Once Upon a Camelot Curse - Chapter One
“Enough of this!” Morgana cried, the words echoing off of the granite walls that surrounded her. A growl bubbled up into her throat as she circled a stone basin in the middle of the frigid room. The bowl was filled with clear water but, at the moment, translucent images were dancing just beneath the surface, creating distinct images of a far off room and the people inside it.
Arthur and his court.
Morgana ground her teeth together as the familiar figures silently laughed and socialized, mocking her without even realizing they were.
No. Arthur had to know that Morgana was watching.
It was Uther’s birthday, a date that Morgana wanted to forget. While the King had been alive, the day brought jousting, dancing and a feast. But after his death, Morgana was sure that Arthur and Camelot would be mourning a day that reminded them of their beloved king. Instead, Arthur had thrown a memorial celebration in honor of his dead father.
Her dead father as well, as the case may be.
Morgana didn’t care about her father’s birthday. She would much rather forget all about the man who had tried to destroy her than celebrate the day of his birth. But each sip of wine, shared smile or new couple dancing seemed only to spite her. Rationally, Morgana knew that Arthur was not vindictive enough to celebrate their father’s birthday on the odd chance that she would be watching from some far off place. He was far too stupid for that. But it was just another thing to irk her about her brother ruling Camelot.
And Morgana was tired of it.
That was supposed to be her throne. Her subjects. And like hell would they have been celebrating Uther’s birth if she had been ruler. His death, perhaps, but certainly not his birth.
Arthur and his knights acted as if she were not a threat anymore! Like she could not just storm down to Camelot and destroy the entire kingdom with one sweep of her hand. Not that she had the power to do so right now, but soon she would.
It was going to end. Tonight. The sooner she could get rid of Arthur and any of his supporters, sooner she could take Camelot as her own.
She swept her bulky cloak behind her and stormed from the chamber that held the stone basin, moving into a long hallway that led her into her meager storeroom of potion ingredients.
The run down joke of a castle she was living in smelled of mildew and wet fur. Moss coated the outside almost entirely, making the small keep almost invisible amongst the evergreen pines that surrounded the castle, even during the cold winter months that currently plagued Camelot. But despite the cracks in the walls that allowed the frigid winter wind to howl through and the roof that leaked melted snow into her bedchambers, it was better than a hut in the middle of the forest.
But not much.
Her potion supplies were dwindling and Morgana knew she was going to only have one attempt at the curse she wanted to brew. As she moved amongst the shelves that housed plants, animal carcasses and precious gems, Morgana took quiet stock in what was present. A large leather tome was open on a work bench near the end of the aisle and that was her present target.
Messing up meant not only some nasty side effect like an extra set of eyes in the middle of her forehead, or even death, but it also destroyed most of her options to dethrone Arthur and his future queen. Going into public to collect more ingredients was almost completely out of the question.
She was going to have to make due with what she had.
She clicked her fingers, wishing there was someone else in this dank keep to help her. If she had an ally, she’d be able to send them into the nearest town for more supplies and none of this would be an issue. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. All of her allies were gone, killed or banished by Arthur and his cohorts. Morgana was on her own and this was going to be one of her last chances to get the whole thing right.
The curse scrawled on the old parchment of the leather bound book in front of her was faded and worn, but Morgana barely needed to look at the words anymore to know what they said. They were etched into her mind ever since she had found the book in the abandoned corners of the disintegrating library that the keep housed. It had been a fortunate find considering how long magic had been outlawed in Camelot and considering the punishment if someone had found the book. Whoever had previously owned the castle she was currently squatting in knew some dark magic and would have most definitely been burned at the stake for the materials they owned.
She had found the book while looking for more supplies than what she had dragged into the stone room that she was currently standing in. There had been no food, obviously, but Morgana knew that ingredients for potions and curses could last for decades without going bad if they were preserved properly in the first place. And while she had only found a few jars of some menial herbs and animal parts, the spell book had been one of the most important discoveries since she had vanished from Camelot.
It would be thing to put her back on the throne.
The large cauldron that sat in the hearth was cold but after a few minutes of fumbling with the flint and wood Morgana had squandered from her last place of residence, it and the rest of the room began to grow warmer. Reflected fire flickered in the surface of the glass jars that Morgana collected from around the room. She barely had to look at the book to remind herself of what she needed. The ingredient list had been something she had obsessed over for days as she scourged her personal stock as well as what was left on the wooden shelves.
“Belladonna…” she mused, clicking her tongue at the obvious absence of the herb when it should have been found amongst the rest of her collection just as easily as common lemongrass. Morgana cursed, the word echoing off of the stone walls that surrounded her, giving off the mere appearance that there were more women present in the keep than just her. It was an eerie feeling and she would be grateful to get out forgotten castle and back into her rightful place on the Camelot throne.
Morgana had to admit that the Pendragon family knew how to keep up a castle. She reluctantly missed her old room with the plush bedding and superficially yearned for the gorgeous clothing that she had been able to wear in her previous life. But soon enough, she’d be able to wear all of that and more. Soon enough, she’d be able to wear the crown on top of her head as well.
Glass clinked against glass as she set down all of the jars that she had been obsessing over onto the worn wooden table where the large spell book lay open and inviting her to take her revenge. That thought as well as the quick memory of Arthur and his queen enjoying their celebrations only fueled Morgana’s rage and she hurried to start the potion that would bring her the fate she deserved.
She was going to have to make a few substitutions, Morgana realized as her eyes scanned the collected items and she noticed a few were missing. That had been a fact from the beginning, but Morgana kept putting it off. But things were going to have to start moving if she ever wanted to put the parties to an end. And the fact that Arthur was celebrating their father’s birthday like that… it was enough to put the plan into action even if it was a tad premature. Morgana didn’t care. The missing belladonna was replaced with a similar ingredient, swapped out from her personal supply and added to the line of materials.
It would work.
It had to.
The woman took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. It had grown so long over the course of her banishment and the growing heat in the stone room was proving that it was far too thick for her comfort. Pale fingers twisted in the dark strands, pulling the bulk away from her sweaty neck and allowing the smallest of breezes to grace the skin there. She wound her hair in a simple knot at the top of her head, tying it with a strip of leather meant just for that. The ends of the strands of hair dangled against her shoulders, tickling them slightly but Morgana ignored the feeling and set about measuring ingredients.
Pinches and precise measurements mingled with one another. Morgana wasn’t sure what a ‘dash’ meant to one potion user compared to her own experiences, but threw in what she thought to be the proper amount. Some of the ingredients had measured quantities and others were abstract, which didn’t make sense, of course, but she followed the nearly memorized instructions as they were scrawled on the paper. The fire was blazing now, flames eating through the meager amount of wood she could scavenge from the surrounding forest near the castle. Ingredients were thrown into the cauldron and as Morgana placed empty bottles back on the wooden table, the realization that this was truly her only chance struck her hard in the chest.
She could not make a single mistake.
And soon, Morgana found herself holding the last of the ingredients over the open mouth of the bubbling cauldron. Her heart beat wickedly in her chest as she slowly tipped the vial over and allowed the spider venom to pour out and into the mixture below. Her breath caught in her throat and she shut her eyes as the yellow liquid hit the boiling surface with a small splash.
She opened her eyes when nothing happened.
A frown slashed itself across her pale face as the cauldron gurgled contently at her. There was no flash of light from the magic, no fog, nothing! She let out a screech that echoed up and down the room, bouncing back and mimicking a clan of banshees. Morgana hurtled the glass vial into the fire, not even flinching as it smashed against the brick hearth and the remaining traces of venom popped in the heat. She whirled, turning her back on the fire and obviously failed potion as she slammed her hands down on the scarred table. Her breath had come back and her chest heaved with the deep lungful of air she took in, attempting to calm herself. But she couldn’t contain her rage at the idea that it had been her last chance and nothing had happened.
Green eyes scanned the list of ingredients. Had she missed something? No. Everything was in the cauldron and she had followed the instructions exactly…
And then she saw it.
In small scribbles near the end of the final paragraph. Morgana instantly felt foolish for missing it, but it had obviously been nearly hidden for a reason. The ink had spidered into the fibers of the paper, but the small words were still legible.
For those that have combined the above ingredients and still wish to continue this curse, one final material is needed: The lifeblood of the one who yearns for revenge. Simply add to the final concoction and utter the final incantation.
Below the paragraph was another set of scribbled words, instantly recognizable if one knew magic as she did. Morgana stood up straight, her anger still there but now directed at the creator of the potion. Why not put that directly in the directions? Anyone who had gone through the process was bound to want to keep going and not look back, surely. That was the point, was it not?
But she disregarded her loathing for the author and pulled a gleaming dagger from her belt. She turned away from the book and moved to stand over the cauldron, sharp metal held against the pale flesh of her forearm. She pushed the blade into her skin and shivered as a wet, red slash appeared beneath the metal. And soon, the cut began to drip down her arm, threatening to drip into the cauldron. She pressed just a little bit harder on the wound and watched as her blood fell into the concoction, sizzling on contact. Green eyes lit up as Morgana felt the stress, anger and wanting lift from her shoulders. Her lips spread and she formed the almost familiar words of the spell.
“Áscúfan mín gefýnd ferhþ!”
The last syllable leapt off of her tongue and into the boiling pot, echoing in the dim room. And before Morgana could doubt her abilities and her need for a new plan of revenge, the hearth exploded in a bright, white light, engulfing Morgana and all that the room contained.
Arthur and his court.
Morgana ground her teeth together as the familiar figures silently laughed and socialized, mocking her without even realizing they were.
No. Arthur had to know that Morgana was watching.
It was Uther’s birthday, a date that Morgana wanted to forget. While the King had been alive, the day brought jousting, dancing and a feast. But after his death, Morgana was sure that Arthur and Camelot would be mourning a day that reminded them of their beloved king. Instead, Arthur had thrown a memorial celebration in honor of his dead father.
Her dead father as well, as the case may be.
Morgana didn’t care about her father’s birthday. She would much rather forget all about the man who had tried to destroy her than celebrate the day of his birth. But each sip of wine, shared smile or new couple dancing seemed only to spite her. Rationally, Morgana knew that Arthur was not vindictive enough to celebrate their father’s birthday on the odd chance that she would be watching from some far off place. He was far too stupid for that. But it was just another thing to irk her about her brother ruling Camelot.
And Morgana was tired of it.
That was supposed to be her throne. Her subjects. And like hell would they have been celebrating Uther’s birth if she had been ruler. His death, perhaps, but certainly not his birth.
Arthur and his knights acted as if she were not a threat anymore! Like she could not just storm down to Camelot and destroy the entire kingdom with one sweep of her hand. Not that she had the power to do so right now, but soon she would.
It was going to end. Tonight. The sooner she could get rid of Arthur and any of his supporters, sooner she could take Camelot as her own.
She swept her bulky cloak behind her and stormed from the chamber that held the stone basin, moving into a long hallway that led her into her meager storeroom of potion ingredients.
The run down joke of a castle she was living in smelled of mildew and wet fur. Moss coated the outside almost entirely, making the small keep almost invisible amongst the evergreen pines that surrounded the castle, even during the cold winter months that currently plagued Camelot. But despite the cracks in the walls that allowed the frigid winter wind to howl through and the roof that leaked melted snow into her bedchambers, it was better than a hut in the middle of the forest.
But not much.
Her potion supplies were dwindling and Morgana knew she was going to only have one attempt at the curse she wanted to brew. As she moved amongst the shelves that housed plants, animal carcasses and precious gems, Morgana took quiet stock in what was present. A large leather tome was open on a work bench near the end of the aisle and that was her present target.
Messing up meant not only some nasty side effect like an extra set of eyes in the middle of her forehead, or even death, but it also destroyed most of her options to dethrone Arthur and his future queen. Going into public to collect more ingredients was almost completely out of the question.
She was going to have to make due with what she had.
She clicked her fingers, wishing there was someone else in this dank keep to help her. If she had an ally, she’d be able to send them into the nearest town for more supplies and none of this would be an issue. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. All of her allies were gone, killed or banished by Arthur and his cohorts. Morgana was on her own and this was going to be one of her last chances to get the whole thing right.
The curse scrawled on the old parchment of the leather bound book in front of her was faded and worn, but Morgana barely needed to look at the words anymore to know what they said. They were etched into her mind ever since she had found the book in the abandoned corners of the disintegrating library that the keep housed. It had been a fortunate find considering how long magic had been outlawed in Camelot and considering the punishment if someone had found the book. Whoever had previously owned the castle she was currently squatting in knew some dark magic and would have most definitely been burned at the stake for the materials they owned.
She had found the book while looking for more supplies than what she had dragged into the stone room that she was currently standing in. There had been no food, obviously, but Morgana knew that ingredients for potions and curses could last for decades without going bad if they were preserved properly in the first place. And while she had only found a few jars of some menial herbs and animal parts, the spell book had been one of the most important discoveries since she had vanished from Camelot.
It would be thing to put her back on the throne.
The large cauldron that sat in the hearth was cold but after a few minutes of fumbling with the flint and wood Morgana had squandered from her last place of residence, it and the rest of the room began to grow warmer. Reflected fire flickered in the surface of the glass jars that Morgana collected from around the room. She barely had to look at the book to remind herself of what she needed. The ingredient list had been something she had obsessed over for days as she scourged her personal stock as well as what was left on the wooden shelves.
“Belladonna…” she mused, clicking her tongue at the obvious absence of the herb when it should have been found amongst the rest of her collection just as easily as common lemongrass. Morgana cursed, the word echoing off of the stone walls that surrounded her, giving off the mere appearance that there were more women present in the keep than just her. It was an eerie feeling and she would be grateful to get out forgotten castle and back into her rightful place on the Camelot throne.
Morgana had to admit that the Pendragon family knew how to keep up a castle. She reluctantly missed her old room with the plush bedding and superficially yearned for the gorgeous clothing that she had been able to wear in her previous life. But soon enough, she’d be able to wear all of that and more. Soon enough, she’d be able to wear the crown on top of her head as well.
Glass clinked against glass as she set down all of the jars that she had been obsessing over onto the worn wooden table where the large spell book lay open and inviting her to take her revenge. That thought as well as the quick memory of Arthur and his queen enjoying their celebrations only fueled Morgana’s rage and she hurried to start the potion that would bring her the fate she deserved.
She was going to have to make a few substitutions, Morgana realized as her eyes scanned the collected items and she noticed a few were missing. That had been a fact from the beginning, but Morgana kept putting it off. But things were going to have to start moving if she ever wanted to put the parties to an end. And the fact that Arthur was celebrating their father’s birthday like that… it was enough to put the plan into action even if it was a tad premature. Morgana didn’t care. The missing belladonna was replaced with a similar ingredient, swapped out from her personal supply and added to the line of materials.
It would work.
It had to.
The woman took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. It had grown so long over the course of her banishment and the growing heat in the stone room was proving that it was far too thick for her comfort. Pale fingers twisted in the dark strands, pulling the bulk away from her sweaty neck and allowing the smallest of breezes to grace the skin there. She wound her hair in a simple knot at the top of her head, tying it with a strip of leather meant just for that. The ends of the strands of hair dangled against her shoulders, tickling them slightly but Morgana ignored the feeling and set about measuring ingredients.
Pinches and precise measurements mingled with one another. Morgana wasn’t sure what a ‘dash’ meant to one potion user compared to her own experiences, but threw in what she thought to be the proper amount. Some of the ingredients had measured quantities and others were abstract, which didn’t make sense, of course, but she followed the nearly memorized instructions as they were scrawled on the paper. The fire was blazing now, flames eating through the meager amount of wood she could scavenge from the surrounding forest near the castle. Ingredients were thrown into the cauldron and as Morgana placed empty bottles back on the wooden table, the realization that this was truly her only chance struck her hard in the chest.
She could not make a single mistake.
And soon, Morgana found herself holding the last of the ingredients over the open mouth of the bubbling cauldron. Her heart beat wickedly in her chest as she slowly tipped the vial over and allowed the spider venom to pour out and into the mixture below. Her breath caught in her throat and she shut her eyes as the yellow liquid hit the boiling surface with a small splash.
She opened her eyes when nothing happened.
A frown slashed itself across her pale face as the cauldron gurgled contently at her. There was no flash of light from the magic, no fog, nothing! She let out a screech that echoed up and down the room, bouncing back and mimicking a clan of banshees. Morgana hurtled the glass vial into the fire, not even flinching as it smashed against the brick hearth and the remaining traces of venom popped in the heat. She whirled, turning her back on the fire and obviously failed potion as she slammed her hands down on the scarred table. Her breath had come back and her chest heaved with the deep lungful of air she took in, attempting to calm herself. But she couldn’t contain her rage at the idea that it had been her last chance and nothing had happened.
Green eyes scanned the list of ingredients. Had she missed something? No. Everything was in the cauldron and she had followed the instructions exactly…
And then she saw it.
In small scribbles near the end of the final paragraph. Morgana instantly felt foolish for missing it, but it had obviously been nearly hidden for a reason. The ink had spidered into the fibers of the paper, but the small words were still legible.
For those that have combined the above ingredients and still wish to continue this curse, one final material is needed: The lifeblood of the one who yearns for revenge. Simply add to the final concoction and utter the final incantation.
Below the paragraph was another set of scribbled words, instantly recognizable if one knew magic as she did. Morgana stood up straight, her anger still there but now directed at the creator of the potion. Why not put that directly in the directions? Anyone who had gone through the process was bound to want to keep going and not look back, surely. That was the point, was it not?
But she disregarded her loathing for the author and pulled a gleaming dagger from her belt. She turned away from the book and moved to stand over the cauldron, sharp metal held against the pale flesh of her forearm. She pushed the blade into her skin and shivered as a wet, red slash appeared beneath the metal. And soon, the cut began to drip down her arm, threatening to drip into the cauldron. She pressed just a little bit harder on the wound and watched as her blood fell into the concoction, sizzling on contact. Green eyes lit up as Morgana felt the stress, anger and wanting lift from her shoulders. Her lips spread and she formed the almost familiar words of the spell.
“Áscúfan mín gefýnd ferhþ!”
The last syllable leapt off of her tongue and into the boiling pot, echoing in the dim room. And before Morgana could doubt her abilities and her need for a new plan of revenge, the hearth exploded in a bright, white light, engulfing Morgana and all that the room contained.