Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

[Syntra]

Good, Morgan thought, and it took all of her self-control not to laugh in Urien's face. Pathetic, truly. This was the man Arthur had chosen to be her jailer? To break her spirit? It was almost sad, actually, how little he thought of her. (That alone was a testament to her skill, of course-- only the most cunning of snakes could get away with pretending that their fangs had been yanked out, and that they no longer dreamt of hunting. When viewed from this angle, his ignorance was a compliment. A blessing as well, in truth, because had Arthur picked a more dangerous man... oh, this could have been much, much uglier than it currently was. You know what, though? Despite all of that, Morgan couldn't help but feel mildly offended. Just, ugh. As if a man this bound by conventions could come even remotely close to outsmarting her! Oh no, no, no. His mind had been made for dealing with small problems-- for rolling around in the mud, in his own filth. How, then, could he hope to trap someone like her? Someone who didn't have such inclinations? The idea was both arrogant and preposterous, really. Like a lizard who thought it could slay an eagle! ...and, oh, how happy she'd be to show him that it was the other way around. That eagles hunted lizards, and lizards foolish enough to succumb to delusions of grandeur were just begging to become someone's food.)

Even so, Morgan played his little game with him. That was what this was about, wasn't it? He would pretend that he cared for her opinions, she would pretend that she cared for him, and together, they would pretend that all of this wasn't completely meaningless. That something as stupid as manners mattered when the wastes grew, and expanded, and threatened to swallow them whole. What will you do, the sorceress thought idly when he switched to yet another vapid topic, when they come for you? When they shatter your precious gates, and start tearing your people apart? Do you think you can bribe them, my lord? The concept of the beasts retreating in exchange for a pretty crown or two was entertaining, but not rooted in reality-- which, of course, didn't come off as a surprise. Not even slightly. Reality was poison to Arthur and his ilk, and this man, even if he didn't seem as malicious, wasn't better than him. (And, no. He didn't get credit for finally backing off! That would be the same as-- the same as worshiping your husband for not slapping you around whenever he felt like it, really. It was the bare minimum of decent behavior, and Morgan refused to reward it. That she had grown up in Camelot did not mean she had to be satisfied with their lousy standards, dammit!)

Anyway, yes. She smiled and nodded, and hummed things like 'yes, my lord' or 'how interesting' from time to time. (How well-behaved she was, wasn't she? Just like a dog, responding to all the cues in appropriate ways. ...ugh. Had it not been for the knowledge that this whole charade would be over in a few days, Morgan would have demonstrated to him why, exactly, they called her the black witch. Why they feared her, and kept their distance. Oh well! At least she had something to look forward to? A proper build up could only make the revenge taste that much sweeter, after all.)

Guinevere, on the other hand, didn't seem to be the kind of woman to enjoy those-- at least judging by how happily she revealed that which no obedient wife would have talked about, even at gunpoint. You know, like Arthur's incompetence? By the gods, Gwen. Play nice with him for a second, will you? It wasn't that she didn't understand her rage, but still. Morgan had endured his aimless blabbering for ages, so there was no excuse for Guinevere not to follow her example here. Absolutely none! "Ehm," she coughed, pointedly ignoring Gwen's outburst. "Yes, the walk was rather pleasant. I indeed learned many things about you, my lord-- and all of them made me very happy." Which wasn't even a lie. The main takeaway from the borefest he had put her through was that Urien was a buffoon, and that was unambiguously good news. A worthy adversary would have been more fun to deal with, perhaps, but at what cost? No, they didn't need more risks in this already risky gambit.

The dinner, as expected, was splendid. The cooks had outdone themselves tonight, probably in order to impress the foreign king-- there was meat so tender it fell apart the moment you touched it, and soup so thick it might as well have been stew. Even Morgan had to admit that everything tasted great. (Sure, it would have been even better had she been able to enjoy the meal without those two parasites spoiling her mood, but so what? Soon enough, both Urien and Arthur would be gone, and she would be able to breathe freely. ...maybe for the first time in her life, now that she thought of it. Gods, how Morgan wished for the time to flow faster!)

Instead of that, though, time seemed to slow down to a crawl. Both Urien and Arthur had nothing meaningful to say, which meant they resorted to pleasantries instead, and, gods, was that tiring. Yes, yes, we get it-- you're both so awesome it hurts. Now can we PLEASE go to sleep? Naturally, the answer to that question was 'no'. And what was worse, the boring-yet-vaguely-nice atmosphere soon devolved into... well, into something else entirely.

"But Arthur, my friend," Urien smiled at her brother, "if you require further assistance, don't be afraid to say so. I have many men to spare, and all of them would be eager to find their glory in your service."

"Oh?" Arthur looked up from his plate. Suddenly, his expression was... guarded, somewhat? Morgan had trouble reading it, but she guessed he did not enjoy the implication. "I appreciate the offer, truly. I always knew you were a true knight, my lord. What makes you think that I need more help, though?"

"Well, queen Guinevere told me that your quests... haven't been very fruitful so far." Yeah, what a funny euphemism for 'accomplishing jackshit'! If nothing else, Urien had a gift for re-defining narratives. "So I was thinking you could use a more reliable support system. What you are doing, after all, is in the interests of us all." Arthur didn't seem to be listening anymore, though-- instead, his focus was on Guinevere.

"Not very fruitful, huh? And what do you know of my quests, my beloved?" (His tone was light and cheery, to the point one could see kindness in it, but Morgan knew that to be a lie, lie, lie. Because, if you looked beyond the smile? His eyes were sharp and cruel, like those of a hungry wolf.) "I was under the impression you have never accompanied me on my travels."

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere swallows her soup a trifle too hard to keep herself from sputtering all over her gown. Eugene, the oaf! Well, no. As easy as it would have been to blame him for bringing this up even after she implied her relationship with her husband was, pardon her french, a shitty one… a reasonable amount of blame should be assigned to her and her big mouth. So she shoulders the weight of her consequences with a sort of practiced grace. The heat radiating off Arthur’s stare singes her ears without her even having to look at him. But she's used to this. And it's not as if he can't threaten Morgan's safety at the dinner table in front of her husband-to-be.

“…Or have I?” Guinevere says, undercut with a laugh to work off her nerves, to play it off as something other than serious. She side-eyes Arthur then, pressing down on the urge to vomit as she falls into the role she hates the very most. His loving wife. “Oh Arthur, don’t look at me like that. I’m only kidding! You said you always loved it when I kept you on your toes, didn't you?” Her own smile is a touch dangerous, there, before she turns to appeal to Eugene. “Why else would the king of Camelot himself have chosen a bride from the wastelands, after all, if he didn’t want to be kept on his toes every now and then?” Hah. That should trap him into enduring her remarks all through the night — at least in front of their guests. Can’t just come out and say that he bribed and essentially forced her to marry him for her blood, after all! That would decimate his narrative of being the perfectly romantic hero with the perfectly adoring wife. You know, the one he fed to Eugene through their correspondence. Who might as well be the single pillar by which his precious reputation still stands. Because Camelot? They clearly haven’t forgotten his acts of wrath over the past few weeks. Like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, Arthur stomped his feet so hard that he crushed the very pedestal he stood on. Now his people are tasked with hoisting him up in front of his guests, their arms shaking from exertion and fear of being cast out into the wastes. And they're only going to grow to resent him more and more for it. The perfect mentality to use to spark a rebellion, wouldn't you say?

“Ah. Her highness does have a point.” Urien grins knowingly as her lies practically melt in his mouth like the extravagant dinner sitting in front of him. You know, she could grow to like Eugene if not for, you know, the fact that he represented everything that was wrong about this cushy way of life. (And the other far more important and irredeemable fact that he intends to take Morgan away forever!) But for now, his eagerness to fill their conversation with useless pleasantries helps her sailing, however turbulent, stay afloat. Silver linings, as Morgan would say. Then again... wasn’t it his comment that got her into this mess in the first place? “Truly, I see why she caught your eye, Arthur. There must have been something special that drew you to her. Like a diamond in the rough.” Diamonds, right. So pretty... so sharp. Like Morgan had articulated so eloquently in the gardens.

Special, huh. Well, it makes sense that people would wonder about Arthur's motives when it came to their marriage. Even people like Eugene. Guinevere gives Arthur an arched look.

“I may not accompany you on your quests, but I am your wife. Forgive me for saying this, but I am not blind to your moods when you return.” Guinevere crosses her arms protectively, so subconsciously that she doesn't even realize she's doing it. How can she be blind, after all, when she gets to see what Arthur is like when the doors are shut and the curtains are drawn? “Besides… what is this wedding for if not an opportunity to strengthen our alliance with the kingdom of Rheged?” The word wedding tastes unbearably sour on her tongue, so much that it’s barely even a secret how much she loathes the very concept of it. Regardless, she pushes herself to carry on. “I mean, look around. This wonderful food. The decorations. Scheduling a second royal wedding not even a year after our own demands for so much of our precious resources. There must be some purpose for all of this beyond just… arranging a celebration. Unfortunately, the world we live in right now doesn’t afford us those luxuries. Am I wrong for assuming so?”

It’s wasteful, in other words, but she can’t just say that outright. Guinevere stares into her soup and twirls her spoon slowly. It’s dreadfully quiet except for the sound of silverware tinging against the inside of her bowl. Oh boy. She’s treading in territory no lady should ever dare tread on, or so she's told. But isn't she making a reasonable amount of sense, here?

“My apologies, I should not have brought this up during dinner to begin with. Matters as grave as these can be discussed later, my good friend.” Evidently, Urien doesn't care for long silences either. Probably because they give him too much time to think. “It will give the ladies ample time to enjoy each other's company before we take our leave as well. Lady Morgan and queen Guinevere are quite close, are they not? I can tell with only a glance that they are fond of each other. You must be so pleased that they get along as well as they do.” Oh, yeah. How uncharacteristically perceptive of Eugene! Guinevere's sure that Arthur's positively thrilled to hear about that.

 

[Syntra]

Oh, gods. When had this dinner changed into a minefield? It had always been one, Morgan supposed, but still. Mere seconds ago, the dangers had lurked beneath the surface-- like alligators that hid in murky swamps, invisible but so very present. Forgetting about those wouldn't be a good idea, right? Relaxing with Arthur by her side, then, would be similarly suicidal. (His teeth may not have been as sharp, granted, but the sword he always carried? Oh, it thirsted for blood, and given how moody he had been lately-- well, it was better not to tempt him. Not when they were so close to finally ending all of this, anyway. Now, Morgan didn't really think he'd dare to hurt her in front of her future husband, though some caution couldn't hurt, right? Shattering the peace between their respective kingdoms on a whim would be ridiculously stupid, but relying on Arthur's common sense would be even less advisable than that. This was their glorious king, after all! And kings were used to getting what they wanted, consequences be damned. So, clearly, they had to tread carefully. Every word had to be weighed twice, every phrase inspected for hidden meanings, and-- oh, wonderful. Now Urien blew it! He really is a Eugene, Morgan thought bitterly.)

"Ah, yes. Queen Guinevere and her silly jokes, right?" she rushed to Gwen's aid. "I have to admit, the blame lies with me. Time and time again, I tried to explain to her that such jests were not appropriate, but alas! My influence simply wasn't powerful enough. It pains me to say this, but I failed as a teacher. Can you forgive me, my dearest brother?" And, oh, she could see that Arthur was positively fuming now-- not outwardly, of course, as he wouldn't want to offend his guest, but Morgan knew anger when she saw it, and this was definitely it. The way his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly? Yep, definitely losing it. That his despised, blasphemous sister talked to him like that must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow, yet he had to. Implying that they were anything but loving siblings would be highly suspicious, you see? Urien would ask questions, and the answers-- oh, those wouldn't be to his liking. Especially the ones in which she'd describe her pleasant stay in the catacombs! Because, you know, she was a fragile, fragile little flower and you just didn't treat a lady like that. (...heh. Actually, maybe this wedding wouldn't be so bad. It was still a giant waste of money considering the marriage would never happen, much less be consummated, but the comedic potential inherent in this set-up was great indeed. Yay for opportunities to troll Arthur in subtle ways!)

"Ah. Um. Of course I forgive you, my sister," Arthur said, and it was obvious to her how much he was choking on those words. Doubtlessly, he had wanted to say something else, but with Urien watching? Yeah, not happening. "And I suppose you are right, my beloved. I apologize if I've been... somewhat irritated lately, too. Making you feel uncomfortable has never been my intention." Wow. Arthur was actually apologizing? Unheard of. What was next, pigs learning how to fly? "It's this crown on my head," he tapped it lightly. "Its weight is great, and sometimes, the responsibility is too much. You should be happy, my queen, that you aren't burdened in the same way. While you get to rest, my hands bleed." Oh, okay. So it actually wasn't an apology-- just an elaborate set-up for more bragging. Now that was the Arthur Morgan knew! Had he actually been sincere earlier, she would have been forced to consider the option of him having been replaced by an identical twin, or something. (Which apparently wasn't a development as unlikely as one would think.)

Had it been up to him, her brother likely would have launched into yet another self-celebratory speech-- those were his forte, after all. (Was he this good at improvising, or had he actually rehearsed them in front of the mirror like some pathetic dictator? Because Morgan could imagine him doing just that. Ah, the things a lack of self-awareness did to a person!) Anyway, it wasn't up to him, and that was why the conversation turned to something much, much more dangerous. Uh oh.

"I would say so, yes," Arthur said, looking at Guinevere first, and then at her. To hell with Eugene! The man was like a dog, except that instead of sniffing out game, he had a talent for unearthing uncomfortable topics. Was he doing it on purpose?! ...no, probably not. The idea of Urien being this devious was about as absurd as the idea of a pebble getting inside of your shoe by design, in order to spite you. Just, not realistic! "The two are just like trueborn sisters. I am overjoyed that they were able to forge a friendship this durable, truly. It was... moving to watch. Too bad that my beloved won't be able to visit Morgan! She's so busy with all of her responsibilities, you see, and I also cannot risk losing her in the wastes. It's a dangerous world out there, as I'm certain you're aware. My queen," he turned to face Gwen, his lips curled up in a sickening smile, "surely knows that as well. But she's happy to sacrifice her desires for the good of our people, isn't she? Because kings and queens are also married to their duty."

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere sets her jaw forward, glaring into her soup out of a stubborn refusal to meet Arthur's eyes. Because his face would be irresistibly punchable (...more so than usual, that is) if she had to look at him now. What exactly is he hoping to accomplish, anyway!? Why would he light her fuse on purpose if he doesn't want her to make any scenes in public? Does he derive some kind of sadistic pleasure, seeing how much power he has over her life? Over Morgan's life? Disgusting. The only thing that saves him from the broken nose her fist is just itching to give him is the fact that his threats of her never seeing Morgan again hold no real weight in the grand scheme of things. They're planning a coup, it's only a matter of time. Only a matter of time. She tries to placate herself by repeating it to herself, over and over... but it isn't really working.

Because something got loose inside of her recently. Something wounded and vicious, all shadows and sharp teeth. How does she even explain it? Guinevere doesn't want to be controlled anymore. Not even by herself. That's the problem, isn't it? Even as she tries to calm down, there's another part of her that rebels against that impulse. It's kind of like a gag reflex. No, no-- it's more like being eaten alive...

Eugene shifts a bit uncomfortably, seems like he might actually feel kind of bad for her. He opens his mouth soundlessly as if he intends to come to her defense... but then he shuts it. Despite reigning a kingdom of his own, he still might as well be in Arthur's debt. Same as anyone else. A golden crown might be pretty to look at, but at the end of the day, you can't fill an empty belly with one. For the sake of his own duty, his own people... he has to remain safely in the king of Camelot's good graces. He looks a bit helplessly in Morgan's direction as if hoping that just a glance between them might help him navigate the situation beyond this point.

"Yes. I suppose." Guinevere says hotly, fighting to pull herself together. Fighting and failing miserably. "...Although I do fear Arthur has been a bit overprotective of me ever since I was kidnapped by a horrible, bloodthirsty cult."

Eugene chokes on his wine. "A blood--" He coughs and rushes to dab his chin with his napkin. "I beg your pardon?"

Oh. Did Arthur even tell him about that? Well... duh, of course he didn't. It was practically an unspoken rule in Camelot not to bring it up. Especially not in front of the king. There were lots of unresolved issues lingering in the minds of the people alongside those events, too. Until recently, people wondered where Lancelot disappeared to. He was well-liked by many and his absence was felt. And where did Jennifer go before her execution date? Well, poof! She vanished without a trace. How strange. How inexplicable. And did Arthur try to take responsibility for either of those things? Nope.

"It's not as though Camelot is immune to the dangers of the world we live in. After all, I was taken from my chambers in the middle of the night." Basically right out from under his nose! If Arthur wants to insult her like this, she can dish it right back. "Fortunately I managed to escape on my own. It took a month... but I survived. I mean, obviously. That's why I'm still here right now. Moreover, the wastelands were my home. Yes, they are dangerous... but I survived that, too. And-- and it's not as though I'll be particularly busy with child-rearing duties anytime soon, my beloved." Because having his heirs is her only actual duty, right? Guinevere stares at Arthur meaningfully, the accusation clear as a cloudless day in her eyes. Did she rest while he bled? Because in case he's already forgotten, she stood in this very hall drenched in blood just a few days ago. (Not that it was hers, mind you, but he doesn't know that. And she's bled quite enough herself to make up for it, thank you very much! More than any human should in a lifetime, probably... but then again, she may not be totally human? Ugh. Now's not the time to be dredging that up to the forefront of her mind!) Then she reassembles a ladylike smile. One of her best! They have guests to attend to, after all.

"I have half a mind to challenge you to a duel for the right to visit Morgan whenever I please." Guinevere's eyes sparkle, even as she becomes vaguely aware that she may have just pushed this over the edge. (Because in a fair fight-- she would win hands down. And she would do it for Morgan in a heartbeat.) But as it is now... um, yikes? She giggles, then, if only to mask her horror at the echo of her own words repeating in her mind. "Me and my silly jokes, right? Perhaps you ended our lessons a bit prematurely, Arthur. I still have so much to learn!" She ducks down a notch, taking a demure little sip of broth from her spoon. "I suppose it is a good thing she taught me not to slurp my soup like I used to. Spoons were in short supply out in the wastes. Soup, too. You all would be rightly horrified if you were subjected to a sight like that."

 

[Syntra]

Pathetic, truly. Both of them. Neither Arthur nor Urien were fit to so much as look at Guinevere, much less talk to her-- that much was clear from this brief interaction. Blindingly obvious, even. Because Arthur, their great glorious king? More than anything else, he resembled a schoolboy who had been caught copying his homework from one of his smarter classmates. 'Whoopsie,' his expression said, and it would have been entertaining had it not be so unspeakably sad. (Yes, 'whoopsie,' you bastard. That was exactly the reaction of a loving husband fearing for his wife's safety! Every time, Morgan thought her brother couldn't possibly get more despicable, but somehow, he kept exceeding her expectations. What an ambitious, ambitious man!)

And Urien? He wasn't better than him, no matter how much he pretended otherwise. Did he think he could keep his own hands clean while rolling around in the filth? That he could pick and choose when it came to knightly values? Oh no, no, no. It didn't work like that! Being a knight didn't mean just... wearing a shiny armor and slaying beasts. The men may have forgotten, or perhaps they had never known in the first place, but that wasn't the case with Morgan-- unlike them, she had read the legends. Back when she had been locked in that ivory tower, books had been her entire world, so of course she had devoured the stories. She had been hungry for words, hungry in the same way others were hungry for love and friendship and respect, and perhaps that was why they had stayed with her for so long. Was it any wonder, considering they had been all she had had? As such, it was easy for her to remember that knights were defined by their honor-- by their willingness to help the weak, to defend the defenseless. Urien, on the other hand? He had the nerve to uphold Camelot's oppressive regime while clutching his pearls over it! He wasn't an innocent in this situation, no matter what he told himself. Kings depended on their reputation, and all those fancy jewels his kingdom produced for Camelot only fueled Arthur's propaganda machine. Thanks to him, her brother looked like a god in the eyes of everyone else! Like a shining beacon of hope in these dark times-- a living proof of what humanity had once had, and perhaps could have once again if they just followed him faithfully enough. No, only a fool would underestimate appearances.

So, yes, Morgan did blame him as well. That was why she refused to meet his eyes-- stubbornly, she looked at her own soup and said nothing. Circumstances forced her to keep her mouth shut, to avoid saying what she really thought about all of this, but silence could be rather expressive as well at times. Right now, for example? Urien was clearly hoping to find solace in her, and she wasn't going to provide it. No, he could forget about that. There would be no easy way out-- no forgiveness for him to bask in, no distraction from his own moral failings. He was complicit in Arthur's bullshit, and Morgan wouldn't let him doubt that for a second. (And since he basically meant to turn her into Guinevere 2.0? Oh, she didn't owe him anything. Stupid, stupid Eugene.)

Meanwhile, Arthur's world was collapsing one again-- or rather, the illusions he loved so dearly. (He must have regretted his earlier fuck up with the cult sorely, Morgan was sure. Especially since Guinevere, being the villainess she was, just wouldn't let it go. How sad for him, right? The way her trauma affected him was just so, so inconvenient. Poor Arthur, ever the victim!)

"That, I believe, is quite enough," Arthur finally said. His eyes were shining dangerously, yet he managed to restrain his voice-- to an uninitiated observer, he probably would have come off as neutral, or perhaps even jovial. Morgan, however? Morgan knew him, and understood that a storm was raging in his chest. Uh oh. "I won't have you spreading such harmful rumors, least of all in front of a dear guest. Go back to our room." Wow. Was he-- was he seriously grounding her? Alright, why not. Maybe Morgan didn't have to try so hard when it came to destroying his precious reputation-- he was doing a fine enough job of that on his own, it seemed.

"Urien, my friend," he smiled at the other man, "please, forgive my wife for her outburst. Women are such emotional creatures-- they know not what they are saying, truly. But that's why we love them, don't you think? Without them, the world would be so dreadfully dull. It is also why they require our guidance, though," he prattled on happily, as if Morgan and Guinevere weren't even present.

 

[ellarose]

"Ah-- ah, but of course." Urien supplies what he can in response to Arthur's question, his mind likely being pulled in more directions than he has the capabilities to work with. The queen had seemed quite serious and not at all like a lady spreading ill-intentioned rumors behind a dainty little fan... but if Arthur wants to define her claims as rumors, then who is he to argue? He's an outsider. And more than that, a man who needs to play his cards right to provide for a kingdom of his own. So he swallows down his doubts, ignores the prodding of his troubled conscience, and manages one of his most forgiving smiles while anchoring his attention solely to Arthur. Blood cults? How ridiculous! Of course that story would be fake. It makes total sense! (Despite the fact that, you know, his kingdom conducts research in the wastes... and what of that strange, fenced village full of people dressed in white? Well, it's better not to investigate these things in too much depth. They're unimportant as long as they're not out to get you specifically!) "Yes, yes. You do have an excellent point. Women are truly such curious creatures."

"Rumors? Are you fucking serious...?" Of course, these incredulous words are breathed so softly that Guinevere might as well just be mouthing them. Then Arthur proceeds to do what he always does when he doesn't know what else to do with her. Back into the gilded cage she goes! The cage within a cage. Staying dangerously still, she fumes silently and clutches her spoon hard enough that it bites into the palm of her hand. Pretending the injustices she suffered through don't exist won't just make it go away! It's true, she's tempted to counter, I didn't know what the fuck I was saying when I agreed to marry you. Guinevere glances at Morgan while they're distracted, a whirlwind blend of so many emotions betrayed in her expression. All at once remorseful and vexed and wounded... too much of everything all at once. Too much for one person to bear -- let alone control.

Women, right? Can't live with or without them! That seems to be the ongoing new topic of Arthur and Eugene's useless, amiable talk. And don't they have so very much to say on the subject? But Guinevere doesn't hear a word over the blood rushing in her ears. Because Arthur's not the only one with a storm brewing. And as bad as this looks-- it's probably better for her to release steam in small increments like this before it can accumulate and legitimately blow up in their faces.

Guinevere reaches for her bowl and chugs the rest of her soup in a very unladylike manner before setting it carelessly back down on the table. The display certainly distracts Eugene from his little chat with Arthur, who struggles on which of the two he should be focusing on. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand instead of using her napkin, she then lifts herself from her seat to go and do as she was told. King's orders and all! Got to obey 'em. "Wasn't gonna let it go to waste." She says with a shrug. Wears the air of somebody who's from the wastes and proud of it. "'Cause y'know, it kinda slipped my mind before. This is technically the third royal wedding we're squandering our scarce and valuable resources on. Is that really what it means to make sacrifices for duty, I wonder? In my opinion, duty is about keeping your promises. And we'd have enough to feed far more people if we didn't take so damned much for ourselves."

The room is agonizingly quiet again. Eugene is clearly stunned and confused... whether by her complete one-eighty on mannerisms or the actual meaning behind the words she's saying is hard to say. But she'd only be wasting her breath if she tried elaborating it to him. (Explaining the whole Jennifer situation could take the whole night, as is.) If Arthur's just going to point and yell 'rumors' at everything she says, it won't even be worth it. Besides, her words aren't even meant for Eugene's ears. They're for her dear husband's. Because he should know precisely what she's referring to. And she's... definitely getting in trouble for this, if she wasn't already. (But lets be honest, she was already getting in trouble for sure.) Either way, she's already a storm herself... she's prepared to handle his. Still. Best to excuse herself now before he has the chance to effectively wrap his mind around what she just said.

"Anyway, I'm afraid I've got to leave now. Because what are women if not flesh and blood puppets, right?" Guinevere wears another one of her dauntless smiles, consequences be damned, and dips into a low-effort curtsy before making her exit. Selling Morgan off won't fix your problems, you bastard. I won't forget a thing. I'll be a thorn in your side for the rest of your life. And it's going to end sooner rather than later. Everything... everything he's done is going to catch up to him, one way or another.

 

[Syntra]

The rest of the dinner went smoothly-- or at least smoothly enough, Morgan supposed, considering the havoc Guinevere had wrought with her little spectacle. (And, gods, was it massive. It wasn't immediately apparent, of course, since both Urien and Arthur tried to act as if nothing had happened, but not everything could be swept under the metaphorical rug this easily. Some ghosts had teeth, you know? And the more you overlooked them, the more you pretended they didn't exist, the deeper marks they left on your skin. Guinevere's absence worked exactly like that for some reason-- perhaps due to the sheer absurdity? As in, this was the queen. The most powerful woman in Camelot, loved by the gods and men alike. Why, then, was she being sent to bed like a naughty child? How did that make any sense? It didn't, of course not, and poor Eugene was likely facing some pretty serious cognitive dissonance right now. Serves you right, Morgan thought with no small amount of satisfaction. Just look at all those fancy ideals of yours, and see for yourself where they lead. Don't you dare to avert your eyes, you pathetic little bastard.)

Anyway, Morgan cared not for the conversations the two were having. Their words were empty, just like the men who spouted them, and full of lies, lies, lies-- lies they directed at themselves, which was the most pathetic thing imaginable. Just, why? Why would anyone do that? Naturally, Morgan understood the importance of crafting a good narrative. She had done so many times in the past, and thus she also knew that lies were an essential instrument in that endeavor. Sometimes, the truth just didn't suffice. It wasn't entertaining enough, or maybe attention-grabbing enough, or even convenient enough, and that was when you had to use your artistic licence. Putting wool over your own eyes, though? To what end? So that they could feel a little better about their own shortcomings? Sad! Men like them had no right to breathe, much less rule over anything. And soon-- soon they would cease to do both. Heh.)

The next few days passed in a haze. The wedding preparations were in full swing, so Morgan was busy trying on dresses, decorating the great hall according to her liking (how nice of Arthur to give her a choice in this, right?) and composing the dinner menu with the cooks. All meaningless tasks, in truth, and she would much rather spend more time with Gwen, but the illusion had to be perfect. If Arthur started suspecting something... No, too much was at stake here. Far too much for her to blow it now, when freedom was finally within their reach. Besides, hadn't her entire existence been one giant performance so far? Keeping it up for a little longer meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Once again, Morgan would simply grit her teeth and bear it. The reflex was her second nature, and came to her as easily as breathing did to other people-- except that, this time, she couldn't help but worry. And the cause of her worries? Naturally, the answer was Guinevere. Guinevere, who had angered Arthur so. (...gods, she could only hope that her love was alright. Visiting her would have been risky, especially given her latest outburst, and so she didn't. Again, they couldn't afford to draw much attention to themselves. She had sent her a few coded messages, yes, but the sorceress sincerely doubted Gwen would actually be honest with her about her suffering. The woman was way too stubborn for her own good, and would probably send her a thumbs up emoji even if Arthur was beating her unconscious every night. Well, hopefully he had learned his lesson with that dead baby stunt? Even an idiot like him should be able to grasp the necessity of, you know, not hurting the mother of his future children. No, no, surely she was protected from such vile behavior now. ...she wasn't protected from his advances, though, and-- No, don't think about it. Focus on your task, and it will all be over soon.)

And, indeed, the fateful morning came. It crept up on her unexpectedly, like a thief hidden by the cover of darkness, but it did, and it was finally time to act. Gods! Morgan had been waiting for so, so many years that part of her still couldn't believe that this was actually happening-- that something horrible wouldn't cause their plan to implode on itself at the last second. Damn. Were her hands actually shaking? Get a hold of yourself! Mental breakdowns can wait for later. You know, for when it's actually safe to have them! And so, with her hands still shaking, Morgan wrote yet another message addressed to Guinevere.

'Gwen, the time has come. Secure the Excalibur.'

 

[ellarose]

Two storms collided and in the aftermath there was... nothing. A blank space, a void, a stretch of dead silence that lasted for days. Arthur had an important decision to make. How catastrophic would it be to let Guinevere roam freely, to risk her saying anything she pleased with that mettlesome smirk on her face? Or would be more detrimental to keep her entirely out of sight until the date of his dear sister's wedding? After that mess of a dinner, he obviously favored the option of locking her up. Silence was better than the sound of his beloved's blasphemous rumors. (Right... 'rumors'.) But, oh! What if she tried to escape when he turned his back? What if she cooked up a mischievous scheme with her newfound courage? And surely, surely she must suffer grave consequences for her insolence! But striking her doesn't work and his threats hold very little weight... far less than they used to. So defiant and disrespectful! How is he supposed to control someone without banishing or beheading them? Without leaving them with bruises or scars? Well. He found a solution by unwittingly copying a page from the blood cult's book.

So he had one of his most trusted maids start mixing some 'medicine' into the queen's meals. And anyone who happened to peek inside their chambers would find Guinevere safely whiling the days away in a deep slumber. For a few hours, maybe she'd be daydreaming with a mysteriously hazy look in her eyes. Yeah... totally fine, right? Not a single hair on her head was out of place! (Ever since she first arrived in Camelot, Guinevere was such an ill and frail creature! That's why she's always hidden away in her chambers. The king's will has nothing to do with it, nuh uh.) ...At least Arthur hadn't tied her to the bed? Either way, she was always right where he expected her to be an didn't talk back. Problem solved.

Guinevere's days passed uneventfully in spells of deep sleeps and listless dazes. Rousing temporarily whenever Arthur touched her or prattled on about how he liked her better this way. Sometimes he mentioned how smoothly the wedding preparations were progressing without her. ('Don't worry, my love. Morgan is overjoyed. She and Urien suit each other so well.' he'd coo. Getting revenge for her outbursts by taunting her when she can't fight back, the bastard. Yeah. Like hell she is! And the mental image of Morgan getting lost in Eugene's eyes is so ridiculous she could laugh. And maybe she would have if she wasn't so... wasn't so...) For the most part, she dreamed. Living other lives in other castles or wandering a grand forest. So immersive they may as well be real. But now's not the time to be escaping in dreams. Arthur wouldn't-- couldn't keep her like this for that much longer. He couldn't possibly! But fear breathed ice on the nape of her neck when she considered the possibility that the wedding had already happened, their coup failed because of her, Morgan was already gone and--

No, no, no. That couldn't be-- and thankfully wasn't-- the case.

The maids (those who Guinevere and Morgan often relied upon for correspondence, that is) were able to come up with a solution amongst themselves on this matter. On of the eve of the wedding, two maids collided in the chaos of last minute wedding preparations and the queen's breakfast tray needed to be remade. The special 'medicine' was discreetly dumped into some bushes and Guinevere's mind cleared by midday. The maid who arrived with lunch placated her with Morgan's notes and updates on the current situation before she could, well, wreak havoc. But it's only a matter of time, now. Only a day. Until then, she was to stay in bed and pretend that nothing was amiss. She would be fine from this point on, the maid assured, because Arthur needed her to be present and conscious in time for the wedding. Oh god, the wedding. How was Morgan coping with all of this? Well-- she can trust that Morgan knows what she's doing. With a level head on her shoulders and a wit sharp as any sword... clearly she's navigating all this better than Guinevere. Clearly! Maybe if she hadn't blown a fuse back there, she wouldn't be in this-- no. There's no time to beat herself up about this. She needs to think about Excalibur. Finding the sword won't a problem, of course. But being queen means plenty of people hover around her, and especially for grand occasions such as these. Including Arthur.

And so on the night before the wedding, Guinevere channels her twin sister again. Tossing and turning, feigning a sleep fitful enough to keep Arthur up... she mumbles frantically about a white stag. It's coming closer, she foretells, closer than ever. That catches his attention. It's only a matter of seconds before he starts shaking her by the shoulders and demanding more answers! But she refuses to give him anything coherent in response and lets herself dangle limply in his hands. Serves him right, for dulling all her senses! Either way, he summons Merlin immediately afterwards. They monitor her and speak in low voices. Could this be Arthur's big chance? At long last? The timing is inconvenient, seeing as the wedding is tomorrow... but he's got to-- got to go investigate, right? The glory of restoring the earth and claiming his long sought after destiny would smooth over his being slightly late to his own sister's wedding.

By the time Guinevere has Morgan's note in her hands, the maids have finished prettying her up for the occasion... and her dear husband is nowhere to be seen. Nor are a handful of his trusty knights and guards. How about that? They set out right at sunrise to search for the white stag that was supposedly 'closer than ever'. Hah. Suckers! Either way, it keeps her path to Excalibur relatively clear as she steps into Camelot's halls for the first time in days. Moreover, she takes advantage of the hustle-bustle of last-minute wedding preparations to get by without drawing too much attention to herself.

After everything, this should actually be the easy part. Guinevere simply has to quiet her thoughts and sure enough Excalibur is there, like always. Singing a siren song meant for her ears alone, guiding her step by step. And the cellar door, though sealed, clicks open automatically with just the touch of her hand. As she ventures further inside, she make out Excalibur's bluish glow reflecting off the stone walls up ahead. Just a little further, now. Everything seems to be running smoothly until-- until she hears footsteps behind her on the staircase?

 

[Syntra]

And the footsteps were far from the only suspicious thing there. In fact, those may actually have been the least concerning element at play-- mainly because the familiar, blue-ish radiance Excalibur was surrounded with began turning red. (Red like rubies or fire, or perhaps even blood. Gods! What was happening there? Did the sword change colors according to Guinevere's mood swings, like one of those cheap rings charlatans had sold at fairs and the like before the Catastrophe had put an end to such frivolities? No, that didn't seem right. Somehow, the red felt hostile-- it was the flash of a wolf's teeth shortly before the beast attacked, and the bright coloring of a snake that signaled to the rest of the world that its fangs were dripping with venom. It was a memory of a near-death experience, buried somewhere in one's subconsciousness and now awakened from that deep slumber. It was all of that at once, and yet it was none of those things. One thing, however, seemed certain, even amidst the confusion-- the red served as a warning. A warning addressed to her specifically. 'Touch me,' it said in a sing-songy voice, 'and die.')

...did it mean the sword had turned against her? But why? Viviane had sung a different tune-- and, even more importantly, the Excalibur itself had as well. Just a few seconds ago, it had wanted her. It had wanted her so deeply, in fact, that its desire had echoed throughout different dimensions, throughout the very flow of time. It had longed for her, in the same way one might long for one's lover after an eternity of separation. What did the sudden change in attitude mean? Another trial, perhaps? A trial, or maybe something more sinister than that? Oh, geez. Things could never be simple in Camelot, could they?

Before she could so much as examine the Excalibur, though, the owner of those footsteps finally caught up to her. ...and, no, it wasn't Arthur. It was Merlin, clad in one of those ridiculous, long robes that were meant to emphasize his station. (His station of the royal magician, which was somehow both acceptable and worthy of respect. The kind of magic that Morgan practiced, however? Apparently, that was grounds for eternal condemnation, except that no, actually-- not when marrying her off to a foreign king could improve the relations between the two kingdoms. When the possibility of that emerged, Morgan was once again the king's beloved sister, good and pure enough to be allowed to sit by his side at pretty much any table. ...seriously, though. How could they handle so much doublethink in their lives without combusting spontaneously? Did they just forget what had been said the previous day in order to make things easier for themselves? The existence of a mayfly, truly-- with the key difference being that they were the ones to kill their old selves after the sunset.)

"Queen Guinevere," Merlin said, his voice quiet and somber. (For some reason, it sounded like a funeral song. What kind of funeral, though? One meant for him, or for her?) "I thought you understood. Understood your importance, your role in the grand scheme of things, and everything else. Instead, you choose to do this? You choose to commit treachery? And don't even try to deny the accusation," he raised his hand, as if he expected Guinevere to beg and grovel-- as if he expected her to regret her actions, like a naughty child would. (Silly women, right?) "If you think you're the only one who has spies among the servants, then you're sorely mistaken. I know everything about your silly plan, and your... involvement with Morgan." And the way he said that name? The man spat it out, as if it was something gross he had had to eat in order not to insult his host and couldn't wait to get it out of his mouth covertly. "It's meaningless, though. As you can see, the sword is rejecting you. When you married our king, you tied your fate to his-- and, as such, he is its rightful master now."

The old wizard spoke and spoke, though that wasn't all he did. With his left hand, he reached into the depths of his robe and pulled out... something? Guinevere couldn't see it all that well in the darkness, but it was small enough to fit into his hand comfortably. So, something real tiny, then. "You also vastly underestimate your own importance. We need you, that much is true. Do you think you also need to be yourself for the role you are meant to play, though?" And then, with speed much greater than anyone could expect from such an old man, he flung that something at her. It really was tiny, and metallic as well, and the second it touched her, it sunk its teeth into her skin. Oh, gods. Was that-- was that a spark of magic she felt just now? A spark of magic that was now traveling in her freaking bloodstream?

 

[ellarose]

Panic is easier to tamp down on, knowing that securing the sword marks the beginning of the end of Camelot’s ancient customs and rules. Indefinitely. Meaning Guinevere won’t have to slip back into any of those roles she loathed so much. She can break the rules at her leisure, speak her mind and be herself from this point on. She’s free, in other words. Well, almost. But at least free to fight in any way she damn well pleases. So she holds her chin high as Merlin speaks, fury dancing like flames in her eyes. Hell, she’ll push this man down the stairs if she has to! It would serve him right for everything he’s done. To her, to Morgan, and especially to... Oh. In fact, Excalibur’s swift change in tone makes sense when she considers that it had changed the moment she heard Merlin’s approach. The sword isn’t rejecting her. It’s rejecting him. The same way it had turned red in Arthur’s hands, in the Lady of the Lake’s trial. “And I know exactly what you did to Viviane.” She counters, “She told me everything, you dried up old bastard!” The fact that she had exchanged her true vows with someone else the night of that cursed wedding is on the tip of her tongue, too... but she swallows all her words when she catches sight of his movement and braces herself for impact.

Run. Guinevere hears it loud and clear. Run now! Excalibur’s ravaged (—almost pained?) voice breaks through, flickering between red and blue as though it can’t decide which of the two souls in the cellar to fixate on. Not that she needs a warning, really. She survived her whole life out in the wastes for a reason. Time and time again she evaded the blades of her enemies, the jaws and claws of monsters on her nimble feet. Of course she noticed something coming her way... and probably would have dodged quickly enough. You know, if not for the fact that they were standing on a very steep and narrow staircase? An actual shield would have done her more good than that warning, with no place to sidestep to and no means to protect herself from... what? What is that? What did he just—?

A charge of electricity shoots through her shoulder, where the metallic object had eaten into her skin, zips down through her arm and all the way to her fingertips. Then it pivots and rockets through the rest of her until it seizes up all of her limbs... which feel impossibly heavy as a result. Heavier than anything she’s ever carried in her life. She crumples into a heap when it finishes with her legs. And her body... her body won’t obey any of her commands to move. “What... what the fuck did you...?” But even her lips cease to move after that. Can she lift her head? Nope. Raise a hand for balance, maybe? No dice. Her fingers won’t even twitch. Damn it. God fucking damn it! Whatever this magic is, it binds her tightly with invisible strings that only deepen their bite when she struggles. As inevitable as quicksand, pulling her down, down, down. This strange magic holds her captive in a way she’s never experienced before. These bastards just keep getting more creative with their methods, don’t they? (Maybe someday they’ll finally learn that she’s uncontrollable. Ideally that someday will be today, but... but...) The burn of her restraints are so painful that it overwrites any fear she might have felt as a result. Any emotion at all, really. Dulls out the rest of her, kind of like a drug. The muchness— the blazing fire that made Guinevere Guinevere is whittled down to a stubborn little ember that refuses to go out.

Do you think you need to be yourself for the role you are meant to play? Whatever Merlin intended to accomplish with that vile item, it finishes the job successfully. Perhaps deceptively so. Because there’s a piece of Guinevere that remains in spite of it all— one that’s determined to hold on and rebel in any way it can. And perhaps it will... when the time is right.

Excalibur’s voice is positively earsplitting, now, pained by this development.

Guinevere feels the vague sensation of the invisible strings yanking her upright. Walking is... unnatural, to say the least, especially on a staircase like this. Um. Isn’t it going to be pretty obvious that something’s wrong with her? Or maybe the magic has to set in before it becomes convincing? Either way... they still need her, as he said, and it simply won’t do for her to break her neck falling down these stairs. And seeing as her legs are functioning like those of a newborn deer, the old wizard has to muster up the strength to carry her the rest of the way up. (Hm... this is really going to take a lot out of him, isn’t it? Carrying her, maintaining such a complicated spell meant to control a woman so fiery and vehemently inclined to fight back?) But they have a wedding to attend and need to hurry if they’re going to make it in time. Because appearances are everything in Camelot!

 

[Syntra]

"How beautiful you are, lady Morgan."

And, as she stood in front of the mirror, Morgan had to admit that it was true. The robe they had sewn for her was exquisite-- white, almost blindingly so, and elaborate in its design, yet somehow lighter than a cloud. The very picture of innocence. (...privately, this made Morgan laugh. After all those years of accusations, of hatred and scapegoating, this was how they were going to present her to her future husband? As this soft, fragile girl in need of protection?Oh, she had been one, alright-- in a memory so distant it might as well have never happened, before all of her tears had burnt away. Before they had taken that girl and thrown her to the wolves, no doubt hoping that they'd take care of their problem for them. That they'd devour her, and their precious, precious family name would once again be stain-free. Too bad for you, bastards, the sorceress thought. Because you are the company you keep, and so I turned into a wolf as well. And today-- today, I shall show you how sharp my fangs are. The dress, so cute and full of lace? That changed nothing about her true nature. Absolutely nothing! Arthur, too, wasn't worthy of a throne just because he happened to be wearing a crown. They couldn't reduce her to this-- to this idea of an obedient wife they had dreamt up, just like they couldn't do the same to Gwen.)

"Yes," Morgan said, not even bothering to don a mask of humbleness. And honestly, why should she? Everyone with a working pair of eyes could see her beauty, and denying it would only serve to show what a fine little lady she was. (Well, no, not a lady. A fine puppet, a slave in all but name. Someone defined by her appearance, by the need to chase after perfection obsessively, and pretending it didn't actually matter all that much. An endless performance, that was what it was. And Morgan? Oh, she was done with those.) "Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing."

The maids were a little stunned, Morgan could tell, but they didn't dare to say anything-- this, after all, was the king's sister. The king's sister, who had mysteriously found her way into Arthur's good graces after years being everyone's punching bag. Clearly, she was not to be underestimated, right? Besides, they only had to suffer a few more hours of her presence. Soon enough, the witch would leave for Urien's kingdom, and Camelot would be pure once again. Ah, now that was something to look forward to!

The great hall was once again buzzing with activity. Just like with Gwen's wedding, many guests had been invited and many of them had accepted the invitation-- displeasing Arthur, after all, could have consequences. Consequences that could potentially fatal, you know? Since he decided who would eat and who would starve, who would thrive and who would suffer. Oh no, no, no. It was better to show up, really, even if you didn't care for the woman who would soon say her yes. Besides, free food, right? That alone was a good reason to come. Free food and free performance, Morgan thought, suppressing her smirk as Arthur walked her down the aisle. Look forward to it, friends of mine, for it shall be spectacular.

Among the crowd, she noticed Guinevere, and-- wait, what? Why? Gwen should have been doing something else! Had she secured the Excalibur already? Was she-- was she hiding it under her skirts, or...? Except that then she felt the familiar tinge of magical energies swirling in the air, and suddenly, everything was clear. Especially since those magical energies bore Merlin's signature! The old panic was back-- it crushed her chest, her throat, her ability to think. We've lost. I'll have to marry him, and then I will never see her again.

Urien's smile was absolutely sickening, as well as the stupid speech about love and compromise the priest began pulling out of his ass, and Morgan-- Morgan felt like fainting. Wouldn't it be so, so nice to close her eyes and escape from this living nightmare? No, she balled her hands into fists. I cannot give up this easily. I won't! This was just a tiny complication. So what if Gwen didn't have the Excalibur? She could always get it later, once Morgan severed the flow of that spell. (...which was absolutely doable, at least for a sorceress of her caliber. Merlin was old and frail, and could no longer hope to compete with her. The fucker would go down, along with the rest of this wretched system!) Right. All of the chess pieces were in the positions she had envisioned-- all but one, which could be remedied easily. Because, once the monsters stormed Camelot? Very few people would care to keep an eye on what exactly Gwen was doing, Morgan would wager. No, running for their pathetic lives seemed like a far, far more likely response here.

"...and you, lady Morgan. Do you take king Urien to be your husband?" the priest asked. He sounded almost bored, really-- clearly, he thought this to be a mere formality. Urien had said his yes already, after all, so why were they even standing in front of the altar still? Ah, time to show him just how wrong he is. How wrong all of them are, actually. Morgan turned around to face Urien and gave him one of her sincerest smiles-- you know, the smiles usually reserved for Gwen. The ones that made her face light up, and filled her eyes with playful sparks.

"Urien, my lord," she began, measuring every word carefully. The slowness, of course, was deliberate; it took a while to find the magical thread, to assess its quality. Plus, was it that wrong of her to want to savor this moment? Morgan had waited her entire life for this! "You know how I feel about you-- what is hidden in my heart." Ah, there it was. The thread, so powerful and yet so fragile, shining like a lighthouse in the darkness. Wouldn't it be such a shame if someone were to snap it? "It will make me the happiest woman in the whole world..." Urien smiled as well at that point, "to say no, actually. You are unworthy of me." Morgan threw the bouquet she was holding in his stupid face, and the whole room fell silent. The shock was almost tangible, really-- all the guests stared at her, mute and wide-eyed. A woman exercising her will? Utterly scandalous, right? (...how pathetic. It was but a single word, and yet it had obliterated them all! Noble lords, pffft.)

"Morgan," Arthur found his voice first, "what is this supposed to mean? You promised--" What he thought she had promised, that the guests would never find out; mostly because Morgan spat in his face.

"You promised a lot of things as well, you piece of shit. Like, I don't know, protecting your beloved wife. Or did you believe you were protecting her from herself when you beat her? When you drugged her? A man like you is worth less than the dirt beneath my feet, and I do not take orders from dirt. Nobody should!" And with that, Morgan severed the thread. The force behind her spell was so wild, so fierce, that Merlin keeled over-- and finally, finally Guinevere belonged to herself once again. Good. Your skills will be needed soon, my love.

Naturally, it turned out that that 'soon' meant 'right now'. The door leading to the great hall opened out of the blue, revealing a panting and (seemingly) terrified Caelia. "Good people of Camelot," she hollered. "The monsters! They-- they have broken our defenses. They're here. Run! Save your lives!"

 

[ellarose]

Just moments before the ceremony begins, Merlin ushers Guinevere into her seat. With mysteriously heavy breaths, he promptly explains away the queen’s equally (if not more mysterious) inability to communicate with the other guests. ‘Queen Guinevere is still quite ill, you see, and will be for quite some time. I must respectfully ask that you keep your distance from her.’ Huh. One might think if she were well enough to attend the wedding, she’d manage at least a greeting— or a smile? A nod, even? (And, um, why does her head keep lulling to the side? How suspicious!) Appearances are being kept and they... look bad. Frightfully so. For guests Arthur forced Guinevere to entertain personally in the past, this is especially strange. Is this the same woman who told engaging stories about her life in the wastelands? Those who possessed the rare ability to see past their privilege enough to recognize what a feat it was even grew to respect her for it. Without a doubt, there is indeed something wrong with the queen. What can be done about it, though? She belongs to Arthur and coming to logical conclusions may cost them their heads. All moral dilemmas are easy to cast aside when the music picks up and draws everyone’s attention to the aisle.

Guinevere’s buried so deeply in the spell that even the small, heartbroken piece of her that remains is powerless to stop this nightmare from coming true. Whenever her fingers so much as twitch in protest, Merlin reprimands her with a painful twist of his magic. Holding her nice and still even as her heart threatens to shatter. Hopes are dashed with every step Morgan takes closer to Uri— Eugene. No, no, no. No! Is this really it? How their story ends? Had Arthur taken the snide ‘flesh and blood puppets’ comment she made at dinner and used it as a legitimate strategy to tame her? Because that might as well be what she is now! A doll on strings, a puppet. And this... this could be what the rest of her life looks like if their plans continue to fall flat and Morgan is taken away forever—

The thread snaps and the impact throws Guinevere onto the ground next to Merlin. But instead of losing her strength, she regains it. Feeling floods back into her arms and legs, she smiles in a gentle sort of awe when her fingers move the way she wants them to. Hah! Somehow her brilliant Morgan, the beautiful ex-bride, became the heroine. Her knight. And to think Guinevere was supposed to be the one bursting in with a sword! Oh. Oh, right— the sword. Excalibur’s sweet song transformed into a bloodcurdling distress call ever since Merlin cornered her in the cellar. Would it even be safe to touch it like that? Well, she doesn’t have time to ponder it. (Just like she doesn’t have time to stick around and laugh at the ridiculous expressions on Arthur and Eugene’s faces. On every face in the damn room, actually, because Morgan is just that powerful. Yep. That’s the love of my life, Guinevere wants to boast. But— shit, yeah. No time!)

At first, nobody moves after hearing the news. Monsters? In Camelot? Pfft, sure. Yeah, these people are a bit too arrogant and comfortable in their castle to succumb to mindless panic right away. (Because Camelot is untouchable, much like the Titanic was unsinkable... oh, wait a second—) The distinct mechanical howling and shouts of the servants and guards outside is unmistakable, though, and stirs everyone into a frenzy. The grand hall quickly becomes a colorful, perfumed whirlwind of confusion and screaming. Arthur probably wishes he hadn’t laughed at her suggestions to come up with a protocol for emergencies now, huh?

Before Guinevere can sneak away, Merlin’s hand snaps around her wrist and he leers at her with menacing, bloodshot eyes. Yikes, if looks could kill. But they can’t and he’s no match for her, in the sorry state Morgan left him in. “Fuck you.” Unhesitatingly, she bites into the old man’s arm hard enough to break skin and wrenches herself free, taking advantage of the reigning chaos by hurling herself into the heart of it. On the ground among trampled flower petals, she finds a sword that one of Arthur’s oh-so ‘heroic’ knights must have deserted and takes it for herself. It’s no Excalibur— but considering how her last trip to the cellar had gone? She’ll take the backup, thanks!

And it serves her well as she forges her path to the cellar. Guinevere is slow to get there, though, seeing as she can’t ignore the few unfortunate souls she finds cornered by ‘monsters’ along the way. (Yeah... even though it’s all an illusion. Because a queen shouldn’t turn the other way when her people are suffering, damn it! That’d make her just the same as Arthur. Besides, it’s pretty satisfying to show these people what she’s actually capable of.) Hell, she’s so dutiful she doesn’t even let her biases show— even finding it in her to help Iphigenia along the way. As long as she has a sword in hand, there’s a point she can prove without the allure of a larger than life destiny. No point in squandering her potential as a capable and kindhearted ruler in a thoughtless rush to the finish line, right? Besides... there’s no guarantee that Excalibur is going to do much good at all, the way it is now.

At last, Guinevere arrives at the cellar door and pushes it open. Well, here goes nothing. Steeling herself with a deep breath, she plunges herself down the narrow staircase in a sprint. This time... maybe this time...

 

[Syntra]

To Morgan's great satisfaction, the great hall devolved into chaos immediately. All those noble knights in their shiny armor? Oh, they ran just like everyone else-- concepts such as 'valor' and 'honor', after all, were only good when you could brag about them in hopes of seducing some starry-eyed girl. That sort of thing was fun, you see? Fun and easy and painless, devoid of any real danger. A child's play. Facing an actual monster, on the other hand... well, let's say that Arthur's men were having this grand epiphany that they actually valued their lives more. They valued them so much, in fact, that some of them didn't hesitate to push women and other non-combatants out of their way as they ran. (Which, wow. Did these guys have no shame at all? No self-awareness, after all that grandstanding they had practiced for years? ...oh, right. The knights had been hand-picked by Arthur, so why had she even expected anything else? A pack only ever followed its leader's example, and her brother-- well, her brother probably thought that having actual principles was a symptom of some exotic disease. Fine, then. You've had your chance, you pathetic fools. You've had your chance, and you squandered it. Now, you'll get to perish along with that bastard.)

The illusions were shockingly realistic, Morgan had to admit-- the beasts towered high over the terrified civilians, and bared their teeth as the mechanic parts clicked with every step they took. And the bloodlust in their eyes? Oh, it was so real that some people just... froze, accepting their grim fate. If they didn't struggle too much, then surely, surely they would at least be granted a clean death? Not struggling was rewarded in Camelot, after all, and this was still Camelot. So, things would work out somehow, right? Right?! How pathetic, the sorceress thought as she reached for her magic. (Something flashy, probably? Since there was no point in wasting too much of her energy on a mere performance. No, cheap fireworks would please the crowd just fine.) This is what the survivors in the wastes deal with every day, except it's not just smokes and mirrors. It's real. And yet, yet you dare to laugh at them? To call them dirty and stupid? Because, to Morgan, it was obvious who the true idiots were in this context. Spoiler alert: not the people who actually knew how to survive on their own! ...well, with some luck, this would be a learning experience for all of them. Maybe, just maybe they would start seeing things a little bit differently, and their society would finally move forward. A girl could dream, couldn't she?

Morgan's eyes lit up with that peculiar, blue light, and her hands began to shine. That radiance only grew more intense with each passing second-- so intense that it hurt to look at them, actually. And then? Then they exploded, setting the nearest monsters on fire. "People of Camelot!" she shouted, and her voice resembled a song. (Somehow, it was louder than the screams of the dying monsters-- louder than the sounds of various structures collapsing as fire consumed them, too. A convenient little spell, huh?) "Run. Don't worry about me-- I shall hold them back."

"But, lady Morgan!" Lancelot protested.

"Someone has to, sir Lancelot," Morgan said, her tone fierce. "And since king Arthur disappeared so conveniently... Do you deny that me and queen Guinevere are the ones who are best equipped to deal with this threat?"

"I... no," he said, and in that moment, Morgan almost, almost regretted not informing him of their plan. His concern was so genuine! Truly, sir Lancelot may have been the only pure soul left in Camelot. ...still, that purity also made him a bad partner in crime, and so this little lie was necessary. Well, ends justified the means, right?

"Then help evacuate the civilians. They all need to gather in one place-- specifically, in a place that will be easy to defend. Do you know of such a spot?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then go, go, go!"

And with that, Morgan turned around to face the blazing inferno once again. It's up to you now, Gwen. I trust you, more than I would trust anyone else.

Sadly, Morgan's trust alone couldn't alter the course of history-- or Arthur's decisions, for that matter. You know how the king had retreated so quickly? Well, it turned out he had done so with a very specific purpose in mind. With a plan, or at least some twisted parody of one. (He'd never excelled at those, huh?) So, when Guinevere descended into the cellar, she found her beloved husband standing there. He was approaching the Excalibur, and the sword was bathing in crimson and screaming, but respecting boundaries just wasn't Arthur's style. No, of course not. Despite all those protests, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt. "You won't rob be of my destiny, bitch," he snarled at Guinevere. "I am the king, and the sword belongs to me. Me!" Then, before she could do anything about it, he pulled the Excalibur out of the stone. "See? It's accepting me!" Arthur smiled, in this dangerously unhinged way. (A man balancing on the edge of the abyss, really. Would he take a step back, or would he let it swallow him? Would he fall down, down, down?) "It knows you're worthless and treacherous, and--" It seemed it wasn't the right time for speeches, though, for the earth beneath their feet shook. More importantly, it also cracked-- after which monsters began pouring out of the resulting chasm. Monsters that very much weren't illusions. Uh oh.

 

[ellarose]

Visions of death rip through Guinevere's mind as red lightning crackles in the air, illuminating the dark cellar like a torture chamber in hell. Excalibur's screams hit a frequency that pushes her to the brink of blacking out entirely. Oh no. This isn't the first time she laid eyes upon this chasm. (And what comes next if not the screams, the bodies, the blood? Viviane warned her about this, damn it!) As monsters emerge from the gaping mouth in the ground, she receives the wake-up call she needs to tune out all of the noise out and follow her most basic survival instincts. None of these beasts are exceptionally frightening compared to the oversized variety she and Morgan have encountered. She rushes into battle, holding her own and cutting mecha-beasts down before they can ascend the staircase. Except-- except with every monster she clobbers, a new one rises to replace it. Even as their corpses pile up around her, there's no end in sight to their onslaught. Ugh, she can't waste all her energy fighting these fuckers! This isn't solving any of their problems... just prolonging the inevitable.

Something has to be done about the chasm. And what opened it up in the first place? Well, duh. Excalibur. Or, more accurately, king douchebag himself. Not that he's not doing anything to make himself useful! Restoring the dead earth her ass-- this is more like destroying it! Must've thought the magic sword would all the heavy lifting for him, huh? Some hero! "Can't you see!? You're causing this, you idiot!" She snaps at Arthur, gritting her teeth as she runs her blade through yet another beast. If the sword can't be stopped, then maybe something can be used to block the chasm? If only just to buy time. Because letting these monsters escape and roam the castle halls would cause the illusionary chaos upstairs to turn into something very real and very deadly. "Put it back! You can't use Excalibur like that-- people are going to get hurt."

Will putting Excalibur back in the stone really fix this? She has no earthly idea. But the sword is responding to Arthur's touch with utter revulsion (which is, uh, relatable to say the least!) and maybe relief will soothe its anguish once he releases it? ...If he releases it, that is. Knowing Arthur, the likelihood of that happening is tragically slim. This is some complicated magic... she's in way over her head with this one. What she really needs right now is-- is Morgan. Of course! If only she could reach her from down here! Because leaving risks the monsters breaking loose into the castle.

I want to help you! What can I do to make it stop? Guinevere desperately tries to reach out to Excalibur. The sword buzzes incoherently in response, filling her ears with deafening static. Her stomach sinks, but she tries again. Answer me--!

"It seems you have indeed learned a great deal about the Excalibur. Not enough, however. For had you been patient, you would have realized that it would not have had to come to this. But as it is now, we are left with only one option." Merlin's voice echoes from the bottom of the staircase and Guinevere freezes solid. And not from fright. No-- it's those damned strings again. Weaker than before, albeit sturdy enough to hold her still. The tip of a blade traces a path down her neck... and she swallows. "I am sure you are aware of what must be done now, my queen. There is something only you possess that will satiate the sword, now."

She hardly has time to blink before a sharp pain tears through her side. Huh. Got her the same place he did in the Lady of the Lake's test. Only this time there are no mirrors, no secret passageways to find her love... and her world snaps out like a light.

--not dying yet. An indiscriminate amount of time later, Guinevere blinks her eyes open to a dark, empty cellar. Just her, a dizzyingly copious puddle of her own blood and... and three ghosts? Oh man. How long has she been out? She gets the sense that it hasn't actually been that long. Probably because she hasn't bled to death yet. Wait... could these ghost ladies always talk? Could it be that she's actually dead!? Oh god. If she let everyone down-- let Morgan down-- Are you sure she can hear us?

Though she has not yet forged her contract with the sword, she has made contact with it. That should be enough. This voice belongs to the woman who taught her the transformation spell. What the hell is going on? Is she hallucinating or dying, or-- Gracious, child! You haven't died. Not yet, anyway. That ridiculous look on your face tells me you have questions. There will be time for that later. You want to take care of the chasm, do you not? Let us make haste, then, so you can rejoin the battle. I sense an even larger threat approaching Camelot at this very moment.

 

[Syntra]

Meanwhile, Morgan continued to fight, which felt... exhilarating, actually? Kind of like putting down sunglasses she had been wearing for far too long, and seeing the world around her explode in a burst of color. Like slipping out of her corset, uncomfortable and restricting so deeply, deeply fake. Because, all those years of subservience? That hadn't been her. It had been a costume, a mask she had worn, and now, it was time to breathe-- time to bathe Camelot in fire, and let it be reborn out of its ashes like a phoenix. (Yes, this felt right. Finally, finally something felt right-- since, you see, before Guinevere had come along, her life had felt like nothing at all. Within her, there had been another kind of wasteland, dry and sad and oh so tired. Why had she soldiered on, even? Frankly, Morgan wasn't at all sure now. A force of habit, perhaps, or just a sense of spite? Because it certainly hadn't been ambition, like Arthur often insinuated. No, really. As far as Morgan was concerned, the stupid throne could burn. Hell, perhaps it would! Wouldn't it be kind of symbolic, actually, if her rampage ended up destroying it? A symbol of new beginnings, of new paths being chosen. In order for a chick to be born, after all, the shell had to crack first-- and, oh, was the cracking messy.)

She cast yet another spell, and another monster met its demise. (An illusory demise of an illusory monster, but so what? It wasn't like Camelot deserved anything real. They had built their identities around pretending, pretending and lies, and so this was only thematically appropriate. The one who lived by the sword, died by the sword, as the old adage said-- why, then, should it be different with deception? Both were just instruments, and both could be just as deadly.)

In hindsight, though, Morgan should have recognized it was going too smoothly. The gods disliked solutions that worked a little too well, you know. Maybe because it robbed them of their entertainment? Either way, they relished in creating new obstacles in order to, uhhh, make things more interesting. It was one of those ancient axioms-- much like the fact that rain fell from clouds, or that fish needed water to live. And right now? It seemed that they decided to act through Arthur. Arthur, her beloved brother, who was holding the freaking Excalibur in his hand and heading towards her. Oh shit, shit, shit! "What are you-- where's Gwen?!" Morgan shouted.

"Silence, traitor!" Arthur bellowed, and swung the sword. He wasn't nearly close enough to cleave her in two, of course, but the movement was accompanied by a shock wave, and-- damn. Just like that, it sent her to the floor! Something wet ran down her face as well, Morgan realized. Something wet and sticky, which... huh, her ears were bleeding. Okay, why not. None of the ancient texts she had read suggested that the Excalibur could do this, but clearly, that was the case! (...or maybe this wasn't the Excalibur anymore, actually. Morgan had done some aura readings in advance, you see, and the vibes she was getting from the sword now differed from the old data wildly. Day and night, really. This Excalibur screamed, much like a wounded animal, and--)

"I knew I should have killed you, back when your rotten nature revealed itself." He stepped closer to her, and for a second, Morgan wondered whether he'd crush her face with his boot-- wondering about it was all she could do at the moment, really, because something paralyzed her. Something in the air, maybe? Gods, the atmosphere was downright oppressive! A beast of steel was sitting on her chest, and it was so, so hard to think. If only she could reach after her magic! Alas, her ears were ringing, and the voices of the spirits were too muffled, too distant-- as if they were trying to speak to her underwater. "I thought you could change your ways, you know. That there was at least some good in you, since you are my sister. Well, I was wrong, wasn't I?" he laughed, his eyes wild and cruel. (Something about them seemed different than usual, too-- his glare was more feverish, more manic. The look of a man who had gazed far too long into the abyss, truly, and Morgan couldn't help but shudder.) "Must be the bad blood you got from your father, dearest half-sister. Now that I think of it, this will hardly count as kinslaying, huh?" ...damn. So, this was to be her end? Lying on the floor helplessly, and listening to Arthur as he monologued on and on? No! No, that couldn't be. She had to-- had to do something, dammit. The gods couldn't so cruel as to allow this!

 

[ellarose]

You have potential of your own without the sword. Excalibur simply takes their wielder's power and enhances it. If the wielder is... Guinevere listens as she traces the symbol she was taught over cold stone -- a larger one this time-- around the corpses of the beasts she had killed. Something living was attached to these busted mechanical shells at one point in time and that's important? For reasons that would take far too long to explain, or so she's told. While she has about a thousand questions, she decides to follow their directions without stalling. Finding Morgan and ensuring Arthur doesn't do more damage than he already has is her priority. Ahem. A heartless bastard, the sword will reflect that heartlessness with destruction. With your blood, he will be given a taste of power. Power so grand he will soon grow addicted to it. That old wizard cast a protection on you for a reason. They do not mean for you to die here and now. It is too soon. They will want more. More and more... until they've used every last drop.

Guinevere nods and then raises her hands over the symbol, watching as the red of her blood changes to a bright green right before her eyes. The shoddily-drawn characters lift into the air and drape themselves over the corpses like silk... and then the organic skin beneath morphs into masses of thick, thorny vines that practically explode through the metal, stretching and tangling a barrier over the chasm. "Woah. Sweet!" Beaming at her success, she makes a grand gesture with her arms that almost resembles an innocent child presenting her parents with a scribble she was proud of. The blue-eyed ghost obliges and claps her hands delightedly. Oh my! That was wonderful!

Hm. Could have executed that a with a touch more elegance, if you ask me. Says the third in a haughty tone that almost reminds her of Jennifer. This woman she's never seen before today, with eyes so light they were nearly white and, uh, strikingly sharp teeth? Even then... when she smiles, it's undoubtably affectionate. Well... you are a little warrior, aren't you? I suppose refining the elegance in your nature will come later. First, let us flay your godawful husband.

...Our kind has died out and as a result the child knows nothing! Our work is cut out for us. But there is no more time to waste. The woman who's been consistently all-business seethes and paces, working something out in her head. Guinevere might have argued that she knows at least a little more than 'nothing', but she's conserving energy... because she feels feverish. Impossibly hot with sweat beading at her brow. Maybe from the blood loss? She ripped some fabric from the bottom of her pink and gold dress to make a bandage and... according to the ghosts, Merlin used up what little remained of his strength to cast a spell that ensured she wouldn't completely bleed out or be eaten by the monsters down here. We will help you, Guinevere. If you allow us to possess you, we can lend you our strength. Only for a short time, mind you, but it may be just enough to turn the tides of fate in your favor.

Your dearest Morgan needs you. I can help you find her quickly. The ghost with sharp teeth rises from the stone she had been lounging on and lifts her arms over her head as if waking from a deep slumber. Then she dissolves herself into Guinevere-- before she can so much as blush at the implication of her 'dear Morgan'. Okay, seriously!? A little warning would have been nice! Her first instinct is to struggle against the invasion. And then she calms and relaxes herself. If the intention here is to help Morgan, then... she floods her own mind with a sweet banana-yellow, relinquishing control. As a result, Guinevere's eyes glow the same near-white as the woman's until she isn't even standing there anymore. Like this, we are as free as the wind, little warrior. Don't be afraid. Trust it. Ceasing to inhabit a body at all, they become an element rather than a person, a gust of wind that travels up the cellar staircase, through the maze of castle halls, and into the grand hall where infernos rage and illusionary monsters die. (What a rush! It might've been kinda fun, if the circumstances weren't so very grave.) With a bird's eye view, they find Arthur standing tall in all his false glory, looming over Morgan with the sword and... no! But it's not too late. Not yet. Embodying the wind, they're able to get close enough without drawing his attention, nor the wrath of the sword in his hands.

As the ghost with sharp teeth bids her farewell, the winds release her. Guinevere then rematerializes in the air and drops directly onto Arthur's back. "--Touch her again and see what happens, you bastard!" Gravity and the sheer force behind her kick effectively knocks him off his feet and onto the ground... the impact also frees Excalibur from his hands, sending it skidding across the floor.

"Monsters attack your royal court and guests... and the first thing you decide to do is to target your sister!? In case you haven't noticed, she was actually doing something to take care of the problem!" Guinevere's voice breaks when she tries to shout, straddling his chest and pinning him by the shoulders. The blood on her hands stains his spotless armor, as it should. But... she's dizzy. Excalibur's screams, the fever, it's all blending. For a second, Arthur doubles and even triples before her eyes. Clearly she won't be able to hold him for long! Not... not when he's got that deranged look in his eyes. Doubling down on him with as much pressure as she can muster, she shifts her focus over to Morgan. Oh god, she's bleeding! Shit, shit, shit. "Are you okay? I-- I didn't know what to do, Morgan. There's something wrong with it. And..."

There's no chance for her to explain further, seeing as the ground is trembling once again... and a second chasm opens up in the ground.

 

[Syntra]

"...how dare you!" Arthur screamed. He probably meant to sound imperious, but honestly? As he lay on the floor, suddenly too weak to stand, he looked pathetic more than anything else-- not even his shiny armor could save him from that. (In a way, all that steel actually made him seem more laughable. Didn't a lion on a leash seem more pitiful than a dog in the same position, after all? This principle applied here as well.) "I'm punishing her because it's her fault. Oh, it is. I know it is! The witch tried to destroy my kingdom, and you-- you were helping her. My own wife! Have you no shame?"

How ironic, Morgan thought, the pain still echoing in her mind as she collected herself from the ground, for once, you're actually right. Stopped clocks, huh? (Of course, if he could see past his own nose, Arthur would realize this was actually his fault. No, really. The plan may have been born in her hand, sure, but who exactly had pushed her this far, huh? Had it been Guinevere? Lancelot, or maybe Iphigenia and her petty plots? Oh no, no, no. It had been Arthur all along-- Arthur and his paranoia, his persecution complex and his inability to just freaking let her live. Had he been just a little less unhinged, and less of a control freak? Morgan would have been happy to spend the rest of her life in some library, chasing after arcane knowledge nobody else cared about. No, he had declared the war. He had declared it, and then he had the nerve to pretend he was the victim!)

"Shut... shut up," she said, only to regret it almost immediately. Gods, even her own voice sounded way too loud to her! Like sirens blaring directly into her ear, really. What exactly had the bastard done to her? Magic was at play here, Morgan was sure, but that was, uhhh... a rather broad category. So, not really helpful! "Gwen," the sorceress whispered regardless, a smile spreading over her face. "You've-- you've come for me." Duh, a part of her wanted to say. Guinevere had always come for her, and most likely always would-- on some level, she knew this, but it was still difficult to believe. Not that she had ever given her a reason to doubt this, of course not, though... well. Few people had done the same for her before, you know? And by 'few', Morgan meant 'nobody'. The old patterns were still etched in her mind, still fresh like open wounds, and pretending they weren't there was... hard. Hard, if not preposterous. How could she possibly forget about them, after all, when they warped her vision so? When those were the lenses through which she viewed the world? (...sometimes, with Gwen there, she could. In those moments, Morgan felt whole, as if they hadn't shattered her over and over before. As if she didn't hold together out of spite only.)

"I'll be fine. I've been through worse," she assured her. "I've done worse to myself." The spirits still sounded strangely muffled, but so what? The connection would restore itself, Morgan knew. Time was all she needed. ...except, as it turned out, time was exactly the one thing she didn't have. "Shit," the sorceress muttered, manners be damned. A chasm opened up in the great hall, a chasm overflowing with monsters that were very real, and suddenly, Morgan knew what Arthur had done. What Arthur and Merlin had done, really. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place, and the picture it created? To say she didn't like it would be quite an understatement.

"Don't touch the sword," she clasped Gwen's hand. "They-- they broke the covenant. The fools tried to reprogram it!" ...which, pfft. You couldn't fuck with a relic this powerful! What had Merlin been thinking, even? That the Excalibur would be convinced by Arthur's charming smile? Yeah, that wasn't how these things worked! The endeavor was about as foolish as-- as trying to make waterfalls flow backwards, or attempting to breathe in space. An impossibility, in other words. And yet, yet the idiots had tried, probably because Arthur wanted his shiny new toy and fate itself had to bend over backwards in order to grant his wish. Well, not this time! "I, ah. It's corrupted. They've fed it his own blood, I'd wager. If you touch it, it'll create a feedback loop, and--" too complicated to explain now, "you don't want that. We need to get his blood out! ...except that I can't use magic like this." Damn, damn, damn! How to solve this mess? They couldn't let Camelot fall! Not like this, with so many innocents relying on its protection. The strategic value of the castle was too high, too, and... oh. "I know. Gwen, you'll need to help me," Morgan said, her eyes blazing. (She was pale, paler than a ghost, but her resolve? Oh, it was nothing to sneeze at.)

"Keep the monsters at bay. I'll, uh, forge a connection with the Excalibur. Once I'm done, I'll give you a signal. When that happens, I'll need you to come to me and hold my hand. Basically, I'll act as a conductor. You will open your mind to the spirits, and let them pass through my body. That's how we will cleanse the Excalibur. Understood?" ...huh. Why did it suddenly feel as if she was looking at multiple Guineveres at once, superimposed over one another? From a certain angle, Morgan could practically-- no. No, that made no sense. Was it some weird after-effect of that spell, then? Probably. What else could it be, after all?

 

[ellarose]

There is so much Guinevere could say to Arthur in retaliation... which is why she decides to hold her tongue. Because honestly? Arguing with him would be an enormous waste of time. He's not worth it! There are far more important matters vying for her attention right now. For instance, whether or not Morgan is okay? Excalibur? And despite all their flaws, she actually gives a shit whether his people live or die. Yeah, she honestly does, even though he doesn't give a single shit about her people and all those promises he made. (Arthur opens a monster-vomiting chasm in the cellar, stabs his wife, and then his first priority is not ensuring the safety of his people, but-- killing Morgan? And he's seriously asking her if she has no shame?) He can fuck right off! Morgan voices her sentiments exactly and... oh, thank god. She's getting up. Shit. That was way too close. Way, way, way too close! If Guinevere arrived a second later, then-- but, no. No point dwelling on the what-ifs, especially as fate throws more hurdles in their path. They've got to stay sharp.

"Of course I came." Guinevere's eyes crinkle gently when she smiles and oh, she's absolutely melting. Okay, so much for staying sharp! But can she really be expected to hold it together when Morgan looks at her like that? Damn, she looks stunning, too... except it's worrying that she's nearly as pale as the white of her dress. (What the hell did Arthur do? He-- he weaponized her blood to hurt her, didn't he? Ugh.) Even if she claims to have been through worse, it doesn't change the fact that she's concerned for Morgan and-- and her three duplicates? Geez. This fever's really messing with her head!

With a severely unhinged husband nearby, Excalibur's cries blaring in her ears, and monsters climbing out of the chasm that opened up, she gives her head a good shake to clear her thoughts and listens closely when Morgan explains Excalibur's state. Although a lot of it flies over her head. Covenant? Loop? Well, she doesn't get it-- but as her ghost companions said, now's not the time for questions! There's no time. Besides, she trusts more than anything that the sorceress knows what she's talking about. It's troubling to hear she can't use magic right now-- but before she can offer to help, she comes up with an alternative plan. Damn. Nothing more attractive than a smart woman. That's her Morgan. Quick-witted as always!

"I knew you'd know what to do." Guinevere sighs and pulls Morgan into a brief embrace, flinching when she's reminded of the wound in her side. (Oh shit. Got some blood on her dress-- but bringing that up now would probably get the same reaction as the comment she made about the carpet.) Then again... "I don't know if this changes anything... but they fed it some of my blood, too. Be careful around it, okay?" With two different blood types mixed in, maybe Excalibur is... uh, confused? Well, she's not equipped to put this particular puzzle together. Especially seeing as one of the monsters is headed right for them! That's her cue.

"Anyway-- I got this covered. You can count on me." Guinevere gives Morgan's hand a squeeze and kisses her forehead (screw Arthur and his opinions!) before pulling away. She leaps onto her feet, ignoring her body's protests, and reaches for her sword.

It doesn't take very long before corpses start piling up again. However, with each monster she slays, the more pronounced her pain and exhaustion become. Aches in her muscles, needles in her wrists. Yikes. Guinevere might have 'potential', but she's not invincible! She can't keep this up forever. No one realistically could. (Not to mention she keeps looking over her shoulder out of fear for Morgan's safety, making sure that Arthur doesn't try anything funny in the meantime. He's the real monster to look out for.) She ought to seal the chasm again, right? Besides, it'll be useful when she needs to help Morgan... she can't let any of these monsters get past them and to the innocent, defenseless people nearby when she turns her back. After enduring another wave of beasts, she unwraps her makeshift bandage and swipes her fingers over the gash in her side.

The bossy ghost lady peeks over her shoulder. Your Morgan is very smart. Do you remember one of the very first lessons she taught you?

"Um. Don't scowl like a rapscallion? Or maybe it was something about using proper titles..." Guinevere scrunches her nose. What? The question takes her off guard. Why is any of that important, right now? They might be in Camelot, but acting like a proper lady now won't do jack shit! It's not like she's going to invite the monsters to a freaking tea party! But when the woman sighs and presses a palm over her face, she gets the sense that she's on the wrong track entirely. Well, Morgan taught her a helluva lot of things. So there's a lot to consider on that subject! But those are genuinely the first lessons that come to her mind.

No! What did she teach you about magic, Guinevere? She taught you not to overexert yourself. Oh. Heh, right. The ghost lady clicks her tongue impatiently. Then she softens. You're nearing your limit. Allow me to help for now. Save your strength-- you will need it to fulfill your contract with the Excalibur.

Guinevere isn't given much choice in the matter. Feeling the familiar invasion, she clears her mind a second time. Her eyes turn green as she traces the symbol from before with a surer and faster hand. And sure enough, vines slither between cracks in the metal armor of dead beasts and across the chasm opening to create yet another barrier.

 

[Syntra]

Guinevere's hug was like a balm for her soul-- so, even if Morgan shouldn't have indulged in it, she did. (Ahhh, how nice this felt! To be able to melt in her arms, and forget the woes of the outside world. For a while, Camelot itself simply ceased to exist. There were no monsters, no burning hallways, and certainly no Arthur-- just her and Gwen, and their two hearts that beat as one. ...well, that, and also Gwen's bleeding wound, apparently?! Gods!) "What happened to you?" Morgan asked, her expression growing serious as she pulled away. The answer, she supposed, made sense-- so, they had fed her blood to Excalibur as well, huh. Deplorable, but unexpected. Honestly, when viewed from a neutral perspective, Morgan had to admit it was smart, even. (Consider the example of a sick child. What did you do when the medicine you had at your disposal was bitter, and the child, being a child, refused to swallow it? Why, of course! You coated it in honey, or something else sugary. Guinevere's blood must have served a similar purpose-- except that, this time, the sweetness masked poison.)

"Alright. I... am not sure how the two substances will react when mixed together, but I shall be careful," the sorceress nodded. "And Gwen? Know that I trust you. So, don't you dare to die there on me, okay? That would be a coward's choice, and I'd hunt you through the underworld if you were to take it." ...admittedly, it wasn't the most romantic of confessions, but so what? Had they been dining together under the starlight, surrounded by songbirds and flowers, perhaps Morgan would have been able to come up with something more worthy of a romance novel. (Perhaps she would have finally, finally found the courage to be soft. To be something more than she had to be if she hoped to survive in this nest of vipers, really.) With monsters roaring and flames destroying everything in their path, though? With Arthur still struggling to stand up, doubtlessly to cause more trouble? Yeah, Morgan wasn't exactly in the mood to recite poetry-- not even to Guinevere! And this situation would not get better unless she did something about it, dammit. People of Camelot relied on someone else to deal with their problems, and how had that worked out for them, huh? Exactly! No, following in their footsteps did not seem like a good idea.

So, alright. Focus. That was all she needed, really. The spirits still sounded weak and muffled to her, but that hardly mattered. Morgan didn't really require their strength, you see? Since the casting itself wasn't the point. No, Gwen would take care of that for her once the time came-- for now, Morgan had to believe in her instincts, believe in her ability to find the correct path. (How many times had she done this? Hundred times? Thousand times, maybe? Again, the exact number mattered not. What did matter, however, was the ease with which her mind soared-- the casual, nonchalant lightness, as natural as walking or breathing. 'Greetings,' the sorceress said, and it felt... strange. Vaguely uncomfortable, as if someone was pressing a blade against her naked skin. The spirits usually provided a buffer-- a safety net, really. With them there, she could speak without fear, without worrying for her own safety. Now, though? Morgan was alone, and gods, was that a terrifying state to be in when facing... well, this. Years and years of tradition, stuffed into one convenient package. Energy that was centuries old. That, however, wasn't the only ancient thing about it-- just beneath the surface, Morgan could feel rage, powerful and all-consuming. Rage that could raze entire planets, and also set galaxies ablaze. ...huh. Why did it feel so intensely familiar? A half-forgotten dream, or a memory she had never had?)

'Excalibur,' she continued. 'Can you hear me? I'm Morgan. You're sick, and I've come to help.' Could the sword actually understand her? The sorceress sincerely doubted so-- magical items, no matter how powerful, didn't tend to have their own will. It may have seemed that way from time to time, yes, but that was due to their high plasticity. Amplifiers especially were like water in that regard; eagerly, they assumed the shape of whatever container they found themselves in, and that was enough to fool uneducated masses. A witch worth her title, though? Oh, a witch would understand that any hint of personality expressed by such an item was but an imprint, probably left behind by someone who had died years ago. A metaphysical fossil, really. ...still, who was she to judge whether the Excalibur was the same? Perhaps, perhaps the artifact was something greater than what she had studied-- something far, far more sophisticated. And if it wasn't? The gentleness would still be more likely to bypass its security system, even if it couldn't understand what she was actually saying. (A simple concept, really. Would you rather open the door to a person who cried and screamed, or to a person who asked calmly? Magic followed the same principle.)

'I won't hurt you. You've been hurt so, so many times already. Now, let me look at your wounds. Please?' There was a hesitation, Morgan could sense it, but the hesitation belonged to a wounded animal-- to a doe who had been caught into a poacher's trap too many times, and now had bloodied stumps for legs. ...except that, of course, this doe could kill. 'I only need to touch you. Worry not, I don't wish to wield you-- that is Guinevere's task.' Guinevere. Was it just her, or did the name seem to calm the sword down? 'Guinevere, Guinevere, Guinevere,' she repeated in her mind and, indeed, the sword appeared... content. Happy, even. I suppose that's one thing we have in common. Gently, Morgan raised the sword and turned to face her love. "Gwen! I need you here. It is done, Gwe-- what the hell," the sorceress shouted. Arthur, the bastard, chose the worst possible moment to win the fight against the weight of his own armor-- suddenly, he was standing by her side, and trying to pry the sword away from her hands. "You will not rob be of my destiny," he shrieked, his eyes glassy. Almost-- almost as if he was drunk, or perhaps worse. "I shall not allow it!"

 

[ellarose]

Guinevere, or at least the part of her that remains, is weightless. Playing Morgan's words back in her head over and over, like a new favorite song she's trying to commit to memory. She trusts me! One might think it would add more pressure on her back -- but it doesn't. Not at all. Ever since arriving through Camelot's gates, she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. The responsibility to take care of her gang triumphed over her own personal desires. She shut them out entirely, fully intent on throwing her life away... and the sorceress gave her a reason to hope for something new. Something different. A future where she could still take care of her people and simultaneously be free. The death of spirit she had braced herself for, the end of the 'Guinevere' everyone knew, was prevented because of that. After relying on her for so long and learning from her for so long-- trusting her for so long-- she's finally earned Morgan's trust in return. So? This revelation alleviates a portion of that crushing weight. They already make a great team as is. If they're on the same page, they can do anything! And... and the sincerity of her feelings reached her at last. Those overpowering feelings that helped her find the strength to a escape a freaking cult singlehandedly, to travel the wastelands barefoot and feverish and crash her own sister's wedding-- that she will always hold on and come back for Morgan, no matter what hell or high water the bastards out there put her through. I love you, she could have said it right then (she could've sung it!) if the monsters hadn't been just seconds away from tearing their claws right into them. I love you, I love you, I love you. Looks like she'll just have to live through this so she can get the chance, right?

Morgan's shouts pull her back into the present moment -- and Arthur's voice? It triggers something deep inside of her and a tidal wave of grief and rage unlike anything she's ever experienced before rises up in her soul. But-- this feeling isn't coming from her own heart. Not necessarily. It's coming from the ghost possessing her. Guinevere is swept up by it, powerless to do nothing as the ghost possessing brings her tired body up to stand. Can't lose her again, I can't, I can't, I can't -- The ghost had been so calm and rational until now, but this? Sorrow flattens Guinevere, stabs into her a thousand times over, and it takes everything she has not to drown under the waves of raw emotion and hurt. The ghost is going to use her like a puppet to do something rash and destructive, she can feel it in her bones-- but what about conserving her strength!? Forging her contract with Excalibur?

'Let me go! I won't let him hurt her.' Guinevere shakily brings her hands to the sides of her head, fingernails digging in her scalp as if she's trying to physically rip the presence out. 'You've got a score to settle, I get it, but don't use me to do it! This is my fight, damn it!'

...You are right. You are right and you are wrong. The ghost moves her legs, forces her hand down over where Morgan and Arthur's are on Excalibur's hilt. But she's calm now, her grip on Guinevere loosens. This is our fight, child. But... it is indeed your turn. My time is already up.

Again, there's no time for questions. The ghost leaves her entirely then and the moment that happens, all three of them, with their hands on Excalibur's hilt, are submerged in total darkness. The great hall, the raging infernos, everything around them disappears. Even Excalibur. All they can see then is the faint glow emitting off the surface of a magic lake. Standing in front of it are five figures. Could the Lady of the Lake be standing among them? The clearing looks incredibly different, with tall grass swaying on the ground and leaves filling out the silhouettes of the strong, healthy branches on the trees... but it's the only magic lake Guinevere knows of. She thinks about trying to speak when-- when she hears voices.

"She is only a child. We cannot do this to her!" An anguished voice rings out, perhaps belonging to a tall figure who holds her arms protectively around the smallest one. "The forest is all she's ever known. Those humans will--"

"Those humans have only found us because of her mischief! And the terms were clear. The future king wants her-- and only her-- for himself." A gnarled old voice cuts through, putting an immediate stop to the protests. "To possess that which no king has possessed before. Tch, their avarice knows no bounds. They will stop at nothing and destroy our home if this continues. I do not like it either, but this is the only way."

"To think of a living, breathing creature as a possession!" The first voice sighs. Resigned by their elder's words, she bites into the pad of her thumb with sharp teeth. With regret shining in her eyes, she opens the robe on the smaller figure beside her. The hood falls back, freeing locks of wild, silvery hair in the moonlight. (This is strangely familiar--) Just below the girl's collarbone, the woman traces a symbol in blood. She hisses as if in pain, revealing her own set of sharp teeth which... gradually flatten down. Unnaturally light eyes change color like a sky inviting dusk and her features round out. "A glamour. They will be less hostile if you look like them."

"Hostile...?" The poor girl sounds so lost. Then she hisses again, something about the sound is unsettling-- inhuman-- and she paws a hand over her changed face. "But humans are so weak--"

"No. They are capable of far more harm than you realize, little one. Now listen closely, Guinevere. You know in your heart that we never abandon our own." (Wait, what? Uh. That's just a weird coincidence, right? Maybe it's a family name? And... and what are they, exactly, if not human? Well, it's not like they're just going to announce it.) The old woman presses her hands over the girl's shoulders... and then nods to another figure. This woman then dips her hands in the water and pulls the Excalibur from the lake. (Oh. Could that be Viviane, maybe? How old would she have been, if that were the case? Just how long ago did all of this occur? Is this--? Ugh, too many questions! But something in her tells her she's seen all of this before. Like she was-- like she was there herself. She silences her thoughts in favor of listening as the vision continues. Excalibur must mean for them to see all of this, right?) "This is the Excalibur. Forged by great magics for your hand alone, it will keep you safe. Those humans are notorious for breaking the promises we hold sacred. Should the peace ever be broken, it will appear before you."

A dagger flashes in the light emanating off the lake's surface and both of the other Guinevere's palms are slashed open. Excalibur is then handed to her, absorbing her blood and glowing brighter than even the lake, until it... vanishes? Or rather she absorbs it, sort of like how Guinevere had absorbed her own shadow and the white stag. Huh.

The vision from there carries out in a fashion that's... creepily familiar. A mirror vision of her own life, albeit with the obvious differences. Arriving at a castle much like Camelot, kept under lock and key by her own version of Arthur. Who, you know, also intended to force her to marry him. Which, okay? It's giving her serious chills! These 'coincidences' are stacking up and it's kind of scary. Is Excalibur trying to say that all of this happened once before, in another time and place? This alternative Guinevere takes her acts of rebellion to a whole new level, though. Sneaking out in the dead of night to collect berries in her skirts, returning at sunrise with soiled skirts and twigs in her hair. She refuses to wear shoes at all... and poor, frantic servants were often forced to chase her around to convince her to put them on. She even scares ladies and knights in the courtyard by popping out of the bushes and swinging upside down from the branches of trees when they least expect it. She even goes as far as to try and bathe in the garden fountain once or twice. Except... there's something distinctly innocent about her actions, too. Like they're not even rebellions at all -- because this is genuinely what her life was like before. She clearly never knew anything different. Just like those women had said before they sent her away.

"My flower... I believe you are in need of guidance, if you are to act as my queen." Arthur pets her hair, conveniently ignoring the way she grimaces at his touch, and then takes a step backward. "You certainly do look the part, but..." (The rest is so predictable! But-- there's always a but-- she needs polishing, right? Like a precious artifact dug out of the earth that he's eager to put up on display and boast to all his mates about.) He then makes a triangle with his fingers and paces in front of her, as if waiting for something. Or maybe someone? Clearly he had planned this intervention in advance-- only a moment later, there's a polite knock at the door and... a woman steps in. "Ah, impeccable timing! This is Lady Morgan. From this day forward, she will personally see to it that you know what it means be a proper lady."

 

[Syntra]

Darkness. Darkness, complete and total, like in the age before the stars had been born. A total absence of anything, really. In a way, it was almost... comforting? Just like closing your eyes and going to sleep. Such a peace, however, wasn't meant to last for long. It had never had, not once in her entire life, so why should fate suddenly play nice with her? And, indeed, her analysis was spot on. After a few moments (seconds? hours?), Morgan's vision cleared, and suddenly, she was... huh. Standing in a library, it seemed. Wow, okay! The sorceress hadn't even bothered to form any expectations, mostly because there had been too many variables in the equation, but somehow, Excalibur managed to shock her all the same. A freaking library out of all places! Much like the one she had spent most of her life in, too. It... wasn't the most epic stage for cleansing the holiest sword in the world, Morgan supposed, but it would do. It would have to, for their lives depended on it-- their lives, their dreams, their very future. After working so hard for all of this, she wouldn't let Arthur snatch it away from her hands! ...except that Arthur wasn't there. Guinevere wasn't there, either. The room was empty, in fact, aside from the books lining the shelves, the deeply nostalgic scent of old paper, and... oh. A woman, sitting on one of the benches and studying a tome. (Morgan didn't know her, of course she didn't, but-- well. For some reason, she seemed familiar? Like an old friend, but closer. It wasn't as if she had any real friends, as the sorceress reminded herself, though the knowledge did very little suppress the feeling. Curious, huh?)

"Um. Greetings, my lady. I apologize for my intrusion, but... hello? Can you hear me?" Clearly, the answer was 'no'-- the woman didn't even flinch, let alone look at her. Oh. So is this a different dimension, then? A memory? What am I to do here, though? The door flew open in that moment, as if some higher force meant to react to her doubts, and in went a man. (Immediately, Morgan decided she didn't like him. First impressions may have been a shallow way by which to judge a person's character, yes, but something about him just felt off. Extremely off, to be precise. His eyes were an abyss, cold and cruel and self-centered, and--)

"Lady Morgan," he said, and the sorceress flinched. Just, what?! Could his eyes pierce the veil that separated their worlds? How, though? And did the Excalibur expect her to confront him? Gods, as if her life wasn't rife with assholes already! Nooo, now she also had to deal with (presumed) assholes from different dimensions.

Except that, no-- apparently, the other woman was also called Morgan, for she raised her chin. Weird.

"Lady Morgan, have you considered my offer?"

"I'm not sure I'd call it an offer," she chuckled nervously and put a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A gesture that was... also somewhat familiar? No, no. A coincidence, surely-- that was all it was. "To me, it sounded more like an order. I must warn you, though-- I am not well-versed in their culture, my king. I don't know the first thing about how to approach queen Guinevere. No more than you do, at least."

The man frowned. "What do you mean? You are a scholar, lady Morgan. And, if I'm not mistaken, you've studied lost civilizations, too."

"Yes, but not their civilization! Which means I am as clueless as the rest of you. My king, are you sure you don't want to reconsider? This is not why I'm here, and I'm sure my expertise would come in handy elsewhere." Besides, their civilization wasn't lost, Morgan wanted to say. They wished to stay hidden, and should be allowed to do so. The accusations of barbarism stung, yes, but didn't they only prove them right by dragging the poor girl here against her will? By making her his wife? But, no, of course she couldn't say that-- such words would only lead to her demise.

For a moment, it appeared the man might be swayed. Morgan prayed to every god she knew, prayed for him to see reason for once, but the hope was, of course, short-lived. "I'm afraid you'll have to do, lady Morgan. You're a clever woman-- you'll find a way to make it work, surely. Moreover, there is nothing more important than the education of my wife right now! During the last feast, she embarrassed me so terribly..."

The vision shattered into thousands and thousands of tiny pieces, but immediately, it was replaced by a different scenery-- this time, the other Morgan was sitting on a sofa, a red apple in her hand. "Queen Guinevere," she said and smiled, oh so gently. "I've brought you a gift. It's not much, I'm aware, but it's the prettiest apple I found. You can have it, if you'd like." She extended her hand, enticing her to come closer. "But, enjoying a pleasant meal is a perfect opportunity for a conversation, don't you think? So, perhaps you could answer some of my questions. Why don't you like wearing shoes, for example? Does the floor not hurt your feet?"

 

[ellarose]

The other Guinevere stares at the other Morgan's offering like a rabbit, weighing whether or not it is safe to approach the hand outstretched to her. Fruit seems to have been the wisest choice to get through to her, though, considering she sneaks off so often to procure it. Still wary of a trap, she inches a few steps forward, snatches it up, and then takes two short steps back again. Twirls it in her fingers, studying it with an expert eye, and only after that can she agree that it is indeed a pretty apple. Ripe and full and vibrant. She opens her mouth wider than appropriate to take a bite and her teeth only manage to scrape the surface. She hisses softly (softly, because it's an impulse she's been threatened time and time again by her husband to stop) taking it away from her mouth to reveal two rows of crescent marks in the apple's red skin. These cursed shaved-down human teeth! She'll never get used to them. How do they find the patience to eat like this, anyway? They take impossibly small bites and... and between those small bites, they hold 'pleasant conversations'. And they are not meant to talk with their mouthes full, either, or so she's been told. Maddening!

Typically, 'pleasant conversations' in this castle are demands and expectations wrapped up in delicate words. These people tell her what is and isn't appropriate. But this Morgan is different. She... asks questions? She actually wants to know why? For this, Guinevere decides immediately that she is smarter than the rest of them. Her intuition is often right. Just like when she decided to spook Arthur's camp and rescue the innocent stag he hunted, scaring him and his boys away by haunting them with the winds. Vile, vile, vile, her heart said. (And now that she knows the man personally, being his possession? Still vile. Her faith in her intuition is stronger than ever.) Although she got caught, the stag's life was worth it. Even if it cost her everything...

"Shoes are unnecessary. The ground here is smooth and flat." Guinevere answers at last. She takes a smaller (and more successful) bite into her apple, cheeks blushing naturally as the sugar touches her tongue. Satisfied, she devours a whole half of the fruit before continuing. "In shoes I am clumsy and inelegant. They hurt my feet more than the earth ever could... crushing my toes and blistering my ankles." The first and only time she ever wore them was during that torturous wedding. Then and there she decided-- never again!

Guinevere finishes her apple and then, with a wicked little spark in her eyes, declares, "I never needed shoes before. Would you like to see why?"

Without waiting for an answer, she vanishes completely. In her place, a gentle breeze travels around the room. It's as if a window had blown wide open on a windy day, ruffling the curtains, disturbing a few of the books and loose papers lying about. (But the windows, of course, are still sealed shut.) She gusts an affectionately harmless path around Morgan's wrist, as if to hold her hand. Then she reappears on the other side of the room sitting cross-legged on top of the desk. "I travel with the winds, you see? I do not need to use my feet as often as you humans do." She lowers legs from desk, then, letting them dangle guiltily and staring at her bare feet. "Oh. I suppose that was naughty of me. Arthur... his wrath is fearsome when I choose to exist as I am. But I cannot understand why that is, when he revered me for my nature in the first place." She scrunches her nose. Confusing humans. Forcing her to act human when that is not what she is! "What about you, Morgan? Do you like shoes? Or do you not feel even an ounce of satisfaction when you remove them at the end of the day?"

Meanwhile, the present Guinevere views this same scene within a corner of the room... and finally notices her own Morgan on the outskirts of the vision. "--Morgan!" She breathes her unadulterated relief in a whisper, as if not to disturb their counterparts. (Which is actually kind of silly, seeing as they might as well be ghosts here!) She rushes to her side and grabs her hand tightly, as if afraid this vision might shatter and tear them apart again. No. They need to stay together if they're ever going to get through this, right? "Morgan, where have you been? What-- what should we do?" She bites her lip, then. "These coincidences are, uh..." But they're not just coincidences, are they? That's the sense she's getting, anyway. God, this is hurting her brain. She shakes her head, at a loss, wresting with the chaos to remind herself of their true goal here. "We still need to cleanse the sword, right? And-- and Arthur's probably in here somewhere, too."

 

[Syntra]

Morgan, too, watched the girl with no small amount of curiosity. And honestly, why shouldn't she? Their new queen was a paradox personified, and oh, did paradoxes fascinate her. Take her appearance, for example. Guinevere wore the face of an innocent maiden, as pretty as sunlight-- the archetypal lady from all those romantic legends, in other words. Exactly the type for whom knights composed ballads, and slayed wild beasts for in hopes of earning her favor. A convenient mental category to fit her in, right? Except that, no, judging the book by its cover would get you exactly nowhere here. There was a wildness to this girl, a type of wildness Morgan had never even glimpsed before, and-- well. Was she so wrong for finding it interesting? For finding it alluring, somewhat, to see a woman behave in this way? (Tragically often, their lives were defined by archetypes. A daughter, a sister, a wife-- all roles, and all tighter than a corset. Guinevere, who laughed and ran and performed magical tricks, apparently, defied them by just... existing. Existing as she was, and refusing to bend. Wasn't that kind of amazing? ...too bad that she was the one entrusted with the task of cutting her wings.)

"I suppose that makes sense," she agreed pleasantly. "Just like many other things, it seems to be a matter of habit." New habits could be built, though, and that was exactly what Guinevere needed to do. (A man kinder than Arthur might have been more understanding, more tolerant of her quirks, but honestly? Morgan wasn't holding her breath here. Such a man wouldn't have married her against her will in the first place. No, if she wished to thrive, she had to adopt at least some of the conventions the others lived by. How did the saying go? The one who hoped to live with the wolves also had to howl with them at the moon? Yeah, that.)

Guinevere, however, appeared to be wholly uninterested in the concept. Instead, she became one with the wind, and-- okay, Morgan's eyes widened in wonder. Wow. Did all of her relatives wield such a power? Could they tame the elements, and make them follow their will? Unbelievable. Unbelievable, and yet, the gods had just presented her with a piece of evidence! Not even bothering to hide her awe, Morgan chuckled. "Most impressive, queen Guinevere. Yes, I can see why you'd have no need of shoes-- no rocks or twigs could possibly hurt your feet." (What was it like, to be able to move like this? To have this kind of freedom, usually reserved for birds and spirits only? A blasphemous thought, for a human was forbidden to even dream of such a power, but still. A fantasy could hurt no-one, right? Especially if nobody found out.) The smile on her face grew a little troubled, however, when Guinevere pointed out the inconsistencies in Arthur's approach. ...ah, how deeply she misunderstood! So, so very deeply, and Morgan's heart ached for her. (She shouldn't comment upon this. She should swallow her thoughts, and actually teach her some manners. Should, should, should-- so many things she should do, really, that it would be easy to drown in them. And frankly? Perhaps that was the reason her 'should' didn't end up matching her 'did'.)

"It... isn't like that, my queen. Allow me to explain. The king never revered you for your nature-- he revered you for what you represented. Men wish to own you precisely because you are a difficult person to own. To demonstrate that you've become his, though? You have to follow the rules." Uh oh, this talk was dangerously close to treasonous. What had gotten into her?! It... must have been the girl's spontaneity, Morgan decided-- that sort of thing could be contagious. "Promise not to tell anyone, queen Guinevere. I am being honest with you, but within these walls, honesty can be poison. If your husband learns of this, he shall punish me, and I will not be able to speak to you again."

"But, yes," she smiled, "I do like shoes. I've never not worn them, and so my feet are used to the sensation. Without them, they would bleed. And, again, while I do understand, I'm afraid you'll have to forge that habit as well. The king will get mad at you otherwise, and trust me, you do not want to wake his anger. Hmmm... Perhaps I could have special shoes made for you? Shoes so light you'll barely feel them. You won't have to wear them all the time, too-- just during formal events. I... understand that I am asking much for you, however," Morgan smiled gently. "So, is there anything your heart yearns for? If you promise to try wearing those shoes, I shall do everything I can to grant you your wish. Of course, I am not the king, and so my power is limited, but I do have some... options." Because that was only natural, wasn't it? To propose an exchange, as fair as it could possibly get. (...it couldn't. Not under these circumstances, anyway.)

The current Morgan let out a small, surprised sound when the other Guinevere - her Guinevere - emerged out of nothingness. "Gwen! Gods, I am so glad to see you. I... this is so strange. The two of them are us, aren't they?" The truth of that was plain to see, and the sorceress wasn't one to deny the obvious. Clearly, they were looking at some versions of themselves-- their counterparts from a different reality, maybe? But why? Why had the Excalibur sent them here out of all places? Surely, surely there must have been some purpose to it! "I... think that perhaps we are meant to learn something from this. Let's watch for now, alright? Without Merlin, Arthur is powerless to do anything, anyway. He couldn't light a match with magic, much less tame the Excalibur."

 

[ellarose]

"Impressive? That is only how I get about from place to place." Guinevere informs her with a haughty little giggle... but it's impossible to hide the fact that she's beaming from the inside out, appreciating Morgan's praise like a honeybee appreciates nectar from newly-grown flowers in spring. Since arriving through the castle gates, no one else has treated her true nature like something to respect-- much less smile about. Nor did they care to learn about where she came from. In their eyes, everything that made her who she was had to be simplified down to her appearance. And even that wasn't entirely real. They do not care that she cannot read or write in their hand. Evidently it is not required for human women to know the same things human men did. (Why? The answer becomes a terrifyingly clearer with every phase of the moon that passes... she is to grant the king with the sons he wishes for and nothing more is expected of her. In fact, being anything more than that is strongly discouraged. That is the way of things-- she's beginning to see. But just because she sees doesn't mean she understands. She is quite confident she never will.) Knowledge is forbidden, apparently. But when it comes to matters as simple as walking or eating-- the way she dresses and styles her hair-- there are countless 'important rules' she must abide by. Silly! Silly and frustrating.

Morgan... is different. Asking questions and watching her with those deeply inquisitive eyes. Those eyes say that she is wise beyond her years, but those eyes are far too wise to belong to a silly human! Or is she, perhaps, being too vain about this? There is much she ought to learn, if she is to live among these humans for the rest of her days. That thought is put on hold, however, when the woman unveils Arthur's true feelings. This grants her a new perspective of-- well-- everything. And obviously, she doesn't like what she sees.

"You humans waste too much time tending to your appearances and reputations when you should be tending to your own souls!" Guinevere lashes, throwing her fists down and sliding off the desk. She is not angry with Morgan, of course, just-- just what her life has become. What it has been reduced to. Digging her nails into her palms, she gazes longingly at the window like she might actually consider escaping with the afternoon breeze, to leave this wretched place and never come back. To never gaze upon her husband's face again. As if her current position wasn't insulting enough! Excalibur's voice glows from within, acting like a second conscience when her own abandons her. The sword is always there, reminding her she is not alone... and she takes a steeling breath. "He is so rotten that only the foulest of spirits would derive any pleasure from devouring him." And the foulest of spirits are not the kind any fae like her ought to go searching for. With a mutual respect for each other and the earth, the fae and the spirits live parallel to each other. Side by side, aiding each other occasionally, but never daring to trespass on the others territory. Like this, they maintain a natural balance.

...Not like Arthur, who threatens to burn her home to the ground if she does not return his vows of eternal love. What's natural about that? What's loving about that? This is exactly why humans cannot be trusted! But-- but that's another generalization, isn't it? And as Morgan cuts in with concerns of her own, that she could get in trouble for her honesty... it gives Guinevere the push she needs to calm her fuming heart before it can burn them both up. "...I would like to speak with you again." She admits softly, unfurling her fists. "I suppose that abiding by these silly rules is my only option." Choices that used to be limitless are now limited to this. She must accept it as the unfortunate truth.

Sweeping to Morgan's side on the couch in a brief whirl of wind, Guinevere bites down into her thumb (it takes more pressure than usual to draw blood), decisively takes her wrist and draws a symbol over the back of her hand. Eyes gleaming like stars on the night sky, Guinevere rests her own hand over Morgan's. "In exchange for your honesty, a virtue within these castle walls, I promise not to tell a soul." Her own voice is joined by the vague whispers of several others, echoing, making it all the more official. And with that? The promise is sealed with blood, never to be broken. She grins brightly, as if she didn't just do something that Morgan might not be entirely familiar with. "Your skin is so soft. Like silk." Her eyes crinkle amusedly, then, and she tilts her head to the side. "Is that your plan? Are you going to find special shoes made from silk? If that is the case, I will wear them."

This transactional approach is one she immediately approves of. At least Morgan understands the value of sacrifice! (And this is over shoes. Meanwhile, Arthur holds her life in his hands and cannot comprehend it.)

"As for my wish... I do not care to possess any object or living creature, the way my husband does." Guinevere muses, still holding Morgan's hand between her own. There are many limitations to the wishes a human being can reasonably grant -- let alone a woman in this stifling environment. Though this woman is clearly very smart... and the books spread about the room give her an idea. Of course! There is something Morgan can do that Guinevere cannot. She leans towards her, wide-eyed. "...Would you read to me? I want to hear stories."

The present Guinevere agrees to watch and does so in silence, gripping Morgan's hand a little tighter to find the courage to see this through. She has a really bad feeling about where all of this is headed. It's like reading a classic romance novel that's known for being a tragedy. These moments might be sweet, but the sweeter the moments the more she dreads the ending. Excalibur is only meant to appear when the 'peace is broken', right? (And already knowing that she and Jen are the last of their kind-- is she going to have to witness their entire species get wiped out?) Yeah. These two obviously didn't die happily in old age. But averting her eyes to the truth isn't the solution, here. Morgan's likely right that Excalibur wants them to know all of this. "I saw her absorb the sword before. And-- and I think I met her. The other Guinevere. She helped me find you like that, with the wind." But if that ghost was also a Guinevere, then what about the other two? That panicked 'I can't lose her again' repeats in her mind... and that bad feeling she had? It only gets worse.

 

[Syntra]

"These are not mutually exclusive, my queen," Morgan said, her calmness in sharp contrast to Guinevere's anger. (Justified, justified anger. Because, really, didn't she have a point? In chasing after reputation, a lot of her peers had lost sight of what was truly important-- namely, that that reputation should reflect something. Some inner quality of theirs. And if they were actually empty inside? Empty aside from that deep, deep thirst for recognition? Well, it was safe to say that those people missed the point, and pretty severely at that. Still, she was human as well, wasn't she? Of course, of course! Naturally. Guinevere's critique applied to her as well, then, and some childish part of Morgan didn't like that. Oh, she didn't like that at all!) "You can wear dresses and educate yourself. I will admit, some of my kin go too far, but there is nothing inherently wrong with caring for your appearance. Would you say, for example, that you cannot love apples if you also love pears? No? Well, it's similar here. We are complex beings, with complex desires-- just like yourself, my queen." Though, hmmm... Guinevere had just revealed something interesting about herself, hadn't she? That she valued spiritual wealth over material riches.

"If tending to your soul is what you seek, however, I can teach you a lot of things. I know a lot of things, you see, and I don't mind sharing the knowledge," she smiled gently. "In fact, I think that knowledge is meant to be spread. So, if you allow me to give you those etiquette lessons the king insists on, we can converse about more interesting things afterwards. What do you say, queen Guinevere?" And, really, the idea sounded appealing-- because, as weird as it was, Morgan discovered that she enjoyed spending time with the girl. Could it be the spontaneity, maybe, or something else? Something she didn't dare to name? No. That is foolish, and you know that. Besides, this woman is but a stranger to you. And of course that Morgan was aware of that! ...she was also aware of the fact that they wouldn't remain strangers forever, though. That she was drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, and that this path could only lead to damnation.

"Oh. What are you--" Morgan began, but fell silent when Guinevere's hand touched hers. Fae magic, her common sense said. It probably requires contact. Which made perfect sense, really, except that some other part of her couldn't not focus on the sensation-- on the fact that Guinevere was, indeed, touching her, and how right it felt. (Like two puzzle pieces fitting together, though more exciting. Way more exciting, in fact. And when she uttered that comment? Oh, Morgan's cheeks colored crimson.) "A--ah," she exhaled, unsure of what to say. "I, um. I suppose that's because I don't-- I don't work manually. That's why my hands are soft." ...which, duh, a wonderful observation! Gods. Wasn't there a more intelligent response? Something witty? No, apparently, because her head was empty, empty, empty. Who would have thought a touch could do this to her?

"Stories," she repeated, still a little stunned. "Very well, then. I can-- I can do that. Stories, in exchange for your attention. Seems fair to me, my queen." More than fair, actually, for this didn't bother her at all! "Should your heart desire it, I can teach you how to read as well. It is not complicated at all-- I'm sure you could learn it easily."

As the sentence was nearing its end, Morgan's voice grew more and more muffled-- and, without warning, the scenery in front of their eyes shifted. The current Morgan clasped her Guinevere's hand, as if hoping to anchor herself in this chaos, though the sensation of drifting didn't last long. Soon enough, a new memory claimed them. This time, they found themselves in a... bedroom, the sorceress supposed... and the other Morgan was sitting on a couch. There was a book in her lap.

"And so the knight slew the dragon," she said, "and claimed the princess for his bride." ...because, yes, that was how all of those stories ended. Kind of monothematic, wasn't it? "Aren't you a little bored, queen Guinevere?" her other self said, echoing her thoughts. "I have to say, I haven't noticed before just how same-y all these stories are. Every time, there's a monster to be killed, a maiden to be saved. What about your stories? Stories that circulate among your people, I mean. Do they all share certain elements as well? I imagine they must be quite different-- at least in their approach to magic." That, after all, was yet another theme. Magic, and by extension, magical creatures as well, were sinful in their stories-- unnatural abominations, and a source of discord. Surely, the faes must have portrayed such things in a vastly contrasting light! And, hey, wasn't plurality of opinions important? Any researcher worth their salt would agree with that.