if they’ve got more backup hidden elsewhere? Yikes. Well, no time to dwell on that now.) They put her skills to the test, really, as she lifts her sword and deflects blows coming at her from every angle. The real problem here is the fact that she can hear the monster slithering on the ground moving closer and closer to her as well. Her focus is also torn in a million different directions, when she catches flickers in peripheral and makes sure Morgan is still in the clear. “—Hold on!” However, the leader’s shout causes the mecha beast to stop its pursuit. “She’s mine.” Well. Good news is his wounded pride is going to keep her from getting eaten by a giant snake… at least for now. Bad news is his gaze is downright lethal. For all her talk, she’s gauged that all of these guys are clearly afraid of their leader for a reason. And she gets a feeling she’s about to find out why.

 

[Syntra]

Guinevere's voice only reached her faintly; almost as if a wall separated them. What was it that was happening there? Some sort of conversation, maybe? Or an argument? Hmm. Perhaps, if she listened closely, Morgan would recognize what was going on, and-- no. That wasn't her task here. Splitting her attention would only make it harder for her to focus, which, uh, wouldn't be ideal here. Far from it. So, back to work! Back to the shiny cluster of pain, to be precise. (One would have thought that her eyes would get used to it at this point, but no. Just like staring directly into the sun, magic, too, was a concentrated agony. Too hot, too bright, too much of... everything, really. Yet, despite that, Morgan persevered. Or maybe because of it? It wasn't like she didn't have a history of being attracted to all things intense-- to women whose flame couldn't be quenched.)

Unbeknownst to the sorceress, the situation on the battlefield was growing more dramatic. "Oh shit, now you've done it," one of the leader's henchmen laughed. "You sure you don't wanna give up? If you begged nicely, I'm sure Glenn would still let you give up. Since we're gentlemen, you know."

Glenn himself didn't really look to be open to the possibility, though. He unsheathed his sword, and-- oh, suddenly it was obvious why his men feared him. The weapon shone. It shone brightly, kind of like campfire in the darkness of the night or stars on an otherwise empty sky, and when he swung it in Guinevere's general direction, she could feel the heat radiating off of it. Wow, okay. Clearly, the guy was no ordinary gang leader. Clothes much nicer than he had any right to own, connections to magic users and what seemed to be an enchanted sword? Yeah, they were in trouble. Mildly speaking. "Taste the wrath of Firebringer, bitch!" he bellowed.

"But-- but Glenn," someone dared to protest, "what about the money? If she kicks the bucket here, then we'll--"

"Oh, I don't care for no damn hostage money anymore! This is a matter of pride. She's gonna die, and if you don't like that, you can go first." Predictably, that silenced the man pretty fast-- Glenn, after all, didn't seem like the type that would hesitate to deliver on his threats. ...what kind of money was he talking about, though? Had someone ordered this attack? The blood cult, maybe? Naturally, Glenn wasn't too eager to provide answers. Instead of that, he showered her with a flurry of slashes, each more aggressive than the one before it. (And the heat? Oh, that was the most terrible thing about it. The sword didn't actually need to touch her skin; just it being in her general vicinity was strangely disruptive. It sizzled and burned, almost as if it had just left the forge, and-- oh. Did the thing somehow touch her? Not physically, but in the same way the spirits did whenever she communed with them? Well, no. It wasn't the same, for its touch was fear and blisters, despair and parched throat. Gods. Were her reactions actuallyslower now? Either that, or her opponent had suddenly gotten faster!)

In that moment, however, Morgan found the thread. Tracing it to its source was a child's play-- no more difficult than tying her shoelaces, really. And once she did? The sorceress yanked at it with all her might. That led to three outcomes simultaneously; first, the blood that had been flowing down her nose in a tiny stream was positively gushing now, and Morgan had to grab onto one of the nearby rocks to avoid collapsing. (Damn. The mage had been holding onto it with greater ferocity than expected! Still, he hadn't actually managed to keep it, which manifested itself in the mecha beast falling apart with a loud, metallic 'clang'-- and also with Glenn's sword becoming dim once again.) "What?" he blinked in disbelief, his gaze switching between the now ordinary weapon and the pile of junk that had once been his strategic advantage. Yeah, that must have been a cold awakening. "What the fuck? Did you do that?" the man pointed his sword at Guinevere. "How? Speak!"

 

[ellarose]

This gang’s not afraid of their leader for no reason. A formidable foe in swordplay and the magic only makes him that much stronger. Deflecting every blow, Guinevere becomes exhausted by the heat warping the air around them and the sheer amount of effort it takes to keep up with him. (The threat of death or being taken as their hostage is good enough incentive for her to fight with everything she’s got. If these guys were hired to take her back to that fucking cult — no, no, no, that can’t happen. She won’t let it!) As the fight continues, though, it comes to a point where her head throbs, sweat beads at her brow, her shoulders heave with every breath and her throat is so dry she might as well have been traversing a desert for the last several hours… it’s starting to look bad. Slipping for only an instant, 'Firebringer' comes dangerously close to slicing her through (or maybe reducing her to ashes) when the sword’s power is suddenly snuffed out. In fact, she can feel the change in temperature when it does.

Oh. Oh thank goodness, it worked. Of course it worked! Morgan's incredible. Guinevere sings her hundreds of silent praises in her mind. Yes! If only she could kiss her right this instant to show her just how appreciative she is. (Or better yet check on her, make sure she's holding up okay — except calling attention over to her would also catch the gang and that’s the last thing she wants right now. She promised to protect her and she’s going to stay true to her word, damn it!) And as much as she would love to brag about Morgan’s magic expertise to Glenn here… yeah, again, she’s not going to risk getting them into anymore trouble than they’re already in. Because while the magic has been eliminated from the fight, the fact remains that they’re still outnumbered here.

“—Or how about you answer my questions instead?” Guinevere glares down his blade and raises hers. This time when their swords meet, they’re evenly matched — damn, it’s been a long time since she’s gone head to head with someone this... formidable? No offense to Lancelot or anything, but it’s pretty obvious he went easy on her when they sparred because of Camelot’s backwards rules and standards for queens and women alike. Every move she makes is a matter of life or death, her adrenaline spikes to a high she hasn’t felt in ages. It takes a while, but she finally gains the upper hand, striking his wrist to disarm him and knocking him onto the ground. She stomps on his chest to pin him there. “What was all that about hostage money? Who the fuck do you work for?” She digs her heel in when he doesn’t speak, the threat of being sent back to the clutches of that blood cult only heightening the sense of urgency. Pulse throbbing in her throat, she points the tip of her sword at his chin. “Tell me!”

“I don’t work for anyone.” Glenn grits out at her. Unfortunately, this is the moment his gang snaps out of their slack-jawed stupor. (Was it the magic vanishing all of a sudden? The 'pretty face' who just knocked their boss off his feet? Probably a mix of the two.) One of his cronies yanks Guinevere from behind and pulls her into an ironclad headlock, crushing her throat so hard that she sees stars for an instant. The force of it causes her to drop her sword and another one of the men kicks it away so it skids away. Glenn brings himself up to his feet then, dusts himself off with an annoying flourish. “We know Camelot would pay a shit-ton for their missing queen. Too bad your pretty little mouth got you into trouble. Now you've gotta die. No one insults me and lives to tell—”

“But Glenn, it’s like you said. Imagine how much they’ll pay for her. Can’t you just let it go?“

From there, they argue amongst themselves. (While they’re distracted, Guinevere offers Morgan an apologetic glance from the corner of her eye. Leaning against that rock… is she all right?) Without Glenn's magic sword at his disposal, it sounds like the conflicting opinions on what they should do next have grown louder. Wow, they’re revolting! Not that it's particularly good news for her. Because returning to Camelot as a hostage without any of the information they set out to find? Yeah, no thanks! Once again she finds herself in a situation where a bunch of men argue over her fate. Fantastic. Not to mention… missing queen? What? That’s when she notices Glenn’s boots. Normally she couldn’t care less about shoes — but, uh, she spent too many hours staring at the floor back when Arthur ordered her not to talk to Morgan after the banquet and assigned Lancelot as her personal bodyguard. There’s no mistaking the fact that those are Lancelot’s boots. Maybe he’s still alive, then? Did he reveal her identity to these tools while he was searching for her?

When the henchman’s hold on Guinevere’s neck slackens, she takes the opportunity to bite down on his arm as hard as she can. “Ow! Fucking—“ Slipping halfway free of his hold, she kicks him in the groin, takes the dagger Morgan had given her from her belt and knocks him out with the blunt end when he doubles over. Well. That’s one down. Problem is, there's three more... converging on her like hungry wolves. She raises her blade and swallows hard. As long as they're still focused on her and not on Morgan...

“You already have a hostage from Camelot, don’t you? A knight. Where is he?” Well, it’s just speculation at this point, but… if he’s still kicking, she owes it to Lancelot to at least try and rescue him.

 

[Syntra]

Morgan just stood there uselessly, trying to catch her breath. It was kind of difficult with the blood still streaming down her nose, of course, and normally, she would have given herself an opportunity to relax, but there very much weren't normal circumstances. Guinevere was still fighting, dammit! (Had this been a fair fight, Morgan wouldn't have dreamed of intervening-- unlike Arthur, she knew Gwen could take care of herself. There wasn't a swordsman in this world who could handle fighting so many men at the same time, though, and those guys certainly did not look as if they each wanted to wait for their turn. Gods. Gods, what if they hurt her? What if she died here? Oh no, no, no. Morgan would sooner bleed out herself before allowing them to take her away from her. They couldn't have Gwen. They just couldn't!) Slowly, Morgan wiped the blood off her face. Her dress would be ruined, most certainly, though that mattered about as much as her stupid brother's stupid opinions now. Come on now, she told herself. Breathe. Just a little more. Just a few more drops of energy, and it'll all be okay. With their mage knocked out, the men that remained were likely just superstitious morons-- and, oh, did she know how to play people like them. Cheap parlor tricks would be enough to send them running for the hills!

"Our hostages are our fucking problem," one of the men growled. "What makes you think we'll tell you, huh?"

"Don't even speak to that bitch," another of his friends reprimanded him. "Did you see what she did to Pete? Glenn's right, let's just get it over with. She's not worth the hassle."

"But-- come on! This may be the opportunity of lifetime! Can you imagine how much they'd pay for the queen? We wouldn't have to lift a finger for the rest of our lives!" a different man protested. A sea of voices cheered in approval, but just as many of didn't seem to agree.

"Yeah? Then go and get her yourself, tiger. Let's see how you fare!" ...yeah, without Glenn's enchanted sword, the group dynamic quickly evolved into democracy, and that didn't bode well for swift decisions. Additionally, different sounds started coming from the background-- sounds of... what was it, even? Shock? Struggle? Armed struggle, most likely, because you couldn't really mistake steel clashing over steel for anything else.

"Stand back, villains!" Okay, that answered Guinevere's question of where Lancelot was. Did he somehow manage to take advantage of the ensuing chaos and free himself? It certainly looked like that, because within seconds, the knight stood by her side. (He looked ghastly, that was for sure. Pale and thin, as if he hadn't eaten properly for days. His lip was broken, too, and the clothes he wore were barely rags, yet his eyes shone with courage. Not even captivity, it seemed, had broken him.) "Lady Guinevere! Lady Guinevere, fear not. Together, we'll fight them off. Let's teach those savages a lesson!"

That was roughly the moment Morgan got a hold of herself, too. With the pitiful remainders of her strength, she reached after the spirits-- chained them to herself, really. (A technique that was neither safe nor particularly useful, which was why she hadn't taught it to Gwen, but frankly? If you wished for a spectacle, there was just no better way to achieve it. The reaction to that sort of action tended to be, uh, explosive.) Immediately, Morgan's eyes gained an unnatural glint, and the raw energy that coursed through her veins lifted her a few inches into the air. (...which, yeah, not her favorite part of this whole ordeal. She preferred the firm ground beneath her feet, but, the spirits preferred not to be taken prisoner, so Morgan supposed it was only fair.)

"Hey," one of the bandits pointed at her, "what is that other bitch doing?!"

"Oh shit, that's magic! Dammit, what now?"

Many of them knew exactly what to do-- specifically, they just turned around and ran, not willing to wait for whatever Morgan had in store. (She had nothing, really, but that was the beauty of that plan; the fools didn't know that.)

"Damned cowards!" Glenn roared, besides himself with anger. "I swear I'll kill you where you stand if you don't fucking stop!" Sadly for him, the threat wasn't very effective-- the men probably figured they'd risk death at sword point rather than take their chances with the dark forces the sorceress commanded, and continued with their great escape. And, oh, now the numbers looked almost fair!

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere greets Lancelot with a wan smile. Though it’s not ideal to have him along for their journey, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t glad to see him alive. Despite his faults and the trouble he’s nearly gotten her into in the past, he truly is a good guy. Not to mention he was the only one who gave enough of a shit about her disappearance — enough to go against Arthur’s wishes and venture into the wastelands alone to search for her. And the fact that he stepped in and said they’d fight together rather than trying to make it out to seem like he’s the hero in this situation… even after the hell he’d undoubtably endured for her sake? He’s respectable in a way no other knight, not even the king himself could claim to be. (For god’s sake, Arthur tried to avoid taking responsibility by blaming her for her own kidnapping!) Though he's made mistakes in the past... maybe they can trust him to keep quiet on what they're doing.

That moment of relief is short lived, though, when the attention shifts over to Morgan. As in, everyone's eyes are on her now! Guinevere’s heart drops in an instant. All those attempts to be distracting enough to keep them away from her, and — she looks over herself to see what the rest of them are reacting to and her eyes widen. What is she doing!? And more importantly, what kind of toll is this going to take on her in the aftermath? What if she pushes herself too far? God, she’s… she’s floating. “Morgan—“

“Lady Guinevere, to your left!” Lancelot’s warning and the clash of steel breaks her from her trance… but she dodges a second too late. Glenn’s sword slashes a gruesome cut in her side. Lancelot’s busy with another of the henchmen who stuck around after Morgan’s display, but he manages to toss her her sword in time for her to block his next attack. Applying pressure to her wound with one hand and defending herself from Glenn’s furious onslaught of attacks with the other, she finds it harder and harder to concentrate with every strike. In part it’s concern for Morgan, the urge to tear herself away from the fight to run to her side, but… also, it’s like some kind of fever has taken ahold of her.

“What you’re feeling now? That’s the power of the Firebringer. Stays with you for a few hours. Dehydration.” He strikes, “Dizziness, confusion.” He strikes again, harder this time, and it’s just like he describes. Shit. It doesn’t take long before he overpowers her and knocks her onto the ground. “You’ve gone and ruined everything, bitch, and you’re gonna die for that now!”

When he raises his blade high, a vision burns bright in Guinevere's mind. (And, uh, it’s not her life flashing before her eyes, like it might have been in any other near-death situation. No. It’s that ghost lady she’s been seeing, dragging a knife across her palm… and using her blood to draw some kind of symbol?) Shakily, Guinevere uses the hand she’d held over her bleeding wound to trace that same symbol into the earth beneath her. The moment Lancelot seems to notice her position and screams her name, it’s too late for him to save her. But he doesn’t have to. Because Guinevere’s eyes take on a greenish glow… and just before Glenn’s sword can pierce through her heart, it bursts into a flurry of dandelions? Okay. Okay, sure.

“What the fuck.” Glenn backs away from her. “What the fuck!?” He turns to face… a very enraged and armed Lancelot. But the once fearsome gang leader lifts his now empty hands in surrender and runs off screaming. And that’s just enough to scare off what remains of them, too. The dust of the fight settles and leaves a few moments of stunned quiet.

What. The. Fuck. Guinevere just lies there for a moment, watching the dandelions swirling over her head — some carried off by the wind, some landing in her hair. That was a sword. And she just turned a weapon of steel into — a bunch of flowers? Well, if machines could consume animals and the earth itself, maybe… maybe she did what the Catastrophe did, but only to a lesser extent and in reverse? Yeah, um, it really doesn’t matter how she tries to justify it in her head at this point. That was freaking bonkers! She lets out a weak little laugh. Oh god. Or maybe she just hallucinated all of that? Maybe she's actually dead.

“Lady Guinevere. You’ve alive. Gods, you’re really—“ Lancelot scoops her up in his arms, then, and she’s still too dazed to fight him on it. Maybe she's not dead after all? “How did you do that?”

“You are, too.” Guinevere offers lamely, blinking and still attempting to pull herself back onto this plane of existence. “Um... and I really don’t…”

Lancelot sets her down near where Morgan is, though, and that does the job well enough. Ignoring the searing pain in her side, she clambers over to her side in an instant. “Morgan! Are you— are you all right?”

 

[Syntra]

Morgan didn't see the drama unfold-- not really, at least. Everything was positively drowning in shades of blue, both too dull and way too intense for her comfort at the same time, and it was, uh, difficult to conceptualize the blips of energy as actual people. It was difficult to conceptualize herself as an actual person, too. So many voices were floating around in her head! They whispered, begged, reprimanded and screamed, and her own voice just sounded so subdued in comparison. (What was her voice, even? Ownership, after all, was such a silly thing. Take her body, for example. Why should it be hers only because she had been there first? What an outdated way to view things! The spirits had been the first ones to inhabit the earth, and you didn't see them claiming it!)

...huh. Maybe that was the key to happiness! Maybe she should let go of the last remnants of control, and everything would be fine. All those things that bothered her now, like her brother or Camelot or the state of her existence in general, would just... not matter. Out of sight, out of mind, as they said, and not having a sight at all was probably even better. Yes. Yes, that sounded reasonable enough. And the voices whispered to her oh so sweetly, too-- how she had never been meant for this world in the first place, with the ability to hear them, sense them, see them. That her being there was a mistake, and now she was finally going home. (Heh. Home. What a funny word! One that had always been connected with pain in her mind-- practically synonyms, really. It tasted of fear and tears, of lonely days and lonelier nights, and she was thoroughly sick of it.)

That was probably the reason Morgan didn't give in to the temptation in the end. The alarm bells went off in her head, and with a jolt, the sorceress woke up. ...oh. Where was she? And, more importantly, why was her head spinning like this? Her eyes couldn't really focus, either, but judging by the way stones pressed into her skin? Yeah, this couldn't be her bed. Not even Arthur would make her sleep in something like this! Morgan blinked a few times, but all she could see was a sea of grey, and shifting shadows, and someone's face floating above her, and-- oh. Oh, it was Gwen. Weakly, Morgan smiled, and immediately proceeded to cough out a worrying amount of blood. Wait, why was she bleeding again? What had she been doing? As if to answer her question, a series of memories flashed through her mind-- the ambush, the enemy mage, the seemingly hopeless numbers. Oh. Well, that explained a lot. It didn't really help, granted, but at least she knew what had happened now.

"Um. I'm... not sure?" she said, squinting to see just a little better. (If this was the last time she got see Gwen, after all, Morgan wanted it to be worthy.) "I... did some magic. It was, uh, a lot." More cough, more blood. Maybe she should have kept the explanation to herself, mostly because the situation must have been obvious to Guinevere, but Morgan felt like she owed it to her for some reason.

"Lady Morgan!" Lancelot's face appeared above her, too. Gods. Was she hallucinating the entire interaction? Because Lancelot should have been lost somewhere in the wastes! Then again, they were in the wastes now, and stranger things had happened. "You look terrible."

"Thanks for... the emotional support," Morgan chuckled. If nothing else, the knight at least had the decency to blush in response.

"I, gods, I didn't mean to insult you! Please, accept my sincerest apologies, lady Morgan, he stammered out. "Whatever shall we do? You need medical help, and I don't know where we are, and--"

"Just help me stand up," Morgan sighed. Clearly, returning to Camelot wouldn't help anything-- at that point, they were so far away from the castle that she would still probably die if her injuries were grave enough. Well, time to tough it out, she supposed! "We'll-- we'll continue with our journey. I'm fine." That statement sent her into another fit of cough, and more of the blood landed on her dress. (Could she get away with claiming it was purposeful? Since the idiots who lived in Camelot tended to romanticize the stupidest things, blood stains could easily be the newest fashion trend!) "Or not entirely fine, but I'll live." She hoped, at least. "What about you? Are you unhurt? And sir Lancelot, what are you doing here?"

 

[ellarose]

“Morgan…” Guinevere’s eyes are filled to the brim with worry, they burn with unshed tears, but she tries to fight them. (She's already dehydrated enough as is!) She doesn’t know when she stops breathing. Is it the second cough, or the third? Either way, the sheer amount of Morgan’s blood she’s seen in just the past few seconds is making her vision blur. More than before, that is. The doubts that echoed in her mind gain a louder voice now. Is— is this even worth it? The moment she feels she’s starting to accommodate herself to whatever the hell’s been happening to her, life throws a curveball at her. They might just be following this thread to a dead end. Now Morgan’s life is on the line, she’s got a giant, gaping wound in her side that she’ll have to find a way to explain away to Arthur and — and though his intentions were inherently good, Lancelot also spread detailed information about her identity as ‘Camelot’s queen’ around the wastelands. (And considering there’re more cultists out for her blood on top of that? She might as well have a giant target painted across her back!) Vaugely aware of Morgan and Lancelot’s voices at this point in favor of the worries coiling tight around her heart, it isn’t until the knight reaches for her shoulder that she finally comes back into herself… by flinching away from his touch.

“I’m fine. I’ve been through worse.” Guinevere’s tone is sharper than she intends it to be. Brushing flowers out of her hair, instinctively she switches into a mode needed to handle their current crisis before she can even begin to be apologetic about it. This isn’t Camelot. Screw manners for a few goddamn seconds — she needs to pull herself together if they’re going to survive the rest of the journey! As the one most equipped to handle the wastelands long term, she has a responsibility to take charge here, to take care of them. Not with soft, empty words — but with actions. Reaching for her bag, she pulls out a handkerchief and a canteen for Morgan and some of her bread for Lancelot. “We need to patch ourselves up and keep moving… we’re toast if anyone else finds us like this.”

And that's the real worrying part of all of this, isn't it? The concept of being brought back to Camelot for ransom money is bad enough as is. But if someone connected to that cult were to find her again, when they’re in this state? She doesn’t even want to imagine what they might do if they managed to capture her again. Taking a quick swig of her own water to soothe her parched throat, she efficiently grabs some gauze and turns around so her back is facing them. Yeah, got to take care of this bleeding wound if she's going to get anywhere.

“Lady Guinevere, might I offer—“ Lancelot stops short, because without warning, Guinevere’s already slipping out of her shirt to treat her own injury. The unmanly squeak he makes in response would’ve almost been funny if the circumstances weren’t… what they were. Needless to say, the sight of the scars covering her back? They put that ‘I’ve been through worse’ into perspective and it’s enough to make the knight shut his mouth and let her handle it. She wraps her own wound with a deftness you’d expect of someone raised up by a an uncaring place like the wastelands. Before long she has herself dressed and back up on her feet. As a final measure, she sighs and digs a blue cape out of her bag.

“Thought this might come in handy. Kind of hoped I wouldn’t need it, but…” She sighs and slips into it, pulling the hood over her head. Because traveling in disguise? Yeah, that seemed smart right about now. Covering up the blonde of her hair should help... at least a little. Considering all three of them are all in pretty bad shape, she comes to Morgan’s other side to help her walk with Lancelot. “Let’s go. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the road.”

And catching up takes up most of their journey to finding a safe enough place, sequestered by trees, to stop when they lose daylight. It’s fair to say Guinevere’s been acting uncharacteristically distant. But the fact that they’re explaining her sister’s betrayal and the fact that she’d been kidnapped by a blood cult? Understandably, the subject matter doesn’t make for a particularly fun conversation. In fact, she’d be content if she never had to revisit that chapter of her life ever again. (But Lancelot explains he was out here to rescue her after Jen implied she might need someone to save her before it was ‘too late’ and, well, he deserves to know what happened for his efforts at least.) Following that up with the fact that she’s married to Arthur now is the cherry on top, really. It doesn’t help that her ghost friend is still following her, undoubtably making her seem overly paranoid, the way she keeps checking over her shoulder and tensing up. (But this lady is a friend, right? Why else would she have saved her life back there, by teaching her that symbol?) They don't touch on Excalibur and the Lady of the Lake, really, and haven't fully explained to Lancelot where exactly they're going. She figures she and Morgan can discuss that privately when he's still sleeping, decide how much is safe to tell him and on how to break the news that they're not actually on their way back to Camelot. Not yet, anyway.

By the time they set up for the night, Guinevere suspects that sleep won’t come easy when she’s on edge, so she insists on staying up to keep watch. She sits in front of the fire she’d built with Lancelot’s help, casting occasional (—or, uh, constant) worried glances at Morgan. Resting peacefully now, as if she hadn't been coughing up mouthfuls of blood hours ago. The bloodstains are still on her dress, though, as a constant reminder. (And it ties a noose of anxiousness around her throat every time she thinks about it.) She wants to tell her about the visions, about what happened during the fight… but it never came up on the journey, when they already had so much to discuss. (And besides, she’d… rather discuss it with her in private? Their discussions about magic have always seemed deeply personal to her. Having Lancelot present for that is just…) That and Morgan had exerted herself to such an extent that she didn’t want to add more chaos onto everything she’s already dealing with. Visions were something they’ve discussed in the past, after all, so maybe this is… normal? Ugh. She’s so lost in thought that she practically jumps ten feet in the air when Lancelot materializes at her side. Shit. She’s keeping guard, for god’s sake! She needs to pull herself together.

“I said I’d take first watch. You should be sleeping.” Guinevere tells him when she settles down and recovers, tossing some kindling on the fire to keep it burning. “Besides, it looks like you could use the rest." She bites her lip, then, considering the circumstances that led them to this point. All things considered, the knight does deserve recognition for what he tried to do. Even if he didn't 'succeed' in his rescue, necessarily, it doesn't erase the fact that his intentions were noble. "...Thanks for, uh, braving the wastes to look for me, by the way. It means a lot that you cared enough to try.”

 

[Syntra]

The journey was torture, plain and simple. Every breath she took was punctuated with millions of tiny needles piercing her lungs, and as for actual walking-- well. Without Gwen and Lancelot supporting her, each from one side, she would have ran out of energy after five steps tops. Gods, how could she have been this careless with herself? This willing to embrace her own demise? It had been stupid, Morgan knew. Stupid and self-destructive. At the same time, however, she knew that, if given the choice, she would have done it again. Because, the sight of Guinevere surrounded by men with such hungry eyes? With hungry eyes, and sharp swords, and a clear intent to kill? Yeah, no, nothing short of death itself would stop her from intervening. (...maybe death was all she would get for this, though. Death in the wastes, alone and forgotten. Heh. Oh, how Arthur would love that! Ironically, though, some part of Morgan did as well. If she were to die there, at least her body would return to the earth-- perhaps it would feed one of the non-mutated animals, too, and continue the ancient cycle. Beautiful and natural, really. Infinitely better than, say, being beheaded in a public spectacle to amuse all those idiots who didn't know what to do with their free time.)

If Guinevere was quiet and distant, than Morgan looked mute in comparison. She did nod a few times to corroborate Gwen's story, and made tiny 'uh huh' sounds when Lancelot appeared especially baffled, but other than that, she saved her breath. It would be irresponsible not to, really. Like, yes, death was still a very real possibility, but there was no need to court it. If it wanted her, then it had to fight for her, dammit. The sorceress certainly wouldn't offer herself to it on a silver plate! More than that, most of what had happened was Guinevere's tale to tell, anyway. She had to decide what she wanted to share with Lancelot-- anything else would have been disrespectful. Claiming a narrative that wasn't hers, really.

How long were they walking? Gods, Morgan couldn't tell. The landscape still looked the same as it had looked from the very start of their journey-- grey and lifeless, and hopelessly devoid of any landmarks. Normally, she measured the distance crossed by her own exhaustion, but, uh, that barometer had become somewhat unreliable as well. Since, you know, every movement felt like a last stand sort of scenario? Either way, when Guinevere decided they would set up camp for the night, Morgan was so happy she might have shed a few tears. Or were her eyes just wet permanently now, from pain and exhaustion and gods knew what else? Well, it wasn't like any of that mattered. Not when her sleeping mat was waiting for her, comfortable and warm and oh so inviting. (When compared with her bed back in Camelot, it was hardly better than bare ground, but damn, was she thankful for it now. Any, any place where she might close her eyes and rest her limbs was a gift from the gods. A gift she would accept gladly! Normally, Morgan might have wanted to take the first watch, but such thoughts didn't even occur to her now. Her eyelids were heavy, oh so heavy, and she drifted off to sleep the second she closed them.)

Sir Lancelot, on the other hand, didn't seem too eager to go to sleep. Despite Gwen's suggestion, he sat next to her and hugged his knees, staring into the fire. Something about him seemed different-- more contemplative, perhaps? "There is no need to thank me, my lady," he sighed. "I didn't exactly accomplish much, and besides, it was my duty. A knight's duty." And, oh, was it just her or did he suddenly sound just a little bit bitter? Almost as if he had a reason to doubt his own words. "Not that others cared, mind you. Originally, I didn't want to go alone. I alerted everyone-- my brothers in arms, and my king as well. I knew something was wrong, but... Well, none of them cared. They spat on our vows." Ah, the precious vows-- the ones that commanded them to protect the weak, and to prioritize the needs of others. Hilarious, truly, in the context of everything that went of in that accursed castle. The resources they kept withholding? They could feed hundreds - no, thousands! - of hungry mouths. That would, however, actually require parting with them; deeds instead of words, and that just wasn't Arthur's style.

"Lady Guinevere," Lancelot said, his tone somewhat firmer than usual. Like a man who had been sentenced to death and accepted his his fate, really. "Please, accept my sincerest apologies. I have failed you as a knight. Not just here, but in general. It is my duty to protect you, and that involves protection from unworthy men. And the king-- the king doesn't deserve you. He does not treat you like a man should treat a woman he loves. His behavior has been shameful." The man took a deep breath, and finally, finally he turned around to actually face Guinevere. There was a strange fire in his eyes-- and also a hint of something that seemed shy, almost.

"And speaking of shameful things... I know this is most inappropriate, lady Guinevere, but I cannot stay silent any longer. I, uh. When I was in captivity, there was only one thing that kept me sane, and that was the memory of you. I love you. I am certain of that now. And, um, I know that you are married to my king, and that this is technically treason, but you should still know. I-- I don't really expect a response," Lancelot gave her a small smile. "I just needed to get this off my chest, to be frank. But if you decided to grant me one, I would, uh, be most honored."

 

[ellarose]

When Lancelot speaks of protection, Guinevere’s brow furrows. She remembers sitting on her father’s left knee the night he asked her and Jen to promise to protect each other if they ever found themselves alone in the world. (The way Jen had always used that promise as an excuse when she committed crimes in the name of protecting her.) Adrianne’s overprotectiveness and the way it eventually drove a rift between them. The mockery Arthur made of the word when he used it in his wedding vows. And though she’s sure Lancelot doesn’t mean any harm, the way he uses it now insults her intelligence. Claiming she must not have seen Arthur for who he is for herself, that maybe she wouldn’t have married him at all if the knight were there to warn her against it beforehand. (And if not even Morgan’s prompt to run away together could sway her… obviously, nothing else could.) From there the word echoes in her head over and over, as if… as if the spirits are speaking to her. But she hasn’t actively reached out for the spirits since the fight. Trying to usher them out before she can panic, she wraps her arms loosely around herself for some semblance of comfort. Exhaustion. That's what this is, right?

“Arthur doesn’t love me… I already know that. Of course I already know that.” Flashing back to the feel of his hands on her, all over her, Guinevere swallows hard and digs her nails into her skin. It’s fair to say she hasn’t had any time alone to cope with what she’s suffered in the last month. Her life in Camelot morphed from extremes of being ostracized to having absolutely no privacy at all. Any fleeting moments she got to herself weren’t spent dwelling or on healing her wounds, but on her ambitions for the future. “I knew long before we were married. But I stepped into this role willingly. With my eyes open.”

“ I left my gang, my family in the wastes behind because Arthur promised he’d help take care of them if I married him. But he spat on those promises the same way he spat on your knightly vows.” Guinevere realizes now, in the midst of her righteous fury, that she’s essentially laying everything bare to Lancelot now. At least when it comes to her circumstances and feelings on the matter. She simmers down before she can divulge too much. Because Morgan’s the one who began orchestrating a movement from the shadows, long before she even came to Camelot. Explaining too much about it without getting her opinion beforehand would be a breach of trust and… risky, overall. “You’ve seen firsthand how hard it is out here. The people I care about are starving… dealing with threats like that gang and monsters all the time. What I need now isn’t protection, but comrades in arms.”

So consumed now by thoughts of the road ahead, by her goals for the future, it’s fair to say that Lancelot softening with a confession of all things completely blindsides her. Blinking perplexedly, she does her best to shake the shock and awkwardly stares into the fire. Oh god. Oh god, oh god. He just cornered her with a confession. Not that she wasn’t informed that he held such feelings for her in the past, but… this isn’t just any confession. It’s one of love. How does she even respond to that? Lancelot’s a good guy — hell, he went off into the wastes alone to rescue her and undoubtably cares more about her than anyone in Camelot can claim to, with the exception of Morgan. (But doubt still creeps in. She’s seen Jen in these situations countless times before. And sometimes it was the 'nicest' men who turned out to be monsters when their advances were rejected. She doesn’t want to assume the worst of Lancelot after everything, and yet… she’s always been wary of men. And those feelings have only seemed to have increased a thousandfold since her marriage. What if deep down, he feels she owes him reciprocation for everything he’s suffered in captivity? Because it was his feelings for her that put him through hell in the first place?) Tugging at the ends of her hair, she struggles to respond. Because while she clearly doesn’t owe him reciprocation, she at the very least owes him an answer.

“I’m, um, I’m flattered.” Guinevere stutters out. This situation is all kinds of complicated. Because if she says she already has feelings for someone else, he might ask who it is, if not Arthur… she glances at Morgan briefly and quickly averts her gaze to the fire. Just because Lancelot has implied he’s turned his back on Arthur doesn’t mean he’ll be accepting of what they have. Or at the very least, they might have to ease him into it. (It isn't that she's ashamed, either, because she's never been ashamed. But they could get in serious trouble if it were to get out. That possibility felt very real after everything that happened with Iphigenia.) The fear of screwing everything up gives her incentive to be cautious. God, she'd already gone and revealed everything about her gang. “But I can’t… I don’t…”

Ugh. She’s never been good at this, has she? Still, Guinevere eventually finds her words and along with it the courage to look him in the eye. “I respect you more than any other knight in Camelot. I know someday you’re going to love someone the way they deserve to be loved.” Her brow creases apologetically. “And you deserve someone who loves you just as much in return… so that someone can’t be me. I’m sorry.”

 

[Syntra]

Lancelot said nothing. He didn't seem angry or sad, or even baffled by her rejection, though-- more than that, it seemed he was just giving her the time to formulate a proper response. That he was actually listening, instead of, you know, inserting words in her mouth or losing his mind because she dared to have an opinion he personally didn't approve of. (Which was an exceedingly rare quality, by the way-- not just among men, but among women as well. Everyone toed the party line in Camelot, to the point they had likely forgotten that there even was one. If you believed in something so wholeheartedly, after all, was it not your opinion? Was it not a piece of yourself? And maybe that was the reason they clung to their prejudices with such passion now-- because, at this point, rejecting them would also mean rejecting themselves. It would mean, among other thibgs, that all those years they had spent kissing Arthur's boots had been wasted. A collective psychosis at best, really. A psychologist would have had a field day with this group, had such a science still existed.)

"I see," he said quietly. "I see. That is... respectable. That you'd go to such lengths to protect your people, I mean." And, amazingly enough, he sounded sincere. If he judged her for marrying Arthur for such reasons, he hid it well, but frankly, it just didn't seem that way. Lancelot had always been an open book, since the very first day they had met. This was the man who had been sending Guinevere freaking flowers back when she had still only been engaged to Arthur-- which, yeah, not exactly the definition of subtlety. He may as well have been serenading her, dammit! "Such a sacrifice is, uh, a worthy one. I'm sure that your friends are thankful, even if it proved meaningless in the end." After that, Lancelot stared into the fire for a while-- it reflected in his eyes, and it almost look like something had kindled a fire of his own within him as well. "A comrade, you say? Very well, then. If you'll have me, I will serve you. You are still my queen, despite everything. Despite-- despite my king not deserving an ounce of respect. You are different, though. I know that your goals are noble, and helping you achieve them is the only way I can feasibly fulfill my vows now. Since, you know, my brothers in arms aren't doing anything to help those who need it. Moreover," Lancelot chuckled, "you did beat me in most of our sparring sessions. I don't mind following such a woman. In fact, I would be honored." Wow, okay. To think that such a confession could ever leave the lips of one of the knights-- well, maybe it showed that they weren't all the same. That their hearts could still be reached, at least in some cases.

When Guinevere finally responded to his declaration of love, though, Lancelot looked directly at her. Uh oh. This could get pretty ugly, right? ...except that, instead of acting wounded, the knight just smiled. It wasn't really a happy smile, granted, but it also didn't contain a shred of protest. "I understand. Thank you for your honesty, my lady. Frankly, I expected you to react like this-- believe it or not, I am not completely foolish. I mostly confessed because I needed to get this off my chest. To get a closure, as they say. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable in the process. If nothing else, I can promise that I won't bring this up again. And, um, perhaps it's better that way. If I am to follow your commands, this would be strange." At that point, it mostly sounded as if the poor guy was trying to convince himself of that more than anything else, but-- well, at least he wasn't having a jealous breakdown. By Camelot's standards, this was probably an A++ reaction.

For a few moments, it seemed like this would be the end of that. Lancelot fell silent, seemingly utterly fascinated by the flames, and the silence that enveloped the camp seemed almost peaceful. Except that then, a few seconds later... "Well. I know that I'm sticking my nose where it doesn't belong at this point, but since I've already crossed all kinds of boundaries today-- please, be careful with lady Morgan. I don't know how to say this, but I have a feeling that you're, how to phrase it, precious to you. I've never seen her look at anyone the way she looks at you, and we almost grew up together."

 

[ellarose]

The knots and nerves that wound Guinevere so tightly begin to loosen as Lancelot speaks. There’s no twist of his expression, like he smelled something foul, when she mentions her gang in the wastes. Moreover, he even offers his praise on her swordplay. Wow. Wouldn’t be the first time he's commended her for it, but now -- especially now -- it touches her where it matters. Normally she might have basked in that or said something cheeky, but right now? All she can do is rub the back of her neck and stare into the fire. Maybe it's that bit about serving her? As queen she's heard those sorts of phrases a lot, but deep down... she's still that girl in the wastes who never had a thing to her name. It's still so weird, she might never get used to it. (And if only those skills of hers had done them more good today!) They’re out here now to at least try to make her efforts something other than meaningless. But even feeling the relief of his acceptance of her and her cause, there’s a certain weariness that’s hung over her head like storm clouds ever since the fight ended. “I’ve missed that. Sparring with you. And you, too. Camelot hasn't been exactly the same, since...” Well, does she have to say it? Of course Camelot was the farthest thing from paradise even before she married Arthur... but at least she'd been allowed to spend time with Morgan and carry a sword. She had a space of her own to inhabit, time to be herself. Lancelot brought himself to spend time with her in a way none of the other knights did and his friendship is something to cherish, if nothing else.

And maybe if she’d been allowed to keep up regular training with her sword, she wouldn’t have been so damned slow back there. Being tied to a bed for a month and then cooped up like an injured bird in a cage for a few more… well, it’s no freaking wonder she didn’t pull enough weight today! That Morgan felt she had to push herself to such an extent to… to protect her. Arthur won’t let her so much as touch a sword, now. And, really. Was that a pride thing, because of Excalibur… or is he worried she’ll injure herself when she’s meant to do nothing more than carry his heirs? Speaking of which… there’s still the issue of the wound in her side. Deep enough to scar, it won’t just vanish within a few days. He’s going to notice it. If she comes up with an excuse, say she fell off her horse, he might take that small freedom away from her. But it might be a sacrifice she’ll have to make. “Thanks, Lancelot. For everything.” Either way, the knight subverted her expectations for the better. With everything else on her shoulders, knowing that he’s there to help carry the burden more or less does help.

"O-oh... oh, yeah?" Before Guinevere can lose herself entirely to her thoughts, though, he brings up Morgan and… shit, she’s blushing bright red. (Corning her again! Hopefully it’s not easy enough for him to tell in the dark.) That shouldn’t come as such a surprise to her, damn it, they’ve already made it clear to each other, in more ways than Lancelot could possibly imagine, how important they are to each other. But hearing that care is observable from the outside does cause her heart to stir. ‘I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she looks at you’, he says, and her toes to curl tight in her boots. Her hand brushes subtly to the chain around her neck — she’s finally wearing Morgan’s locket today, since Arthur isn’t around to notice it, although she kept it tucked under her shirt to avoid calling any attention to it on their travels. Proof of their vows that she can touch with her hands. A reminder of what she's been fighting for. Swallowing with difficulty, her brow eventually furrows. “I will.” She says, quiet and serious. “Speaking of which… Morgan really wore herself out earlier. She might not like it, but let’s let her sleep tonight. Surely we can handle taking watch between us, right?” The gesture is one built of concern (Morgan is not dying out in the wastes— not on her watch.) but also one of practicality. They’ll all need to regain at least some remnant of their strength if they’re going to carry on the way they have. “Go get some sleep, Lancelot. I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

To prevent herself from getting spooked on her own, with only the sound of voices echoing in her mind to compete with the dead silence of the wastelands at night, Guinevere takes the time to quietly practice her stances and swings by the fire. It's like something's trying to reach her, but the sentences are made up of an amalgam of broken words and echoes of her own doubts that she can’t make any coherent sense of. A message with some kind of... interference. Considering it's nothing more than noise in her head, she determinedly ignores it and carries on with her practice until she’s too tired to stand. She waits by the fire for a few more hours before she finally goes to wake Lancelot and lie down for the night herself. Next to Morgan, who looks so serene and beautiful in her sleep that Guinevere can't help but lie herself down so they're facing each other, so that the other woman is both within her reach and the last thing she sees before she finally closes her eyes to sleep.

Unfortunately, though, she doesn't get much rest before she plummets into a vivid dreamscape. One that doesn’t seem intent on showing her the mercy of a good night’s sleep. Her wrists are locked up in chains, leaving her powerless to move as a knife cuts into her skin. An unfamiliar man smiles at her and dips his fingers in her blood. The scene flickers and suddenly she’s in the bed the cult had tied her to. There’s the sickeningly familiar prod of needles and more needles in her arm. The chemical scent overflowing in her, drowning out the fight in her… and then the scene changes again. Then she’s collapsed on the ground, vision blurring, watching as a man feverishly paints a large symbol with her blood (her blood which is pooling out from under her in a worrying, steady flow) around a sword embedded in the earth… around Excalibur? Tiny stones tremble around her, the world shakes, the sword grows brighter and brighter as her vision fades and fades. The last thing she sees is the man pulling the sword from the earth once he completes the symbol. Darkness envelops her, then, and it’s like death. Like she died, or the body she inhabited in that moment died. But then she hears the echo of another voice, delivering news to a crying child. She made the most noble sacrifice a queen could make. Echoes the voice of a man she didn’t recognize, but also distinctly Arthur’s same time? Then there's another unfamiliar voice, different from the rest. Don't touch her. She’s the only one left. If you want the bloodline to continue, you’ll find her a husband at once. The world reopens to her and she’s in her wedding dress walking to a groom who resembles Arthur one minute and like a total stranger the next. What the two have in common, though, are their smiles… the bloodthirstiness of their eyes. Nothing changes, it begins with blood and ends with blood — a distinct feeling of helplessness at the hands of fate threatens to drown her. Gasping out for air, Guinevere wakes in a cold sweat and glances around desperately to get a handle over where she is.

 

[Syntra]

Amazingly, the morning was kind to Morgan. She hadn't expected it, fearing she would wake up either in a pool of her own blood or perhaps even not at all, though the opposite was true. Her head still felt strangely heavy, and her eyes hurt whenever she was foolish enough to look up at the brightness of the sky, but aside from that? There was no pain, and no blood, and that made her both grateful and suspicious at once, really. Grateful, of course, for obvious reasons; braving the wastes was no easy feat even while at full strength, and continuing to do so while half-dead-- well, the half part would probably stop being true pretty soon, Morgan would wager. Not that she didn't trust Guinevere to protect her, of course, but there were limits to what one human could do. Just like a single ray of sun couldn't be expected to end winter, Guinevere alone couldn't keep her safe in these lands-- and honestly, Morgan didn't even want her to. Devoting yourself to protection of another often meant neglecting your own safety, after all, and if she ended up losing her life while trying to shield her? Oh, the sorceress wouldn't be able to forgive herself. Rather than that, it would be better to die a clean death, torn apart by the monsters she had studied so fervently.

And why was she feeling suspicious? Since, simply put, miracles didn't exist. Her speedy recovery may have looked like one, true, but that couldn't be it-- the gods weren't nearly as merciful, as she had learned many times over. No, something must have caused it; something that, uh, wasn't necessarily good. (Because, bodies of those who used magic? They could be particular at times, reaching after the energies that swirled in the air even while their owners didn't consciously try for it. It hadn't happened to Morgan yet, but she had read about such cases-- back then, when the world had still been young and green, phenomena like that had apparently been common. Spirits had lived in every tree, in wind's every breath, and a witch had borrowed strength from them whenever such a need had arisen. And, honestly? Morgan had considered such accounts to be little more than fairytales. There was no evidence aside from some journals, and it just seemed to good to be true. Her own experiences didn't reflect it, either. Now, however, she had to ask herself: what if that was only true because the world she lived in was dead? A mere empty shell? And, more importantly, if that was true, then what had been strong enough to bring her back to relative health so easily?)

As so many times before, the answers to her questions eluded her. Oh well, no matter-- she'd likely find out soon enough. Perhaps the manner in which she would find out wouldn't be pleasant, yes, but for now, Morgan chose to be thankful to see the sunrise... even if, just like all the other things in the wastes, it seemed grey and colorless. It wasn't like it mattered, anyway-- Guinevere was all the color she needed.

Speaking of which... Morgan waited for the other woman to wake up, and when she did, she leaned closer to steal a kiss from her lips. "Good morning," the sorceress whispered. Normally, she would have insisted for them to get up as soon as possible, but with Lancelot now traveling with them? No, they could have a few sweet, sweet moments for themselves. "If only we could begin every morning like this," she sighed, fully content for once. (Perhaps they could have this reality in the future, too-- in some nebulous, distant future where Arthur was only an unpleasant memory. And since they were working towards it already, was it so foolish to dream of it now? Hope could serve as sustenance, too, and gods knew Morgan needed it now. Everyone did, once in a while-- such was the way of living things.) "I feel much better already, by the way. You could have even woken me up for my watch, you know."

Guinevere, on the other hand, didn't look so good. She was beautiful, of course, because she always was just that, but besides her radiance? Something seemed to be burdening her, Morgan could tell. "What about you, though?" she asked, gently, before putting a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. (This sort of casual intimacy was something she had missed, too. Had she done it in court-- ah, the ladies would have gossiped so! And for a freaking good reason, too. "Are you alright, Gwen? You seem troubled. Not that we don't have a lot of good reasons to be troubled, of course, but..." Morgan shrugged, "...I suppose it looks more grave than usual."

 

[ellarose]

"Mornin'." Guinevere stole perhaps an hour of sleep after rousing from her nightmare. Greeting the light of day with a kiss summons some remnant of a smile from her in spite of the copious worries weighing on her chest, eases her in a way she's discovered only Morgan's touch can. She closes her eyes as if to imagine herself in an alternative universe where their fantasies for the future are a reality and hums softly, echoing her sentiment with sleepy wistfulness. "Mhm... if only." Wouldn't it be so appealing to press closer to her, to sleep in for a while longer, safe and unburdened by the rest of the world in their own little corner? Not having to force herself to rise and attend to something like a wedding to a man she doesn't love or a quest to potentially find a dead body at the bottom of a lake? Unfortunately, it just so happens to be those very responsibilities that will bring them closer to the future they want to fight for now. (And there's nothing so apparent in her chest right now as the sense of want swelling in her chest.) The other woman's claims to be feeling better distract her from those thoughts, though, and she reopens her eyes to peek at her. The bloodstains on her dress are still there, blatant proof of what she'd suffered through the day before... it'd have been fair to guess that Morgan could have been sugarcoating the gritty details for her sake, so she wouldn't worry. But looking her in the eye now, she finds that she doesn't seem to be lying. The pallor of her skin doesn't look quite as sickly, nor her eyes so glassy. And it's not that she isn't relieved, because she is, but... that was fast, wasn't it? "Good." Because she'd been concerned. All it takes is one look at her face to see that. "How about this. If you're still feeling okay by tonight, you can take first watch next time around."

Her own sleep was fitful and restless (and it must show, considering Morgan can even tell just by looking at her) -- but she's not about to go on and complain about it when she took the initiative to let the other woman sleep in the first place. Working on an hour of actual sleep at best isn't ideal, considering the journey they still have yet to make, but it's fair to say she's functioned out in the wastes on less in the past. That she's survived this long is a testament to that. (Besides, it's worth it if it means the sorceress was able to reclaim some fragment of her own strength. After everything she'd done the day before, she undoubtably needed the extra rest more than any of them.) Guinevere bites her lip and holds onto the hand that Morgan reached out to her. "It's no big deal. Just a bad dream." Ugh. A bad dream. Saying it aloud makes it sound even worse. Like what is she, a little kid? To make matters worse, the word 'dream' echoes in her head, like the spirits have somehow managed to cling onto her all through the night. She gives the other woman's hand a little squeeze before sitting up, pinching the skin between her brows. "...And this noise in my head." That's barely audible, though, and she shakes it off quickly. Her wrists are untied, her blood isn't pooling out from under her, and she's got the hand of the woman she cares about more than anything in hers. She can push through this. She has to. "I'm just ready to find some answers."

There's a pause as she considers telling Morgan everything before they set off. The visions, the voices, the ridiculous spell she cast the day before?

"Yesterday, I--" Guinevere starts, only to be interrupted.

"Lady Guinevere, lady Morgan. Good morning." Lancelot greets them politely enough, but it still makes her jump. Guinevere hates that her first instinct is to let go of Morgan's hand, but that's what living in a place like Camelot does to you. There's a sort of paranoia attached to being caught in any small act of intimacy -- especially after what happened with Iphigenia. She unleashes a slew of curses in her mind. Now she's troubled and jumpy. Christ. The last thing she wants is to become the woman Arthur wants her to be. To be as... as weak and powerless as she was in her nightmare. But even calling it a nightmare seems wrong. It felt so real, so vivid. Maybe because her own memories were mixed in? (Although to be honest, her imagination was always like that. After spending years with only the dark of a cell in her childhood, her mind was capable of crafting some pretty elaborate places to escape to. Ranging between nice places and... not so nice places, to say the least.) "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Guinevere can't hide the slightest tinge of annoyance in her tone. With a deep, cleansing breath, she repeats herself in a calmer tone of voice. "I'm fine." She was not fine. But being anything other than fine right now would serve as an obstacle that they didn't need right now. As much as she wanted to steal a few more moments alone with Morgan, shooing Lancelot away after everything that happened last night seems... almost harsh. Well, so much for that. She rises and folds her sleeping mat, begins to pack the few belongings they have scattered about, and lastly dons her hooded disguise. "Shouldn't waste any daylight, if we want to get where we're headed before sundown."

 

[Syntra]

"That works, I suppose," Morgan smiled. Not that she loved the concept of staying awake at night, but-- well. She couldn't exactly place the burden on Guinevere's shoulders entirely, now could she? Especially with her looking so sick now! Perhaps the stress had already taken its toll on her; the stress and the injury, really, for she had been wounded as well. (Which, admittedly, could be a problem. Even an oaf of Arthur's caliber was bound to notice such a wound, and how would they explain it? 'Oh, don't worry, Gwen just fought some bandits in the wastes. No big deal!' ...yeah, that would work out about as well as that one time she had tried to explain economics to him. Still, they should probably worry about surviving this ordeal first. If the gods were good, perhaps they would even learn something that would turn Arthur into a non-factor?)

"A bad dream," Morgan repeated. "Are you sure it's just that?" Because, from her point of view, it certainly didn't look like an ordinary nightmare. (She hadn't been inside of her head, of course-- not even the spirits could give you such a power, and even if they could, Morgan wouldn't use it. Not on Gwen, anyway. Even so, the physical effects just... seemed a bit too pronounced, really. A bit too real, almost as if the nightmare had spilled from her head and blended with reality. Or maybe it had been the other way around?) "We can talk about it, if you wish," Morgan offered. "This place is, uh-- bad news. Moreso than usual, I mean." How to explain it to Guinevere, though? So far, Morgan had focused on the practical aspects of spellcasting when it came to her magical education, and this was so divorced from any sort of practice it wasn't even funny. "The witches of old would say it was cursed," she offered after a while. "It had likely been cursed even before the Catastrophe destroyed the old world, too. Basically, what this means is that the local geomagnetic field makes the spirits more restless than usual. The effects of this... haven't really been studied yet," and wouldn't be, considering that Arthur thought facts to be poison, "but I imagine it may cause, uh, distress to some sensitive individuals." Maybe even more than distress, actually. Morgan opened her mouth to speak some more, but then Lancelot just had to show up. Great. Had they escaped Camelot just to have to deal with a different kind of surveillance now?! (Technically, they had escaped to meet the Lady of the Lake, but Morgan had kind of hoped that she would also be able to, you know, be open with her feelings without repercussions. Damn the stupid knight! Why had he had to go and let himself get captured like that? Solely to spite them, no doubt.)

Still, even as anger swirled in her belly, Morgan managed to keep her expression neutral. A lady could always do that, and she was nothing if not ladylike. "That is true. Let us continue with the journey, then. If we advance fast enough, we may be able to reach our goal before the next sunset." Which was, admittedly, a very optimistic notion, but so what? Maybe the power of positive thinking could change something about their streak of bad luck! ...haha, as if. (Well, at least she had tried to step out of her usual mindset for a bit!)

And so they marched forward, and the sun shone on. Lancelot, of course, asked a lot of questions, such as where exactly they were going and why. All perfectly reasonable queries, of course, but somehow, the mere sound of his voice was enough to ruin her mood. Besides, why should they tell him anything? The knight hadn't done anything to earn their trust so far! (Morgan did trust him more than her brother, sure, but she would also trust a scorpion before him. So, not really a big deal! And what had Lancelot done aside from falling prey to random bandits again? Nothing!) Keeping this in mind, Morgan fed him answers that weren't answers at all-- words meant to placate rather than explain, really. It was actually rather easy, too. If you didn't straight up refuse to answer and instead focused on being vague and mysterious, people ate that shit up. And people as gullible as Lancelot? Oh, they hung on every word that fell from her lips, as if they were precious pearls and not, you know, worthless.

They walked, and walked, and walked, and suddenly, the lake emerged in front of them. A funny detail, though-- instead of it being a normal... well, lake, this one was nestled in the sky. (A sole colorful spot in the sea of grey, shining like a diamond.) Before they could really do anything - or even comment upon it, really - Guinevere's world was suddenly swallowed by the overwhelming blue, and an invisible hand gripped her neck. (The fingers were merciless and cold, as if life had fled from them a long, long time ago.) 'What it is that you seek?' A quiet voice asked. Somehow, it resembled honey and meadows, and also starless sky. 'Answer!' ...which might not prove to be so easy, with the hand not letting go of her throat in the slightest.

 

[ellarose]

The severity of Morgan’s words that morning clings to Guinevere as they continue on their journey. She wonders if it’d have been worth it to risk Lancelot overhearing them and ask for more detail on the subject… but as Morgan chooses her answers to his questions very selectively, she opts to keep quiet. While she replays the words she’d said to her that morning in her mind, the additional noise eventually accumulates along with it. Distress to sensitive individuals. Distress, distress, distress. The voices echo, throb and rise until suddenly she’s confronting the sight of a shimmering lake in the clouds. Wait — what? Before she can look to Morgan or Lancelot to make sure their eyes had seen the same sight, her world is washed in blue and all she can do is feebly reach out for Morgan before they're ripped apart. And… and she can’t breathe.

Guinevere is struck so deeply with terror that all she can do at first is claw at hands she can’t see. Powerless, so powerless, that even her next breath is under the control of some forceful entity beyond her comprehension. Is this Viviane? Their Lady of the Lake? The blue around her begins to deepen, becoming darker and darker yet as the pain worsens and crushes her throat, depriving her lungs of oxygen. She imagines how it feels to sink to the bottom of the ocean (or, perhaps more fittingly, a lake?) suffocating, flailing in vain until gradually the pain dulls and the fear in her is smothered with an eerie sense of calm. For a moment, she nearly allows herself to be carried off by the stream of fate instead of struggling against the current like she always has. To release what little control she has left over her own life, to let the weight and the responsibilities fall from her shoulders. The universe has demanded it of her time and time again, to hand herself over to fulfill the desires of others and adhere to this supposed ‘purpose’ she had been born for. Now, as her thoughts dissolve alongside her surroundings, an alluring voice whispers that perhaps it’d be better for everyone if she ceased to exist, to provide endlessly and be reclaimed by the earth, this nothingness and—

As her hands continue to fight and flutter helplessly around her neck, they brush against a chain lodged between the ice-cold fingers of her assailant. There's a locket around her neck. The locket— that means something to her, doesn’t it? And there’s a slight pull, a tether in her soul, that keeps her from abandoning herself entirely. A locket, a spell, a vow. And someone. Someone she cares for deeply. Bits and pieces return to her in a trickle before the details come flooding in. Morgan? Yes, Morgan. Her face is repainted in her mind, replacing the emptiness with a splash of color. Copper hair cascading over her shoulders, green eyes that light up when she confides in her and her smile, the one that becomes soft and slightly crooked when she looks at her. She remembers the way she laughed and held her close the night they'd spent together, on the eve of that cursed wedding. The memory lights a spark where there was once chilling emptiness, reigniting the fire in her. Warmth blooms inside Guinevere's heart and spreads to her cheeks, her fingertips, down to the soles of her feet. And even now, when she stands alone, she feels her there. Like all of this is an illusion, like she’s just within her reach.

Abysmal, underwater darkness surrounds her when she opens her eyes again, squinting against the pain to try and find a way out. The voice asked a question. Right. She reaches for it, reels herself back a few seconds like maneuvering the spool of time is something she can do casually in this state. What do you seek? Yes, that’s what it was. Answer, it demanded. Answer, answer, answer. Throat crushed, fingers grasping desperately at what seems to be nothing at all, Guinevere couldn’t find a voice to speak with if she wanted to. So even as the ache deepens, she lowers her hands as if in a show of vulnerability, of meaning no harm, and tries to have faith in the fact that she’ll have to dig inside herself for a reply. 'First of all... I'd like to breathe.' It's harder to think of much beyond just that, considering the circumstances, but she forces herself to shovel deeper and hopes with all her might that whoever this is can read her mind... or, at the very least, her intentions? For all she knows, she might just die here. A victim claimed by rampant magic that she failed to understand.

'I seek answers.' The motive swells until it beats loud and clear in her heart. Guinevere calls her only true memory of Excalibur to mind. In her current state of consciousness, it’s rippled and faded, almost like it’s being projected on the surface of a lake. The echoes of her and Arthur’s footsteps as he led her deep into the cellar beneath Camelot. The sirens song touching her to the very marrow of her bones and the brilliant glow of the sword when she first laid her eyes upon it. The way her fingers twitched at her side, anxious to reach out and take it for herself but frozen still for fear of her position at Arthur’s side. The vision, the blood she'd hacked into the palm of her hand, and Excalibur shining brighter than anything she’d ever seen. (Before her vision faded. Very much like it is right now, actually. Yikes.) 'Excalibur calls for me and I need to know why.'

As difficult as it is, she attempts to open herself to this mysterious voice in the lake, to let it scrutinize and judge her however it pleases. Morgan had told her to make herself vulnerable when communicating with spirits, right? While none of her lessons had covered these exact circumstances, maybe it’d help loosen at least the grip on her throat? Stars, even darker than the deep blue surrounding her, begin to spatter before her eyes. It’s as though her consciousness is fading in slow motion, and she pushes again, desperate and clinging to the single thread that connects her to Morgan like a lifeline. 'And if I can restore the dead earth, I need to know how. I want to help.'

 

[Syntra]

As Guinevere reached for her inner voice, a curious thing happened-- the grip on her throat got weaker, in the same way ice got weaker when the sun shone on it. Had the voice decided to let her live, or had she pushed it away somehow? Only gods knew the answer, but at least she could actually breathe now. Which, hey, an upgrade! 'So answers are what you want,' the voice said, and somehow, it sounded both amused and accusatory at the same time. 'Everyone wants answers these days, girl. Everyone. I've never met anyone who liked them, though.' It wasn't at all obvious where the source of that voice was-- one would have guessed it belonged to the invisible hand, but no, actually. Somehow, it was simultaneously in front of her and behind her, on the right and on the left, and also everywhere else. (Perhaps even inside of her? Because it surely felt that way sometimes, given its loudness.) The lake itself seemed to vibrate with every word uttered, too; the surface was wrinkled with waves as they crashed into each other, locked in combat but never spilling over.

'Excalibur,' the voice repeated, and suddenly, it sounded almost-- nostalgic, perhaps? Like a memory of a summer long past. 'I know, oh, I know.' Okay, so whatever this was, it couldn't be a spirit; those just didn't communicate in such a complex way, period. Repetition was pretty much the only thing they could handle when it came to actual words, and even then, they preferred images. Images, gestures, and channels that remained closed to those bound by their flesh. If it wasn't a spirit, who was it, though? Viviane, or perhaps someone else? And if it was Viviane-- then what was she, even? Because nothing about the voice was human. (You couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman speaking, or if there were more sources than just one. It was everything and nothing, and those who didn't guard their mind could drown within.)

'Help. How nice. Such a common instinct, too. Not everyone is suited to do so, though. You know what I mean?'

And, with those words, the world flickered like a dying flame before her very eyes and the scenery changed. Instead of the endless depths, Guinevere was now faced with the sight of green fields. The scenery was beautiful, idyllic, even-- every survivor's dream. Well, at least until the earth cracked open. When it did, a sword emerged from the wound, and... Oh. Was that Excalibur? It had to be, for no other sword shone so brightly. The way it reflected reflected light was just so striking! Except that then the blue shine turned into red-- red like blood, and blood was what was dripping down the blade now, and people everywhere screamed and died. (A sacred sword, huh. What about this was sacred, exactly?) Then the vision ended, though. It did so as quickly as it had began, and one could be inclined to believe that it had not happened at all. Well, at least if it wasn't for the cold sweat it had caused-- the cold sweat, and, obviously, the equally cold presence of the voice.

'Do you understand now?' it asked, and for the first time since it had spoken, it sounded gentle, almost. And if not exactly gentle, then at least there wasn't any poison-- which was still an upgrade, really. 'Excalibur is responsibility. A weight on your shoulders. It may be yours, but it doesn't have to be. Who knows? Not me, that's for certain. Why do you think you deserve it, girl?' Well. Wasn't that the most interesting of questions?

 

[ellarose]

When the issue of breathing is no longer her first concern, Guinevere has even more questions than before. First of all, where are Morgan and Lancelot? And, more importantly, are they all right? (The strings connecting their bond hold tight and confirm, at least, that wherever she is, the other woman is alive. At least that's... something? Though her heart aches, she knows that Morgan's well-equipped to handle circumstances involving magic. So for her own peace of mind, she chooses to trust that she's all right on her end of whatever this is.) The voice mentions 'everyone' and she wonders how many people have stood before in the very place she occupies now. How often does this mysterious lake receive visitors? Is this Vivane, the Lady of the Lake, or someone else? Friend or foe? Their first instinct had been to strangle her... but she's not dead yet. Might as well try and make the most of what she's got to work with.

Which isn't much, honestly, even as the scenery begins to change. Guinevere rasps for the breath she'd lost, hands light against her throat, as she backs up and soaks in her surroundings as they undergo a metamorphosis into a field. Bewildered by the beauty, perhaps, and yet there's something flighty about her that resembles a fox flanked by hunters. A tight pit in her stomach screaming that this dreamland of flourishing greenery is deceptive, that it isn't going to end well. Sure enough, the earth cracks open, and the color red is reflected in her eyes. Flashing in them violently like alarm lights. Red like rubies, she remembers that balding man and his syringe, the red of her blood filling the vial. Red spattered over bodies, red dripping down the blade. Whether real or imaginary, the sheer extent of this destruction strikes her hard, nearly robbing her lungs of air a second time. If she wasn't afraid before, she has all the more reason to be now. But rather than averting her eyes, she forces herself to watch the entire scene through. (Something tells her that it wouldn't go away, though, not even if she closed her eyes. No, this cautionary vision is meant for her as a potential wielder of the sword -- she has a responsibility to witness it. And the fact that her taking on this responsibility could lead to such grave consequences, such bloodshed? Fucking mortifying.)

Was that... something that actually happened once in the past? Or was it just a peek into a future of what could be? More questions. Great. Rather than receiving any concrete answers about Excalibur or her connection to it, the voice poses yet another question. Why does she deserve it? It's strange, being built from the wastes, to make demands or feel entitled to anything at all. And she could easily promise that she'll take this responsibility upon her own shoulders (and take it seriously) until she's blue in the face, but... what is that going to prove? Of course, she'll treat it with enough brevity. But what if her best isn't good enough? What if she's too inexperienced to wield something she doesn't fully understand yet?

"I understand." Guinevere says, sincere. (Because the responsibility bit? That part, at least, is something she does understand. Intimately so.) She has her voice back, now, though it sounds a touch bruised. And that weight? She might as well have been carrying it on her shoulders for weeks. Because the concept of doing harm impacts her nearly just as much as the very concept of providing a future and the nourishment her girls can benefit from does. There's a sort of pressure she feels just supplying these answers... but she's got to steel herself, to adapt as she always has. It's why she's survived as long as she has. Still. Though she has potential for magic in her blood, she has to acknowledge that there's still so much she doesn't know about it. She can't promise yet that she'll be a perfect fit yet, even if it feels that way when the sword sings to her. Assuming that it's catered to her, just because of their current connection? That she immediately has the right to it? Well, that'd make her no better than Arthur. But she won't back down, either. Not when she and Morgan have come so far, not when this lead means fighting for their future together. "I can't tell you whether or not I deserve it. There's so much I still don't know about how Excalibur works. That's... that's why I'm here. To learn about it. To figure out if I'm capable of taking it for myself, of changing things for the better, and not destroy everything in the process. But I'm willing to fight for it if that's what it takes." She is, uh, better at proving things like these with actions than words, anyway. Not like Arthur, who makes promises he can't keep without thinking them through. Without following them through.

 

[Syntra]

For a while, the voice remained silent-- it was still clearly there, given the way its presence continued to distort the world around her, but it seemed to be... well, mulling over her words, perhaps. (Could it even experience uncertainty like people did, or was it just going for a dramatic pause? Be it as it was, the voice didn't explain.) And then, after a few terribly, terribly long seconds, the creature chuckled. 'A wise answer. Still, even if it is wise, it also happens to be rather useless to me. Humility is a good start, but it is just that-- a start.' Because, yeah, it made sense that 'not being Arthur' just wasn't enough. Most people weren't Arthur, and that didn't make them worthy of Excalibur. How would her worth be determined, then?

'Besides,' the voice boomed, 'information is precious. More precious than jewels, or rare spices. You do not expect me to give it away for free, now do you?' Once again, the world changed before her very eyes, but instead of a green paradise, it showed her something she was intimately familiar with--a grey, dying world, as depressing as it was nondescript. In other words, the earth they had inherited from their ancestors. What did the voice want to show her, though? It wasn't like this scenery was new, and-- oh, okay, maybe something about it was new. The sun that hung in the sky was black, with a fiery circle surrounding it, and beneath its strange shine stood a white stag. The animal was beautiful; majestic and fat, somehow untouched by the lack of fields to feast upon. A symbol of hope, perhaps? Or maybe something more sinister than that? Either way, as Guinevere looked at it, the stag turned around and met her eyes, and in that moment-- well, it looked almost human. Or, if not human per se, then certainly intelligent. And the glare it regarded her with? It was downright chilling.

'Hear me, Guinevere Pendragon,' her companion said. 'The time has come. The sun shall turn its face away from you tonight, and the white stag will descend. Bring its hide to me, and you shall learn all the secrets. Do not think to approach me without it.' And if she wanted more information-- well, then she was unlucky, for the voice considered it to be satisfactory. The ground beneath her feet shook, and it shook fiercely. An earthquake, maybe? Except it was more than just an earthquake, as she would learn soon enough. It opened, just like it had opened for Excalibur in her vision, and then Guinevere was falling, falling, falling... Falling towards her inevitable demise.

The demise, however, never came-- as well as the impact. When she opened her eyes, Guinevere was just... lying on the ground, entirely unhurt despite having fallen for years. Had some kind of magic saved her? Perhaps, for Morgan was hovering above her, her hands placed on her belly. (Lancelot was in the background, too, though he seemed to be pacing around nervously rather touching her.) "Oh, Guinevere," Morgan practically sobbed. Was it just her, or did her eyes look suspiciously wet? "You're awake, thank the gods. I-- I have no idea what happened to you. Once we got here, you got into some kind of magical trance, and-- um. I couldn't bring you back." Indeed, she hadn't-- it was the voice that had let her go, not Morgan. Could it be that curse she had talked about, maybe? Or perhaps something else that slept in the wastes, hidden to the eyes of those who dared not wander so far away from the civilization? "How do you feel? And do you remember what happened to you?"

 

[ellarose]

Where is she? That's the first thing on Guinevere's mind as her unfocused eyes search her surroundings, perplexedly lingering on the lake in the clouds before landing on Morgan. (And what a nice, soft place to land. If only she didn't look so worried!) Naturally, the sorceress is quick to supply the answer to her question even before it could even take form on her lips. A magical trance. Well, that explains why she's collapsed on the ground near where she'd been standing before... before... god, what even was that? Either way, her physical self must have remained in the same place the whole time. That would explain why she still felt Morgan so close, even when it appeared as though she'd been whisked off someplace far away.

That said... she thought she was soaked from sinking in the lake, but it turns out that it's just the sheen of sweat all over her body, soaking her hair and sticking it to her skin. Nor does her throat doesn't feel any better than it did before. Guinevere brings a hand to her neck, feeling the thrum of her pulse against the palm of her hand. Still alive, at least. Just a trance and yet it'd felt so... so real. Blinking away remnants of whatever spell she'd been under to make room for something more lifelike, more herself, really, she attempts a smile. Though it's meant to soothe Morgan, whose tears could yank at her heartstrings harder than anything else, it turns out a touch lopsided and uncertain. "I'm still kicking?" She tests her voice and it's still got that slightly bruised quality. Sitting up slowly, rubbing her neck, she checks herself. The wound in her side aches with the movement, which is only to be expected. As is the exhaustion and headache. But other than that... "Yeah. I'm okay."

Apart for so long and longing... oh, Guinevere wants nothing more than to caress Morgan's cheek, to lean closer and reassure her with more than just words. But the second question distracts her before she can. (Maybe that's a good thing, too, considering Lancelot is staring right at them.) That's when it all comes rushing back in vivid detail. The bloodshed, the talk of responsibility, and more importantly... shedding the lax demeanor she'd taken in an instant, she jolts up, alert, and squints up at the sky to gauge how dark it is. "Shit. How long was I out?" Suddenly she's scrambling up onto her feet, wobbling a little from the exertion so soon after having been... well, not quite there. Falling felt like forever, so how much time had passed in the real world? How much time does she have to -- to accomplish her task? Absolutely everything could be riding on this. Her future with Morgan included. Rather than explain what she experienced from the very beginning, which likely would have made more sense, she begins to fret. "The sun... something about the sun..." There was a black sun surrounded by fire. Though she's not trying to recall the imagery she'd seen, but rather the words that were spoken to her. The voice's request.

"The sun turns its face." Pacing and mumbling broken fragments of the message to try and remember the whole of it likely sounds nonsensical to Morgan and Lancelot. Until something she says causes the knight to freeze up. But Guinevere's so preoccupied with her thoughts that she misses this change in his demeanor entirely. "--And the white stag descends tonight. I need to bring it back here if I want answers." Stopping in her tracks, she runs her fingers back through her mess of hair and digs her nails in at the base of her skull. "Because answers don't come for free. But... where to start?" Someplace in the wastes obviously, which, uh... doesn't give them much to go on. And while she's accustomed to hunting, she's never particularly cared for the concept of engaging in it for sport. Finding herself with blood on her hands so soon after seeing Excalibur lay waste to so many in that vision? But... the voice must have offered her this thread to follow for a reason, right? Wherever it leads her, she'd have to see it through. "It's got to be out here somewhere. We -- we have to look for it."

 

[Syntra]

Despite the relief spreading through her chest, Morgan had to frown. "What?" And, yes, it may not have been the most eloquent thing to say, but it encapsulated her feelings quite well. The sun, a white stag, something about answers-- uh. Was there supposed to be some logical connection between the concepts? Some hidden parallels? Like, maybe it somehow all made sense in Guinevere's head, but the same certainly couldn't be said about her. Whatever she meant was escaping her, and Morgan didn't like it. Being clueless had never been her thing! "You slept for two hours, more or less," she answered the one question she actually knew the answer to. That was a good start, right? "I cannot say I understand what you're trying to say, though." Perhaps it was nothing-- just remnants of the confusion the trance had induced, still bleeding into her thoughts somehow. Laws of physics applied to magic on some level as well, after all, and there was such a thing as magical inertia. In that case, maybe all she had to do was let Guinevere rest...? The fog that hung over her mind would surely dissipate on its own!

It didn't seem to be that simple, though. "A white stag?" Lancelot asked, his curiosity piqued. (Ugh. Morgan had almost forgotten he was there, really, and she had quite enjoyed that state. Couldn't the knight leave them alone for longer than five seconds?! The sorceress did know that Arthur preferred men who behaved like faithful dogs, but one would have thought that they'd only follow their master!) "That's curious," the knight continued. "The king is also searching for a white stag-- that is what all those quests are for. He, uh, says it is supposed to help him bear the burden of his destiny, or something." ...okay, things just got a little interesting, didn't they? Morgan raised her eyebrow, her gaze traveling from Lancelot to Guinevere, and then back to the man.

"Truly? What do you know about these quests?"

"Not much," he admitted. "I have accompanied him many times, but I have never seen so much as a glimpse of that stag, or anything that resembled it. The king never really specified why he was after it, too. Sadly, he keeps his secrets close to his heart." That, in Morgan's opinion, was too kind of an assessment-- more than likely, Arthur had no idea what he was doing, either, and didn't want to out himself as a total idiot. Questions could prove that pretty easily, as anyone with common sense knew. And the best way to avoid that outcome? Why, not allow any questions at all! To all the other idiots he surrounded himself with, he probably came off as mysterious and sophisticated rather than, you know, a fraud.

"So, in other words, we know nothing," Morgan sighed. And that was a damn shame, too, because while she still didn't really understand what was happening, the stag was clearly important. Whatever entity had seized Guinevere's mind likely knew something about Excalibur, and they couldn't afford to lose that lead. Not when they were so close! "We cannot just start searching blindly, either. That didn't work for my brother and it certainly isn't going to work for us." Besides, the idea of emulating his methods-- god, the prospect alone disgusted her to an irrational degree. No, thanks!

"The sun turns its face," she repeated, her expression thoughtful. "Like night? Or solar eclipse, perhaps?" All interesting theories, except that none of those things would help them locate some stupid animal-- oh. Oh, it wasn't about the sun at all! "I think it's an alchemy term," the sorceress said, turning to Guinevere swiftly. "It, uh, refers to a drug. 'Turn your face to the sun' is a mantra of those they call seekers. They look for the truth in the depths of their own mind, and they ingest certain... substances... to facilitate that." Substances that were usually less than safe, to be frank, but if Guinevere was only meant to descend... Hmm. Yes, perhaps that could actually be done. Why not? It wasn't like they had anything to lose. "I can prepare that drug for you," Morgan offered. "Descent is a term, too, and it means-- well, blurring the boundaries between this world and the world of spirits. You shall be awake and dream at the same time, and you will see that which is usually hidden. I, uh, need some herbs for that, though. Herbs I don't have."

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere opens her mouth to explain her vision in more detail, the black sun encircled in a ring of fire and the way the stag appeared beneath it, but then Morgan takes a turn that she doesn't quite expect. Drugs, huh. Well, if Arthur's already scoured the wastes looking for a white stag he clearly wasn't having any luck finding -- it's pretty damn apparent that mimicking his tactic would be useless. Gazing between Lancelot and Morgan, gears turn in her mind as she absorbs what's being said. Normally, she would have had more questions. Questions about the nature of Arthur's quests until now, questions about this drug she would have to ingest. But there were so many more questions that would go unanswered (perhaps forever) if she didn't pursue this lead. Tonight the sun turns its face. Not tomorrow, nor in two weeks from now -- but tonight. Urgency and adrenaline pump in her veins, keeping her upright in spite of the exhaustion threatening to bring her back down. And though she wants to kiss Morgan for her brilliant lead (which, uh, she definitely would have been lost without) there's the pressing matter of those herbs to attend to. Without them, no one would be descending and by extension, no white stag would be found. Thus she and Lancelot trek off to gather some while Morgan focuses on the rest of the preparations.

And finding herbs growing in a wasteland proves to be a whole challenge of its own, really. Minutes pass them by and Guinevere's so stressed she can hardly breathe. Who is she kidding? It can take days, even weeks, to find land that isn't completely barren out here -- but they don't have days. And as for the knight, well, he seems to have clammed up, keeping whatever he thought of all this magic and white stag business to himself. Not to mention the remnants of the awkwardness hanging between them from the night before. What does the Lancelot make of all this? He agreed to be her comrade in arms, that he would be 'honored' to follow her as queen and had done so even after witnessing the spell she cast when they faced off against those bandits. And that isn't even scraping the surface, considering everything that just happened. So maybe he's, uh, cool with all this? Or maybe that's a stretch. Even so, figuring out the knight's intentions isn't her objective here. Focus. Herbs. Ugh. They're having shit luck.

Guinevere's about to descend... into a state of panic, that is. But thankfully the knight speaks up and keeps her from making that plunge. "Lady Guinevere, uh, excuse me for saying this, but..." Lancelot doesn't seem to know how to approach the topic, an uncertain look on his face. "Yesterday you turned that villain's sword into--" He pauses, as if wondering whether or not to retract his statement before sealing it in a complete sentence. When she turned the sword into dandelions. In that moment, she'd just followed the vision's instructions without really thinking about it. (Yeah... if only that vision lady would appear now, all the answers about blood magic in hand. Unfortunately, it's not that simple.)

"A bunch of flowers?" Guinevere rubs her arm and bites the inside of her cheek. What the knight thinks of it all should really be the last thing she concerns herself with right now. But... but what about the spell itself? If she looks at it in the broadest sense, she had turned a sword into a gust of flowers. Like a transformation. Is that what he's getting at?

"What I mean to say is, if you can accomplish that... well, is there a way that you can create the herbs you require?" Lancelot hands her a few of the dandelions from the pouch on his belt. (And she doesn't want to know why he kept them. So she's not going to ask.) Raising an eyebrow, she accepts them from him regardless, shifting her stare between the flowers and her dagger. She'd done it once before. Maybe if she just... focused that energy instead of using it blindly?

"Possibly? I-- I don't know. But I can try." Guinevere nods to herself, in spite of the uncertainty clouding her eyes. "I don't want to waste any time, in case it doesn't work... so you go on and keep looking. Call out if you need me."

With that, Guinevere sits cross-legged on the ground when the knight follows her instructions. How long has it been since she's been completely alone in this sea of gray? (Physically and not as a part in some kind of magical vision?) It's no time to get introspective, though, so she levels the tip of the dagger over her palm and clamps her eyes shut as she draws it over her skin. There's a sharp sting and immediately she can feel the warmth of her blood, rising from the cut, red staining her skin. Yikes. Okay, okay. There should be enough to paint with, to draw the symbol she needs. Steeling herself with a breath, she focuses on the dandelions first, and then on changing into the herbs they need and replicates the symbol she learned on the dead soil. While her eyes take on that greenish glow and the dandelions change... they, uh, don't exactly turn into the herbs they need. Some green, ruffly plant, its color fading to purple at the ends... but definitely not what Morgan asked for. Shit.

Eventually, she realizes that as long as she doesn't break her focus immediately, as long as she stays in that state, she can keep going. Or could it be that the symbol works while it's still intact? Either way, she's able to try again, and again, and... again. The plants continue to shift and change, taking on a world of different shapes and shades of green. (Sometimes the transformations betray her thoughts entirely... red roses? Daisies? They're pretty, sure, but she doesn't need them right now!) Guinevere cycles through so many plants that she wonders if this is going to kill her in the end. Damn it. Maybe she should have gone back to Morgan before attempting this? But that loose thought of Morgan, refreshing the description she'd given in her mind once more... she looks down and finally, finally, there lie the herbs that they need. She did it! Might have taken a few hundred tries... but still! The glow fades from her eyes and her nose burns, but in spite of being a bloody mess, she smiles.

After that, Guinevere and Lancelot are able to reunite and return. Along the way, she's able to wind gauze around her bloody hand and clean up under her nose. She's too exhilarated by her success to slow down, really, or maybe she's just hit that point of exhaustion where she barely even feels it anymore? When they find their way back, she hands Morgan the herbs with a racing heart and a lopsided smile. "Found 'em. Do these look right?" Catching a whiff of what she's working with, though, she's overcome with a sense of... well, it isn't nostalgia, exactly, but it's familiar somehow. In a way that sinks her stomach. Huffing out an audible breath, she attempts to roll out the tension in her shoulders. "So... is there anything I should know? About -- about what's going to happen, I mean?"

 

[Syntra]

Morgan, of course, didn't simply wait for Guinevere to return-- no, there were preparations to be done, energies to be channeled. (As necessary as they were, herbs weren't the only component. Oh no, not in the slightest. The passage into the dreamworld could only be granted through sheer willpower, and that willpower needed to have a physical form. Naturally, making that happen was her job-- Guinevere wouldn't be able to do much with her limited training, and Lancelot... well, fish learning how to fly would be more likely than his success, really.) And so, when Gwen and the knight disappeared beyond the horizon, Morgan started searching for a suitable vessel. Hmm. What should she use, though? Ideally, the item should bear some significance to the one who would embark on the journey, but it wasn't like Guinevere had brought any personal belongings with her. (The locket might qualify, yes, but using it in such a way would destroy it, and Morgan wasn't willing to go that far. Not when-- not when it was the only representation of the bond they had. No, something else would have to do.)

Eventually, the sorceress discovered a peculiar stone-- it was star shaped and oddly smooth, almost as if a human hand had modelled it. Could it be some kind of artifact, then? A remnant of the old world? Either way, Morgan figured it would do just fine. There was no personal connection to speak of, but so what? It was distinctive, and so it would be easy for Guinevere to tether her mind to it. That was the true purpose of the vessel, after all-- to act like a lightbeam in the darkness, both to guide her into the dreamworld and out of it. And honestly? The latter was more important. (Wandering into the dreamworld wasn't even that difficult, really. Everyone knew the way, whether they were aware of it or not-- just like birds of passage knew how to reach the lands where the sun always shone, people knew how to get to the territory of spirits. It was called the dreamworld for a reason, dammit. Every time they closed their eyes and drifted off, they tasted a little bit of it, and when the death came for them-- well, they didn't even resist. And why should they, when its embrace was so soothing, so familiar? ...which was the true danger here. If you intended to visit that world for a little while only, you'd be wise to bring an anvil. Something that would remind you where your true place was, and that it was not among the spirits.)

And so Morgan sat down, closed her eyes and focused all of her thoughts on the small stone in her hands. (It was just one pebble out of many, insignificant and so tiny, and yet so much would depend on it. Her entire world, actually. Because, if something happened to Guinevere on her trip there? Oh, Morgan would never forgive herself. Chasing after the Lady of the Lake may have been Guinevere's calling, yes, but this? Exploring different dimensions? This was her field of expertise. Her field of expertise, and thus also her responsibility, dammit!) Hmm. What kind of chain should she use, though? Happy memories, most likely. And since there wasn't a wide selection to choose from, Morgan-- well, she used what she had. The stolen kisses, quiet confessions, plans for the future. She took all those quiet moments and sealed them into the stone, hoping they would keep the temptation at bay. ...and in case they didn't? Well. Obviously, she'd search for her! Who was even afraid of violating ancient treaties? Of incurring the wrath of gods? Certainly not Morgan.

Thankfully, she didn't really have the time to think of such things for long-- Guinevere returned, and she held the herbs in her hand. Gods. How had she been able to procure them this fast? A question for another time, Morgan supposed, for they couldn't afford to waste precious seconds with idle chatter. "Oh, these are perfect, Gwen. Thank you. Come, sit down and I'll explain." As she spoke, Morgan pulled out what looked like a tiny mortar from her bag-- she had expected to use it while preparing medicine, not dreamwalking drugs, but it would do. (The specialized equipment was kind of stupid, anyway. It was the same as her usual tools, more or less, but covered in runes-- so, a purely aesthetic thing. The witches of old believed there was some point to it, but frankly? None of her research had confirmed it, and Morgan had researched it extensively.)

"Unfortunately," the sorceress began, "I cannot help you much. The dreamworld is... a fickle thing, really. It shapes you as much as you shape it. I have been there a few times, but my observations wouldn't help, as you're going to experience different things." Confusing? Maybe, but Morgan had no idea how to explain it to someone who hadn't studied the subject. She herself didn't understand it that well! "I can tell you this much, though-- not everything you're going to see will be real. You may... uh, see things from your past as well. Those will be just reflections, and you won't be able to change them. Pay them no mind, no matter what they are. They're merely distractions. Focus on your goal and your goal only. Oh, and you also shouldn't stay there for long. The dreamworld... it has a way of enslaving the soul. If you linger there unnecessarily, you will become a part of it, too. That's why I prepared this," Morgan handed her the stone. "Keep it close to your heart always. It will grow warm when it detects you're nearing your limits-- and that is the point when you need to return. Just grip it, think of your home and it will transport you back. Understood?"

Afterwards, there wasn't much left to discuss. (Well, maybe aside from saying goodbye, but-- no. No, Morgan didn't believe Gwen wouldn't return, and so there was no point to those things. Better not to tempt fate, right?) And so she gave her the finished drug, caressed her face, and--

Suddenly, all she could see was darkness; darkness and a ring of fire on the black, starless sky. Guinevere was there, too, of course. Wait, what? Morgan wasn't supposed to--! "Gwen," she said, her tone panicked. "Gwen, can you see me? Hear me?" Because if their realities somehow didn't intersect despite Morgan being able to see her-- well, she was in trouble, to put it mildly. Cut off from her only escape route, really.

 

[ellarose]

While Morgan was in front of her just seconds before, the soft caress of her hand on her cheek vanishes to leave nothing but the brush of cold air and... from Guinevere's perspective, she's completely alone. Or it certainly would have felt that way if there wasn't that magical tether still intact between them, as a reminder that she's near. (And nearer than she knows.) In the darkness, the ring of fire in the sky draws her attention first. Bracing herself with a deep breath, she traces her fingers over the crevices in the star-shaped stone Morgan had given her and holds it to her heart. Before she can so much as decide on which direction to go first, there's a low rumbling as a portion of the path directly behind her crumbles away. "Yikes." She says quietly, staring over the edge to figure out where it goes. Oh, wow. Okay. An abyss of nothingness, from the looks of it. Yikes indeed. It's not too long after that that the ground directly under her feet trembles and she realizes she's going to go along with it if she doesn't move forward... like now. Stumbling backwards as fast as she can, she watches as the ground where she just stood breaks off. Seems like it's going to continue like this, gradually disappearing to the point where she can't go back. "...Okay, then. Forward it is." There's no other choice, really, unless she wants to see where falling leads.

Although... maybe falling would have been preferable. Because as she walks, she's eventually confronted with the sight of herself tied to the bed that the cult had kept her in. In the darkness with nothing but the faint orangish hue of those flames turning in the sky -- the scenery even emulates the atmosphere of that prison fairly well. Lying there still as death, life extinguished from her eyes. Miserable. Having only experienced it, confronting herself like a reflection in the mirror is... off-putting, to say the least. The balding man is there, too, stabbing her arm with the syringe and it plays out just as she remembers. The present Guinevere glares at him with pent up fury bunched in her fists... but she unfurls her fingers slowly when she recalls that Morgan said she wouldn't be able to change any of the memories she was presented with. 'You never should have gotten away, you know. For your own good. It is-- easier to mold a child. If you had stayed with my friends back then, you would have understood your purpose now.' The earth behind her rolls like thunder, but she's rooted in place as she watches this memory morph into another. This time she's eleven years old and tied to a completely different bed, looking just as sickly, but feral and snapping her teeth at the men who struggled to hold her still enough to inject her with their needles. 'Now Guinevere, we need you to cooperate. When you come back, tell us everything you see.' Suddenly they're forcing the drug on her that she had just taken willingly -- the scent of it wafts towards her, bringing with it long-forgotten snippets of memories that must have been lost and buried beneath the shock and trauma of it all.

When her younger self goes completely limp, the image shifts once more. The most recent memory of them all... because in this one, she's sitting at the end of the bed in her wedding dress. Appearing far more lost and frightened than she did as a child. Arthur's there, of course, and leaning in far too close for comfort. "Bastard." Knowing where this is headed and not wanting to watch anymore, it's definitely time to avert her eyes and move on. But that's precisely when she notices that even if she wanted to, she can't move. In the midst of her trance, vines and roots wrapped around her ankles, inching higher and higher all while yanking her down, down, down. All around her, the scenery flicks back and forth between green and flourishing to gray and dead. The dematerializing path groans louder and louder every time Arthur touches her, as if in protest, and crawls closer to taking the actual Guinevere down into the growing abyss underneath. That memory fades and it's replaced with something especially bizarre. It's her younger self again this time, sitting on the ground and hacking up blood and what appears to be... blue flowers into her hands? What? 'Blood was the beginning and also the resolution.' Ugh. As if this shitshow wasn't bad enough, the voice of that woman who had given those endless sermons echoes. 'Remember that.' And from there? A current of voices rush past, as though riding on a stormy wind. There are so many of them that it's a challenge to make sense of the noise. Mostly consisting of condescending things Arthur has said (including all those overzealous warnings about Morgan, instructions to obey him, false promises and baby names...) as well as talk of her 'destiny' coming from Merlin, the cultists, those researchers. Headache inducing, cornering her, all seeking to steal her life, her future.

What if Excalibur is only a legend after all? Just a manifestation of her desire for agency, something that doesn't actually exist?

No, no, that's not it. It can't be. She squeezes the stone in her hand, thinking of Morgan and of her way out, but knowing she can't leave yet. Not before she's accomplished what she set out to do But now she's hanging on the precipice of gaping nothingness, dangling only by the plants that twisted around her. (Is it possible to die in here? If she falls, is that just a part of the dream, or--?) "It hurts." She hears her younger self say in a raspy little voice. "I'm trying to be tough for Jenny, but it hurts." That's when a bright orb of light spins around her younger counterpart like a playful fairy. 'As the next flower bride, you will never know life without bloodshed. Whether you are the solution or the cause.' A cryptic fairy, surreal imagery -- this can't be something that actually happened, right? Even so, the past and present versions of Guinevere are nearly mirror images of each other, the way they crinkle their noses.

That's when the 'fairy' grows in size and takes on the form of the white stag Guinevere's meant to be searching for. But it's that very same moment that the vines dangling her from the ledge begin to snap...