Chapter Text
PART ONE | The Dragon's Call
Prologue
“It is awful to want to go away, and to want to go nowhere.” | The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath
Morgana stood silently by a stained window of the corridor. A large axe was being sharpened by a knight on a wooden stage in the middle of the cobblestone street where the townspeople gather. A few passing merchants stopped to watch as well, but ultimately did not linger for long. Her mouth felt full and soft, like she’d stuffed her cheeks with rose petals. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breath without threat of choking on the air itself.
A boy, barely older than Arthur, was being sent to the gallows at Uther’s command later in the afternoon. She’d begged him to have mercy on the poor boy, to give him a chance to straighten himself out. Uther screamed that he was dangerous and she could take the boy’s place up on the stage if she was so opposed to it. The argument was over shortly after.
The boy was, after all, a wizard; caught practicing medicinal magic to save his dying mother and rejuvenate their garden. He did it so the two of them wouldn’t starve come winter. No one was harmed.
A crime without a victim, Morgana thought, ought to not be considered a crime at all. King Uther received word about the incident due to a suspicious neighbor. Their incentive was an order by the king, the promise of five pieces of gold to anyone who reported suspected witches and warlocks within all of Camelot’s territories.
It didn’t seem like enough money to sentence a man to death.
“Are you still pouting, Morgana?” Prince Arthur teased lightly when he noticed her standing in the empty hallway.
She glanced at him, but said nothing. He liked to fight with her, and there were times when she didn’t mind reciprocating. But after her yelling-match with the king she was in no mood to put up with the spoiled prince. She looked back out the window, they finished building the stage. All they had left to do was bring the boy and get the deed over with.
“Morgana,” Arthur sighed, his tone shifting to something akin to exasperation. “You cannot keep arguing with him over stuff like this.”
“Someone has to stand up to him,” She spat out, closing her eyes to shield herself from the sight below. Arthur placed a firm hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. It was the only way he knew how to offer comfort.
“Don’t torture yourself over it.” He said and left her to her thoughts. Arthur was never quite good at balancing Morgana’s personality with Uther’s. Both had such strong opinions and were stubborn to a fault. Neither could be persuaded once an idea was lodged in their heads. Morgana knew she shared this trait with the king, but in the complete opposite way of him. Her stubbornness was derived from compassion, not an itch for revenge.
A pressure began building in her head. A warning sign for one of her spells of headaches, which she was fairly accustomed to. She turned, wanting to retreat to her bed chambers, but the pounding of the drums drew her attention.
She was frozen in her spot, stuck staring down as the guards marched the boy up onto the stage. The boy’s body was forced down and he was made to kneel over a stone slab, the executioner tightened his grip on the ax. The drums continued for a few more beats and then there was silence.
Uther’s voice boomed out over the square. Morgana couldn’t see him, she didn’t want to. She only half listened when the king read off his crimes and she winced as the black-robed executioner swung the weapon in one fluid motion. A sickening thunk echoed in the streets. The crowd ooh’ed as his head rolled from the stone and bounced off the stage. His body went limp and blood pooled from the base off his neck.
A roaring scream erupted from a spot in the crowd. A scream of anguish and despair - a mother’s scream for her fallen son. She told Uther that he would pay for what he had done, threatened Arthur even. Uther tried to have her arrested, but she was a far greater witch than her son was a warlock. She vanished before anyone could touch her, and the king swallowed thickly. A moment passed, he looked over his shoulder, but nothing happened. He addressed the crowd once again, with a smile.
King Uther used the dead boy as an example and not even twenty seconds later announced that there was to be a banquet in the coming days. Morgana’s jaw tightened, and only then did she find the will to move. The pressure of her headache pounded, one to rival the drums from before. Each step she took felt as though it reverberated through her skull, it caused spots to dance in her vision.
She made it to her chambers and all but collapsed onto the mattress. Gwen, her serving girl, was startled at the sudden movement in the room.
“M’lady?” She looked up from the spot on the floor she was mopping.
“I’m alright, Gwen. Just another migraine.” Morgana’s brow furrowed deeper with every word. “Would you mind alerting Gaius that I’ll need another draft of migraine medicine?”
Gwen nodded and scurried out the door. Morgana allowed herself to succumb to the pain and fall into a light slumber.
———
It was much later when Morgana emerged from her bedroom. She wandered the halls, hearing the boisterous laughter of people from the throne room. She kept walking until she found herself back at the window from earlier. The courtyard was dark and the stage hadn’t been cleared. There was still blood staining the wood. Like a ghost in her ear, she could hear the screams from the mother of the boy.
“Morgana!” The King’s voice jolted her from her thoughts. She avoided Uther since their fight in the morning, but he was like a roach. Creeping in the corners of the castle and always showing up where he was the most unwanted.
“Yes?” She hummed and turned away from the window.
“What is it? Why are you not joining us at the feast?”
“I just don’t think chopping someone’s head off is cause for celebration.” Morgana spat out. She could hardly believe, after how she had already expressed her feelings, Uther could ask her that. As though everything she said was forgotten. With Uther, it may have been. “That poor mother.”
“It was simple justice for what he’d done.” Uther rolled his eyes.
“To whom? He practiced some magic, he didn’t hurt anyone!” Words that she had all but screamed in his face earlier. He didn’t listen then, and he wouldn’t now.
Uther’s face morphed into a furious glower. Each syllable he uttered more venomous than the next, “You were not there twenty years ago. You have no idea what it was like.”
“How long are you going to punish people for what happened then?” She demanded, her voice rising to match his.
“Until they realize that there is no room for magic in my kingdom!” He shouted, drowning out her voice. “You will be with me when I greet Lady Helen.”
Morgana scoffed at his words. “I told you I want no part in these celebrations.” She stared him down, unmoving and unwavering. His shouts, his demands, they meant nothing to her. He was a petulant child-like king with nothing to do but stomp his feet and demand more when there was nothing left to give.
“I’m your guardian! I expect you to do what I ask.” He shook his head and took a step towards her. As though he was trying to intimidate her. Morgana glared at him. “If you show me no respect at least respect our finest singer.”
Uther decided that the conversation was over. He turned, cape swooshing behind him. Morgana was not given t he chance to argue or retort. She knew, too, that it was no use. Even if she didn’t show up to the feasts over the course of the next few days, Uther would bring her down by force.
She may have lost the argument, but she could have the last word at least. As the king retreated back the way he came, she shouted after him: “You know, the more brutal you are the more enemies you’ll create!”
Uther shook his head as he stormed off, acknowledging her words and disagreeing all the same.
Morgana, more infuriated than before, abandoned her spot by the window and returned to her bed chamber. She could rebel for one more night.