Pair Dadeni {Part Three}

[ficofandalasia]

Chapter Six
“It did not work.”

That had been apparent almost immediately, in Morgana’s opinion, but she did not say as much. It was an improvement at least that Olaf was meeting with her in his chambers, rather than in hers, and that instead of watching her work he was writing, in tight controlled letters, what appeared at a glance to be a speech. She worked not to look too closely at it, despite the itching curiosity that nagged at her.

“I made it clear at the time that I did not much expect it to,” she said instead, wrapping one hand around the arm of the chair, feeling the worn, rounded edges of the carvings. It felt familiar, comforting. “What has happened to Vivian is not the result of a potion, and seems frankly too strong to be caused even by a charm. I suspect it is a full spell, powerful, cast by a magic user.”

“But you took this approach because it was a safe one,” Olaf replied, finally laying aside his quill and looking up. His eyes were cool, his gaze measured, as he rested his hands on the table and steepled his fingers together. She remembered the Olaf who had threatened to kill Arthur over the perceived slight to someone’s honour - though whether that someone had been Vivian or Olaf, she could not say. She could not, in those days, have expected the words which she heard from him in these. “And for that, I thank you.”

The words were unexpectedly soft, and they caught her off guard. Morgana shifted in the chair, wrapping one arm around her, the frown that had become natural coming back to her face. Finally, she managed: “There are many reasons to proceed in the safest way possible.”

“Yes, doubtless it does weigh on your mind that if anything were to harm Vivian, I would probably put you to death straight away,” he said, just as briskly as before, and the warmth of fatherhood evaporated in an instant. Well, at least that made one part of him easier to deal with. “If I had the slightest thought it might be intentional. As for accident... well, that would depend on whether I was more grieved or angry.”

“Do you really think that anger would win out when your daughter was at stake?”

Olaf paused for a moment, then gave a slight nod of his head, as if in acknowledgement. “It would depend, I suspect, on the extent of the harm. A burn, vomiting? I would be angry. Something more serious and I imagine that grief would win out, and I would have no thoughts for you but to send you back to Camelot and let them deal with you there.”

She supposed that it was fair, in a way. After Morgause’s death, she had wanted to slide down into grief and hide there, too tired to be angry, too sick to fight. Perhaps it would have been better for her, even, to have let the natural grief win over rather than reach for fire in her magic, with everything that had happened afterwards.

“King Uther sent messengers to every kingdom within a month’s travel, you know,” Olaf added suddenly, and Morgana looked up with her frown returning. “When you disappeared, the first time. Over two years ago now. I told him I had heard nothing of you, and I was not much inclined to let his men into my land again unless they had news of what had happened to Vivian.”

The time with Morgause had been long, and bittersweet, and though Morgana had been sure that it would be important for her to return, part of her had not wanted to. After her father’s death she had been away from her blood kin for so long that it had felt like finally dressing an old wound to have someone to call sister. It had explained, as well, the dark eyes that had haunted her dreams for as long as she could recall, so long that she had assumed they had belonged to a figment of her imagination and were not like her other, darker dreams. Any dream that had not scared her she had believed to be a dream alone; even now, she was tempted to do so. Her visions always seemed to be nightmares.

In the wake of her silence, Olaf lifted the goblet of wine that sat at his left hand, pausing for a moment before drinking deeply. “It seemed that both of us blamed the other for the loss of our daughters.”

“Save that Uther never recognised me as his daughter,” Morgana replied, bitterness seeping into her tone. Her hand rubbed vaguely at the dressed wound in her side, though she knew it would not help and might just pain her further. Merely by being there, it seemed to creep into her mind and refuse to leave her thoughts.

Olaf looked at her over the goblet he still held. “He may have called you ward, but you were never treated differently than a king’s daughter would have been. Do you not think sometimes that perhaps he did not speak out of respect for Gorlois?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask with a sneer when Uther had thought of anyone but himself. From somewhere, though, perhaps from Olaf’s gaze or the borrowed life in which she found herself, a whisper reminded her that she had been selfish herself, too often, and that perhaps even if she ruled a land she would think of herself more often than she ought. For what person was capable of doing anything else? They all had selfishness within them.

The thoughts clogged in her head, whirling like a sudden maelstrom, and words stumbled from her lips: “I must go.” Her hands clutched at the arms of the chair to pull herself upright, sudden clenching pain in her chest at the thoughts that assailed her.

Olaf’s expression did not change, and nor did he rise. “Very well,” he said, voice - she would later think - unexpectedly gentle.

Her sleeplessness that night was not solely, or even mostly, due to her dreams. She remembered the whispers that had fed into her, all of the vengeance of Morgause and the solipsism of Cenred and the anger of Agravaine, and before them all when she had been angry but had wanted change more than revenge, and suddenly she felt very alone in her own head. She wondered what had happened to being twenty instead of four-and-twenty, of not knowing truths but equally not knowing lies, and pretended that she shivered with the cold and not with suppressed tears.

The next morning she rose chattering with cold and with shadows plum-dark beneath her eyes. A maid appeared, helped her perfunctorily to dress, and when the guards appeared at her door Morgana merely sighed as she turned to them.

“Where am I expected today?”

“The King wishes for you to speak to the Lady Vivian once again.”

She suppressed a grimace. “Naturally. Very well.” Setting aside the book that she had been about to open, she scooped up the cloak that she had taken to wearing about the castle, and went to follow the guards. It probably should have been something of a compliment that she was no longer kept under lock and key, but Morgana did not much like being at Olaf’s beck and call with the threat of death still hanging over her head.

Still, at least it was better than death. It seemed that everyone with whom she had tried to ally herself had defected or been killed, and she was being left ever more alone in her black gown and witch’s cottage.

On her way up the steps to Vivian’s tower, she stumbled on the hem of her current too-long, floral dress, and rolled her eyes whilst she bit back a curse on the thing. It would probably not be too popular a declaration to make. If the next dress was this ill-fitting, Morgana was considering taking to a needle and thread herself to try to correct it; embroidery and sewing were fitting activities for a king’s ward, at least, and she had turned them to more practical uses when she had found herself exiled and in need of clothes. It was remarkable what skills could be discovered by need.

Straightening, she continued up the stairs, holding up the front of her skirt in an iron grip. With the guards at Camelot, she might once have shared a conspiratorial laugh, but this was a world far different, and she was far different besides.

One of the guards unlocked the door and stepped through, bowing from the waist. “Your Highness, the Lady Morgana wishes to speak with you.”

“A pity,” came the sharp reply. “For I do not wish to speak with her.”

Compared to all of the previous weeks, Vivian sounded the most like herself in that moment, and Morgana wondered whether she should be glad of that or offended at the response itself. She settled for voicing neither, and waited whilst the guard apparently scrambled for a suitable reply. Nothing was forthcoming, however, and Morgana pushed past him into the room.

“Doubly a pity,” she said. “For I am going to anyway.”

Vivian was sitting in her bed, knees tucked up to her chest, toying with a curl of her hair which she had drawn over her shoulder. She was pouting, and but for the look in her eyes, still glazed, half-dead, she would have looked like the Vivian that Morgana remembered once again.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Vivian said again, though at least this time it was directed to Morgana rather than merely spoken about her. “You won’t help me.”

Morgana nodded to each of the guards, who regarded her warily but without a word took up their positions inside and outside the door. She crossed the floor, footsteps muffled on the sheepskin rug, and sat down in the chair at Vivian’s bedside. Vivian shot her a look that had a shadow of its old venom to it.

“That depends on what help you are searching for.”

“I want Arthur. You won’t help me to get back to him, or contact him, or anything. So you aren’t of any help at all.”

“Then what do you think that I am here for?”

This, at least, caused Vivian to pause in stroking her hair and purse her lips. Morgana folded her arms in a sort of petty triumph, settling into the chair more quickly this time.

“Aside, of course, from wearing all of the cast-off dresses you have decided are beneath you over the last few years.”

“My father probably thinks that you will be able to dissuade me from my love for Arthur,” replied Vivian finally, airily, flicking her hair back so that she could cross her hands prettily across her knees and lean against the headboard. She looked up at the canopy above her bed as if she was looking for shapes in the clouds. “Probably thinks that you’ll put some spell on me or something, or if he doesn’t allow you to do that then maybe he thinks that I’ll be reminded that Arthur is your brother.”

“So the secret to ending the love for all ages is to just find some undesirable relatives? Hardly seems worth it.”

She did not dwell on the fact that, once again, she was reduced to her connection to the King of Camelot. Vivian, however, seemed somewhat insulted by the slight to her great love affair, to judge by the fact that she clenched her hands into fists and pulled them tighter against each other.

“No. I will not be torn away from my Arthur by something as simple as that. I will not, I will not, I will not.” She slammed her fists down on the bedcovers beside her on the final declaration, with a bounce that sent her hair flying and flouncing around her.

“Well, at least I’m not that undesirable, then.”

Vivian crossed her arms, stuffing her fists beneath her armpits, and shoved her legs out straight across the bedclothes, ankles still demurely crossed. There was an angry flush to her cheeks.

“Anyway,” Morgana continued, as if they were doing nothing more than conversing about dresses to make sure that they did not wear the same colour to a feast, “tell me, then. What was it that made you fall in love with Arthur?”

“I just knew,” replied Vivian archly. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the spill of her hair, something which she seemed to realise as she reached up to push it back into place. “It came to me in my dreams, that I had been wrong all along, and then I woke up in the morning and I knew.”

Morgana carried the words away into her mind, holding tightly to them. At night, then, the spell must have been cast, placing Arthur into Vivian’s dreams. But the spell that had been similarly placed upon Arthur had been broken, and during the short time between rounds of battle at that.

In more recent days, she might have assumed that it was Emrys’s doing, to undo strong magic at the snap of his fingers. Then, however, her magic had been only burgeoning, and they had not yet begun to clash. There must therefore have been something else that broke the spell, and she clung to that thought.

“And you knew that he loved you also?”

“Oh yes. He had told me as such, before, when I was too blind to have seen.” Anger dissipating, Vivian gave a wistful sigh, and tilted her head back dreamily. “When I knew, I attempted to reach him, but... something stood in my way. I don’t recall what.” She shook her shoulders, then continued; Morgana could only assume that anything not directly related to Arthur was clearly irrelevant to this story. “In any case, I awoke again, and... he was there.”

A sigh, filled with youthful joy, and Vivian looked at least for a moment to be twenty-two years old again.

“He took me in his arms, kissed me-”

It seemed that she was ready to rapturously continue, and Morgana interrupted before the conversation could turn to a direction which she certainly did not want to think about where Arthur was concerned. “Your dream,” she said. “Tell me more about your dream.”

“It was just sort of... a realisation,” Vivian gushed. She put one hand to her chest, fingers spread as if she was holding her own heart in her chest. Ever the one for dramatics, Morgana thought. “It came to me all at once: what a good man Arthur was, how devoted he was to his men, to his people, how honourable, how...” she sought words, and Morgana waited with a morbid fascination to see what would come next. “Strident he was.”

At a feast, she would have pretended to drink in order to hide the choke of shock and laughter that threatened to bubble over her lips; now, she stared fixedly at a point just above Vivian’s shoulder.

“And how handsome, as well... his blue eyes like the finest lapis, his golden hair like... gold in the sunlight.”

Morgana supposed that she couldn’t really argue that comparison.

“And his voice! Oh, I could speak forever about his voice...”

After a while, it started to feel as if she did. As long as she pretended that she was listening to Vivian talk about some nameless, imaginary suitor, however, Morgana found that it was relatively easy to bear her babbling, and relatively comforting to hear her speak with actual enthusiasm on something again. All the while, she listened for words that seemed out of place on the princess’s tongue, anything that did not seem as if it could come from within the Vivian that she had known, and waited to see what might form out of words spoken in enchanted innocence.

It seemed to be an eternity later when Morgana finally disentangled herself from the enraptured Vivian. They had spoken - mostly, Vivian had spoken - at great length about those fateful days in Camelot, of everything which had been occurring whilst Morgana had been more interested in keeping track of the negotiations as they took place. She had not been allowed to sit at the table whilst discussions were happening - although Arthur would have been, had he deigned to be there for more than the first day - but she had been allowed into the room, and had watched carefully to see how politics played out around a table of supposed equals.

She felt as if her mind was stuffed with wool by the time that she left Vivian’s quarters, hours after they had eaten lunch together sitting cross-legged on the bed and supposedly reminiscing about days gone by. In truth, Morgana’s stomach had twisted too much to eat, but her tongue had been too tied to speak, and she had chewed her food to liquid whilst Vivian spoke.

No doubt Olaf would, at least, be relieved that his daughter was capable of speech once again; speech in great quantities, no less. The sky had grown dark, and Morgana’s stomach was growling no matter how much she tried to ignore it, as she was escorted to Olaf’s chambers to give her description of what had passed during the day.

Olaf was seated at his desk once again, this time with both wine and food set before him as he read over a message. A broken wax seal still clung to the end of the scroll, and Olaf’s deep frown betrayed how unwelcome it was.

“You bring news of Vivian,” he said, without looking up, as she was guided to sit in the chair opposite him. He waved a hand towards the barely-touched platter of food before him in what she would hazard a guess was an invitation. “How did the day go?”

“She spoke to me,” Morgana said. His eyes were still tracing the writing on the parchment. “At great length, and not just about Arthur.”

Finally, his full attention shifted to her, and he dropped the parchment to the table. His expression grew more difficult to read, something hopeful mixed in with something that she could not quite define, and she swallowed before continuing.

“Some of it was about him, but... some of it was not. We spoke about Camelot, and some of the time that we spent together as children.”

“Was it... true, what she said?” The hard tone of royalty had gone, replaced with a carefully-phrased hope that even Morgana could not miss.

“Other than some exaggeration over how much she actually liked Arthur when we were children, yes. It was... correct.”

She knew why they both lingered over the words, so carefully chosen. If what Vivian had said related well to what had happened in the past, it made it seem more likely that Vivian herself was really there, that the magic which had wormed its way into her had not done too much damage in its wake.

There were no more words for her to offer afterwards, however. The thought that the spell must have been cast into Vivian’s dreams was still too much of a possibility, rather than a certainty, and there was nothing of which she could be certain.

“May I ask what you are reading? It seems to trouble you.”

Even to her own ears, the words were bold. In years gone past she would have stood at Uther’s shoulder and asked the same question, whilst with Arthur she would generally have just taken the parchment from his hand and laughed at his annoyance. It seemed a far-off time. In her own short reigns there had not been time for such, and part of her had felt as if she was merely sitting on a throne, owner of a castle rather than ruler of a kingdom.

Olaf glanced to the parchment and back again, breathed out between pursed lips, then placed it down on the table and slid it across towards Morgana. “It is another report from the villages,” he said, as she spun it round to let her eyes skim over it. The writing was simple, unembellished, but practiced enough to be neat. “You heard, before, about some sort of creature that has been abroad in my Kingdom. At first, I thought that it was a rumour and fear, nothing more, but there are more stories appearing.”

“Deaths?”

“Some. And more disappearances. But the disappearances are of young women, or even girls, and it is frightening people more, I think, than if it were men.”

Morgana did not say aloud that as far as she had seen, men were little more likely to go looking for trouble than any other group, or that the fearlessness of children made them seem bound for danger on occasions. She did know, however, that all too often fear could outstrip its origin.

“The women are genuinely missing? They have not run away from home, perhaps with a lover?”

Olaf’s grunt indicated that he had entertained the same thought. “I had someone ask, but the girls are the only ones missing from each village. And although some of them are near or just past twenty, the youngest was only eleven. Besides, this is the sixth disappearance, and people are frightened. I doubt girls would be choosing this time to run away in numbers.”

She had to allow a nod in response, reading further down. Olaf had clearly sent one of his knights to investigate, and the report which he had sent back was disturbing but also vague. As she reached the end, she turned over the parchment as if expecting more, but it was of course blank.

Morgana sighed. “Hounds, they say.” Her fingers traced across the parchment as her mind worked. “Only hounds. No horses, no riders, no horns. And reports are confusing as to where the sounds are even heard from.”

“Exactly,” said Olaf. It interrupted her thoughts, and Morgana bit back the urge to scowl and order him silent whilst she thought. “At first I was uncertain, but frankly I don’t doubt that there is something on my hills, taking my people.”

The possessiveness in his voice was sharp, and Morgana almost bristled against it, but at the same time she could hear nothing cold in it. She supposed that it was Olaf’s brand of paternal instinct, the same one which held her against her will and as fugitive from Camelot in the desperate hope of removing the spell which had been cast on Vivian.

“More than that, the people believe that there is magic involved.”

Her eyes flicked upwards. Olaf reached forwards and leant both elbows on the table, twining his fingers together as he regarded her coolly.

“From these descriptions, and from what you have said, I am inclined to think that they are right. Therefore I want you to come with me and my men when we go to investigate tomorrow.”

Disbelief flashed through her, and her expression must have betrayed it from the way that Olaf sighed and shook his head. Morgana shifted uncomfortably in her chair, one hand gripping the arm for some sort of stability, and drew herself more upright. “You have all but banned me from leaving the castle before now, and certainly banned me from busying myself with anything other than Vivian’s health. This is a change, to say the least.”

“Until this point, the greatest magical threat within my sights has been that which lies on Vivian,” replied Olaf curtly. “Now, it seems, there is another.”

“And for some unfathomable reason, you have only one magic user with whom to talk.” Morgana found her tongue, though she rather had the suspicion that she would regret the words later. She could see anger boiling under Olaf’s skin already, in the way that his lips pulled tight and he placed his hands flat on the table, fingers spread. Before he could say anything, she rose sharply to her feet, a whirl of movement which had years of arrogance behind it, and stepped to stand behind the chair. “Perhaps you should have considered magical defences before you presumed all magic was an offence. The deal was that I work on healing Vivian, not answer to your beck and call.”

She spat the words, with all of the venom of the sorceress and the self-assurance of the king’s ward, wound together in her past. On the last word, Morgana slapped her hand on the back of the wooden chair with a dull thud, and turned to leave.

“And perhaps, with Uther’s death and the shift of power, there will be a time for magical defences once again. But for now, there is nothing, and people are dying.”

It was the former part of his speech which stopped her, but the latter which made her clench her fists and stop in her angry strides. One slow breath, and then she bowed her head just slightly before half-turning, and looking back over her shoulder. “What makes you so sure that I will care?”

He could have replied that the thickness in her voice let him know, and it probably would have been a fair response. Equally the fact that she had stopped, or the fact that in the conversations they had already had she had given him enough clues. It was only as she asked the question that she became aware of all of the answers herself.

Olaf did not offer her a reply.

“What do you want from me, on this matter?” she asked. Her voice had fallen quieter, more serious, without anger - forced or otherwise - to fuel her.

“I want you to offer me the explanations that I cannot find elsewhere.” She had not expected words of that sort, especially not from a man like Olaf. To accompany, he had thought she might have said, or to speak of magic. She did not expect so blunt an explanation that was, at the same time, so redolent with undertones. “I need your help, Morgana, it is as simple as that.”

She nodded, unable to find words, then turned to leave. The tightness in her chest felt almost like relief as, this time, she was allowed to go.

Chapter Seven
They rode out at dawn, thin grey light painting the landscape in monotone that made Morgana regret her words all over again. Damp crept into her bones, a cold that seemed to be completely independent from the rain and lingered even when the sun came out. Olaf headed the short column, with a half dozen of his knights, servants leading pack-horses, and Morgana with her hands loosely bound and wearing the most practical and most ill-fitting garments that she had yet endured.

The ride lasted almost all of the day, with only a brief break when the sun was at its highest, which seemed more meant for the comfort of the horses than for that of the men. Morgana took the opportunity to walk around, under the watch of the men and keeping her hands clasped so as to mask as much as possible the humiliation of the rope that was wrapped around them.

Under sunlight, Morgana had to admit that Powys was a somewhat more attractive country, though still not so fine as Camelot in the summer. In her childhood visits she had not much cared for the land, and her memories of those times seemed to be of unending rain that kept her, Arthur and Vivian cooped up together in the castle to endlessly annoy each other. With an adult eye, she could see that Powys was not so rich in colour as Camelot, like a watercolour placed beside an oil painting, but had a beauty all the same. Clouds shimmered like fish-scales in the sky, and a cool dry breeze gave an edge to the air which warned that a deeper cold was possible. Up on the hilltops, the horizon stretched long and lazily around the world, not breeched by forests like she was used to, and with valleys dropping out of sight rather than hills reaching upwards. It was as if the relief of the land had been reversed, life taking place on the crest of the kingdom rather than in its valleys.

She was not sure how long she stood looking out, sinking into memories of the times that she had spent here, or Vivian in Camelot, when they were children. At one point, she had thought that it would be grand to have another girl to be on her side in fights with Arthur, only to find that, with Vivian present, she was siding with Arthur more often.

“It takes a while to see that it is beautiful.” She started at Olaf’s words and almost shied away from him, but he was still gazing out into the distance as well. “Eventually, you realise.”

“It is good, at least, to be out of the citadel,” Morgana replied. It came out rather sharper than she had imagined it, but then she remembered her weeks trapped in the castle and felt justification flood back.

Olaf gave a low huff of breath, but replied civilly enough. “Well, I am glad that things can be considered to be improving.”

For that, she had no reply, and tightened the grip of one hand around the other wrist as she heard Olaf walk away again. Only moments later, the sound of people moving and talking announced that the train was to move on again, and she returned before she could need to be summoned like a stray dog. She managed to return to the saddle with a minimum of aid, and they turned eastward again as the sun began to turn behind them.

Nobody had told her the name of the village by the time that she set foot to ground in the midst of it. A handful of people, mostly men but with a couple of stern-faced women, were gathered in the centre and clearly meant to have been bought together to petition the King. Olaf dismounted to stand in front of them, rather than speaking down at them from a height, and those of his knights closest to him followed suit. Morgana untangled her wide skirt and slid down from the saddle as well, slipping forward to stand at Olaf’s shoulder and make her own survey of the group.

Fear hung in the air as thick as sea-mist. The clouds were thickening overhead as the afternoon wore on, but Morgana had no doubt that the fear had preceded the overcast and would outlast it as well. Although each would glance at Olaf in turn, none of them would say more than one or two phrases, save for the man who begged for his daughter to be found, before it was too late.

He would not say what it would be too late for.

They tarried for some time, but it became rapidly apparent that there was little that the people would say in front of the King, even less than had been outlined in the report that had been sent back. Morgana could see the nervousness among the villages as clearly as Olaf’s mounting annoyance, and was not at all surprised when, with a curt dismissal, he announced that he was going to see the camp set up before anything further would be done.

The knights and the servants worked together to set up the tents, starting with Olaf’s and working outwards. Morgana was allowed to stand aside as they did so, and tried to stay discreetly out of the way whilst stretching her aching limbs and at the same time revelling in the burn of her muscles in the wake of having worked so hard. Olaf moved among the men, talking to one or two, giving orders here and there but not needing to raise his voice to be listened to.

Compared to Prince Arthur, who trained and joked and laughed with his men, Olaf had seemed distant and stern to her when they were children. She could not help but suppose, however, that compared to Uther he had not grown so distant with age, nor so obsessive. Powys had kept mostly to itself over the years, with little to no trouble within its borders and a careful eye on the problems of others, whilst Camelot had bounded across the political attentions of all of its neighbours, and continued to do so into King Arthur’s reign.

The tent set up for her was barely high enough to sit up in, and she hoped that it was as waterproofed as she had been assured. By the time that the men were starting to build a fire to prepare dinner, Olaf’s far larger tent had been set up, crisp and pale against the deepening dark of the sky, and he had disappeared from her view.

Frustration beaded under Morgana’s skin. She could feel the fear in the air, and stronger still the magic that burned across the land, raw and wild. And he had walked away from it. Head held high, she marched over to the tent, rather thrilled to find herself unchallenged as she threw open the doorway and stepped in.

It was sparse, with only a rug of hides across the floor, a low bed unrolled in one corner, and a desk and folding chair in the centre. She had expected to find Olaf there, but it was empty. Perhaps, she had to think, that was why she had been let into the tent in the first place.

The desk was almost bare as well, a writing-box set to one side and a lamp providing the only light. Morgana looked over it, trailed her bound hands around the worn edge, and then rather unceremoniously sat on one corner. It was probably not the most comfortable thing that she could have done considering the effects of a day’s riding, but she grimaced and shifted her weight to the least sore part of her rear and turned to face the door.

It was not long before Olaf appeared in the doorway, boots caked in mud and frown etched on his face. He stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Morgana, now rather lounging against his desk with the haughtiest look that she could muster.

“Why are you ignoring the people of the village?” she asked before he could order or ask her to move.

“I am hardly ignoring them,” he replied, dropping the tent flap closed behind him and shucking off his gloves, “when they refuse to talk to me in the first place.”

“Of course they’re not talking to you,” she said. “Magic is against the law of the land. Anybody who knows what is going on here must have knowledge of magic, and they fear they will be executed for it!”

“Nobody has been executed in years,” Olaf snapped. His cloak whipped behind him as he strode to his desk in the centre of the great tent, sitting down at the table set beside it as if he was taking to his throne again.

“Well, unfortunately peoples’ memories last for more than a few years.”

She was rewarded with a glare, one which she perhaps deserved but was not really in the mood to receive. There had been too many people who had come to her in secrecy, with hoods drawn low or mufflers wound high. Though that was before she even became particularly angry at the world, before she started to frighten people away with her clothes and shouts and the whispered rumours of what she could do.

“They’re frightened of being punished, Olaf,” she said, this time with a sigh as she folded her arms across her chest - a gesture made awkward by the ropes tying them together - and leant her hip against the desk.

“That is, after all, the point of punishment.”

“Well, it is not helping you here.”

Olaf’s look became more pointed, one hand coming to rest on the table whilst the other propped up his chin. They both knew the background of this argument was: not the fact that the people were too scared to speak to him on this issue, but that it had come from Uther’s anger and fear, that the other kings had deferred to him and allowed his madness to infect their kingdoms, and that Morgana had come at least in part from the world which Uther had created. They both knew that the world could have been very different.

Morgana gave a sigh, dropping her arms back in front of her again and leaning a little more of her weight on the desk. “I can feel the magic here, Olaf. It burns in the air, it stinks. And unless there is something in this village which makes the world strange indeed, there is at least one person here who knows it. But they will not talk to you.”

“Then what do you suggest? Disguise one of my men, send them out instead? Or send Aeslyn, perhaps? She used to keep the company of magic-users, in the days when magic was much a part of healing.”

To be frank, Morgana had little doubt that Aeslyn was a magic-user as well, albeit one whose magic was less strong, less dominating, than that of some others. It was in the same way that she had often suspected that Gaius had more knowledge of magic than someone who did not use it would ever have need of.

“There are those whom people will talk to about magic. About the Old Religion.”

This time, it seemed, he caught her meaning, and frowned at her. “You mean to approach them yourself.”

“I mean to let them approach me, which is not quite the same thing.”

She could see the struggle written on his face. Even while she was his prisoner, even with bonds on her wrist to constrain her magic and ropes to constrain her movement, he knew that she was and could be powerful, a figurehead in her own right for defiance and magic. They both knew it, just as they both knew that people were frightened and awed by her in equal measure. But equally, he knew that she was right, and that the people would talk to her in a way in which they never would to him or to his men.

“Very well,” he said finally, so quietly that she almost did not hear it, and a smirk found her lips. This time, however, it did not feel as venomous as it once had. She drew herself upright again, and extended her wrists towards him.

“So, am I to be released?”

“And what would there be to prevent you from leaving? I have nothing that I can ask to hold in ransom, and I am not sure that there is anyone about whom you particularly care anymore.” Olaf had not moved from his seated position, although the fingers still resting on the desk’s edge now scratched, rather than tapped, at its surface. With some effort, Morgana did not allow her face to show the pain which his words stirred, the reminder which he probably did not mean to give her.

“My honour?”

He simply gave her a pointed look. The unspoken words were clear: where was her honour when she had usurped both her father and her brother in the past two years alone?

“I am here to address this magic. It will do me no good if I feed you lies, or run out onto the highlands with no food, no water and no protection. More than that, I have no magic. Even without these creatures abroad on the hills, I would be endangered. Think of me what you will, but do not think me a fool.”

She turned her hands slightly, bending the thick knot of rope between her wrists towards him. Olaf looked at it for a moment as if in consideration, then rose to his feet, drawing a dagger from his belt. Even knowing on a rational level that he would not hurt her, she could not help the shiver of fear that ran down her spine at its glint in the torchlight. A cold touch against the inside of her wrist, and then the rope was cut through. Stifling a gasp, Morgana kept her hands still whilst Olaf removed the rope and cast it to the ground before sheathing his dagger and returning to his seat.

“Go, then,” he said curtly, looking to the ground. Morgana bowed her head, though he probably did not see the gesture, and turned to leave. It was not until she was outside the tent that she ran her hands over her chafed wrists and gave a soft sigh of relief.

For once, it did not rain as Morgana slipped to the edges of the camp, and beyond the line of guards. They watched her warily, but did not speak out against her as she disappeared from their sight and walked towards the village. The air was chill but clear, and although there were still some clouds the moon shone through enough to light her way. Morgana only stumbled twice, cursing muddy ground and ill-fitting boots each time, before she reached the edge of the village.

To call it a village was probably a compliment; it was a cluster of houses that nestled into a slight hollow on one of the long peaks of hill, just sheltered enough to escape from the worst bite of the wind that still cut through Olaf’s camp and threatened to put out any torch taken outside.

Morgana stood in the lee of one of the houses and waited. The village was deserted, windows shuttered and darkened, with fear cloying in the air. She knew that she was a shadowed figure amongst many other shadows, even if she was no longer garbed in pure black, with her hair tousled by the wind and dark shadows beneath her eyes from a lack of sleep. It did not take long, however, before she heard a door open; she stepped forward to create a better silhouette as she wrapped her arms around herself.

A cloaked figure appeared between two houses, hood pulled low and shoulders bent to disguise whatever might distinguish them. Morgana was not concerned with such an appearance, considering that most of those who had approached her in the past had been similarly disguised, and she turned to face them.

“You are the last High Priestess of the Old Religion.”

The voice was female, aged, and as they raised their face Morgana caught a wisp of white hair just visible in the moonlight. This woman must have lived for almost all of Morgana’s lifetime in fear of the law which banned even the smallest knowledge of the practice of magic. Before that, it had not even been a crime; suddenly, at the word of five men and in all truth the will of one, everything had changed in the Five Kingdoms.

“My name is Morgana.”

The old woman nodded, fast and nervously, and stepped closer. Without a word, Morgana took the hands that were offered to her, feeling the cold of the flesh and the frailness of skin stretched tight over bone.

“The King has come for the beasts on the hills, but his hunting cannot defeat them.”

Her voice was hoarse with age and low with fear, but there was a melodiousness to it, which must have once made it utterly beautiful. Morgana had heard of people who could weave magic into song, and could not help but wonder if this woman had been one of them. Now, though, their hands clutched tightly at each other, desperation giving the woman a greater strength.

“He already fears as much,” Morgana replied. It was all but against the law of the land to speak so unkindly of the King, not matter how true it might be, but she hardly thought this was the time to pander to a royal ego by lying to one of his people. “It is why he has not bought only his knights with him.”

“There is great power in these hands,” said the woman, with another of those fast nods, even as her fingers slipped down to brush against the white sateen bonds. “Great power in them still... do you know what these creatures are?”

“No. That is what I came to find out.”

“They are the night hunt, my priestess. They are summoned by the old creatures, on the nights when the walls between this world and others wear thin.”

“What hunters drive the hounds?”

“Shadows and darkness. They need no people; magic guides them.”

Barely had the words left the woman’s lips when a great howl, loud enough to split the sky in two, crashed through the air with the clarity of ringing steel. Morgana grabbed the old woman close to her chest, magic rising in her head automatically and burning behind her eyes, but unable to vent itself.

“Their cries lie,” the woman said. “They are far from here now. Besides, it is three nights since they were here, and three nights before that they were elsewhere again. They will be at the next village by now.”

“Which way?” Morgana pulled away, turning so that she could see the woman’s face. Their sharp movements had thrown down her hood, and she could see now the woman’s face: sharp planes of bone overlain by skin so pale it was almost silver in the moonlight, lines around eyes and mouth creating flickers of shadows which only just stopped her face from looking like a skull. Her eyes, though, were piercing green, an almost unnatural shade, and shone with what might have been tears. “Which way are they going?”

“They move due west,” the woman replied. “They chase the sun, chase the night.”

West, into the sunset. They had ridden east to reach this place, and suddenly Morgana knew where the path of the hunt would end. “Thank you,” she said, and planted a kiss on the woman’s hand. “Thank you.”

She could not wait for a reply. Releasing the hands she clasped, turning away from the figure looking to her, she ran, feeling immediately the strain in limbs that had not moved so vigorously in many weeks now. Her muscles burned, the air felt hot in her lungs, but there was something liberating about being able to run again, feeling the ground disappearing beneath her feet. It was more freeing than riding, especially at night with her breath making small puffs of mist around her mouth and her clenched fists stinging in the cold air.

This time the guards at the edge of the camp did not recognise her, wisping through the night like a ghost, and they shouted a challenge to her as she neared them. She did not have the breath to reply, nor to do anything more than pant angry words as one of them plucked her from the road, pinning her arms behind her back, and the other held her at swordpoint.

“Let - let go! I have news for the King! It is important!”

“It’s the wi- Morgana,” one of them said gruffly, and at any other time she would either have laughed or spat at him for daring to either call her a witch or use her name. Or, perhaps, treated him to the feel of what her magic could do - just a taste, just a drop from the ocean that swirled within her. “It’s her!”

Her arms were released, and she staggered to her feet before them, still panting for breath. “I have news for the King. The beasts will not be here tonight - we must head west if-”

Another howl cut through the air, this one even louder than before. It made the very earth rattle, and Morgana felt the scream of magic within it, scraping like a knife along her bones. “They’re getting closer,” one of the men said, hand going to the pommel of his sword.

“No! It is the night hunt, the wild hunt, whatever you wish to call it! We will not hear the next call; they are moving on!”

She wrested herself free of the grip still on her arm and ran again, this time for the centre of the camp. Her side burned, more from lack of fitness more than wound, and she clamped one hand to it as she pushed between the two guards outside Olaf’s tent. She stumbled in, hair clinging to her face, tracking mud and with bright burning cheeks against the icy cold of the rest of her skin.

“What on this earth are you doing?” Olaf demanded, springing to his feet. Several of his knights and two men not in armour, presumably lords, were standing around him in a rough circle, at the centre of which Morgana now found herself.

She paused to drag in a breath. “I spoke to one from the village who has heard of these creatures. The Wild Hunt walks your hills.”

“The Wild Hunt is a myth.”

“If I had my magic I could summon them myself,” she spat, and saw more than one of the men in the room flinch. In fact, she did not know whether or not she even told the truth: it was said that some of the great sorcerers and sorceresses of old had been able to call up the spectral hounds to do their will, but Morgana could not vouch for the accuracy of the stories, let alone whether she would be powerful enough to match the feat. “Wherefore do you think your myths even come?”

The question was shot towards the lord who appeared to be quailing most visibly, before Morgana turned to Olaf once again.

“The Wild Hunt is on your hills, and its steps turn west. I know not how many it has been sent for, or even if it will end, but it heads towards the citadel.”

Olaf drew in his breath sharply, both of his hands clenching into fists atop the desk in front of him. “So far it has taken six women, and killed four men.”

“It will be seven women if you do not stop them tonight.”

They would not have time to strike the camp; there would barely be time to saddle the horses and ride out if they were to make it to the next village in time. A muscle in Olaf’s jaw clenched as he hesitated for a moment, and then he gave a curt nod and turned to his knights. “Ready the horses. We ride immediately.”

AO3 | Paper Legends | LJ Masterpost
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

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