Pair Dadeni {Part Two}

[ficofandalasia]

Chapter Four
“What have you done to my daughter?”

The door was flung open as Olaf entered, and Morgana looked up from her work. The King crossed to tower over her, and even when she stood he merely stepped closer, grabbing her by the wrist and squeezing so tightly that she thought her bones ground together. Crying out, Morgana went to wrench her arm away, but she was backed up against the table and did not have the room to pull away from him.

“My daughter!” Olaf barked again. “What have you done to her?”

“I did nothing more than tell her the truth,” replied Morgana. She felt her anger snap like fire in her chest, then the bonds on her wrists began to tighten like ropes. Shaking it aside, she turned back to him again. “Did you plan to keep it from her forever that Arthur was wed?”

“You had no right to tell her.” There was anger in his face, but from this close she could see as well the redness of his eyes, the wild look in them. It had been most of a day since she had left Vivian’s chambers, and night had already fallen; Morgana had been on the verge of putting out the candle and allowing herself to sleep, shaken though she was. “You had no right to, to…”

She raised her chin and looked at him defiantly. Would he strike her? It would certainly not be unthinkable; she would do the same and worse to someone who angered her. She had done so. But she was a woman, and barely any time from being an invalid, and perhaps Olaf was just a more courteous ruler. He released her hand, wheeled away from her to pace a few steps, then turned back to point a hand at her. Its shaking was almost suppressed.

“You do not even know what you have done to her. The magic in her mind, it…” He trailed off, shaking his head, and clenched his hand into a fist as he drew it back into his chest. “There is nothing but Arthur left there.”

His voice was hollow, pained, and Morgana suddenly did not want to respond that she had hardly known Vivian’s mind to contain much even before Arthur became its focus. She simply rubbed her wrist, and waited for him to continue.

“You will fix her.” It was an order, but a trembling one; she knew that voice. He did not dare make it any less than an order because to do so would question the fact that she could, but he still feared that it might not come to pass. She knew that, felt it in her bones even before she met his eyes and read the same desperation there. His posture was all anger, all fighting, but his eyes were desolate. “You will give me back my Vivian.”

Her tongue was tied in her throat. Olaf glared at her for a moment longer, then turned and walked out of the room as suddenly as he had burst into it, leaving the guards standing in the doorway and uncertain of what they should do. Morgana gripped the arm of the chair as she lowered herself back into it, her eyes fixed on a point on the floor. She had not seen the same passion in Uther’s eyes save for when he was angry with her; she had never seen it in Gorlois, though his nature was not that fiery same. Gorlois’s loyalty had been to the crown of Camelot since before Morgana’s birth, and Uther’s had been… to none at all, it had seemed to her. Despite herself, Morgana felt tears in her eyes, blurring her vision, and heard more than saw the doors to the room closed. Silence returned to her, and hastily she put out the candle and retired to bed.

That night her dreams grew bad again, but the guards must have been warned, for this time no-one came when she screamed.

Part of her had wanted the morning to come quickly in the hope that it would banish her nightmares. The rest of her was all too aware that she still wouldn’t have slept, and when one of the maids entered her room the next morning with breakfast it was all that Morgana could do to stumble out of bed and give some assistance with dressing herself rather than being treated like a doll. She was too tired to argue over, but not too tired to cringe at, the floral lavender dress into which she was laced so tightly that she could barely breathe, and could barely manage to drink the water that was put out for her. The mere thought of food turned her stomach, and she waved it away with a muttered apology when the maid looked irritated.

Sometimes there was only so much screaming you could take.

As with every day, she sat down at the desk and looked at the books and parchment and scrolls before her, but the weight in her head and the chaos of it all was just too much and she rose to her feet once again. The spells had been written as if their results were self-explanatory; she had no doubt that they had been, at least to the one that had done the casting. But there had been many at the treaty table of Camelot in the days in which the original scenes had unfolded, and for each King there had been a score, two score, who even knew how many servants. Any one of whom could have had magic, and been bold enough to use it.

Unable to take sitting in her room for any longer, Morgana made some hasty notes on a torn slip of parchment, blew on the ink for it to dry, and then folded it to tuck into her bodice. The guard at her window was watching closely even before she rose to her feet and approached him. “I need to go to the kitchens. I wish to attempt the first healing of the Lady Vivian.”

It should not have surprised her that she was not simply allowed to do as she pleased; she supposed that it really would have been rather easy to poison Vivian under the pretence of healing her. Instead, she was escorted to Olaf and, when commanded to explain what she planned, took a dark pleasure in doing so in convoluted, specifically magic terms.

Eventually, Olaf slammed his hand onto the table and snapped: “Silence!” Turning to one of his messengers, he added in a more sedate tone: “Fetch Aeslyn. She will understand this.”

The messenger bowed and left, and Morgana was left in terse silence, her eyes fixed on Olaf’s and finding nothing in the gaze with which he refused to meet hers. He looked distrustfully at the parchment which Morgana had presented to him, then raised his head at footsteps in the corridor.

“Your Majesty,” said a cold voice. Morgana’s curiosity itched, and she looked over her shoulder to look at the woman speaking, presumably Aeslyn, Olaf’s physician. She had long grey hair in a complex braid that wrapped all around her head, and wore long robes in a rich green, cinched at the waist with a broad leather belt from which hung various pouches. The scent of herbs surrounded her, but there was something sharp that undercut it, and which set Morgana’s teeth on edge. “You summoned me.”

Olaf waved dismissively to Morgana; she clenched her fists even more tightly. “I need you to assure me that what the Lady Morgana wishes to do will not in any way be dangerous to my daughter.”

“I’m not sure that I can speak for the Lady Morgana’s wishes,” replied Aeslyn, and the eyes that met Morgana’s were a curious golden-brown, but nowhere near so warm as they should have been at such a hue.

“Well, luckily I can do so for myself instead,” said Morgana. “I believe that I have a course of action which may aid the Lady Vivian. A remedy. I requested first that the King allow me to bolster its strength with magic, but that has been denied, so as a result it will be mostly based on herbs.”

Aerlys’s eyes flickered in what must have been a glance to Olaf. Morgana did not turn to see his actions, but saw the response in the slight slackening of the physician’s shoulders, the un-pursing of her lips. “What are the materials which you intend to use?”

“Heartsease, the wild pansy,” Morgana said briskly. “Apple, if I can find it, preferably wild again. And holly wood for burning.”

“The wood only?”

She nodded.

“Those ingredients are safe, Your Majesty,” said Aeslyn, turning back towards Olaf. With a tilt of her chin and feeling something that might have been a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, Morgana turned to him as well. His brows were pulled together, gaze dangerously dark, but finally he nodded.

“Very well. Aeslyn, you will accompany the Lady Morgana and Sabert. The Lady has assured me that such items should be easy enough to find close to the town, so it should not take too long.”

It had not been so long that Morgana had forgotten how to be gracious. She rose to her feet and inclined her head to Olaf, who looked surprised by the action. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“Have one of the maids bring you what you need to leave the castle,” Olaf added, and she wasn’t sure whether she imagined his voice becoming slightly gruff as he did so. “And there will be a horse found for you. I recall that you are a competent rider. Sabert, Aeslyn... my Lady.” He rose in turn, nodded to each of them, and left.

She had not realised that it would feel so strange to be treated politely once again.

Morgana could have sworn that it was the first time she had seen Powys not covered in a blanket of more or less continuous rain. The sun broke through the clouds in thin shafts, touching the open fields or the woods with faint light here and there, but not doing much to counter the cutting gusts of wind that made their way over the hilltops. The boots which had been found for Morgana were a little too big, but at least that meant there was room for another layer of socks beneath; the cloak fitted her well and left her shivering whenever the wind managed to slip beneath it.

The holly was the easiest to find, shining green leaves and bright red berries among the fast-thinning foliage as the year cooled. Apparently the frosts had come on suddenly; Morgana would have sworn that Powys had never been anything but cold in all the times that she had seen it. The others were more difficult; only in the sheltered lee of a hill did they manage to find wild apples, overripe and needing hardly more than a touch of Sabet’s hands to fall, and the wild pansies had long since ceased their flowering and had to be sought out by leaves alone.

By the time that they had managed to find all of the things that Morgana had specified - the shortest list she could have thought of, for that matter - it was beginning to rain once again, and Aeslyn was refusing to speak a word as they returned to the horses, drew their hoods low over their heads, and made their way back to the city. It felt to Morgana as if every step went straight up her spine, and by the time they returned all she wanted to do was return to her bed and wait for her muscles to stop screaming.

Unfortunately, no such option was granted to her, and she stumbled from the back of the horse which she had been given, her ankle twisting beneath her on the cobbles of the courtyard. The nearest stable-hand, holding the very reins of her horse, looked round but did nothing to aid her, and Morgana simply drew herself up with as much as dignity as she could muster and returned to the castle.

They had left by the servants’ exits, and were to return the by same route for all that it rankled. Morgana waited within the shelter of the doorway until Aeslyn approached, mud having soaked through the bottom half a foot of her cloak and a scowl quite set upon her face. “Where do you need to set the fire?” she asked.

She must have known more of magic than she had admitted, Morgana could not help but note, in the word need when speaking of the fire. In truth, for this simple a spell there was no such demand, but she did not much fancy attempting to create a large enough fire in the fireplace, for example, of her room.

“One of the cellars would be sufficient. Or even the dungeons, if necessary. Somewhere below the ground is best for this.”

Morgana watched carefully for Aeslyn’s reaction; one who was well-versed in magic would know that it was utterly unnecessary to be below ground, but Aeslyn merely nodded. “The King has said that he wishes to be present. I will send him notice of where we are to be found. Come, we will find a place now.”

Morgana’s boots had previously belonged to another, and had been enough worn that one of them had developed a small hole in them. Small, because she had not seen it when looking over the boots before leaving the castle earlier, but present nonetheless because the front half of her right foot was uncomfortably wet as Aeslyn led them to the kitchens, spoke briefly to one of the cooks only to be told that none of the cellars were currently empty, and instead continued through to the dungeons, deeper still underground than the dungeons, dark and cold but mercifully dry.

They were not much different than those of Camelot, Morgana noted darkly as Aeslyn procured the keys for the cells and sent one of the guards to inform Olaf of where they were. The dungeons were lit by torches, no windows to let in what light might be found in the world, and the cells were dry and scattered with clean rushes.

“These need clearing,” said Morgana, indicating the rushes with a sweep of her arm. “I have no desire to set the whole of Olaf’s dungeons alight.”

An edge of dark humour found her words, and she had to shallow back the mad urge to laugh at the image, at the fury which would doubtless grip Olaf. His ambivalence would doubtless give way to the desire to kill her; an ignoble end after such a tumultuous few years. As it was, she allowed herself a cold smile, and a reverie that was interrupted as Aeslyn appeared before her, holding out a broom.

“Here, then.”

Morgana looked the physician up and down, not sure whether to laugh again or to give a sneer of disdain. She had the suspicion, as she met Aeslyn’s cool grey eyes, that her resulting expression was more discomforted than anything else. “Well, I am sure that you do not intend for me to sweep the dungeon floors of the King who has me captive.”

“If you wish them swept, then that is exactly what you are going to do,” replied Aeslyn, unmoved by the outrage which Morgana now begin to feel washing over her. The water that had seeped into her shoes, the second-hand gowns and clothes that did not fit her, the bracelet kept from her to leave her waking night after night sweating or screaming... those were part of her captivity. Those, she had come to accept.

But this, she would not bear. “I am no servant of Olaf’s,” replied Morgana, throat suddenly tight and voice hot and dangerous. She felt the bonds around her wrists begin to tighten as the magic in her breast curled and grew hot, even as her hands curled to fists at her sides, her ragged nails against her palm rather than the wood of the broom somehow welcome now.

Aeslyn neither lowered the broom nor removed that terrible half-there smirk from her face. Anger boiled, and Morgana’s magic fought desperately to escape from her, but the bonds around her wrists became so tight that she could almost feel blood pooling in her hands, bones forced against each other.

“Lady Morgana.” Olaf’s voice cut across them, and Morgana turned, releasing both her breath and the magic that had been building, as he entered the dungeons also. He was wearing a cloak and heavy gloves, but not his crown, and she might at another time have had more thoughts to spare on the matter. “Consider it part of your ritual.”

“Had I my magic,” she said, voice cooler now, “I would be able to prepare things far more quickly. We would all be able to linger for less time.”

“Had you proved yourself trustworthy,” replied Olaf, “then I might allow you your magic. However, a lack of outright attacks does not mean that you are not hostile to me or to my daughter, and I do not wish to take that risk. By your words earlier, you do not need magic to create this remedy.” He gestured also to the broom in Aeslyn’s hand. “Consider it part of your ritual.”

Morgana snatched the broom from Aeslyn’s hand. It was not that many years gone that she would not have known how to use one, at least effectively, and only in that forest shack that she had made her own had she found it necessary to learn the skills which she had previously left to servants. To cook, to clean; before that, she had known of the vague shapes of such actions, but on her own she had been forced to hone them.

In brisk strokes, her back rod-straight in knowledge that she was watched by Olaf, Aeslyn and Sabet alike, she cleared most of the dungeon floor of rushes to reveal large, flat, square stones cut so well that barely a quarter inch of dirt lay packed between each of them. She set the broom aside, only restraining herself from throwing it to the floor for the sake of her own pride, and turned with head held high to the others. Aeslyn still wore her smirk; Olaf was watching with a flat glare that was far more bearable.

“Sabet, the holly, if you would,” she said crisply, not waiting for any of them to think to give her more orders, and gestured for him to come over. They had filled a large sack with branches and dried leaves, and Morgana now knelt to coax the smallest pieces into a cone that would do for kindling. Without prompting, Sabet understood that she would need a flint and steel, and handed her both. She gave him a nod and set sparks to the kindling, then began adding piece by piece until she had something that passed for a fire and would sustain itself for long enough to her to rise to her feet once again.

Olaf had crossed his arms across his chest, watching with the mixture of wariness and interest that she had seen in the eyes of more than one of the people who had visited her in the last years. People who were told by Uther that magic was evil, and yet by their parents and grandparents that it had once been as pervasive as the weather and no more intrinsically good or evil. Magic became much less frightening, she supposed, when it was seen building fires, building water, cutting up crab apples and mashing them to a paste with the butt of the knife. The wild pansy leaves followed, and Morgana let it bubble as she sat back, brushing her hair back from her sweating forehead with the back of her hand.

She had not realised how long it had been since she had done anything like this, just sat with fire and herbs and the steel in her hand slowly warming towards the temperature of her skin. There was something clean about it, something that was not oily with ill intentions or sticky with hatred. Clean muslin over a bowl, let the mixture drip through to form a shining golden liquid; perhaps it was the simplicity that had Olaf captivated still, and had caused even Aeslyn to stop her frown and look with something more akin to curiosity.

“This is more like my work than that which I would expect of a sorceress,” she said finally, folding her arms across her chest. Morgana was by then rising to her feet, brushing stray bits of leaf and twig from her skirt.

“It can be strengthened with magic,” said Morgana, with a pointed look to Olaf. “This is all that I can do without it.”

This time, at least, Olaf caught her gaze. She held it, trying not to let her gaze become too much of a challenge, and finally he motioned for her to come to the table by which he stood. She set down the bowl containing the straining remedy before him, the mash still warm, the remedy golden and glistening in the firelight.

“I assure you that there is nothing I can think of that I could do to this to make it into some poison. You have seen what goes into it. Allow me to give it my magic, and there is more hope to be found in it.”

Still, Olaf stood with his lips pressed together and wariness in his eyes. The anger kept building in Morgana’s chest, and she would have expected the parallel heat of her magic were it not for the tightening bonds on her wrists instead. At least Uther had his reason, twisted and embittered though it was; Morgause knew the entire story of Arthur’s conception, of Ygraine’s death, and had told Morgana all about it as part of the knowledge of magic which she had to impart. It had explained a lot, enough and too much at once of what Uther had thought of his position, of the child he already had at that time.

“No,” he said finally. “Try this as it is first. If it does not work, then perhaps I shall reconsider.”

Her hands itched for something to throw, or to break, but there was nothing there. Instead, Morgana tilted her chin as haughtily as she could manage in the circumstances, and fixed him with a cool look. “Of course. Without knowing what spell was cast, we cannot be certain of what will cause it to abate.”

They head each other’s gazes for a moment, then looked away at the same time; Morgana turned her eyes back to the remedy on the table. “Aeslyn,” she said, “I believe that you have a vial with you.”

It was peculiar, as well, to not have everything that she needed automatically about her person or within her reach - and yet it felt very much like being Uther’s ward, waited on and served. Aeslyn handed her the vial, and Morgana used it to scoop up some of the seeping, still-warm liquid, faintly gold through the glass as she placed the cork firmly into place. The oil seeped down over her fingers, but she wiped them on the skirts of the dress which she was wearing as it was, after all, not hers.

“Well, then.” Wrapping her hand tightly around it, she looked to Olaf. He was apparently examining the remains of the fire, embers still glowing, the smell of burnt holly still haunting in the air. “Do you wish me to try this now, or wait for some reason?”

“Now,” said Olaf gruffly. “This matter has tarried for more than long enough.”

Chapter Five
Morgana had fully expected that being presented to Vivian would end poorly, but she could not quite have anticipated the reaction that she received. She had never known Vivian to be violent - scathing words were, after all, usually enough to deter any boy who took too much interest to her, and if they were not then a hint dropped to her father would be the end of the matter.

So it was rather a surprise when a knife arced down almost through her shoulder, actually cutting the fabric and feeling like a cold rush over her skin. Morgana cried out, more from shock than fear after so many years spent with blades in her hands, and grabbed Vivian’s wrist before she could attempt a second swipe. The knife glittered silver; Vivian’s eyes glittered darkly as she lunged towards Morgana with an animal growl, her anger enough that even her slighter form forced Morgana to stumble backwards.

“You!” She half-snarled, half-squealed, and the tone of her voice suggested that she could not think of an insult foul enough for what she thought of Morgana. Another lunge with her arm, throwing her weight forwards, sent them both tumbling to the floor in an ungainly heap. From the corner of her eye Morgana saw guards fighting their way into the room, Olaf behind them, but she was rather more worried with Vivian, now straddling her with murder in her eyes and a manic grin twisting her face. The knife began to move downwards, Vivian’s hands moving with greater strength this time, and Morgana reached up to wrap both hands around the princess’s wrist instead.

It happened in a flash. There was a flurry of hands in front of her eyes, and then Vivian was holding the knife left-handed, triumphant, thrusting it down towards Morgana’s face.

She gave an indignant scream as she was hauled away by the two guards, one of them taking each arm and lifting her bodily off Morgana. Vivian did not miss the opportunity to lash out with her foot, landing first one and then a second kick on Morgana’s side before she was pulled fully away. Morgana doubled over, hissing with pain through gritted teeth as she curled over on the floor, vial falling from her hands with a clatter as she grabbed at her side. It felt damp, sticky.

No second guesses needed as to what was causing that. Morgana dragged herself to her front, then to her knees, still with one hand clamped over her side. Before she could reach for the dropped vial, however, Aeslyn stepped in front of her and, in one smooth movement, scooped it up and away.

Another guard put one hand beneath Morgana’s arm and drew her upright, not too gently but not so roughly as she might have feared. Or, a voice in the back of her head whispered, once deserved. She watched with a grim satisfaction as the two guards pinned Vivian into a chair, as Aeslyn put the vial to the girl’s lips and pinched her nose shut to force it down her throat.

The satisfaction faded when she saw the pain on Olaf’s face, the trembling of his jaw that he seemed unable to suppress. Morgana could only bear to look at his expression for a moment before turning her eyes away and to the floor.

“You... bitch!” Whether it was a lower insult or a higher compliment to have actually earned a word, Morgana was not certain, but she could not help her surprise at hearing the word fall from Vivian’s lips. Aeslyn, however, did not so much as blink as she stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. The fierce glare rested for a moment longer on the physician, then Vivian turned to Morgana with hatred dripping from every word, every move. “And you... Pendragon scum, not worthy of being Arthur’s sister, you-”

Morgana turned, blood seeping between her fingers, and swept from the room as best she could manage; Vivian broke off into a wordless scream as the target of her insults disappeared from her view. Her eyes felt hot, dry, and she did not turn round at the sound of footsteps behind her until a hand fell on her shoulder. Without thought, she curled her hand into a fist, spinning with it raised and a snarl curling her lips, but a hand clamped like iron around her arm and held it so still that she almost stumbled over her own momentum.

Her eyes snapped up to meet Olaf’s; his expression was stony, no more yielding than the hand which gripped her arm. She glanced to her clenched fist, fingers smeared with her blood, and let them relax until Olaf dropped released her.

“There was a chance that it could have worked.”

“Not a large one, to judge by your tone,” he replied.

She shrugged, the pain in her side and the memory of the knife flashing in front of her face rather too sharp for her to feel like talking civilly. “You leave me without magic and knowing full well that you will have me killed if I make the smallest error. That cure was the safest of things I could have done, and yes, I doubted it was at all likely to succeed. Do you blame me?”

Olaf paused for a moment. “No,” he said quietly, and sighed.

For a moment, Morgana waited to see if he would say something more, holding her side tightly. When he did not, however, his gaze fixed through the narrow arrow slit in the wall next to them, she spoke through gritted teeth. “I would appreciate it if someone would stitch up your daughter’s handiwork once again.”

He called for one of the soldiers, who escorted her back down the stairs and waited with her until Aeslyn returned. Vivian’s fury rang in her ears still, as the pain still left from Camelot stabbed at her, and she could barely restrain the tears that pricked at the back of her eyes.

Morgana supposed that she could count herself lucky that she was given the following day to recover, despite the bandages around her abdomen and her dreams having awoken her screaming more than once in the same night. The tear of her healing side was not half so bad as she had thought from the feel of blood, and had not needed stitching up a second time, but she had laughed bitterly when Aeslyn had advised that she be careful this time.

Her dreams were not so easily addressed. Tearing flesh, screaming, fire, ropes biting into her wrists, a face so twisted that she could barely recognise it as such, a stabbing pain in her chest and then cold, numbing, death...

After the second such dream, she gave up on sleep, wrapped herself in a blanket, and sat at the window to wait for the sun to rise. It was not new to her to be alone; she had been so almost all of the time since Morgause’s death. She had not found Agravaine at that time, before Uther’s death and Arthur’s crowning. Her magic had been too unpredictable to use much of the time, and so it had been with a spade and her bare hands that she had dug the grave for her sister, and it had been alone that she had wrapped Morgause in something resembling a shroud, that she might be buried in peace. Her fingers had bled, but she had buried the blood with her sister, and left the grave unmarked lest it might be found by Uther’s - or Arthur’s - men.

She had fallen into sullen reminiscence by the time that the sun broke the horizon, between the patchy clouds that criss-crossed the sky like the lead in a window. The way she was sitting was not particularly comfortable, but the wall at her back had warmed enough to be bearable, and her muscles had stiffened such that moving would be difficult. It did not surprise her that she did not feel the will to move from her spot.

A faint, disappointed groan escaped her lips as she heard the door open, and she did not turn to face it, keeping her eyes resolutely locked on the slowly-brightening outside world. The blunt, “Ah, so you are awake already,” from behind her told her that it was the same servant who had been caring for her - or overseeing her, depending on her feelings on the matter from day to day - from the beginning, and Morgana shifted against her aching limbs before she was removed from the seat against her will.

“It would seem so,” she said dryly, managing to turn and put her feet on the floor. A shiver ran through her at the touch of cold stone, but she suppressed it, and rose to her feet with the blanket still around her shoulders. “Has Olaf declared some need for me today?”

The woman set down a tray at Morgana’s bedside. Although she knew full well that Olaf served more elaborate breakfast to his more favoured guests, Morgana was content enough with the sweet porridge and occasional fruit and nuts which she was given. She had eaten far worse in the last two years or so. Returning to the bed, Morgana sat down and ate quickly, before it got cold or the servant decided to feed her instead. She watched with wary eyes as a dress was bought out, brushed down, underclothes laid over it ready for her to, she hoped, dress herself. She did not fancy being pulled around like some sort of tailor’s model; the woman had no sense of delicacy, it seemed.

The dress was not one that she recognised, but it looked strangely familiar: sleeveless, dark red and trimmed in gold. She had worn dresses like that before, back in Camelot, and had never seen Vivian in anything like such a colour. Vivian liked pretty, pale colours; this dress was the colour of blood.

And the colour of Camelot. Frowning, Morgana did not protest as she was pulled and pinched into the dress, her hair roughly brushed and twisted into the sort of curls that she had once worn it in. The only concession to the cold air was the cape draped over her shoulders, but suddenly, when she looked in the mirror, she saw Morgana Pendragon of Camelot once again.

“There,” said the maidservant finally, standing back and giving a firm nod. Morgana frowned at her reflection, the privileged girl she had left behind, the safe life she had left behind. A life where she had felt the occasional anger, the occasional sadness, but had been safe for so long that she had never known how deep those feelings could really cut. She almost did not hear the door open once again, and whirled round as footsteps announced a new person in the room. Instinctively she reached for her magic, only for the ties around her wrists to tighten sharply and remind her of their presence. It was probably a good thing, however, as Olaf appeared in the doorway, expression less stern than it had been on previous days.

“Olaf,” she said, not caring enough to rethink using his name as he frowned again. She could not recall whether it was the first time that she had called him by name or not. “I get the feeling that you have something in particular planned for today.”

“Your side is healed sufficiently,” he said, not bothering with a question.

“Yes,” she replied anyway.

“I want you to speak with Vivian again.”

Morgana rolled her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. The movement tugged slightly at her side, but she ignored the pang of discomfort, choosing to fix her concentration as well as her gaze on Olaf. “Want, you may, but unfortunately I am in no mood to be attacked with a knife again.”

“I spoke to her yesterday, for... some time.” His voice was pained, but he cleared his throat and held his bearing still. Morgana guessed that Vivian had not done much speaking back... screaming, perhaps, or sobbing. But not speaking. “Eventually she came to see that you should not be a target of her anger. She remembers you, Morgana. I, well.” For perhaps five seconds he fell completely silent, eyes slipping to the side rather than remaining focused on her, hand tightening on the hilt of the sword at his side. “There are not many people that she has known since she was a child, very few that she has known for years. I have reminded her that she has known you as long as she has known Arthur, and that for years she was rather closer to you than to him. She... seemed to actually want to talk to you.”

Morgana gritted her teeth, but nodded. In this, at least, she could see some sense, even if she was still not convinced that Vivian was not plotting a slightly more long-winded form of attack. “Provided she doesn’t have any knives to hand.”

Olaf turned away without a response, but Morgana supposed that she had not really wanted one. Taking a deep breath, she followed Olaf from the room, preparing herself to come face to face with Vivian once again.

Anger, she might have expected. It was, after all, the emotion that had dominated Vivian the last time they had met. Before that, Morgana supposed, Vivian had been in some sort of delusion, though whether it had lasted for the years before she did not really want to know. Now, though, when she entered the room, there was no response.

Vivian lay on the bed, curled up on her side, with her eyes open but staring into nothingness. Nothingness, at least, as represented by the bare wall. She was wearing a dark robe, with wisps of white just showing at the collars and cuffs to tell of the nightgown still beneath. A chair had been set at her bedside, right in her line of sight, but Morgana hesitated just inside the room.

“Go on,” said Olaf from behind her, voice subdued. “One of my men will be here.”

She heard his footsteps withdraw, and then the door close behind her; a glance over her shoulder told that one of the guards was indeed there, though he too was looking at the far wall. Irritation rose in her like a wave: why did none of them dare look at the world? With a rustle of her skirts, she sat down in front of Vivian, flopping heavily into the chair and crossing her legs. Vivian did not stir.

“You’ve decided not to kill me, then, I suppose,” she said.

She waited for an answer, but none came.

“Or maybe I’m just not worth the effort.”

Vivian blinked a couple of times, a tear sliding from her eye, down to the bridge of her nose, then dripping to her bedclothes. Her eyes were red, lashes wet, gaze still just as vacant. Morgana gave a deep sigh, breathing in the stale air of the room, and settled into the chair in the most comfortable way that she could manage.

“It seems a long time ago that we first met. I don’t suppose that either of us would recognise the other now, even now that I am dressed up in the colours of Camelot.” She plucked at her skirt, just for a moment. “You were six, if I recall, and I was eight. Arthur just in the middle. You complained about the journey, you complained about the mud on your shoes, and you complained about the fact that Arthur and I didn’t spend every moment talking to you.”

Vivian sniffed.

“You were more annoyed by me, though, than by Arthur. Neither of us cared for boys, after all.”

“Things change,” said Vivian, so quietly that Morgana almost could not hear the words. Her eyes were still shining. “We grow up.”

“Well, some people do. Not necessarily boys.” There was a time when that might have at drawn a laugh from Vivian, albeit one that she did not particularly want to admit had been prompted by the jokes of another. After all, princesses were not supposed to laugh at jokes, not even those of King’s wards. “Arthur didn’t, not really. Not while I was in Camelot.”

“Arthur is a good man,” said Vivian. Her pout didn’t look quite so effective, nor so sweet, whilst she was lying on her side with her face half-buried in blanket. “He loves me.”

“He loved me, once,” Morgana replied, and was rather surprised to hear herself say the words. “Before we knew that I was his sister, that we were blood. We thought that I was being raised to be his wife, so... I suppose that we both decided it would be better if we loved each other at least a little.”

“That’s not proper love. Proper love is where you’d do anything for a person, fight for them,” Vivian curled tighter as she spat her words: “die for them.”

“Well, you can die for a person without loving them, and love someone without dying for them. No point loving someone if you end up dead and they’ve no chance to fall in love again, is there?”

“Would do anything for them,” Vivian mumbled.

“People died for Uther.”

“Because of Uther.”

“And for him. The knights, the ones who defended him, you can’t say they died but for Uther. Even my father.” The words had left her lips before Morgana could stop herself. She remembered being seven years old and watching her father’s funeral pyre, watching him burn away whilst her mother cried. Within weeks she had been an orphan, and before her mother was even laid out there had been another knight come to take her to the castle. She hadn’t known Uther then, other than a distant tall figure with a crown, only to be told that he was going to be the one to look after her now.

Arthur had been disappointed that she wasn’t a boy, and then angry when she had beaten him up anyway. In either case, he had refused to speak to her for over a week. It had been only a few months later, and just as they were starting to do something like trust each other, that Vivian had arrived and served to give them a common enemy by insulting Camelot with almost every breath she took.

“It’s not my fault that your father died,” said Vivian sniffily, the effect once again spoilt by her position. She spat a few hairs out of her mouth, but didn’t add anything.

“No,” said Morgana. The word came out cold, mostly because she knew that Vivian was absolutely right. There was no fault; perhaps at most she could blame Uther, but even then he was not the one holding the blade that had killed Gorlois. That was probably some magic user, desperate and hunted like an animal, thinking about escaping and ending up killing instead.

She knew how easy that path was to follow.

“People die when their time comes, no sooner, no later. Whoever does the killing is just filling their role.”

It was not supposed to be her that killed Uther. But it had been Uther’s time to die, and magic was on the verge of stopping it. Magic needed to be stopped by magic, and that was where Morgana had found herself.

“We all die for something, or for someone. Why is love any different?”

“’Cause it’s love.”

“What sort of love? Filial love? Platonic? Eros, storge, philia, agape?” Words from far-distant lands. “I loved my parents for raising me, and Uther for doing the same. I loved Arthur because I thought that I needed to.”

“True love,” said Vivian.

It was, in some ways, almost as if she was prompting Morgana to give a speech which had been long prepared. She had not moved, hands still tightly wound in the blanket, but her eyes were now at least fixed on Morgana rather than on nothing.

“Romantic love, then. Betrothal, marriage, sex. If you’re lucky enough to marry for love, of course.”

“I don’t think that you’ve ever been in love,” announced Vivian finally, lifting her head up so that she could enunciate the words more clearly. There didn’t seem to be tears in her eyes any more, though her bottom lip was still protruding and quivering slightly.

Morgana glared at her. “Really?”

“Really,” said Vivian. She tugged her handful of blanket closer to her chest. “Otherwise you’d understand. Proper love. Not like expecting to marry Arthur. My Arthur.”

“Then your Arthur has married my Gwen, and there’s no use getting into a fight now.”

Vivian’s breakfast sat untouched on the table next to her bed, bowl and flagon and spoon. An apple sat next to it, shiny red and still with its stem and small leaf attached. Morgana scooped it up, removed the stem with a deft twist, and tilted the apple back and forth on her fingertips. The mere fact that Vivian was not talking would, during their previous meetings, have counted as something of a miracle; for now, she took it as a sign that Vivian might be listening.

“It was supposed to be me that Gwen kissed. It was supposed to be my bed that she curled up in at night, even when we were so shy that we just held hands. It was supposed...”

The words hurt too much to say. Not wanting to even continue, Morgana took a bite out of the apple in her hand. It was tart, somehow still not quite ripe despite the looming cold of winter, but she swallowed it down nonetheless.

“Gwen?” echoed Vivian. She actually pushed herself up, into a sitting position with one arm still supporting some of her weight, and looked at Morgana with something approaching curiosity. One temple and cheek were flushed from where she had been leaning on them, but she didn’t seem aware of or concerned by the fact. “Guinevere?”

“Yes. The maidservant you were so rude to whilst you were in Camelot.” That was an old grievance, one which she had actually thought she had forgotten until suddenly it was bubbling to the surface and spilling from her lips. “The woman who was at my side for years. The woman who is now Arthur’s queen.”

“But... I should have Arthur. Then you should take Guinevere back.”

Morgana laughed, despite herself, the sound cold and the movements of her muscles making her side hurt afresh, but laughing all the same. There was almost a pang of jealousy in her heart at how simple Vivian’s thoughts were; but they were not from Vivian. Vivian had been bright, caustic, not necessarily nice but at least intelligent enough to have some sharpness to the barbs that left her tongue.

This was not Vivian.

“If that were how it worked, things would be far simpler,” Morgana settled for.

“Things should be simple,” declared Vivian, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and rolled over onto her other side with a pointed thud. Morgana glared at her back, then took another bite out of the apple, wrinkling her nose as she realised that it was starting to turn brown in her hand. The sound of it crunching beneath her teeth seemed inordinately loud in the room, especially in the wake of the words which she knew that had said.

Morgause had told her to forget that life, as if it were that simple. Make the decision, and erase your whole past from your mind. Unfortunately, Morgana had yet to learn the magic for that, incantation or potion, and in all honestly she did not think that it could exist. She almost wished that it might, something that could take away memories, or at least memories of pain, but dreaded to think how widely it could be abused. How tempting it would be, even, to abuse it herself. But she could imagine equally its good and its evil: how it could take away the pain from the minds of many, but how it could be used to keep people pliant and submissive beneath the hands of cruel rulers.

Though she supposed that only made it like any other magic.

Vivian did not say anything further, even though Morgana waited long enough, at the very least, to eat the rest of the apple and set the core back down on the breakfast tray. Once or twice she gave a sniff, or shifted her shoulders slightly, but that was it.

Perhaps she should have found more words. Something else that might have made Vivian respond, something that might have drawn words from her. But it was too difficult to find more words when she had already exposed herself to Vivian, more than she had either intended or expected to. Thoughts of Gwen, smiling and happy, with flowers in her hands, intruded upon her silence, and finally Morgana rose to her feet and swept from the room. The guard did not stop her from doing so.

InterludeFear rolled across the hills. They had heard what had happened, in the other villages, the disappearances and the deaths. Someone had noticed that the movement of the darkness followed a path, and those who found themselves on it quailed all the more. Prayers flitted in the darkness: some to the new god, some to the Old Religion which lingered still on every hill and stone and in the memories of the people as a whole. It was written across the land and into it, and not yet had every god of every valley been released from the reverence in which they were held.

The first howl split the air as loud as thunder and bold as lightning, and women clutched their children to their breasts at the sound of it. Dogs scratched at the bottom of doors, snarling, or ran to hide in dark corners of the houses. The air grew tight, breathless, as men watched doorways with weapons in their hands or checked the tightness of the shutters on their windows.

A babe in arms, too young to understand, began to cry, low and whimpering for attention. Fearfully his mother and elder brother hushed him, cradling him close and murmuring a wordless lullaby.

“Ewthyr Cynan,” said their eldest daughter to her uncle, who was watching from a knothole in the shutters and fingering the dagger at his hip. “Do you see anything?”

A flicker of white flashed through the village, almost invisible in its speed, and Cynan swallowed back his fear. “No, Hafren,” he lied.

Scrabbling sounded at the back door, and they froze, turning with breath caught in their throats. Of them all, Hafren was the one who crept closer, bending as if to peer underneath. The scrabbling came again, more insistent this time, with a whine beside it, and Hafren caught a glimpse of paws at the base of the door, of a snuffling dark nose surrounded by white fur.

“It’s only the dog,” she said, with a relieved laugh that had a touch of hysteria about it. Straightening, she crossed to the door, as certain as any fourteen-year-old always is that she was in the right. “I didn’t realise he was outside!”

She reached out for the handle just as a low, warning growl crept out from beneath the table. Cynan whirled, eyes going wide, to see their shaggy wolfhound hunched against the wall with teeth bared, hackles raised, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“No, Hafren!” he shouted, going to lunge towards her.

Too late; the door fell open beneath her hand, and every candle and torch was smothered in a heartbeat. A low snarl, a flash of white, a scream.

Then silence.

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