Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

[Syntra]

Oh. Oh, so she didn't hear her. Well, either that, or Guinevere had chosen the worst possible time in the entire recorded history to crack a joke-- except that Morgan didn't think she was that dedicated to driving her crazy. Gods. Gods, what was she to do now? Without Gwen to guide her, she was lost. Lost in this world that had never been hers, would never be hers, and yet destined to become a part of it. How had this happened, even? She hadn't ingested the drug! Could it have been the touch? No, that was impossible. The contact alone couldn't have caused such a reaction-- crossing the border between the worlds wasn't as easy as tagging along with someone who was already heading there! It didn't work like a freaking taxi. Such a thought flew in the face of... well, everything that had ever been written about magic. Of every single reputable theory!

...except that, for some reason, the reality didn't seem to agree with her precious theories. (Ugh. How was she supposed to navigate the world if books could no longer be trusted? Morgan was used to people being untrustworthy bastards-- at this point, that was par for the course. These days, it honestly surprised her more when someone didn't actually stab her in the back. Books, though? The knowledge contained within their pages had saved her life so, so many times! ...they, too, had been written by people, though, and so they could be similarly unreliable. Dammit!)

Still, this was no time to be crying over that. Guinevere needed her and, perhaps eveb more importantly, she needed Guinevere. So what if the woman didn't see her? Morgan would make her. Something must have gone terribly wrong for her to appear in a dimension dedicated to her, but the situation being this non-standard also meant that impossible things should no longer be... well, impossible. In other words, the same thing that had gotten the sorceress there should logically facilitate some sort of communication! ...or so the sorceress hoped, anyway.

Before Morgan could truly start thinking about it, though, a series of images flashed before her very eyes. Images that were, uh, very distracting. Guinevere, tied and helpless. Guinevere being stabbed by syringes, and then lectured about her 'true purpose'. (Gods. Were these her memories from her time with the cult? Morgan could feel the bile rising in her throat. She wanted to turn away, to stop herself from witnessing this moment that should have been private, but at the same time, she couldn't. It was like watching a doe get devoured by a pack of wolves-- horrifying, but also weirdly hypnotic. Besides, she needed to watch closely. The faces of those cultists? Oh, she'd commit them to memory, alright. Morgan would remember them so that she could pay them some special attention once they got to wiping their pathetic little club out. Gods, the list of her enemies was only growing longer day by day, wasn't it? Oh well-- Morgan had enough place in her heart to freaking hate them all.)

Except that then-- then the scenery shifted, and Arthur emerged in front of her. Arthur, who was touching Guinevere far more intimately than he had any right to be doing. And, yeah, when faced with that snippet, Morgan did close her eyes. Cowardly? Perhaps, but she remembered her brother's face already, and she did not need to be witnessing this. There was no point to deepening Gwen's humiliation-- she knew why she had been preparing those potions for her, and that theoretical knowledge was more than enough for her. (In truth, even that was too much. Oh, if only her brother was some romantic hero who planned to earn his lady's love before-- before... no, she couldn't even think of it.)

No, she reminded to herself. I cannot get caught up in this. I need to-- I need to find a way to talk to her, and fast. Because if Morgan saw all of this, then Guinevere must have been treated to the same sight, right? And the idea of facing all of this alone, when locked in this strange world, was downright nauseating. "Guinevere," she touched her shoulder. "Guinevere, it's me. Morgan." Except that her hand passed through her, as if she was nothing more than a ghost-- a mirage, really, created by her tired mind. Or was Morgan the ghost here? Well, no matter. Such details could be worked out later. There were more pressing problems to solve, such as-- such as Gwen being seized by those vines. Oh, damn. That couldn't be good! Normally, Morgan would have chastised herself for such a fucking brilliant analysis, but these weren't normal circumstances. Not in the slightest. So many voices were talking over one another, and countless memories were blending into one confusing tangle, and it was so hard to hear her own thoughts, and-- the bond. Oh. Of course, the bond! That had to be it. The bond was the key, Morgan just knew it.

With practiced ease, she banished all the voices from her mind-- if nothing else, her dealings with the spirits had taught her how to focus properly, and now she was reaping the benefits. After everything fell silent, Morgan... looked inside of herself. She searched, and searched, and-- oh, there it was. The link that bound her to Guinevere, as bright as it had been the day it had been forged. Good. All she had to do now was to center it in her mind-- to inject all of her power into it, really. Just a little bit more...! Suddenly there was a flash, almost blinding, and Morgan felt... more tangible? It was a strange way to feel, certainly, but there was no better way to describe it. Either way, the philosophical musings could wait, because her heart almost fucking stopped beating when she noticed what was happening. "Gwen!" the sorceress shouted, and then she was pulling her into her embrace. Into her embrace and, incidentally, also away from the abyss. "Gwen, I'm so sorry. I didn't-- didn't mean to, but I'm here. It's okay, I think," Morgan said, and yeah, it might not have been her most eloquent speech, but she just didn't know what to say. What was there to say, even? If some protocol for such situation existed, Morgan was not familiar with it.

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere squeezes her eyes shut tight and braces herself for the fall... which never comes. Instead, arms embrace her and she's pulled in the opposite direction. To safety, to her heart. The familiar scent and coppery hair tickling her cheek tell her that it's Morgan before the sound of her voice confirms it. Is this a ruse, a dreamworld trap? Bound by a spell that rings truer than anything, her heart insists it isn't. In fact, the woman she's pressed against may well be the most real part of this place. (Hearing 'it's okay'? Tension dissolves alongside the vines that tied her up, wilting and falling to the ground.) To show gratitude she doesn't yet have the words for, Guinevere leans into Morgan's warmth and settles there. Just for this moment, while she's feeling small, she lets herself soak in the comfort of her embrace in a world where there are no eyes to see them. (Really the first opportunity they've had in ages, thanks to Lancelot's reappearance.) "You know, we've got to stop meeting like this." It's a weak try at a joke in her attempt to be lighthearted -- but clinging onto Morgan as tightly as she is, it's impossible to play it off entirely. Hell... at this point, she can't tell if the tears pricking at her eyes are tears of relief or tears of shame. To avoid talking about anything too personal, she tries to shift back to their objective. "Morgan, um, I-- I think I saw the stag a few seconds ago? But I don't--"

A new memory paints their surroundings with a splash of color, distracting her. Guinevere would have opted to ignore it in favor of focusing on their task if not for the voice she picks up and immediately latches onto. "Another nightmare, huh. Was it the giant, red-eyed monster again?" Low and grizzly, but in a comforting way, it's a voice she thought she would have forgotten after so many years... but here they are. A fireplace illuminates a small living area that appears cozy in spite of the boarded windows and cheap furniture stuffed inside. Her father sits at the table with a small Guinevere clinging to his leg like a sloth on a branch. "With horns." She adds for emphasis, squishing her cheek against his knee. "...Yeah. I don't want to sleep ever again." A knock on the door disturbs them and her younger self scampers off to hide as if it was something she had done a million times before. The door swings open and an unfamiliar woman's voice rings out. "Leo, we've got a problem. Wait. Is-- is there someone else in there?" Nine-year-old Guinevere ducks lower into her hiding place and her dad steps to fill in the doorframe a little more, wearing a sense of ease as comfortable as his smile "Who else would be in here? It's just me. What's the problem?"

Geez. It never occurred to her that her life was unusual back then. Considering the state of the world, she just thought everyone lived that way. The boarded windows, the hiding, and secrecy. Seeing it and knowing what she knows now... well, it certainly puts things in a new perspective. The 'problem', of course, is a mecha beast. Her dad preps his sword, tells her to be good and stay in the safe room with her sister... she remembers it so well because it's the last time she ever saw him. Guinevere grabs his hand before he can leave. "Wait. I want to go with you." Her father kneels down and taps her nose gently with his fist. "Weren't you just crying over an imaginary monster with horns? Stay put. I'll be back before morning." He turns for the door again, but she grips harder. "But the monster doesn't get me. It gets you, old man!"

"Listen, Gwen. I'll be okay... but the outside world is a dangerous place. Especially for you." The real Guinevere approaches slowly and tries to reach for her father's other hand before he can leave, forgetting that he's nothing more than an illusion... and when her hand passes right through his, the light from that memory blinks out and submerges them in darkness. (It happens so fast that the whiplash stomps the air out of her lungs. She hasn't needed her father for anything in years, but--) Suddenly they're standing on a tiled floor, slick with blood, air laden with the metallic scent of it. Dropped into a place she never wanted to revisit again -- a small room in the hospital, another memory. Any minuscule amount of warmth that came from the previous memory is frozen over in an instant. A younger Jen is trying to unlock the window and Guinevere is feeling around the floor to find a tool to help her. The door rattles on its hinges as someone on the other side pounds on it. An incredibly unhinged sounding man is cackling and promising to do all sorts of horrible things to them if they don't let him in. She immediately places this as one of their first attempts at escape. An unsuccessful one, at that... thanks to her.

"This is your fault. If you killed that bastard when you had the chance, we wouldn't be in this mess." Jen lashes out, the pressure in the air is tangible and crawling under her skin as she tries, tries, tries, and fails to get the window open. "I felt his heartbeat under my fingers and I-- I couldn't do it..." Guinevere's voice trembles almost as much as her hands do. Although Jen holds herself with her usual grace even then, even her voice shakes when she speaks. "--Yeah. And if we get caught, it's because you were too weak."

The scene morphs again, this time to something far more recent. "Right. I'll do it. But only because I want to make this stop. I would never really -- you have to know I would never do this if... if I had another choice." --That moment in which Guinevere's hands are around Morgan's throat. Fuck. Hearing her own apologies from that point on, she flinches away from the scene. The concept of hurting Morgan was painful enough back then -- and now? Although it technically wasn't 'real', it runs her heart through the shredder. That the other woman is there to witness it alongside her makes it all the more difficult to endure. (And yet... while holding onto Morgan before, she'd felt her. Unlike when her hand phased through her father. The memories wrap her up, she's an intrinsic part of them to the point that they're hard to ignore. But the other woman's presence reminds her that that's just it, isn't it? These are illusions, distractions. Diverting her attention from the very real woman at her side, who she could have a real future with if she just saw past them.) Guinevere's memories shuffle again, then, to her waking up afterward and Arthur sitting at her bedside, caressing her face oh so softly. "But worry not, my beloved. Morgan won't hurt you anymore. I've arranged for someone else to take care of your lessons, too. Everything will be as if you have never met her at all."

"Shit. I keep... I keep getting distracted. I'm sorry." Guinevere blinks as if awakening from a slumber, squinting at the ground. This is an emotional whirlwind, isn't it? It's harder than it sounds, avoiding her past as it paints their surroundings so completely. But she can't let herself be consumed by it. This isn't just about her, either. If she becomes a permanent part of this place and can never leave, wouldn't it be pretty damn reasonable to assume that the same logic would apply for Morgan as well? (And that can't happen. No way in hell!) "The white stag. It sort of appeared in one of the visions? But now... I don't know. Probably wouldn't be very productive to watch them all until the right one pops up, though." Getting lost in thoughts and visions would undoubtedly end in disaster, especially considering how she'd just been dangling over a freaking abyss. In any case... where the hell did it go? Clenching the stone in one hand, she takes Morgan's hand in the other like a lifeline while the Guinevere in bed throws her fists down and claims that Arthur made a mistake. Walking right through her past self, she forges on ahead as more recollections begin to spring up, each one attempting to demand her attention by honing in on various places she'd traveled to and various people she'd met. But they all pass by in a blur as she forces herself to tune them out and walk faster and faster. That's when the reel of scenes from her memory finally collapse into a big, open field. Rainbow orbs of light drift lazily in the sky... and it'd have been beautiful with all the greenery and flowers if not for the subtly sinister fact that everything was spattered with blood. The white stag stands ahead, framed by the wheel of flames in the sky, majestic and completely unstained.

And from behind, she can hear the loud clamor of boots against the earth -- the sound of Arthur and his knights approaching, to be precise.

 

[Syntra]

"It's a tradition at this point, I think," Morgan giggled. It was a nervous, pathetic thing-- about as distant from genuine laughter as drizzle was from flood, really. Still, Guinevere tried to be strong, didn't she? As such, she had no excuse not to give it her all as well. Absolutely none! It wasn't her whose most intimate moments had been put on display, and it also wasn't her who had to deal with... well, with all of this. With all those people who only saw her as a vessel-- as something to be used and used and used, until she was empty and drained. (When would enough be enough? When?! Because Guinevere had nothing left to give, dammit. She had given up her freedom, her pride, any sense of agency she may have once had, even-- even her body. And yet! Yet her brother had the audacity to demand more, more and more. It wasn't enough that she had submitted to his whims-- no, she also had to look happy as he took everything from her. As her dreams were being dashed. It was her fault for having them in the first place anyway, wasn't it? Like, how dared she have hopes and aspirations that did not include being Arthur's doormat! ...and Morgan failed her to protect her from that. For all her plans, for all her posturing, the reality was that Gwen bore the burden-- Gwen alone bore it, and nothing she did could make it even a little bit lighter. Nothing!)

Thinking about these matters only made her eyes wet, however, and that was the last thing they needed. When had tears solved anything? Those only ever marked weakness-- pointed out a convenient place for her enemies to cut. "I'm thinking we need to spice it up a bit, though," the sorceress smiled. "Perhaps we could meet in a dream rather than a nightmare next time? That could be fun. I'd-- I'd show you so many things." A lie, mostly because Morgan didn't actually have that many pleasant memories to show off, but so what? Her imagination had always been her best friend. With some effort, she could dream up something to make Guinevere smile, she was sure. Something that wasn't just the cold, the cells and sneers of those who hadn't even tried to understand.

Morgan wanted to add something, but then more images flickered before her very eyes-- Gwen and someone, who she supposed, was probably her father. Well, at least the man had tried to protect her? (Presumably, he was gone now. Dead, most likely, claimed either by old age or the wastes. It's my role now, she realized. To protect her. And, yes, Guinevere could usually do it on her own, but she shouldn't have to, okay? People weren't meant to face hardship alone. Loneliness was poison, and ultimately, poison always killed you. You could endure it, even get used to it, but it wasn't ever good for you, dammit!) "Guinevere," she said, softly, and injected some of the magical force into their bond. A wake-up call, if you will-- the equivalent of pinching her. "Guinevere, look at me. I'm the only thing that is real here. You don't need to be reliving these moments. Remember the stag?" And it may have worked, even, but only for a second-- the old memory faded, yet it was immediately replaced by another. And who did she see this time? Jen.

Instinctively, Morgan bristled. Yes, she was just a child, and another innocent in this specific scenario, but frankly? Whenever she thought of the woman, she could only remember the cold disregard she'd shown towards her sister-- the disregard and contempt, really. (And thinly veiled jealousy as well. How someone could be jealous of Guinevere's fate, that she'd never understand, though-- well. Maybe it did make sense now, sort of. Growing up in her shadow couldn't have been easy. Normal sibling rivalry was one thing, but being straight up kidnapped because of your sister? Going through all the hardship she had experienced, without ever being considered as 'special'? Alright, maybe Morgan did have the faintest hint of sympathy for Jennifer now. Not love, granted, but... some distant sort of understanding.)

And then, as quickly as before, there was another vision-- a vision of her, this time. Of Guinevere being stuck in her mind. Back then, Morgan's death had been the only path to freedom, but it felt strange to watch this, really. (The hands she knew so well now, oh so gentle, were wrapped around her throat, and... wow, this looked bad. When viewed through Gwen's eyes, she seemed so pitiful! Small and fragile, with so much pain reflected in her face. Was that how the other woman remembered the scene? Morgan hadn't realized. It had been something that had to be done-- kind of like ripping a bandaid, really. There was no point in thinking about it, and so she didn't. Did Guinevere feel the same, though? Because, Morgan now knew, if it roles had been reversed, she wouldn't have been able to get the scene out of her head.)

"Gwen," she whispered, her voice gentle. "Gwen, it's okay. I don't even-- I don't even remember this all that much. Just the darkness. " Well, the darkness and her hands, and she also had much more pleasant memories to associate them with. "It was like going to sleep, I promise." Technically, Morgan supposed, it didn't matter-- what had happened had happened, and no force in the universe could change it now. But dammit, she couldn't let her battle these emotions alone! And if-- if that small reassurance could do something for her, then she would repeat it until she lost her voice. (And when it was gone, she'd write it, carve it into walls, hell, let the spirits carry the message!) "But yes. Let us go forward, Gwen. Take my hand-- perhaps it will help you stay anchored to the reality. We'll go forward, and see what is there to see."

Unfortunately, the dreamworld had no intentions to be kind to them. Arthur. Just what they needed, really! Morgan's free hand automatically balled into a fist, but her brother... didn't appear to see her. No, he jumped off his horse and headed to Gwen specifically.

"My love," he said, sounding... a little bit surprised, actually. Huh. What kind of memory was that? Because, judging from his armor, it very much looked like he was on some kind of stupid quest-- and obviously, he wouldn't have allowed his dear wife to participate. No, that would have been dangerously close to acknowledging that she was a person. A person, rather than his personal incubator. ...if this wasn't a memory, though, than what was it? Some kind of worst case scenario, perhaps? Yet another trial?

"My love," Arthur repeated, "what are you doing here? This is no place for one such as yourself. I told you you are to stay home, with our children. Have you no heart? They must be crying for their mother, I'm sure." He touched her face, gently, and caressed it-- for some reason, however, the touch seemed to burn. "Go home, my love. I shall take care of everything, just like I have always had."

 

[ellarose]

Children? Before Guinevere has any time to reconcile with that, though, Arthur strides towards her and she builds her defenses up in preparation. His touch is usually enough to make her wilt -- and this time it did far more than that. It burnt her skin, searing through, filling her mind with images of... of what looks like her future in Camelot, maybe? Though her first instinct is to recoil -- she finds that she can't. Can't move a muscle. (Oh. Because that's her first instinct now, isn't it? To stay still, to let him have his way and only move when he's finished with her? Shameful, shameful, shameful.) "Go home, Guinevere." He says it a second time, a touch more demanding, and his hand burns even hotter than before, forcing her to gasp out. Squeezing her eyes shut against the strain, she opens them again to find herself away from that forest and in the center of a... nursery? Oh shit. Dressed in delicate, pale blue silk and cradling an infant in her arms, whose head rests soundly on her shoulder. Two young boys with heads of golden hair spar with wooden swords... and when the girl tries to join them, they push her away and proclaim that it isn't her place. (Charming. They must take after their fath--) "--Hey! I didn't raise you that way." Guinevere snaps out as if it's the most natural thing in the world and then blinks perplexedly. The infant, soft and warm and breathing against her chest... almost feels as real as Morgan did before. In this place, her perceptions of what's real or what isn't is so damned hard to read. But it registers with her that this is wrong. "I... I didn't raise you at all."

"What do you mean, mama?" The girl tugs at the hem of her dress. Guinevere steps back in a panic, her gaze swirling around the room for Morgan. Whenever her sense of what was real and what wasn't began to fray, the sorceress was there each step of the way with soft words to reassure her with. A hand to hold, a tether to keep her there. But now she can't see or hear her at all. Although she might as well be trapped in a room of illusions, she turns to the maid dozing in the corner of the room as if she might have an answer to her question. "--Where's Morgan?"

"My... my queen." The maid seems astonished to be acknowledged at all and fumbles with her words. "The king had his sister executed years ago." That sentence punches the air out of Guinevere's lungs and her balance shifts. Executed? (The air quivers and shimmers a little, there, but it's such a small crack in the illusion that she barely notices it in the tidal wave of emotion that crashes over her, sweeping her up in it.) On the verge of falling under the impossible weight of grief, the maid's on her feet instantly, rushing to her side to help keep her upright. She helps her into a chair and tucks the infant safely away in her crib. The other children continue playing as if nothing had happened.

"No. No, no, no--" Guinevere rasps out as more images flash through her mind, scorching the same as Arthur's touch had -- she sees an axe, glinting in the sun, lifting high over an executioner's head -- coming down, down, down over the woman she-- The maid interrupts before any blood can spill. "I'm sorry. I know it took a toll on you. M-many of us did think it was cruel for him to make you watch in the front row. He claimed you would be a better queen for it, that you would understand your place. No one questioned his judgement." There's a long stretch of silence from there. It's like she just discovered her heart shattered in a million pieces at her feet and not having even a mote of strength left to piece it back together. Does anything really matter if she's gone?

"--Then why am I still here?" Guinevere's voice is flat, her last method of self defense left intact in spite of the tears falling freely down her face. "Why didn't I go back home?"

"You are home, my queen. In Camelot?" The maid starts, but Guinevere gives her such a hard glare that she second guesses herself. (Because if Morgan was lost, then why--? Why would she have forced herself to stay in this hellish place that made her so--) She asks her question a second time, steelier. "Why didn't I go home?"

"Your camp was destroyed. There were no survivors." The maid caresses her face like Arthur had before, gentle, burning white hot. Images of her friends bodies flow into her mind like a stream, broken and mangled. (No more, no more... this has to stop. She can't take anymore.) As if the world is responding to her emotions, the ground begins to rattle and shake the entire castle, the entire dimension. The maid smiles at her and it's all wrong. It's a cheshire smile that grows and grows on her face, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. "The only ones left who depend on you now are your children, queen Guinevere. Surely you won't abandon them? Surely you're not that heartless?"

The maid grows into a creature with glowing red eyes, her mouth opening wide to reveal an abyss of darkness inside that Guinevere finally snaps out of her trance. This isn't real. She ducks down, dodging the sharp teeth, and stumbles to the other end of the nursery. The infant begins to cry as the monster dashes after her at a dangerous speed -- splintering the luxurious dollhouse in the corner to thousands of pieces in the process. Guinevere's pressed to the wall, breathing heavily as she hurriedly scans the room for an exit. This isn't real. Shadowy, needle-like fingers jab forward and slash through her shoulder. Tearing her sleeve... the pain is real, as is the color red that seeps into the blue of the dress she's wearing like blood in the water. But this place? It can't be real. Because the Morgan she knows wouldn't have gone down without a fight. She wouldn't back down from a challenge. (And neither... neither would she, damn it! Arthur forced her to watch the execution in the front row? Yeah freaking right! Like she would actually let him do that to her! To the woman she--)

Guinevere pushes past the monster and runs out of the nursery, down Camelot's halls. Ditching the high heels she'd been wearing haphazardly, her bare feet slap against the floor as she hurtles forward, moving on autopilot at this point. She knows where she needs to go. Down to the cellar, down to the -- the sword. Excalibur. It shines like a star, as brightly as she remembered it. Evidently the shadowy monster can't survive in its light -- because behind her, she can hear it shriek and wail as it vanishes from the dimension. A calm hangs over her after that and there's no hesitation holding her back this time as she moves towards the sword in the earth. This time, this time she's going to take it. But just before her fingertips can so much as brush the hilt, vines snatch her up and suspend her in place. Thorns grow outward and pierce into her skin... injecting her like syringes, drinking her blood. Flowers begin to grow around her and outward, between the stones on the floor, spreading up the walls, dangling from the ceiling. Her vision blurs and with every heartbeat, the sword becomes brighter. She notices, then, a large mirror standing behind the sword. And in it, she can see Arthur walking through the entrance. He's calm, as if this is just, say, a normal Tuesday.

"Now, now. Excalibur belongs to me. Like everything else in Camelot... like you." Arthur's voice echoes. "You're being delusional, my love."

"Oh, fuck off." Guinevere struggles against the vines but it only tightens their hold on her. With nowhere else to go, she reaches inward for her bond to Morgan. She must have felt it all along, the way the other woman tried to reach her. Burning quietly and reminding her of their true reality in small increments... it's time she reached back, put her own energy into supplying it with strength. (Because though she feels powerless, like she's not in control of her own destiny or her own body... there are some matters she can still take into her own hands.) The reflection in the mirror ripples like a pool of water, then, and she sees Morgan standing within. Alive and beautiful as ever and -- and alive. God. The sight of her takes her breath away. (Is she in the forest they'd been in before? Or someplace else? Too blurry to see from here.) And whether she can see or hear her from her end? Well, that's yet to be seen. Please, please. "--Morgan! Morgan, can you-- can you see me?"

 

[Syntra]

"...oh, for fuck's sake," Morgan muttered, and it was terribly of rude of her, but if there was one situation that justified her speaking in such manner, it had to be this one. Just a second ago, Guinevere had been standing there-- close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. Now, though? She was gone, probably made to face yet another challenge. Gods. Why couldn't the world leave her alone? (Because it never had, the real one or its shadow. The blood that coursed through her veins hadn't allowed it-- would never allow it, for as long as she lived. Excalibur was power, and Gwen was the key. They would always hunt her, just just like a wolf never failed to track a doe. Morgan should get used to that, shouldn't she? Because this would be her life now-- helping Guinevere deal with one clusterfuck after another. Oh well. Still better than Camelot, she supposed?)

Except that, when Morgan opened her eyes, she was in Camelot. ...what? That wasn't right. They'd been in the dreamworld, she and Guinevere, and pursued the white stag. Camelot was so far you couldn't even see its silhouette on the horizon when you turned around! (Or it should have been, really, but Morgan would recognize the place anywhere. It was something in the air, probably-- the way it hung heavy over her, how it almost made her choke. How all the eyes were on her, full of judgment. Could she have been transported back into the castle somehow, then?)

"Lisbeth," she turned to one of the maids she knew, "where is queen Guinevere? I must speak to her-- it is quite urgent." More urgent than the girl could possibly imagine. Still, even so, the maid only gave her a doubtful glance.

"Lady Morgan, I am... not that sure that this is a good idea. Don't you wish to send her a message instead? That might be easier, for both of you."

...easier? What? Why would messages be easier? Was she being kept captive, maybe? Oh no. Had Arthur found out about their quest somehow, then surely-- surely his ego hadn't taken it well. The knowledge that they had been so close couldn't have helped, either. And what, exactly, did her brother do when he was feeling slighted? Why, he punished. Suddenly, her heart was somewhere in her throat, and it was hard to breathe, and--

Some of the panic must have translated into her expression, because Lisbeth leaned closer. "Lady Morgan," she said, her tone gentle and soft. Conciliatory, even, almost as if she was speaking to a child who refused to understand she couldn't have ice-cream for dinner. "Don't you think this is rather embarrassing?" she blinked a few times. The blue of her eyes was overwhelming-- almost like Gwen's blue, now that she thought of it. "You've shamed the queen enough as is. Now, return to your room."

At those words, the panic morphed into confusion. First of all, why was a maid asking her to go to her room? Her, Morgan le Fey? Preposterous! And what embarrassment was she talking about, anyway? It wasn't like she had even talked to Guinevere much. Exchanged pleasantries, yes, but that was expected, and it had never resulted in anything deeper. They had been careful! Especially after that incident with Iphigenia. Aside from that quiet night in the gardens, they hadn't even tried to steal a moment for themselves-- hadn't hoped for a second of privacy. How could they have, when every kiss would have tasted of danger? When every touch, every caress could have been followed by the kiss of steel?

"Go to my room?" Morgan asked, her voice shaking in barely restrained anger. "You forget yourself. You also forget who I am. Now, lead me to the queen. Immediately. Do I really have to say explicitly that I have no time for these ominous hints?"

"No time for ominous hints, huh," Lisbeth smirked. (It was an ugly expression-- one that made her look like a snake more than anything. Morgan almost expected her to open her mouth and swallow her whole.) "Then I'll say it plainly. The queen doesn't want you."

"What?" Morgan asked, disbelief apparent in her voice. (Doesn't want you, doesn't want you, doesn't want you. The words echoed in her head, over and over-- a mantra that had been true throughout the entirety of her life. Nobody had ever wanted her. Not her friends, not her father, not her mother. It was almost impressive, really, as statistically, there should have been someone, but no! It must have been some sort of record, surely-- as pathetic as she was.)

"Oh, you blocked it out? Poor thing," Lisbeth once again grinned, her smile both honey and poison. "You see, you were useful enough when she needed to get rid of Arthur-- which is why you may still live here. That doesn't mean she ever wanted you, though. Wouldn't that be preposterous?" she laughed cruelly. "You know what you are, Morgan. More importantly, she knows it, too." ...well. Now that was hard to argue with, mostly because it was true. Because it made sense. It didn't make the weight on her chest any lighter, or her throat any less tighter, but-- yeah, she couldn't really fault her for seeing the light. (For seeing the pattern that everyone else saw, somehow. Oh well. It was her fault anyway, wasn't it? Allowing wishful thinking to take over never ended well.)

"Now, won't you return to your room?"

"...I suppose," Morgan replied, at a loss for words. There wasn't anything left to say, anyway.

Once the door closed after her, she plopped down on her bed and stared into the mirror-- and very much did not see Guinevere.

 

[ellarose]

"--Morgan!" Guinevere tries calling for her again -- and again, and again, until her throat is raw -- but to no avail. There's no spark of recognition, their eyes never meet and it becomes chillingly evident that no matter how far she reaches to grasp their bond from her end... her fingertips find nothing tangible to latch onto. It's useless. Again, she finds herself trapped in a place where no one can see or hear her. Clearly, the universe is putting her back in her place. Right back where she belongs. Falling limp with exertion, the vines swivel her around like she's a marionette on strings to face Arthur. Might as well be all she is to him, right? Even though the world around her is too blurry to see much at all, he's certainly close enough for her to know there's a condescending expression on his face. He caresses her, because of course he does, and she's treated to the sight of the executioner's ax catching sunlight again. A single swing ending Morgan's life and simultaneously smashing her heart to pieces. It plays over and over as if to try and solidify the illusionary universe she's in as truth. "This isn't real. Make it stop."

"You're the only one who can make it stop, my love. Can't you see? There's nothing for you down here. Undermining me only brings you pain." Arthur tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, pets the back of her head. Then he's embracing her tightly enough that he could've fooled anyone but Guinevere herself into thinking that she actually meant something to him. His arms... inescapable. Suffocating. And as if attuned to her emotions, flowers drain of color and wilt around her. "Go back to the children, my love. It's not your place to wield a sword. And especially not one like Excalibur." He laughs, then, as if the notion itself is unthinkable. Because that's so silly to him, right? The fact that she could even dream to have any ambitions behind being his pretty little wife. Another rush of voices from the past thrums in the air around them like thunder, roaring in her ears. Though making sense of any of the words is a challenge, it's clear they exist to belittle and cage her in. The vines, his arms, the expectations. All of it at once. It hurts.

When Guinevere thrashes from side to side, he shushes her soothingly like she's a child. Make it easy, give up. Arthur whispers promises and reassurances in her ear so sweet, so sweet, so sickeningly sweet that she wants to spit at him. Because no matter how gentle his voice and touch might be, that doesn't change the fact that he's a callous bastard. Quieted fires rise from their slumber within, her thoughts vanish in the smoke and that's the point where Guinevere isn't Guinevere anymore. Not exactly. Her eyes take on a green glow and her voice comes back to her with more force than before. "Let me go!" Camelot itself shakes and all at once the flowers replenish themselves, Arthur is pushed a few feet backward and the vines fall away from her like a horde of beheaded vipers. The smell of the fresh plants around her is inviting and overwhelming all at once, there's an intoxicated part of her that's fully prepared to be lost forever, to investigate secrets deep underground -- but before she can, a lingering fear of magic and of losing control snaps Guinevere back into herself like a slingshot. The green flickers out of her eyes... and she's left standing a perplexed, bloody mess. And Arthur... Arthur's not looking at her, but at something behind her. Oh. Excalibur.

...As if responding to whatever magic state she had been in, Excalibur levitates out of the earth and Arthur snatches the hilt before she can even process what's happening. Well, shit. (And -- uh -- instead of Morgan in the mirror, now she sees the stag... reflected in the entrance directly behind them! Ugh. Duh! It was the white stag she was supposed to be searching for, not the sword. Did her desire for answers lead her astray at some point? This is all just a huge mistake--) "You vowed to obey me. Stay still." And his voice holds the same power over her as before -- even if she wanted to, she can't. Can't move, that is. Even as Arthur's smile becomes sinister and she feels a sharp pain in her side. Her gaze pans down slowly to find Excalibur -- lodged in her side. A fatal mistake. Oh. Oh. The pain searing through her is unimaginable. Arthur pulls it out in one swift motion and she crumbles onto the stone. Bringing her hand to the wound, she brings her palm out in front of her to see her fingers coated in blood. (It's kind of like that nightmare... No, exactly like it. Had it been some kind of premonition?) Disposed of by the very power she had suffered to activate... why did she expect anything different? It almost makes her laugh.

"Fear not, Guinevere. You've fulfilled your purpose." Arthur tips her chin back and stares into her eyes as if to console her. "You were always so dutiful... surely the people will know their queen's sacrifice was for the glory of Camelot. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to assemble my knights for a hunt."

"You vowed... to protect me." Guinevere yanks her face away from his touch, grits her teeth and forces herself to bear the pain even as it threatens to take her under. And the sword under Arthur's touch, soaked with her blood? It's glowing red. The way it looked just before it laid waste to so many people in the vision the voice showed her -- "If you use Excalibur like that, people are going to--"

"I am protecting you." Arthur interrupts her, looking wounded that she would suggest otherwise. Despite the fact that he just freaking stabbed her! Well, actually, that sounds precisely like something he would do. What a guy. Wouldn't other girls just kill to be in her position right now? "I protected you from yourself, my love. And I'll miss you terribly, I will, but I really must take my leave now."

With that, Arthur strides out of the cellar like a man confident in the destiny laid out at his feet. Intending to fight until the bitter end, Guinevere inches herself forward bit by bit on her hands and knees, leaving a worrying path of blood on the stone in her wake... it becomes evident that she's definitely not going to catch up to him. (Yeah, no shit! Not like this, she isn't.) Then she touches something blazing hot and finds the star-shaped stone on the ground under her hand. It must have slipped through her fingers when she ran in. What had Morgan said? It becomes warm when she reaches her limit? (Based on how it feels now, she must have gone past it.) Think of home and she'll...

No. But the stag! The answers. Guinevere has to go after the stag, or --

-- Or what, exactly? Well, missing out on knowledge of her 'purpose' after failing here would be pretty damn devastating. Except now she's freaking bleeding out here. And if that translates to the real world, if she dies in this place -- then what becomes of Morgan? Because she's trapped in here, too! Is any of this even worth it if she gets them both killed in the process? No. The answer is obviously no. Wielding Excalibur is a responsibility. And if she's the sort of person to sacrifice real lives in pursuit of its power, like Arthur, then she'll defeat the very purpose of what she wanted to use it for in the first place. So Guinevere turns herself around, crawling towards the mirror. There were no other leads to her whereabouts... is it really so strange to think the mirror might be a doorway in a dreamworld like this? Even so... she doesn't have any other options. Searching the castle in a blind panic for Morgan, in her current state -- who knows what might distract her along the way? Hell, Guinevere doesn't even know if she's actually in Camelot. And if the mirror will show her another picture, then maybe...

Clutching her wound with one hand, she presses her fist with the stone enclosed to the surface of the mirror. "Please." Staring at her own reflection, Guinevere doesn't know who she's talking to. The spirits? Any mysterious entity that might be listening? Her own voice echoes back at her in the dark, sword-less cellar. She touches her forehead to the glass and it feels cool, almost comforting as sweat beads at her brow. "I need to make sure she makes it home safely. That's all I want." Slowly, the plants around her wind themselves around the mirror's frame, then, and it shines a healing blue, like a lake under a full moon.

And with that, Guinevere falls through the mirror like it actually became a pool of water and... lands in an ineloquent heap on Morgan's floor. The impact that takes her through shatters the mirror and in with her comes a whole mess of broken glass and dripping blood, disturbing the quiet in what must have been the most chaotic way possible. But that doesn't matter right now, because Morgan's there, right in front of her, she's alive, and -- ow. She tries to stand, but falters and stumbles with the motion, pressing her hand to her side. But she's too damned relieved to break down. Because thank goodness. It worked. And she's alive! (And god, the sight of the other woman makes her coherent thoughts disappear and all she can do is laugh guiltily, looking slightly bashful at the commotion she just caused. And to take it one step further, she even forgets their situation, as though they're back in one of their early lessons that she just screwed up tremendously.) "Sorry about your carpet, I--" She scrunches her nose up and shakes her head furiously. "Ugh, what am I even saying? The carpet's not real!" And more than that, she screwed up way beyond making a mess! She screwed up colossally. Let everyone down. Goddammit.

"Morgan." Guinevere's voice is steel now. Admit to her mistakes and ensure Morgan makes it home alive. That's her goal now. Screw Arthur. He can have the stag, his grand destiny that she was never meant for. It's not worth risking the life of the woman she cares about. Nothing would ever, ever be worth that. "I messed up. Arthur is-- he--" As she sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes flicker with magic like a broken machine. (Screams. She can hear screams. The sword might be in Arthur's hands, but somehow... she can feel it wreaking havoc. Like she's still tethered to it somehow.) Despite her most valiant attempts to be strong, her eyes well with tears and she reaches for Morgan's hand, pressing the star-shaped stone over to her. It doesn't really matter, does it? She has to get to the point. Has to do one thing right -- just this one thing. "--I failed. How do I get you home?"

 

[Syntra]

Morgan just... stared into the mirror, not really seeing anything. (So that was the truth, huh. Honestly, it wasn't all that surprising-- not when this sort of dynamic pursued her like her own shadow, popping up again and again with staggering frequency. Perhaps this was her fate? To used and discarded, really. At least, the sorceress thought, the cause was just this time. Just, and also hers. Hadn't she wanted Guinevere to become the queen even before any feelings had entered into the equation? Before they had blurred her vision? Besides, surely she was a better queen than Arthur had been king. The Excalibur had been forged for her hand, after all, and this-- this was how things were meant to be. All in all, she had won! She really, really had. Love never lasted, anyway. All those songs that praised it to high heaven? Nothing more than lies, crafted to make marriage look a little less horrible. Women weren't meant to see it as the cage it was-- no, they had to be thankful for the chance to polish some asshole's shoes. Obviously, the propaganda machine had to go into overdrive here.)

Perhaps this is better for everyone involved, she thought. Ending things on a dramatic note, as she suspected had happened, was at least interesting. If their relationship were to fizzle out, with them slowly growing resentful of one another, it would have been-- wait. As she suspected had happened? Why didn't she remember? Because Guinevere telling her that she didn't want her, that she never had, didn't seem like something she'd forget easily. (Or at all.) Still, when Morgan tried to reach the memory, it simply... wasn't there. In place of it, there was darkness, akin to the space between the stars. Had she somehow blocked it out? She remembered reading something about people supposedly suppressing traumatic memories, but come on. Getting freaking dumped wasn't traumatic! At least not if you weren't utterly pathetic, and Morgan liked to think she wasn't. No, something felt off here. Really off, now that she thought of it. What was the last thing she remembered, actually? Killing Arthur? ...no. No, that memory was also missing! How curious. One would have thought that she would have paid enough attention to it to, you know, be able to recall the details. (She had imagined the moment so, so many times in the past. Poisoning him, maybe, and watching him drown in his blood; pushing him off a bridge so that his body would break on some cliff; cutting his head off, when she had been feeling particularly brave and foolish. Either way, those fantasies had been vivid, and also the only thing that had gotten her through her teenage years. Her lifeline, you could say. How come, then, that she didn't even know which method she had used? Had it been that underwhelming?)

Morgan frowned into the mirror. For some reason, her own reflection looked off, too-- as if it was pixellated, somehow. Not as sharp as she had remembered it. Hmm. Could she be hallucinating? No, she had to trust in her own perception. (It was the only thing she'd ever have, and it would get her through this, too.) Alright. Alright, focus. Your last memory! Ah, there it was. She and - gulp - Gwen had ventured into the wastes, saved Lancelot, then decided to hunt the white stag in the dreamworld, and... and then there was nothing. Nothing but endless, deafening silence.

...oh. Oh, this wasn't real at all! Somehow, she had been sucked into a vision, and-- thank the gods. Guinevere hadn't betrayed her! She was probably stuck in a vision of her own, though, and dammit, Morgan should figure out how to find her instead of sitting around uselessly. She'd done more than enough of that, anyway!

As usual, though, Guinevere managed to subvert her expectations. Before she could do anything, the other woman literally fell out of the mirror-- which would have been a cause for joy had she also not been covered in blood.

"Gwen!" Within seconds, Morgan was kneeling by her side. "Gods, Gwen, mention something as stupid as that carpet again and I'll end you myself." ...which probably wasn't the most romantic way to greet her beloved, but she was scared and relieved all at once and, shit, her mouth didn't obey her at all. "And you didn't fail. You don't fail until you stop trying, dammit!" Her cheeks were still wet with tears she hadn't realized she had shed, and now-- now she was about to cry again. Gods! "Arthur-- whatever he did, we'll deal with him later. Now, Gwen, focus. Can you hear me?" Morgan caressed her face. "I cannot heal you here. But, since this is also your world, the rules are a bit different. I can lend you some of my energy-- with that, you can heal yourself. Take the happiest memory you have, Gwen. Take it, and hold onto it. Imagine it flowing through your body so that it may mend you. Ready?" Because, yeah, no way was she even going to think about escaping from here alone. About escaping when Guinevere was injured, really. No, they'd take care of this first, and then they would break the illusion together.

 

[ellarose]

The sound Guinevere makes is caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "What? You've got to admit, it's a nice carpet." Is this the worst possible time to be pushing Morgan's buttons? Yes. Yes, it is. But, hey, she has to take those moments when she can get them. (And lately, those moments have been tragically hard to come by.) "Heh. Wouldn't be the worst way to go. I'd rather spend my last moments with you than with--" But then she shuts her mouth because the world is fizzling out to a worrying extent and... a teardrop lands on her face. Is Morgan crying? Shit. Okay, okay. Just because she's trying to ease herself into accepting the cold realities of death and failure doesn't mean that the other woman is going to let her surrender that easily. And like hell she isn't. This isn't just her future on the line, after all. (No. It's not. And that's the very thing that Guinevere takes repeatedly like a sucker-punch to the gut. When she screws up, she lets everyone down. Everyone.) With that solidified, well, her herculean attempt at a light disposition fades as quickly as a candle in the wind. "Arthur has Excalibur. He's already going after the stag and I-- I can't catch up to him like this." Bleeding out, practically on death's doorstep. Maybe she hadn't stopped trying... but as far as she's concerned, dying is also the equivalent of failing!

And there's so much she ought to say, considering the seconds passing them by may well be her last... but then there's the warmth of Morgan's hand on her cheek as she asks her to focus and she tries her damnedest to hang on. Squinting to see her better, tilting her head towards the palm of her hand to feel closer to her. Undoubtedly, whatever she has to say will be useful compared to any clumsy, sentimental blubbering Guinevere could hope to come up with amidst the emotions overflowing from her like blood from an open wound. Healing? Is that even possible? It almost sounds too good to be true. And the fact that this is riding on her own abilities? Well, they might be doomed.

"My world is a raging dumpster fire." She manages through a ragged breath. Everything's either trying to kill her or force-feed a narrative where all her friends (--and Morgan!) are dead. Finding a stag out in a field after being subjected to a life in the wastes should have been a cakewalk. But when it comes to all of this magic, it's clear she's lightyears away from her element. Those spells she accomplished before? That was child's play compared to... whatever this is. A bloody mess from head to toe, it's plain to see that her inexperience has her on the road to ruin. The voice asked her why she thought she was worthy and... well, what if she just isn't? Was the title of queen, being surrounded by luxury and nice things for once-- was it starting to go to her head, maybe? "I'm starting to think that I made all that stuff with Excalibur up to give myself a choice when I never actually had one." In fact, it almost compels her to laugh at herself. But fear, urgent and bright, flashes through her eyes. "Besides... what if I can't do it? What if it all goes wrong? What happens to you if I die here? I--"

Go home. Guinevere wants to beg her. I can't lose you again. But all it takes is one look at Morgan's face for it to occur to her that the other woman's not going to give up. (And she isn't sure whether it makes her want to cry or kiss her more. Because damn if that isn't admirable.) Asking her to abandon her here? Of course she wouldn't accept that! Wallowing will only serve to waste time that she... honestly probably doesn't even have at this point. You don't fail until you stop trying, huh. Her breathing is shallow, she needs to snap out of whatever the hell this rut is. But this can't go unspoken if she's going to even begin to focus on healing herself. "Your life is more important than a... a stupid sword. You can't die because of me again." She reaches for her hand in the haze. (Yes, again. Images flash through her mind -- of her hands around Morgan's throat and sunlight on the executioner's ax. Although they were illusions with no true basis in reality, the heartbreak of what she perceived as loss? That still left scars, damn it!) "If it looks like everything's going to shit, I want you to get out of here."

"...But I'll try." Guinevere surrenders her panic and doubts, then, only having the strength to put together a flimsy smile. "Wouldn't be the first time your advice saved my skin." Well, here goes nothing. Her eyes flit shut, then, and... well, she has a handful of happy memories to shuffle through. But they're hard to grasp firmly in her current state. Not to mention all those childhood memories, most of which including Jen, are tainted now. For a split second, she remembers an inconsequential evening she rode down an empty street in an old shopping cart with her arms outstretched, the wind blowing in her hair, feeling free as a bird... but that could hardly be classified as her happiest memory. (And, god, when was the last time she felt remotely as free as she did back then?) That's when she remembers the last time she felt like she got to choose for herself. The night before the wedding that she spent in Morgan's arms. Of course. That particular memory is simple to recall in vivid detail, especially considering the other woman's proximity to her right now. Her warmth, her scent, her voice. It's all just the same. A piece of heaven within the hell she's been stuck in. Whether it be in Camelot, a nightmarish dreamscape of her own making or a combination of the two... Morgan makes her strong enough to endure. So she lets everything about that night flood her senses, surrounds herself with it the way she was advised to. "Okay. I'm ready."

 

[Syntra]

A nice carpet. A carpet that was nice enough, apparently, for her to fixate on it, even as her soul was practically leaving her body. Gods! (Had Guinevere been even slightly less injured, even slightly less closer to death, Morgan would have straight up punched her. How dared she play with her heart like that?! ...since that very much wasn't the reality they lived in, though, she didn't. Instead, the sorceress huddled closer, and caressed her some more. It helped, somewhat-- Guinevere was soft and warm and full of life, just like she'd always been. Nothing about her resembled a-- a corpse.) "When we get out of here," Morgan said quietly, "I swear I'm going to make you pay for those comments. I shall tickle you for days, Guinevere Leodegrance." Leodegrance, not Pendragon. As far as Morgan was concerned, the marriage between her and Arthur was a sham, and she would die before acknowledging its validity. The coercion involved made it void, dammit! (They had also given themselves to each other, with gods as their witnesses. If anything, the surname should have been le Fey!)

"Arthur has nothing," Morgan denied her claim hotly. "Not even his own brain cells. Gwen, this isn't real-- or at least not real in the usual sense. You can still reclaim anything that was taken from you. All you need to do is to focus, so stop-- stop talking about nonsense." And, yeah, that remark could have been worded in a more sensitive way, but it freaking took all she had not to fall apart right here and now. So what if her words weren't diplomatic? Gods knew Guinevere herself had insulted her more times than she could realistically count during their lessons, so now she could taste her own medicine! (Besides, it really was nonsense. Sure, Gwen, you'd made it all up. The cult, Arthur and all the other people who were trying to wreck your life exactly because of that connection to the Excalibur were just playing along to please you! What a goddamn plot twist.)

"It doesn't fucking matter," Morgan shook her head, trying to stop herself from crying. It didn't work, but frankly? At this point, she couldn't care less. Let Guinevere see her tears-- she'd seen her in more intimate situations, anyway. "It doesn't, you hear me? We're never going to find out what would happen to me then because, duh, you'll survive this. If you listen to me for a moment, that is." Did she have to slap her for her to start paying attention? Because Morgan would do it! It would bring her no pleasure, but dammit, if that was what it took, then she wouldn't hesitate. Not for a fraction of a second!

Thankfully, though, it seemed that it wouldn't have to come to that. Since, you know, Guinevere finally obeyed? Oh, thank the gods. "Good. I knew you could do it," Morgan smiled gently. "Now, hold onto that memory. It won't be pleasant, and you must not let it disturb your concentration. Ready?" And, with that, she sent a jolt of raw energy into Gwen's body. Immediately, it turned out Morgan hadn't been lying-- it felt like fire in her veins, like hot metal lodged in between her muscles. It burned, and burned, and burned-- except that this particular flame left no destruction in its wake. Before her very eyes, Gwen's wounds closed in real time, almost as if they had never been there at all. As they disappeared, though, Morgan herself got... well, slightly less defined. Perhaps slightly more faded, too-- like an old picture. The sorceress raised her arm and looked at it in astonishment. Wow. She had expected it, more or less, but still! No amount of knowledge could have prepared her for the real thing. What a strange, strange sensation. Was that how people who had lost their limb felt? ...hopefully, though, this wouldn't be as permanent.

"See?" she smiled despite all of that. "You're fine now. I ask you to be more careful in the future, though, since I can't exactly repeat this trick very often. Not if I don't want to disappear, anyway." ...which was probably something she should have mentioned before, but who cared about ethics? Certainly not her, thank you very much. Besides, had Guinevere known about that, she could have refused to go through with the procedure, and Morgan-- Morgan couldn't have risked that. She couldn't lose her, dammit!

 

[ellarose]

You're fine now, Morgan says, and Guinevere stares at her in disbelief. "Morgan!" Battle wounds and the excruciating burn of magic working its way through her body was painful, sure, but absolutely none of that compares to the absolute stab to the heart the sight of Morgan in faded, a ghost-like state gives her. Why-- why does she look like that? Is it just sending her outside of the dreamworld, or does this translate into reality somehow? Not if she doesn't want to disappear? "Shit. Motherfucker. Goddamnit." Even trying to reach for her is strange. As if sticking her hand into a puddle of water, she sort of feels her presence? But there's nothing tangible for her to hold onto. Oh god. When she closes her fingers around her hand, they simply pass right through. A chill caresses her with the sensation, it's like ice sliding down her back. And she can't stop herself from outright crying then, feeling like a kid when she's reduced to a mess of embarrassing hitched breaths and hiccups. Because if she fucks up again, which is highly likely, then-- "Did you know this was going to happen? Damn it, Morgan, I-- I can't--" Can't do this without her. Can't take this anymore. Except she has to. There's no other option at this point, is there? Adapt and persist. That's what she's done all her life up until now. No matter how high the stakes are raised, she's got to acclimate herself to the pressure somehow, she's got to keep moving forward.

There's no time to speak the truth for a change and say that despite all her attempts at smiling through her problems, she isn't fine. That she hasn't been fine since she married Arthur, really. Confronting the idea of losing the woman who had essentially become the stars in her sky over and over -- and now getting a visual of that fear, seeing Morgan as though she's just a ghost and already lost and someplace beyond her reach... it essentially dragged her down to her breaking point. Or at least pretty damn close to it. For both of their sakes, she'll have to dry her tears and keep going. Because now she's healed and... and everything's not lost yet, right? Does she really need Morgan to beat it into her head with another reality check? Christ. Pull it together, Guinevere.

She decides to give herself ten seconds to breathe. Just ten. Then she'll pick herself up and--

"Huh? Morgan, uh, the carpet is--" Guinevere blinks through her tears to try and see it more clearly. This time she's not bringing it up to piss her off. Flowers are blooming out where her blood had stained it before. Flowers in every color she could think of, glowing subtly and lighting a path into the distance. The walls of Camelot itself fall flat around them, as though it had just been a cardboard stage set this entire time, revealing the forest they were in before. Together under a starless sky, everything around them green and alive... wow. She can even hear the song of birds and insects. Everything in Morgan's room faded along with the rest of the illusion... well, everything except for the carpet, which she can still see between flowers. "Hey! The carpet tagged along. I knew it was important." She gestures to it with finger guns. Then she purses her lips like a kid, rubs remnants of her tears off her face with the back of her hand. "Just try and tickle me now, Morgan le Fey." She challenges with a tiny smile, though it's all in good fun. Her way of saying she forgives her. What else was she going to do, after all? She already made it clear that she wasn't going anywhere. And if their positions were swapped, she wouldn't have let Morgan bleed out on the floor of her tent. Besides, they're still technically together. She's, uh, just got to make sure she doesn't come close to dying again. No pressure or anything. Gulp.

Flowers continue to grow along the path and off into the horizon and Guinevere's eyes take on a greenish hue in response. Occasionally they'll flicker red and make her flinch before settling on the usual green again. Arthur has Excalibur. And he's using it all wrong. And knowing it, feeling it -- it gives her a sort of internal compass, a way to follow him. And, by extension, the white stag as well. But the idea of confronting Arthur again is, uh--

"I think I can track Arthur. But--" Guinevere wraps her arms around herself, hating to admit it but knowing she has to if they're going to make any progress. Admit her mistakes, learn from them. Can't let the shame hold her back now... she just has to grow from it. "It's this place, I think. There's something seriously wrong with me. He gives me orders and I just -- I freeze up. I can't move, no matter how hard I try." She runs her hands in her hair, clutching at the base of her skull, fingernails digging into her skin. And isn't that fucking infuriating? For the longest time, she played by her own rules or she looked for creative ways to break them. So, seriously, what's the deal? This place isn't even real! "And if I don't want him to stab me again, I should probably figure that out... What do you think I should do?"

 

[Syntra]

It had been a sound decision, Morgan knew. What else was she supposed to have done, anyway? Watch her bleed out on that cursed carpent and then disappear from existence, too? Since that would have prevented Guinevere from drowning in this-- this misplaced sense of guilt. (It would also have prevented both of them from ever seeing sunrise again, but priorities, right? Clearly, ethics mattered more than results-- more than actual lives. I had no choice, she said to herself. I really didn't. ...which wasn't even a lie, or at least not on the surface level. Energy was a finite resource here, and in order to bring Guinevere back, she had to sacrifice some of hers. An equivalent exchange, really. How could anyone possibly complain about such a transaction? What was also true, however, was that she could have warned Gwen in advance. She could have told her of the risks, and allowed her to make an informed choice. Oh well. Too late for that now, wasn't it? Gotta deal with the consequences now.)

"I didn't know," Morgan said, and immediately felt guilty. Did she really want to build their bond on lies? Those permeated every other relationship she had ever had, and considering how they'd turned out-- well, using them as a blueprint here didn't seem like a wise idea. "I didn't know what would happen exactly," she corrected herself. "I did have a rough idea, though. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Gwen, if you-- if you had died here, I would have died with you. Don't you think this is a better alternative? Buying us a chance with some of my life force, I mean. Mathematically, it makes perfect sense." And naturally, everyone knew that mathematics was the perfect way to solve pretty much anything-- including moral issues! "Anyway," the sorceress said, trying her hardest to make herself sound casual, "it'll be fine. I promise. We'll return home, and then we can forget about this little episode. It won't have any bearing on anything of actual importance." ...at least Morgan hoped so. And if she happened to live a shorter life because of that choice? If the energy she had given Gwen had ran deeper than she had suspected, and she'd wither without it? All of that was still better than dying right now. (Besides, living without her wouldn't be a life at all. Existence, maybe, but certainly not a life. It would be like-- like eating food without taste, or drinking water that couldn't chase thirst away. Morgan still remembered what it had been like without her, and she would not return to that state. Not if she could avoid it!)

Morgan wanted to say more, but then-- then the world around them began re-arranging itself, like some bizarre kaleidoscope. And the image it ended up creating? Oh, it was positively stunning. The dream they all wanted to live, in one way or another. For a second or two, all Morgan managed was to stare in awe-- she knew it was just an illusion, of course she did, but that didn't make it any less breathtaking. "Everything springs from blood, huh?" the sorceress whispered as flowers bloomed before her very eyes. Because, really, this had to mean something. Something they hadn't even considered, maybe? A new angle that would offer a different perspective-- that would finally give them answers instead of producing more and more questions. Just who was Guinevere? What kind of secrets were hidden in her blood, yearning to be discovered? ...right now, though, she should probably tend to the woman herself. Doubts were plaguing her mind, and from therein all of their problems were born.

"Is that so?" Morgan smiled, sadly. "It's not this place, Gwen. Not in itself. If that's what happens to you-- well, I did say that you shape this world, didn't I? If you freeze, you do so because, on some level, you believe that that's what you're meant to do." Poor, poor Gwen. It wasn't difficult to guess where that idea had come from-- in which context, exactly, she found it easier to just let go of control. To not act, not think, not exist. (From what she had been unable to protect her. Gods, how deeply he'd hurt her! When they returned to their world, Morgan decided, he'd pay. He'd pay, pay and pay, thousand times over.) "Make no mistake, though-- I am not saying that this is your fault. Not at all. What I am saying, though, is that you can change it. I know you can do it, Gwen." From where could she draw her strength, though? Certainly not from her memories-- since those had, you know, caused this mess in the first place. "When you see him next time, focus on the furure. On him being gone. He'll speak to you, probably, but don't take the bait. Remember that he is a fraud, and Excalibur is your, dammit. Do you understand?"

Except that it wasn't supposed to be this easy, apparently. The flowers that lined the path continued to grow, and they grew and grew until everything was drowning in a sea of green; the very opposite of the wastes, and yet similarly unsettling. (It was as easy to lose one's way there, wasn't it?) And then, somewhere from its depths, a shadow emerged. It was... a silhouette more than anything else? A female one, judging by the shape of the body, but faceless. All she had was a mouth, and the mouth was smiling. (Also, was that a crown resting on her head? ...oh.)

"Come on, Gwennie," she said in Guinevere's own voice. "Do you really want this? Look how big and scary the world can be, without the walls to define what your place is. You know you don't belong here. We don't belong here. Won't you return home?" With that, she opened that large mouth full of sharp teeth, and lunged at her.

 

[ellarose]

Won't have any bearing on anything of actual importance... Guinevere hopes so. Fingers curling inwards, knuckles whitening, she breathes out slowly. Mathematics, logic. Of course that had all been rooted in her decision. As usual, Morgan's reasonings make the kind of sense that she couldn't possibly argue with. (And damn if she didn't find that as attractive as it is a comfort. She's been her rock. A perpetual beacon of safety itself with her vast array of knowledge on practically everything.) This decision, though, leaves a slightly bitter taste in her mouth. There sure as hell better not be any real-world consequences. If it had gone horribly wrong and Morgan had died instead -- convincing Guinevere to use magic that would end the life of the woman she wanted to fight for while saving her own skin? (The thought -- just the thought of it -- makes part of her crumble and decay on the inside.) Except it hadn't ended that way. More importantly, they'll need to focus on moving on if they want to escape from this hellhole in one piece. It's fine. It's just fine. They'll move past this and onto the next problem. Which happens to be herself.

"I..." The words dry up in Guinevere's throat. She can't speak. When Morgan explains that her problem exists within herself, even with the reassurance that it isn't her fault... her cheeks burn hot, damask with shame, threatening to reduce her to ashes. Her strengths... they're all still there, perhaps. Just hiding, maybe? Waiting someplace just beyond her reach? Or maybe not. Maybe she shed her coarse, battle-worn skin somewhere along the way and became someone she never wanted to become. Weak, indecisive, and scared. (Always so, so fucking scared.) The rebellious spirit in her keeps wavering, faltering. Constantly in danger of being snuffed out. This isn't the version of herself she wants Morgan seeing. Proving herself incapable of carrying out their plans for the future. (Heh. She's not worthy of her affection either. Shit-- shit. She's just digging herself down deeper, isn't she? Falling into an old habit she thought she'd broken.) "The future. Right. I'll just... do that. And it'll all be okay." Thoughts of the future served as her lifeline, before. Under the hands of that cult. Under Arthur's hands, too. (Except no matter where she goes in her mind, simply dreaming of those things won't save her from--) There's something empty to her words, as if she's not fully there. And she can't see anything at all. Not the future, not anything.

Guinevere listens to the plants rustling, gathering together. The way they illuminated the path before is squashed like fireflies under a boot, darkening the forest, but that doesn't stop them from growing into a looming monstrosity. This, too, is her own doing and she knows it. Her eyes are washed in such a deep sea of green that the landscape blurs. The vague cries of an infant ring in her ears, as if she's being pulled back to that nursery in Camelot. Ugh. Not this again.

The stage is set for failure. And then... home. Spoken in her own voice, it sounds wrong. Something clicks into place with that word and the stone in her hand sparks with heat once more. Home. Morgan asked her to think of her home when she wanted to surface from her trance. Ever since she was stolen from her childhood home -- it had never been defined by the walls that surrounded her. It had never been a destination in particular.

Not that house with the boarded windows, not a prison, nor any of the temporary places she squatted on the run. Definitely not Camelot. And no, not even her tent. Instead, her friends come to mind. Tamara strumming her guitar by the fire, Mia's hands in her hair, the way Sam would throw a blanket over her head when she forgot to dress for the weather, even the clash of swords back when she spared with Adrianne. And Morgan. (Heh. The day after they met for the first time, she told Lancelot she had a theory that she'd be really pretty when she smiled. And she was right about that. It had taken a while before she got the chance to see it, but when she did... wow. Prettier than all the flowers growing out here, even. The thought is cozy and she feels warmer than before -- and this time not with shame.) Except thoughts alone, even thoughts as warm and sweet as the cocoa Morgan introduced to her palette, weren't going to save her from those sharp teeth. Guinevere snaps back into herself in time to dive out of harm's way. (Because in case she hasn't forgotten, if she gets hurt again, she's putting not only her life -- but Morgan's life -- at risk!) Duh. She's doing this to fight for her home. For the people she loves. And if she dies here, if they die here, it'll all have been for nothing!

--A weapon. She needs to find a weapon. Shit, she doesn't have anything to fight with. Except... Morgan explained this already. This is all her own doing. Oh. How fitting that her adversary would take her own voice at a time like this. (And she doesn't always have to solve problems with a sword, with a kill.) Hopefully this works? Because if it doesn't... it could, uh, have some pretty catastrophic consequences.

Guinevere lunges at her double this time, wrapping her arms tightly around it. Holds the strange, floral mimicry of herself in an embrace.

 

[Syntra]

Morgan... stared at the scene unfolding before her very eyes. Just stared, really. What was Guinevere thinking? Was this some-- some misguided attempt to solve things peacefully? To reject violence, and all that hippie nonsense? Because, uh, the hippies were dead. They were dead, along with the rest of the old world, and if Gwen didn't change her approach here, she would fucking follow them! "What are you even doing?" the sorceress shrieked. "Do you want to die?" (...which, as it occurred to her immediately after those words had left her lips, was a legitimate possibility. A suicide by doppelganger, eh? How novel. It would have been funny, really, if it wasn't so damn terrifying instead. As in, how long could one person go on? How long could she endure, endure and endure while more and more knives were being pushed into her heart? Everyone-- everyone had a limit, dammit. A breaking point. Had Guinevere found hers, in this strange world where dreams and nightmares bled into one another?)

No, she would have liked to think, Gwen wouldn't leave here. Wouldn't, wouldn't, wouldn't! ...except that that was what the woman seemed to be doing, and Morgan could only watch. (Her hands were tied, unable to reach any of the combatants. And her magic? Just a pitiful, paltry thing-- a shadow of its former self, rather like her. Damn. Had she not exhausted so much of her strength on healing Gwen... then Gwen still would have been dead! Gods. Morgan had never been one to believe in fate, or at least not in the sense of it being a string of events, but maybe-- maybe she was meant to die here. Maybe they were. And wouldn't that be oh so pleasing to Arthur? With his reign legitimized by the marriage, he might actually prefer Gwen out of the way. That she got to rest in an unmarked grave would be just a bonus, really.)

Stop. It's not over till you give up, remember? You need to think of something! Because if she let go of her resolve here, it would make her a hypocrite-- and while Morgan le Fey may have been many things, she certainly wasn't that. So, what could be done? Distracting the spirit, maybe? But how? Could she take her into herself, just like she had accepted countless spirits before...?

Except that none of that was needed. When Guinevere embraced her spirit twin, the creature screamed and thrashed-- almost as if the mere touch hurt her. "No!" it shouted, and the earth itself shook. "Let go of me. Let go of me, so that I may eat you. I've waited for so long!" And, truly, the silhouette's longing must have been great, for she leaned forward and sank her teeth into Gwen's shoulder. ...it should have hurt, but strangely enough, it didn't. (In a way, it felt like homecoming-- like the familiar taste of a lemonade you used to buy from your neighbor's kids, and whose flavor couldn't really be replicated. Like your favorite memory, or the summer breeze shortly before you jumped into the sea and let all the worries wash away.)

The teeth sank deeper and deeper, but they weren't actually breaking her skin, and-- oh. Oh, okay. Suddenly, Not-Guinevere was away? Or rather, not away, but inside of her. In the place where she had always belonged, whether Gwen liked it or not. (Who was she? Rage, vicious but chained? Channeled in ways that were self-destructive more than anything else? Perhaps-- it wasn't like Guinevere had been allowed to succumb to rage often, with all those rules and subtle threats. With the prosect of her friends dying if she angered Arthur badly enough.)

"Gwen," she sighed, breathless. (The relief was immense, of course it was, but Morgan was still Morgan, and thus she had to ask.) "Gwen, how did you know?"

The question, however, sort of faded into background when she noticed... well, something. Among the dead flowers from which shadow Guinevere had emerged, there was a faint gleam. The gleam got stronger by the second (blue stars and the coldness of galaxies), and Morgan could swear she heard the magic dancing across the blade. Wow. "Is-- is that the Excalibur?"

 

[ellarose]

“Holy shit.” Guinevere breathes, fingertips brushing the juncture of her neck where the shadow's teeth were. That worked? She whirls to face Morgan with a half-triumphant, half-guilty smile. How did she know? Um… “I didn’t. Just had a feeling, I guess?” A laugh escapes, it's a flighty, manic thing. (Because she knows Morgan. And Morgan swears by logic and plans. So her impulsiveness will probably — no, definitely — earn her a scolding.) But what a rush! Encountering death, she would rather go out in a blaze in lieu of standing still. A silenced heart pumps back to life in her chest, embers reignite where her fire died. (Inhale, exhale — ah! There’s that spontaneity, that taste for danger.) “Somehow the idea of stabbing myself seemed… counterintuitive? I mean, that's exactly what Arthur just did.”

"...Counterintuitive. Did I use that word right?" Guinevere crinkles her nose and tilts in towards Morgan, grappling with the desire to kiss her. Because… honestly? She's alive, feels alive, and there’s not a goddamn thing holding her back right now aside from the fact that she can’t. Can’t press her lips to hers or feel her warmth. Isn’t that a shame? They can't hold each other, even in a world hidden from view. Her lips purse into a wounded pout. (A side effect of absorbing that feral shadow into her soul? It’s impossible to ignore what her heart yearns for most. And now it's whining like a stubborn child!) So it's likely for the best when Excalibur’s radiance infringes on those thoughts. "Yeah.” She softens, approaching the sword with caution one might invoke to soothe a spooked horse. Glimpsing her reflection in the blade, she bites her thumbnail. Remembers the vines that suspended her like a puppet on strings and worse, Arthur's arms. "...But where's king douchebag?"

Could it be a trap? But the starless skies are tinged a slightly lighter shade to invite dawn. Their time is running out. Frowning, she braces herself with a breath and announces her intentions. “I’m gonna touch it. Um. Fair warning, this might end horribly.”

Before Morgan has the chance to talk her out of it (or she can talk herself out of it) she does just that. A spark of silvery-blue flares where her skin and the hilt connect. Light spreads and wraps Guinevere from head to toe in a phantom-like, otherworldly sheen. Unlike a fair maiden trading her rags for a ballgown in a fairytale, her Camelot-issued dress, tattered and bloodstained, is magicked away to reveal the blouse and trousers she arrived in. Eyes starry-blue and dewy with enchantment, she's still present within herself, existing in harmony with the spirit that possesses her. Their bonding is as natural as the flowers at her feet and raw, untapped power zings in her veins like electricity. She shivers. “Woah. Cool.” Guinevere grins at Morgan, opening her mouth to say something brazen no doubt. But Excalibur pulls on her, then, reminiscent of how her old man used to box her ears to make her focus. Jarring, familiar, and effective. “Oh-- oh right! We need to find the stag so we can get the hell out of here.” Biting her lip, she tilts the sword from side to side inquisitively. "Hrm. How does this thing even work?"

 

[Syntra]

"...you had a feeling," Morgan repeated, disbelief written all over her features. "You would bet everything on a feeling?" Just... wow. How did that even work?! This was like-- like standing on an edge of a cliff, and jumping down because you had a feeling your body wouldn't break over the rocks underneath. Sure, maybe it wouldn't, but why would you ever risk that? There was a line between courage and stupidity, dammit, and Guinevere had crossed it many times over! (Maybe that was the reason Gwen was a hero, though. A chosen one of her story. Unlike Morgan, she listened to her instincts-- she listened, and so they led her through the darkness. Why scold her for it? Obviously, Gwen was Gwen. Gwen would continue to be Gwen, too, and she wouldn't have it any other way. It was her who she had fallen in love with, not her own shadow!) And so, despite finding it completely incomprehensible, Morgan smiled, too. She'd invited this chaos into her life, hadn't she? So, ultimately, she only had herself to blame. "I suppose that makes sense, in a dream-like way. Which is a sign you're onto something, with this being a dream and everything." Perhaps this wasn't a feeling per se, actually-- because now, it sounded like pattern recognition to Morgan. Knowledge, in other words, even if it was buried somewhere in her subconsciousness. That would fit the theme, really. "And yes, you did use it right. My Gwen is learning! I'll have to reward her once we get back," Morgan smiled, cheery and teasing. (...what? This may not have been the best time to flirt, but if she only did it in 'normal' situations, they wouldn't get to enjoy any fun at all. Taking her out for a nice, romantic dinner wasn't exactly an option they had!)

"It won't," Morgan shook her head. "The sword belongs to you-- it came from you. There is no reason for it to reject you now." And if it did, she would fucking break it. Holy sword or not, she wouldn't allow it to antagonize Guinevere! Not after she had gome through so much to get it, anyway. If some stupid piece of steel threatened to shatter her confidence again, then--

Except that she didn't need to finish that thought. She didn't, for the Excalibur embraced Gwen, and let her true form shine through. Wow. "Beautiful," Morgan whispered. (Even if Guinevere looked nice in dresses, this sort of outfit suited her more for some reason-- maybe due to the level of comfort? Because a dress always turned her meeker, and oh so mindful of her every move. It was easy to stumble if you weren't used to the length of the skirt, after all. When she wore trousers, though? Oh, it made her look like an entirely new person. Someone much more free-- someone in control of her own destiny, really. When we overthrow Arthur, Morgan thought, the dresscode will be the first thing to go. Then we'll get rid of everything else, too. Arthur's legacy? Pffft, as if. Morgan would let him have exactly nothing-- not even the chronicles would mention his stupid name. Since he seemed to hate books so much, that was only fair, right? That he would go down in history as 'queen Guinevere's horrible husband, cast aside after a few months.')

"Um. I would guess you need to fill it with magical energy?" the sorceress suggested. "It is an amplifier, after all. Or at least all the legends claim so."

Apparently the usual rules didn't apply now, though, because even without Gwen doing anything, the sword burst into blue flames-- they consumed all, and once the fire went out, they found themselves standing someplace else entirely. Where there had been green lushness before, there was dry desert now. A familiar sight, really, except that it wasn't. Not even the wastes were this barren-- you could see a plant there from time to time, or an animal that hadn't succumbed to the mecha infection just yet. This, on the other hand? This really was nothingness in its purest form. The black sun shone in the otherwise empty sky, too, and... oh. Was it just her, or had the ring of fire somehow grown more intense? More ravenous, in that it consumed more of the sun it feasted on? And amidst that nothingness, there was the white stag, shining like a star. Unfortunately, Arthur was there, too. He held his own Excalibur in his hand-- the twin of Gwen's sword, except duller. A fake, maybe? The fakeness wouldn't make the its blows any less deadly, though, and the stag would learn that soon. The animal had nowhere to run; it could only stare at its would-be killer, desperate and terrified out of its wits.

 

[ellarose]

At that moment, even the brightest veil of magic couldn’t have disguised the red in Guinevere’s cheeks. ‘Beautiful’. She could be imbued with some great power of legends — and yet the woman at her side somehow manages to obliterate her with a single word! Geez. Rubbing the back of her neck, she grins broadly. The overt difference between Morgan and her brother is astounding. Arthur orders a whole entourage of maids to attend to her appearance in the mornings. Taming her wild hair with the yank of their combs, lacing her up tight in corsets. Hard for anyone to believe she's unhappy when she's kept on a gold leash, right? Sheesh. Guinevere hates that she instinctively compares love with actions that spit (or, rather, projectile vomit) on the name of love. Maybe someday she’ll be wrapped up in a new life with Morgan. Safe and free to bloom under her affection like a wildflower. Once Camelot falls, what will their lives look like? Robbed of their delusions, people would have to acknowledge the brilliant, passionate, considerate woman that Morgan is. Damn them all for overlooking her strengths, for treating her like a viper! And Arthur? Hah, who’s he? Arthur will be a memory… and a nuisance in her nightmares, no doubt.

Blue flames encircle them and spirit them off to a familiar, barren landscape. And there stands the bastard in the flesh. “Okay. I just have to…“ Flummoxed, she stutters. Can she face him without screwing everything up? “I…” He’s cornering the stag with the gait of a predator. The animal’s expression before being swallowed by Arthur’s looming shadow resonates, it's like staring into a mirror.

‘That fear. You understand it. You feel it as your own, do you not?’ A voice echoes in her head with such force she brings a hand to her temple to sustain it. “—Ah.” Sweat pearls at her brow, her knees are jellied. Against her ribs, a thousand hearts beat in tandem with terror. Overwhelming. Consuming. Paralyzing. She closes her eyes tight, crushing the tears in them. ‘So? What are you going to do now?’

Guinevere's unshackled self climbs higher and higher over her fear. Burns it away until she’s a phoenix of unbridled rage. “—Stop!” Lunging forward, she throws herself in front of the stag, blade raised. Steel clashes. In combat, she offers him no chance to berate her. Because with her sword in hand, she is stronger than any words she could hurl at him. For minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years in the wastelands, she refined this craft. Meanwhile, Arthur uses her friends and Morgan’s safety as weapons to keep her in line. Holds her self-worth, her body, her future hostage. He’s a sick bastard and she hates, hates, hates— fast and unforgiving, her attacks resemble lightning strikes as magic dances on the blade. Sobbing but lethal, the world’s a blur and she’s fighting harder than ever. Perhaps the fact that Arthur hasn’t lost yet isn't a testament to his real-life abilities, but her perception of his power over her. Realizing this, he finally falls.

Guinevere holds Excalibur to his throat. Panting, her whole body trembles as she waits for her tears to grow cold. Spilling his blood, motivated by raw hate? That can't be the path she takes. The sword will acquire a taste for it — and that bloodlust may even infect her. Craving revenge for everything. Everything her blood has wrought.

“Put the sword down, my love. You know you can’t—“ Well. She won't kill him, but... Guinevere invokes the spirits and vines burst out of the barren earth like outstretched, leafy hands from hell, snatching him up and into the air. As much as she enjoys a good victory quip, she doesn’t bother wasting her breath on the likes of him. Thrashing, he morphs into a fiendish creature with red eyes. With a gruesome howl, he disappears in a cloud of smoke.

That settled, she hits the ground on her hands and knees, breathing hard. The white stag. Remember? Her mind chastises, but her body is too overtired to comply. Except-- except the animal approaches her instead. Bowing its head, the stag rests its jaw on the crown of her head in a gesture of gratitude. Then, like her own shadow, it vanishes inside of her. And in a flash of blinding light, the landscape is restored anew. Flowers frame pools of clean water, waterfalls trickle gently, birds sing, and lopsided dollops of sunlight sway languidly over herself and Morgan through the trees. “I think it's over.” She breathes, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand, turning to the other woman with a half-smile. “It’d be nice to hide away in a place like this. But we, um, probably shouldn’t overstay our welcome.” Besides, they can't kiss here. (Oh. But it's not like they can in the real world, either. Damn, Lancelot!) Picking herself up, ignoring her muscles cries for rest, she holds the warm, star-shaped stone between them. “Let's go home.”

 

[Syntra]

Morgan's first instinct was to help; to call upon the magic coursing through her veins, and ask the spirits to smite Arthur where he stood. To rob him of the opportunity to hurt Gwen more than he already had, really. She raised her arms, prepared to cast the spell, but-- no. No, she couldn't do that. That would be like watching Guinevere trying to reach candy for hours, and then snatching it away at the last moment. Except that, you know, the candy was actually her dignity and those hours were months. So, no. As much as Morgan would have loved to interfere, she couldn't-- this fight rightfully belonged to her. She had earned it, dammit! Besides, it wasn't like Arthur realistically stood a chance here. Given how her brother dearest had always hidden behind his lackeys? Morgan understood the art of sword fighting about as well as she could read hieroglyphs, but one didn't need to be an expert on the topic to be able to interpret that sort of behavior. No, these patterns were universal. And what did they tell her? That Arthur sucked, and also that he knew it. (Why had he chosen to challenge Guinevere of all people, then? Someone who had seen real combat more often than he changed his socks? ...did he seriously think he'd beat her because she was a woman? A laughable reason, but one that would fit into his favorite narrative neatly. Oh well! Time to watch his world shatter, Morgan supposed.)

Naturally, that was exactly what happened. Morgan watched Guinevere dance her dance of death, and once again found herself fascinated-- the movements flowed like water, elegant and mesmerizing. How did she do that, even? The sword must have weighed a lot, and yet it looked no heavier than a feather in her hands. (It had to be some kind of magic, too, Morgan decided. Something beautiful born out of ashes. Wasn't this the physical manifestation of her will to survive? Unlike with Arthur, he swung the sword around because he could and because it made him feel powerful.)

When he inevitably ended up on the ground, panting and humiliated, Morgan didn't even flinch. (Did some part of the real Arthur feel it, too? Oh, the sorceress certainly hoped so. If the gods deemed it appropriate to give him this premonition, a taste of things to come, the revenge would be all the sweeter. Where would be the fun in this if Arthur didn't grow more and more afraid, after all? If paranoia didn't seize his mind? Him seeing blades in every shadow-- now that would be entertaining. Bring the popcorn, everyone!) The absolute lack of surprise changed into shock, though, when Guinevere... absorbed the stag as well? Huh. Was this some part of her as well, maybe? Arthur had been trying to kill it, so Morgan supposed that sort of made sense as well.

"Yes, let's go. I don't know about you, but I'm fed up with all those metaphors. Way too abstract for my liking, you see?" Morgan smiled. After that, she grabbed her hand, and-- oh. The black sun was replaced with the regular one, and Lancelot was hovering over them with what could only be described as utter terror in his eyes. What a fine scenery to wake up to! Oh well, at least they were home. (...right? The prospect of Lancelot following them to some different dimension out of sheer stubbornness seemed unlikely, but wasn't entirely impossible, and the notion alone practically made her break out in hives. Please, gods, not that!)

"Lady Morgan!" the knight blurted out. "I--I had no idea what to do, and you wouldn't wake up, and..."

"Get out of my face," Morgan hissed.

"...pardon me?"

"Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but you are too close. Way too close."

Blushing instantly, the knight pulled away. "Ah! I'm sorry, I didn't realize. But-- what happened? And why is queen Guinevere still asleep?"

"Queen Guinevere... still has some unfinished business. You'll understand later."

---

When Guinevere opened her eyes, she wasn't welcomed with the sight of their favorite knight- instead of that, there was the lake in the sky. The lake in the sky, and also the voice in her ears. Uh oh. It had wanted the stag's hide, hadn't it? And unless it changed its opinions really fast, it still did!

'Guinevere,' the voice said, its tone... unreadable, really. Its owner could have been calm, but they also could have been stewing in barely restrained anger. Either way, the echo repeated her name over and over-- Guinevere, Guinevere, Guinevere. 'You have failed to acquire the hide. There will be no second chances. Why have you come, then? Do you wish to die?'

 

[ellarose]

“Um. Well, I sort of…” Guinevere gulps and tugs at her hair, shivering under the voice's scrutiny. Almost reminiscent of her early lessons with Morgan, when she would ask if she had practiced her posture or her dining etiquette and the answer was an obvious 'no'. The student who had forgotten to do her homework, the student who was about to make a complete disaster of herself in front of the woman she secretly wanted to impress. (Indeed, some of the mishaps were on purpose. But some were honest-to-god accidents. In the end, she saved her pride by playing accidental chaos off as purposeful jokes -- which only served to make Morgan even more cross with her. Hah. It's sort of funny to look back on those early days, now. The thought of Morgan alone almost distracts her enough to make her grin like a fool.) Now, focus. How is she supposed to explain what happened back there? She's not exactly a word-wiz, here! Well... Morgan had used a good word for it, actually. “What happened was kind of abstract?” Right, abstract! That sounded pretty smart, right? Would it be enough to satisfy this mysterious entity, though? Hm.

Narrowing her eyes, she peers up at the lake in the sky. It’s so… goddamn weird. At what point had the unusual become usual? It doesn’t startle her nearly as much as it would have in the past. Never in her life would she have imagined experiencing any of what she went through in the last couple of months. (The blood flowing in her veins may be infused with some enchanted quality beyond her comprehension. It might as well have sent her life on its rocky, tumultuous course... but out in the wastes, magic itself had always been something dangerous. Something to fear, to avoid.) It was capable of casting the world into death's hands in form of a catastrophe, yes -- but there also exists a power that can change that. That can restore it to life. Now, magic is… potential. That’s how Morgan described it when they discussed it for the first time. And there was such conviction in her words that it had piqued her curiosity, opened her to the possibility of learning from her. And now, Guinevere feels that she understands that potential she spoke of. Right down to her very core.

Like hell is she going to squander the opportunity to understand that potential. Like hell is she going to die here after everything she's been through.

“Make no mistake. I brought the stag.” Guinevere is sharp as Excalibur's steel. She clenches her hands in fists at her sides. And, okay, it might be unspeakably dumb to bristle and take such a harsh tone with a potentially dangerous, omnipotent voice — but damn it! She didn’t accept fury back into her heart just to cower before a being she doesn’t yet understand. (Who's to say this voice even has the answers she needs? Either way, that doesn't change the fact that she basically did what it asked. Even if the way she went about it was, uh, unconventional to say the least.) Sureness in her glare, fires blazing, she’s going to raise hell if the voice wants to refute her now. “And since you’re so smart, you must already know that. So why are you wasting time with death threats?”

“...What do you need the stag so badly for, anyway? It doesn’t hurt to be direct, you know.” Guinevere huffs. God. Maybe she should actually shut up before the voice drops a shovel from the heavens for her to dig her own grave with. “You should try it.”

 

[Syntra]

For a while, there was silence-- silence that was all-encompassing and deafening, and a promise as well as a threat. The whole world had come to a standstill, really. And then, amazingly, the voice laughed. It laughed and laughed and laughed, endlessly amused by... what? Her audacity? The fact that she would die a horrible death soon, and didn't know it? Or something else entirely? As always, it didn't bother to provide an explanation. 'You didn't bring it to me, Guinevere. The white stag of dreamlands can never be chained. You touched it, yes, but you will be chasing it for the rest of your life-- if you've the stones for it, as I now believe you do.' Could that mean...? 'You have passed the trial. And don't judge me for messing with you a bit, my child. Do you know how lonely it gets here? Watching the water ripple doesn't really provide you with hours of entertainment, either, and you make such funny faces.' So, in other words, the voice bullied her because it was bored. Wow. Did spirits truly have nothing to do aside from just... existing? Admittedly, that did sound insufferable.

'Besides, a queen should have a sense of humor-- it shall help you deal with many hardships, I am sure. But, you wanted to learn of Excalibur, didn't you? Very well. The holy sword belongs to you, my lady. Arthur may have it now, but it is yours in a way it will never be his. Excalibur is asleep, you see-- it is dreaming the longest of dreams, and waiting for you to wake it from its slumber. Only you can do it, for you are bound by blood. It was forged for you, and your mothers before you, and also for you when you weren't yourself yet.' The voice spoke quickly, almost feverishly now-- as if it couldn't contain its excitement. How long had it been waiting for her to come? Days? Centuries? And did it even perceive the flow of the time in the same way people did? Either way, the enthusiasm was unmistakable and so very human it tugged at one's heartstrings. (Clearly, there was something human about it somewhere-- a fragment of a soul that lay just out of reach, sad and confused and lost. Perhaps the spirits would devour it in time, too, but for now? It persisted, despite all the odds.)

'You shall be the last one, though. The one that was promised. Feed the sword your blood, and it shall guide you on your path-- on the path you were always meant to follow. But, Guinevere, beware. The greed of men knows your bounds, and they will resent you for wielding such power. Your husband most of all, but many others as well. I see them in the darkness, sharpening their knives. Trust nobody, for the betrayal will come from the most unexpected of places. It will rip you apart, should you allow it. Don't end up like I did.' ...oof, how ominous. Well, expecting happy prophecies from an entity that had (probably) been born from a drowned woman would be foolish, wouldn't it? At least it didn't feel the need to accompany its speech with any scary visuals now-- instead of trying to frighten her into submission, it spoke to her as if they were equals. As if they were friends, even.

'You must press on,' the voice continued, its words dripping with quiet urgency. 'Go, and forge the peace you were always meant to forge. Fulfill your destiny. Wash away the sins of your ancestors, and bring back what has been lost. Chase away the nightmares that have seized the land, for that is your calling.'

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere squints incredulously at the sky when, at last, a laugh breaks the silence. Good for the stag, she supposes. Forever unchained. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal. (And even sweeter is the fact that Arthur would never have its blood on his filthy hands. That he was wasting his time on a pipedream.) And-- funny faces!? What!? She has half a mind to argue that point! ...Except by puffing her cheeks up at the mention of these so-called ‘funny faces’, she proves that she does, indeed, make funny faces. Oh well. Better funny than boring, at least? Beyond that, the rest is... sad. If the voice is a captive of this place, she can empathize. At least to some extent, having once been a particularly impatient young girl locked in a cell herself. (Most days horrible and torturous — but many were boring, too. It was exciting when, say, a spider decided to crawl by. New friend!) Except she doesn’t have much time to dwell on this when the voice offers up the answers she fought so hard to attain. So, of course, it secures her undivided attention.

The holy sword belongs to you. Hearing that in no uncertain terms, is so validating she could cry. After marrying Arthur, Guinevere’s vision of her position in the narrative became hazy and faded. The pillow on which she rests her head at night belongs to him. Her clothes, food, the roof over her head? They belong to him, too. And Guinevere herself, by his sick standards, also belongs to him. While it’s true Excalibur’s siren song reached her in the past, she got stuck in the web of lies Merlin spun. Excalibur is Arthur’s. Naturally. Of fucking course it is. He already owns everything — so why not this, too? Wouldn’t it be stupid of her as his wife, once an insignificant vagabond from the wastes, to think otherwise? Ugh. How did she let this happen? At what point did they convince her not to trust her own eyes, her own heart? No more. She's had enough of their illusions.

For her, for her mothers? Huh. It's odd. Years ago, she made peace with the fact that she would never know her mother’s face, her touch, or even her name. Finding she’s connected to women in her family through this sword… it’s something. More than she had before. "I never knew much about my family. But... I guess that's not what I should be focusing on, here." She muses, knowing to prioritize the objective. The living, found-family who actually needs her. "Feed it my blood? How am I supposed to do that? Swords don't have mouths, last time I checked." An odd time to crack a joke, maybe, but-- so what? The voice praised her sense of humor, after all!

"Do you know why my blood is so..." Guinevere frowns. Words, words. The blood flowing through her veins is the reason for her captivity, maybe, but also the means of her escape. How does one put that into words, exactly? "What makes it different from everyone else's?" Sure. That'll do.

On the matter of trust, well, that's pretty obvious. Right? Especially considering what her life has looked like these past few months. Arthur, Merlin, the cult... and even Jen. That list of people including her 'husband' and her twin sister. Doesn't it go without saying to be careful? And Guinevere's been plenty careful lately. (Well. She did tell Lancelot some important things the night before... but he's also Lancelot, so? Pfft, she'll be fine.) And jokes aside, she intends to take this responsibility seriously. She's already proven that. Still, that ominous note about the voice's own experiences does evoke a troubled expression from her. Laughing, lonesome, urgent, and even friendly... this voice belongs to someone. Someone who thinks and feels just like she does.

"You're Viviane, right? Is there some way I can help you?" Guinevere offers. Don't end up like I did. Even if there's no way to physically free the voice, then... maybe there's something else she can do? Even if it's just remembering? Taking what she needs and peacing out without an ounce of gratitude doesn't sit well with her, at this point. "...Can I ask what happened to you?"

 

[Syntra]

'No,' the voice said, slightly annoyed,'it does not. Congratulations on your observation skills. You may have also noticed that it does have an edge, though, and that edge thirsts for blood. Make no mistake, Guinevere-- Excalibur is a weapon. It is a symbol, and an instrument through which peace will be forged, but that cannot change its nature. Blood will always be something it shall covet, and prize above all else. Not meeting its needs would be... most unwise.' The voice fell silent for a moment, letting the statement hang in the air. Did it hope to emphasize its importance like this, or was it weighing its next words carefully? 'Reign is sacrifice, as you've already come to understand. It is something you shall always be doing, one way or another. Excalibur is... a partner more than it is a slave. A friend. Arthur doesn't understand, will never understand, in fact, and that is one of the reasons he cannot wield it for real. You shall see the difference when you coat it in your blood-- its true power. If you neglect it, though...? You will regret the day you touched it for the first time.' ...oh. So the sword was vampiric in its true nature? Was that what gave it its powers? ('Everything springs from blood,' they had said. Well, perhaps the adage was more literal than previously thought.)

Upon being asked about her blood, however, the voice laughed. (It was the sound of glass being shattered rather than ringing of bells, but it was laughter, unmistakably so-- yet another fading connection to humanity. The last of leaves stubbornly holding onto its tree before winter came and killed them all.) 'You do not know? Your own history, and you are not aware? What did they teach you, child?' It was almost easy to imagine Viviane now as she stood there, her arms folded and shook her head disapprovingly. Kind of like someone's least favorite maths professor, really-- or perhaps a cleaning lady shortly after you had gotten the floor dirty again. 'Your blood is ancient, Guinevere. It is blood of the children of the forest, who used to own the earth long before humans came to claim it. Your soul is old, too. That is why Excalibur is attracted to you, and you to it.'

Whereas it answered most of Guinevere's questions happily, you could practically sense its hesitation when the topic of its identity was broached-- apparently, this was not its favorite thing to talk about. (Small wonder, really. How likely it was that Viviane had passed away peacefully? That she had died of old age and simply chosen to reside in the mysterious lake, content with losing herself among the other spirits? One would, uh, need to have a pretty specific personality for something like that.) 'I used to be,' she finally said. 'Not anymore, though-- at least not in the conventional way. I was murdered by your king's henchman, and Excalibur was taken from me. I used to guard it, you see. I'm... not sure why I didn't die,' Viviane admitted, and for the first time, she seemed... sad. Vulnerable. A human more than a concept, and that human was hurting. 'Perhaps the sword itself keeps me alive for some purpose. I have not paid off my debt to it, after all. Regardless of that, maybe it would help if you retrieved my body and gave it a proper burial. It lies at the bottom of the real lake. Should you help, I would be... grateful. I have nothing else to offer, true, but gratitude I can give away freely.'

 

[ellarose]

Ah. So Excalibur has a legitimate appetite for her blood... and she'll have to feel the bite of its steel once again in order to satiate it. Off-putting as it sounds, Guinevere isn't particularly troubled. Because really. What else is new? At least this blood she would shed willingly, on her own terms -- rather than having it drained away without her consent by greedy cultists and researchers. (In their hands, she may as well have been used like an inanimate object herself!) And strange as it is... it's actually not that strange? Since she's caught herself empathizing with Excalibur more than once. Accepting a partnership on equal footing is a choice. One that she would gladly make as opposed to existing as a lifeless vessel, as nothing but a blood bag. Listening to the voice's instructions with a furrowed brow and concentrated gaze, she silently nods her understanding. Fine, then. It doesn't faze her. The details simply snap in a few missing pieces of this giant puzzle she's been working on.

The same, however, cannot be said for the answers that follow. Children of the forest who owned the earth before... before humans came to claim it? "Are you, uh, saying I'm not human? Because..." Guinevere fumbles, staring at her hands with the dawning expression of someone who just realized they were being duped their entire life. Huh. They look like human hands. Like they always have. Unusual blood or not, she bleeds the same red as anyone else, too. Seeing double suddenly, whether from dreamwalking, the sheer exhaustion of traveling the wastes, the revelations, or some amalgam of the three... a baffled laugh escapes her. "Oh god, I'm delirious. I must've misheard you. Right?"

Delirious... that's not even an exaggeration. Because an overpowering feeling is sweeping over her, a tidal wave that drags her away from the voice. (Almost as though a deep sleep is coming to claim her, her eyelids leaden and it's nearly impossible to keep them open.) Except-- except there's still more to be said. And so she fights with what remains of her strength to anchor herself there.

"...Until now, I've been kept in the dark about all of this. So thank you." Guinevere admits. And to say she's pissed off hearing Vivane's story is a damned understatement. Connecting the dots as to what might have happened after hearing Merlin's ominous explanation wasn't rocket science. But still. Viviane was a real person, who deserves to have her truth heard. A real person who didn't deserve to die to fit Arthur's stupid narrative. How many people will he stomp on to pave his path to glory? "I won't leave this place until you're at rest. And as for Arthur? I'll take everything you've given me and make him pay. I swear."

 

[Syntra]

'You are,' Viviane assured her. 'But you are also something else. These things aren't mutually exclusive, you know-- you can be both a daughter of humans and the children of the forest. A precious link between two different chains. That was why they decided to do this, my child; to forge a peace. It doesn't matter now, though. The children of the forest are dead, and you are the only one left. Well, you and your sister,' she clarified. ...oops. Did it mean that Jennifer had some sort of claim as well? Because this could potentially turn very, very ugly. It seemed Viviane saw that question coming, for she chuckled. 'Worry not. Excalibur is yours, as I have said earlier-- the ownership isn't only about blood. If your sister tries to steal the sword, she will find it to be a supremely bad idea.'

Guinevere's thanks, however, as well as her promise of revenge, seemed to have taken her aback-- for a while, Viviane was silent, as if she had forgotten how to respond to such words appropriately. (Was there even a protocol for something like that, though? The rules of etiquette didn't really account for the possibility of you meeting your killer's killer. Since, you know, most people had the decency to stay dead?) 'Thank you,' Viviane said, defaulting to the easiest option. (A heartfelt 'thank you,' after all, had never insulted anyone.) 'I won't forget this kindness. I... well, I don't know what will happen to me afterwards, but I will pay my debt to you someday. I am not sure how, or whether you will recognize my involvement, though it shall happen. That, if nothing else, I can promise to you. Good luck, Guinevere. You will need it.'

That was probably her idea of saying goodbye, for the world started morphing and shifting before her very eyes. It was dizzying-- kind of like drinking too much wine for your own good and trying to stand up too abruptly, except that about ten times stronger. Did Viviane not know of any more pleasant ways to send her away? ...well, apparently not.

When Guinevere came to, it took her eyes a second to adapt to all that light-- her ears, however, worked perfectly.

"It's been too long, lady Morgan," Lancelot complained. "You must wake her up! What if the beasts attack, or--"

"Must I?" Morgan asked, thoroughly unimpressed. "By what right are you issuing commands to me now, sir Lancelot? Have you perhaps confused me with one of your boys who like to play at war? Or are you deriving your authority from my brother dearest? I would like to remind you that he isn't here."

Lancelot, at least, had the decency to blush. "I-- I am sorry, lady Morgan, but you know I didn't mean it like that. It's just that I am worried for her safety."

And you think I am not? Still, Lancelot meant well, and so Morgan didn't feel like bullying him too much-- that would have been like kicking a puppy. No, there were much better targets for her wrath. "I understand your feelings, but you cannot speed this up. Would you send one of your squires to battle before he is ready? No? Then don't make me do this to our queen." The truth was, Morgan didn't know what would happen if she tried to wake her up, but it couldn't hurt to play the danger aspect up a bit. It would get Lancelot to shut up, which would, in turn, prevent her from frying his brain with her magic out of sheer frustration. A mutually beneficial arrangement, was it not?

All her thoughts of murder dissolved into nothingness, though, when Guinevere opened her eyes. Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And, uh, let's just say that it was actually her brain that may have gotten a little fried, but could you blame her? Guinevere woke up, and she was alright. Alright and safe, away from those that would hurt her and the demons inside of her own head, and just so beautiful in the sunlight-- well, wouldn't you kiss her? Long story short, Morgan did. "Gwen," she whispered, cupping her face as their lips parted. "Welcome back. How did it go?"

Somewhere in the background, Lancelot practically choked.

 

[ellarose]

If kisses were a kind of magic, then Morgan's revitalized Guinevere with exactly the sort of energy she needed to carry on. To carry on and thrive. The warmth of her lips reminds her just how badly she had wanted to kiss her earlier, when even their hands couldn't touch -- and rather than answer her question right away, she grabs the opportunity in front of her and steals a second kiss. (And really, can you blame her!? It's been too damned long.) Then she smiles, relieved and soft with fatigue. "The sword is mine." Okay, that may have been the most obvious part of everything that was revealed to her -- but it's music to her ears, after enduring so many of Arthur and Merlin's lectures. Silencing those doubtful voices in her head, she can forge her path towards the future they dreamed about with absolute certainty. "I guess it runs in my family? And I, uh, may not be entirely human, but--" Yeah, there's also that. Geez. Wincing, she rubs the side of her head. Maybe she'd been asleep in the real world the whole time, but she's physically and mentally exhausted. "Hah. That place really packs a wallop. I'll try and explain it better later." Squinting through her aches and pains, she reaches for Morgan's hand. "And you're okay?"

Guinevere would have continued living on peacefully in this bubble of theirs, maybe, if she hadn't noticed Lancelot in her peripheral. (And once she does, she kind of wishes she hadn't.) He's fidgeting and pale as a ghost. Looks like he's hard at work contemplating some deep shit, like, say, his mortality. Oh. Oh crap. She... forgot he was there? Evidently they both did. Wide-eyed, she glances at Morgan and clears her throat in a panic, forcing herself to sit up against the vertigo. Except... wait. Is she really going to censor herself and baby him over this? Sure, that might have been her approach had this occurred a few hours ago. Camelot did a good job of clipping many of her rough edges, of ironing out her creases. But after everything? You know what? He can get over it. So what if it's scandalous? He's the one who confessed his love for her the night before! It might as well be the same thing.

"Come on, man. That can’t be the strangest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Like... what about that freaking lake in the sky!?" Guinevere makes a big, dramatic gesture with her arms in its general vicinity... only to realize a second later that the lake is resting upon solid ground again. When did that happen? "Except... oh. Um. There it is." Her expression changes, then, and for once it's very hard to read. She climbs to her feet and walks over to its edge. The surface is as still as a sheet of glass, showing her reflection. Sobered, thoughtful and, of course, a bit messy. But her thoughts are with Viviane. Somehow, it feels as though she’s known her for far longer than the span of a single evening. And maybe she has? She said her soul was old, hadn’t she? Confronting the pain in her chest, she knows mourning can come later. For now... she removes her boots, peels off her stockings, and has the decency to wave for Lancelot to look away when she begins removing everything besides her undergarments. She'll dry quick enough in the sun -- the same can't be said for her clothes.

"M-my la -- I-- I mean, queen Guinevere. What are you--" Oof. She hasn't broken Lancelot, has she? His entire world's been turned upside-down... maybe she should have gone easier on him. Oh well.

"I have a promise to keep before we leave this place. When you gather your bearings, Lancelot, start digging a grave. And Morgan… if there’re any leftover herbs from before, can you bring them over here? I’ll be back." Without elaborating any further, Guinevere dives into the lake to search for the body. And holy shit, it's freezing cold! If she wasn't entirely awake before, she definitely is now. Squinting underwater, she swims towards the bottom, wary not to cut herself on any rocks, and checks the entire perimeter before moving in towards the center. It takes a few minutes before she finds it. Ghastly, broken and decayed. (It's the truth, right before her eyes. Viviane's life was stolen from her. She was used-- murdered-- and then abandoned. Seemingly forgotten as the world continued turning on without her. But she won't be forgotten, not if Guinevere has anything to say about it.) This isn't her first time holding a corpse in her arms and she knows it won't be the last. But it never changes. The sorrow that sinks down to the very marrow of her bones will always feel just the same. Remembering the sound of her laugh, still so full of life... Practically weightless underwater, she lifts the body and swims with it to shore before setting her gently over the dead earth.

"It's Viviane. Arthur-- he killed her. To take Excalibur away." Guinevere's teeth are chattering, more from the chill of jumping into the water than being spooked by the notion. In fact, beneath the gooseflesh she's rubbing with fervor to warm, her blood is boiling. "She's not at rest yet. Said it might help if we bury her properly."

 

[Syntra]

Not... entirely human? Okay, now that made Morgan raise her eyebrow. If anything, Gwen was the most human individual she had ever meant-- not just a collection of cutesy mannerisms and learned phrases, but a person. Someone vulnerable, but also strong at the same time, and beautiful, and... Get a grip, her sole remaining brain cell reminded her. You know, since that probably wasn't what Viviane meant by that? The woman who believed that Guinevere was worthy of wielding the Excalibur surely, surely didn't mean to slander her character. No, her words must have been much more literal. Could it be, though? As far as Morgan knew, only humans inhabited the earth. (There were... remnants, she supposed... of civilizations older than their own, but the sorceress had never believed for a second that those ancient builders had been something else than human. Nothing had ever pointed towards that conclusion. Still, what if she was wrong about this? The world was a mysterious place, and much stranger than she had thought it to be, too. How could she possibly claim to know all of its secrets when most of her life had been spent in Camelot, crouching in the shadows? Her own perspective was but a grain of sand in an entire desert-- a drop of water in the endless seas. ...and, hey, wasn't that what made life worth it? That there was more to it than rules and grey stone and stares full of contempt.)

"That does sound like a lot," Morgan nodded. "Once we return to Camelot, I will try to find some book on the topic-- on the Excalibur and its connection to... uh, not entirely human things. We shall see whether I manage to dig up something relevant." Because, even if it wasn't directly related to the coup they were planning, the knowledge would help Gwen, wouldn't it? If only to feel a little better. Such a discovery must have shaken her entire world, and giving her something solid to hold onto would be more useful than empty words of consolation. What would those accomplish, aside from revealing she had no idea what to say? (...since the usual mantra of "I know how hard it must be" sure as hell wouldn't work here. Morgan, in fact, didn't know what not being human felt like. They had treated her that way often, but the words had never gotten under her skin-- they had been too obviously untrue, uttered with the intention to hurt. That had robbed them of all strength. Now, had there been a grain of truth in those insults... Well, it might have been different. Drastically so.)

That string of thought, however, was interrupted when Morgan realized that Lancelot was still very much there. Very much there and, you know, not blind-- which meant he had freaking seen everything. Gods! Within seconds, her cheeks turned crimson. "A-ah, that is-- that is entirely correct," she rushed to support her lover's argument even despite that. (Not that it was a good argument, mind you-- since the queen kissing her husband's sister was, uh, unusual. Unusual enough for both of them to lose their heads for it, actually. Still, it was the narrative Gwen had chosen, and she couldn't very well undermine it. So, doubling down it was!) "People generally express their affection for one another through kissing. Do you believe there's anything wrong with that, sir Lancelot?"

"I, uh, I-- no, of course not. It just... surprised me, that's all," the knight said, clearly besides himself with embarrassment. (At least she wasn't alone in that regard, Morgan thought. Lancelot deserved to feel exactly like this for ruining upon their sweet moment! And, no, the fact that he just happened to exist in their vicinity was no excuse. A true gentleman would have turned around so as to not disturb them, dammit.)

It seemed that Lancelot's trials didn't end, though, for Guinevere... proceeded to jump into the lake? Wow. The Morgan from a few months ago would have frowned and muttered something about 'terrible manners,' but that Morgan? For all intents and purposes, she was dead, because her current self only wanted to laugh. Gods! How had Arthur ever thought he could tame such a woman? (Because he didn't know her. To him, she was just a pretty face-- a trophy on his wall. Well, no matter. Soon enough, he would know her, and would come to regret the day he had brought her to his stupid castle. Wasn't it delicious, the way he had sown the seed of his own destruction? And it was almost time for harvest.) But... right. The herbs. Morgan couldn't imagine why Gwen might want them, though she had no reason not to grant her her wish-- and so she disappeared, and returned with her arms full of them. Returned just in time, in fact, to witness Lancelot help Guinevere drag a corpse out of the water.

Gods. Is that...? "May she rest in peace," Morgan said quietly, putting her hand over her heart. Poor, poor woman-- the sorceress had guessed that they had murdered her, yes, but guessing it and seeing her lifeless body were two very different things. "Sir Lancelot, should I help with digging? My magic may come in handy."

"No. No, I--I'll do that on my own," Lancelot said quickly, apparently eager to give the two of them some space. Good. If he stayed out of their way, she may yet learn to like him!

"We may not be able to do much for her, Gwen," Morgan said quietly, "but we'll make him pay for his crimes. I promise. And, uh, here you are," she handed her the herbs. They looked pitiful now, dry and faded, but-- well. She had asked for them, hadn't she? "Why did you want them, anyway?"