3.50 – Queen’s Gambit

Disclaimer: awful-ish. 😐 Par for the course? Eh, it’s hard to tell sometimes.

“…I see. You don’t deny it.”

“You say that as if denying it would not be utterly pointless,” Morgana replied, her voice masking a rage that barely simmered beneath the surface. She could feel the massive surge of magick that flowed through her. Morgana knew that it was visible. At least to Morholt. The witch was lucky that they were far away from other nobles, and that the shadowy balcony was largely out of view – but in that moment, Morgana didn’t care. Anger had completely taken over. She didn’t care if Morholt saw what she was. To the contrary. She wanted him to see.

She wanted to tear him to pieces.

The Witch Hunter was armed. She knew that the sword on his hip could easily, effortlessly, cut her in half. Morgana had expected him to try and strike her down – but Morholt did not react the way that she thought he would. He didn’t go for his weapon. He didn’t turn sideways and shift into a fighting stance. He didn’t even flinch. Morholt looked completely unfazed. Morgana watched, confused, as the Witch Hunter broke eye contact with her and stared up at the ceiling.

“You’re right,” he sighed. “It would be pointless.”

She still couldn’t read him. Even now, in the middle of her ballroom and with all her cards laid out on the table, Morgana still wasn’t able to read his hand.

But that was fine. She didn’t need to read him. It wasn’t necessary.
Morholt the Witch Hunter didn’t need to be understood.

He needed to die.

“You use whatever tools necessary, Morgana. Do you understand?”

“The key is willpower. Determination. Strength of character. It is quite simple, Morgana. Will for me to hear you, and I shall.”

“If you’re powerful enough… you could heal a badly damaged heart.”

“You could even stop it from beating altogether, if you wished.”

Deep down… Morgana knew that she could.

“So?” she asked, aggressively crossing her arms as she stared the Witch Hunter down. “What is your next step? What brand of execution do you prefer, Morholt? Let me guess – beheading?” Morgana guessed coldly. “No, you don’t strike me as the type. Burning me alive, then? A hanging would be quite dull. Not much of a reputation to gain from that. Would you simply throw me in a river with a stone tied around my feet? Or…”

Morgana took a few steps towards him, turning her back towards the balcony. She didn’t need to close her eyes anymore to ground herself. After the events of Walpurgisnacht, reaching out to the world around her had become as easy as breathing. She was able to do it almost instantly. She could, almost effortlessly, connect to the spirit that surrounded her. To the other nobles in the ballroom. To the servants that stood in the corners.

To him.

“Or would you have the crowd tear me to pieces, like you did in Scarborough?” Morgana whispered.

“…you know the woman.”

“I know the woman.”

Morgana had never tried to harm another person before. Not once. Not physically, and not with magick. In her seventeen years of life, the Royal Princess had never as much as left a scratch on another person. It simply hadn’t been needed. Morgana had never tried to wield a sword. She didn’t know how to protect herself with a shield or have any training in how to fire a crossbow. She had no idea how to defend herself.

But the witch knew exactly how to affect the human body.

And by now, Morgana was not unfamiliar with murder.

But she couldn’t do it here. Not in front of the entire court. And not without testing if she really could. Morgana had to wait. She had to plan this properly, instead of rushing in like a common simpleton. The witch had to be patient and bide her time, holding her breath until she could take care of Morholt for good.

And she would.
She had to.

As Morgana looked at the person in front of her, for split second, the witch could see an odd expression flash by on Morholt’s face. She’d almost missed it. The next second, the Witch Hunter had pulled back into a stoic, almost expressionless mask.

“There are two sides to witch a hunt,” Morholt eventually spoke. “One is magick. But the other is truth. There is not always a sorcerer to be found at the end of a hunt, but there is always a guilty party. There is always reason for hatred. For fear.”
“You speak of yourself, Morholt,” Morgana bit back. But the Witch Hunter shook his head in response.
“I do not. Let me clear up a misunderstanding, witch. I do not search for magick. I search for hatred. I search for guilt.”

Morgana raised a single eyebrow at his words. She wasn’t sure where Morholt was trying to go with this.
“Then you waste your time, Witch Hunter,” she sneered. “My conscience is clear—”
But Morholt interrupted her mid-sentence, cutting her off before she could finish speaking.
“That is a lie.”

“You are the Crown Princess of Camelot,” Morholt spoke. “You are Arthur’s right hand and Agravaine’s former pupil. You’ve seen a lifetime of cruelties inflicted on both sides of this war. A lifetime of spilled blood. Tell me, Morgana – how much of that blood is on your hands?”

The gall.

“None of it,” the witch hissed. She watched as Morholt shook his head at her a second time.
“That, too, is a lie.”

The Witch hunter took a step to the left. Morgana followed. It placed both of them behind the cover of the nearest plant, shielding them from the spectators on the eastern balcony. If Morgana wasn’t filled to the brim with disdain and anger, the sorceress would have thought more of it. Noticed it for the protective gesture that it was.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Morgana didn’t care.

“I know for a fact,” Morholt continued, his voice having grown so soft that it barely rose above the music, “that last year’s witch hunt was started over the sighting of a thin, dark-haired sorcerer. Your soldiers seem to have misunderstood what they saw. But it is not hard to connect the dots. And yet, you did nothing while your Royal Adviser targeted innocent townsfolk.”
“That is not true-” Morgana growled, but the Witch Hunter wasn’t letting her cut in.
“-Yet multiple people died as a result. Because of you. Am I incorrect?”

This time, Morgana’s growl was audible.
“I wasn’t even present!” she snarled. “If I had been, I would have protected them. I would have minimized the damage.”
“Indeed. Minimized being the keyword here,” Morholt said, his voice suddenly growing sharp. “I can also imagine how last year’s hunt would not have been the first time. How many lives have been lost for your safety, witch? How many innocent people have been silenced in order to keep your secret?”
“How dare you!” Morgana snapped, balling her fists as she felt a surge of magick and rage flow through her. “It’s not me who hurt them! It’s not me that’s killing them!”

In that moment, Morgana was ready to end him. Right then and there. Right on the balcony – consequences be damned.

But she hadn’t expected Morholt’s response to her outrage.

“You’re right. It is not you who killed them.”

“But it’s you who let them die.”

And Morgana finally realised.
The witch froze, paralysed and wide-eyed as it finally dawned on her. She hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t even considered it. But the truth was staring her square in the eyes. She didn’t need to reach out to Morholt to understand what he was. Morgana staggered backwards, dumbstruck, flinching and recoiling like she’d been physically struck with a whip.

It can’t be.

“You- you’re—”

“Be honest with me, witch. Can you truly say that you are innocent?”

“That you share no blame in the deaths of this Kingdom?”

“That you are without fault?”

“Here is the truth, Morgana Pendragon. I do not care that you are a witch. I care that you are guilty.”

Something snapped.

It was like she broke through a barrier. The witch could feel a strange, cold chill run down her spine. The next moment, the rage and hatred that was simmering in her chest vanished. It disappeared entirely, fading away into the darkness and being replaced by something else. Something new. Morgana could feel her lips pull into a smile. The witch kept eye contact with Morholt as she spread her arms, letting out an eerie, unnatural laugh that sounded nothing like herself.
“Fine,” she grinned at him. “Go on, then. Do it. Expose me.”

“That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Expose the evil sorceress to the world?” Morgana continued, her smirk growing into a wicked, all-out grin. She couldn’t feel her fingertips. She didn’t care. Morgana gleefully raised her hands in the air, taunting the man in front of her as she sneered:
“Go on, then. What are you waiting for? Do it. I won’t stop you. Go tell everyone. Go tell the King.”

“I can’t wait to see what Uther does to you after you baselessly accuse his favourite child. Imagine the outrage. The scars you left on Tyronoe will be nothing compared to the damage that the Iron King will inflict.”

“In fact – why wait?” she grinned, gleefully turning away from him. “Everyone is here. Downstairs, right at this moment. It’s the perfect time for an announcement, isn’t it?”
“Morgana-”
“Yes! I’ll go tell him myself!”

Morgana spun around, spreading her arms wide at the crowd below as she approached the edge of the balcony. She knew exactly how to draw everyone’s attention. She’d trained them for it. A short nod towards the musicians in the corner was enough to immediately them stop playing. The couples waltzing in the middle of the dance floor came to an abrupt, sudden halt. A confused murmur below her then gave way to silence. Morgana could see heads turn in her direction, the conversations below her halting in their tracks as the entire ballroom looked up towards the balcony. 

“Father,” the Princess smiled, her voice unnaturally saccharine. “Brother. Lovely nobles of court. May I have your attention, please? It seems that we have something to celebrate!”

“Our Witch Hunter has just brought me some wondrous news, you see!” Morgana continued, making an exaggerated gesture to the space behind her. “You know that Morholt of Northumbria has been searching tirelessly for a sorcerer in our midst. No more! It would seem that we have cause for celebration. Celebrate, everyone! You see—”

“Morholt has a declaration to make.”

Morgana glanced back, the surge of magick returning the second she laid eyes on him again. She could see Morholt looking at the crowd behind her. She knew that she’d just taken a huge risk. She knew that she had no backup. Nobody to catch her if he called her bluff, no one to save her if she’d misjudged her father.

Morgana was alone.

But she didn’t care. The witch could feel the rush of energy, the surge of adrenaline that coursed through in her body in waves. She’s never gambled with stakes this high before. Morgana looked at him expectantly, almost feverishly, willing for Morholt of Northumbria to move.

Come on.
Do it.

Do it.

Do it and perish.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the silence was broken by the sound of Morholt’s footsteps. Morgana watched in malefic glee as the Witch Hunter walked up next to her. He threw a brief glance at the crowd down below.
“She’s right,” he said. “I am close. You’ll soon have a culprit.”

He stepped back into the shadows almost immediately after, ignoring the surprised murmurs of the crowd. The whispering below slowly grew into cautious cheers, then applause. Morholt did not seem to care for any of it. The man closed his eyes, averting his gaze as he turned away from the balcony.
“I meant what I said. Camelot will have someone to blame… But it will be by your actions, Morgana. Not mine.”

The sorceress just glared at him in response.
“Coward,” she hissed.

“It is you who is a coward,” Morholt replied. “Lives are continuously lost for this charade of yours, Princess. Can you live with that? Could you really live with that?”

“Their deaths are not on me, Witch Hunter.”

For the second time in a row, Morgana could swear that she saw a strange expression flash by. Morholt narrowed his eyes, straightening his back as he looked down on her.
“We shall see, witch. We shall see.”

–

Morgana just barely made it out of the ballroom before her own body caught up with her. As she locked the hallway door behind her, using one of Sarah’s master keys, she could feel the adrenaline of her encounter with Morholt wear off. Her knees started shaking. Her fingers began to tremble. She could feel her heartbeat racing in her throat, her mind growing dizzy as the magnitude of what had just happened finally sank in.

Morgana turned around, leaning her back against the cold wall behind her as she tried to get a hold of herself. She suddenly felt incredibly cold. Her breathing had become ragged, halting in her throat a couple of times as she gasped for air.

The Witch couldn’t let go. Morholt’s words echoed inside her, digging deep into her chest and piercing her heart like the tip of a dagger.
“It is you who is a coward. Lives are continuously lost for this charade of yours, Princess.”

That’s not true.
It’s not true.

It’s not—

–

“…Sir Morholt?”

“I… I have some information for you.”

–

“You’re Arthur’s fiancé, correct?”

“Yes,” Mithian replied, wrapping her arms around herself as she looked down at the ground. “My name is Mithian of Nemeth. I’m Camelot’s future Queen. And… its prisoner, in a way.”

Morholt gave her a single nod in return.
“What have you come to tell me, Mithian of Nemeth?”

“It… it’s very delicate, sir. It concerns the Crown Prince.”
“Your future husband.”
“Yes. I… I love Arthur,” Mithian admitted softly. “He saved me from my family, and he’s been nothing but kind to me since I came to Camelot. I want a future here, alongside him. So I want to help Camelot in its time of need, too, and-”
“Get to the point, Mithian of Nemeth.”

She flinched. Morholt watched as the Princess of Nemeth shrunk into herself a little, bringing a hand up to her mouth.
“I… I worry for Arthur’s safety,” she muttered. “He’s not acting the way that he used to. He’s making decisions that he would never have made before, he’s skipping duties – it’s almost like… like he’s under some sort of spell,” she continued. “It’s not normal. I think… I think a witch might be influencing him. The same one that you’re seeking.”

“I see. Do you know who?”

“…Yes. I do.”

“In Lady Morgana’s household… There’s this maidservant…”

–

Lancelot du Lac knew something was wrong the second he noticed the doors on the balcony lock behind Morgana. The future Duke immediately excused himself from the ball, coming up with a half-baked excuse to leave. He quickly ran through the halls, looping around the other side of the upper hallway-

And the second he opened the double doors, his doubts were confirmed.

On the other side of the hallway, he could see Morgana. The witch was leaning heavily against the wall, panting, grimacing like she was in pain. He could see her entire body being enveloped in an eerie, red glow.

That couldn’t be good.

Lancelot ran up to her, instinctively reaching out and stopping inches away from the wine-coloured fabric of her dress. He could feel the swirling mess of emotions in the girl in front of him, sweeping through her like a hurricane. He could barely keep track. There were too many at once; anger, fear, rage, panic, sorrow, along with something else, something dark–
“Morgana, calm down—“

But the witch let out a pained grunt in response.
“I can’t. Lancelot, I want him dead.”

“Want who dead? Morholt? What happened? Morgana, you need to calm down, before—”

He didn’t get the time to finish his sentence. Lancelot could suddenly hear a rattling sound to his left. The future Duke instinctively stepped closer to Morgana, shielding her from view as door handle moved downward – but door didn’t open. It was locked. A few seconds later, he could hear heeled footsteps rapidly moving away from them.
The would-be knight breathed a short sigh of relief.

That was too close.

He knew that their stroke of luck wouldn’t last. The other door wasn’t locked, and Lancelot didn’t have a key. His honour wouldn’t let him search Morgana in her current state, either. He had to do something, fast. He had to take her away, hide her somewhere —

That would have to do.

“Morgana. Brace yourself. I’m going to carry you.”

Lancelot didn’t bother to wait for an answer. In a fluid movement, the future Duke put his arms around Morgana and picked her up, lifting her off the ground. He quickly marched away with her, closing the distance between them and what he knew was a servant’s closet. It wouldn’t have been his first choice. It wouldn’t have been his second choice, either.

But the chances that they’d be found in there were much smaller than when they were out in the open.

Inside, Lancelot quickly lowered his friend to the ground. The reddish glow around her had grown even worse in the few seconds that he’d carried her.
“Morgana,” he said, softly calling out to her. “Focus. You need to calm down.”

“I don’t want to calm down, I want to tear his head off—”

He’d never heard her talk like that before. Lancelot didn’t know what kind of mental demons his friend had gotten stuck with, what was causing her to be in this state. But he knew that he had to snap her out of it, and fast. He had to do something. Lancelot placed his hands on both sides of her head, forcing Morgana to make eye contact with him.
“Listen to me. I’ll make my next move now. Knight to H5.”

They hadn’t played in weeks. And in that moment, Morgana seemed just as likely to  explode on him as she was to respond. But it was the only thing that Lancelot could think of. It was the only thing he could do. The exact same thing that she’d done for him over two months ago.

“I don’t want to,” she hissed, speaking through clenched teeth. Lancelot doubled down in response.
“Come on, Morgana,” he pushed. “I’m counting on you. Don’t leave me hanging here. What move is next?”

It was working. Lancelot watched as the girl in front of him placed her hands on her chest, breathing in deeply before exhaling. The glow around her slowly began to dim.
“Morgana. What move is next?”

“Pawn to… d3.”
“Good. Bishop to B4.”

It took Lancelot another full minute to calm her down, and even longer for the red glow to vanish. But it worked. At the end of it, the glow around her had finally disappeared. Morgana leaned back against the wall, placing a hand on her head as she let out a long, defeated sigh.

He’d never seen her like that before.

“Thank you.”

The future Duke nodded at her in response. Lancelot quickly rose to his feet, listening at the door for a moment. Everything on the other side was silent.

They’d been very, very lucky.

With a short sigh, Lancelot turned to find a candle. Other than the little strip of light that shone underneath the door, the two of them were in complete darkness. He had to feel around for several seconds to find what he was looking for.

It wasn’t until he’d lit the candle that Morgana finally seemed to realise where she was.

“…Lancelot.”

“Morgana.”

He looked behind him to see a familiar sight. She’d finally recovered. And despite everything, a smirk had spread across her lips. Morgana grinned impishly at him as she glanced up from her spot on the floor.
“Did you just drag me into a broom closet?”

“Technically, I carried you into a broom closet.”

The witch let out a chuckle.
“Good lord. And to think that I gave Gawain grief.”