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II: POWER AND PURPOSE

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐒. Dawn rose and gold light spilled from the edge of the horizon, flooding the fields with a newfound vitality. The shadows lifted from the lower town, and the cobblestone paths were illuminated by the rising sun. Ishild blinked, the dull warmth shining over her face. Crossing her legs over one another, she leaned further towards the glass, pressing her forehead against the metal frame. Her hands gripped the pole mechanism next to her leg, as she experimented for the fourth time that morning with wedging the window open. Just like the last three tries, the pole was stiff, and only made a high-pitched creaking noise when she applied more pressure. She tilted her head back, wincing as she hit the wall with a thump.

The night had held little else than displeasure. Between fiendish nightmares and her paranoid mind, she could find no rest. Ishild couldn't understand it; the last two nights had been fine enough. She had tossed and turned, taken walks along the darkened corridors in hopes of finding some solitude. Exhaustion weighed on her head, and yet she could not give into fatigue. She lingered wearily, eventually ending up on the ledge at her window, balancing on the edge of dreams. When dawn rose, Ishild was stirred by the clangs of industry from the lower town. Crows and pigeons croaked now and again, disturbing her every time she shut her eyes. She struggled to keep her head up against the wall. Groaning to herself, she scrubbed her face viciously. She had spent over a year sacrificing sleep for stumbling along the unmarked paths to her freedom. She wondered what sin her body was still trying to atone for, when she was so close to liberation.

The door opened suddenly, and Ishild jerked her head up from her hands. A maid floated into the room, with a basket at her hip. She carefully swooped her pastel skirts behind her, leaning to shut the door. She turned with the intention of swishing open the curtains, to find the princess half asleep on the windowsill.

"Oh! Lady Ishild?" She placed the basket down and came to her mistress's side. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Guinevere," Ishild replied, waving her hand. "I had a little trouble sleeping, that's all."

"My lady, you should be getting all the rest that you can. Come, let's get you back to bed," Guinevere said. She grabbed Ishild roughly by the arm and pulled her down from the windowsill. Ishild wobbled as her feet hit the ground, dizzied by the movement. She tried to pry away from the maid's grip, but her efforts were deficient.

"Guinevere, I don't—"

"With all due respect my lady, you do not particularly look well."

"I assure you, I'm fine. Besides, I can't stay in bed all day long. It will do me good to get some fresh air. I can manage, I promise."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now please, will you let go, your nails are digging into my arm."

Guinevere drew back her hand and bowed her head in apology. She lingered a moment longer, hesitating as she tried to place her words. "Do not push yourself today. You are still recovering, and Gaius said you need your rest. Speaking of which, you should tell him if you are having sleeping problems." Her eyes glimmered, and she smiled warmly. "He can prescribe a sleeping draught; he did so with Morgana."

"It's not a problem. I'm just a little disorientated in this new environment. I'll adjust."

The maid pressed her lips together and nodded. "Very well," she breathed. She took a few steps back and turned to tend to the tattered bedsheets. "Do you have any plans today, my lady?"

"No," Ishild said, teetering over to the vanity. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. "Though perhaps that's a good thing. You were far too kind about my appearance."

"I just meant you looked a little...dishevelled. I think you have a beautiful complexion," Guinevere said as she smoothed the bed covers. She rearranged the deflated cushions, fluffing and placing them at the headboard. "Lady Morgana was asking for you yesterday. She wanted to see if you would join her for breakfast."

"Oh," Ishild said.

The maid twisted her head back. "Would you like me to tell her you're indisposed? It wouldn't be an issue, Morgana would understand."

"No, I...tell her I'd be happy to join her."

"Ah. She'll be glad," Guinevere said, looking away. "You should get ready then, breakfast will be ready in about an hour." Once she was satisfied with the shape of the pillows, the maid placed the laundry basket onto the neatened sheets. Her fingers raked through the contents, till something gave her a start. She chuckled, looking back at the puzzled princess. "Goodness me, I almost forgot."

"What is it?"

"His Majesty, King Uther requested an audience with you yesterday. A servant was supposed to fetch you, but that never happened. Prince Arthur told me this morning about the whole affair, and said that I should take you to the King's chambers later today."

"Are you sure they asked for me?"

"Quite. They didn't tell me much of this meeting in all honesty. Arthur – that is Prince Arthur – did mention that he and one of the other knights, Sir Leon, would be there. He also said you may be indisposed for a while."

"I see. What time did he want to see me?"

"Midday, my lady." The maid slowly lay out a garment onto the sheets, smoothing it along the surface. "I thought you might want this for when you greet him."

Ishild moved closer to the bed, peering over Guinevere's shoulder and gasped. "My gambeson. One of the servants said they threw it out—"

"I found it tossed in with the knights' laundry and fished it out for you. I know you've been finding Morgana's clothes rather uncomfortable, so I thought this would be more to your liking."

Ishild bit her lip. "You don't think Morgana would be offended? I appreciate her generosity, but her dresses left me with rashes."

"Morgana would have never given you them if she suspected they would cause such a thing."

The princess nodded, smiling fondly at the maid. "Thank you. I hope you did not go to too much trouble trying to retrieve it."

"That's not for you to worry about." The maid quickly reached back into the laundry basket and pulled out a pair of dark breeches and a pale tunic. She gently lay them into Ishild's arms. "And I suppose you'll also be needing these."

"But these aren't mine."

"They were found neatly folded in the cupboard. You assumed a servant put them there and didn't question it."

Ishild raised her eyebrows. "I think the trouble that you went is something I should worry about. I can't take these if you'll get into trouble."

"They won't. If Arthur asks, just say I gave them to you."

"That sounds like ratting you out. And why specifically Arthur?"

"It's not. And just...trust me," the maid insisted. She grinned, a little too widely, and swept the basket off the bed with a slight twirl. Her face dimmed slightly, and the familiarity faltered. "Is there anything else you need, my lady?"

Ishild shook her head, pressing her lips together. "Thank you though. Truly, you are too kind." She hugged her clothes as if they were a babe. The right words were too far from reach, and the maid seemed eager to withdraw from the room. "That will be all."

Guinevere nodded deeply, dipping into a slight curtsey. Her smile returned. "I will be back shortly to take you to Morgana." With a final bow, the maid left the room.

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A breeze from the other end of the room fluttered through Ishild's hair. The curtains scuffled against the stone floor, as if trying to take flight. Opposite her, along the lengthy table, was her infamous host. Two slender, rectangular windows were situated in the wall behind Morgana. The sun rays illuminated the table spread before them, blinding Ishild with golden light. Morgana was the silhouette in a sea of gold. Her features possessed a direful quality, sharpened by the shadows that cut through her skin. Her nose and lips were subdued in grey. Her midnight hair was woven into a braid over her shoulder, catching glimpses of the light and caging them in the ridges of the interlaced strands. It was only her eyes that were not dampened by the darkness. They were jade, like a forest muted by autumn. There was a disinterest in them, a strive to find fault in everything she looked upon; and yet they held something more.

Morgana had not made much effort in conversation since Guinevere had left them. Not that Ishild minded; the silence was more genuine than any discussion could be. She had filled it by tending to her parched throat. Between glassfuls, Ishild heard Morgana scraping her plate and clinking her utensils with enthusiasm. Though graceful with all her movement, the ward seemed strangled by a hunger; a hunger that stretched beyond the wants of the stomach. Her room was an attempt to satisfy these wants, furnished and polished and gleaming, but none of it was gratifying. Even with precious metals and stones, Morgana was still hunting. Maybe she would never stop hunting, chasing endlessly for what was out of her reach.

"Are you all right, Ishild?"

Morgana's voice burned through the silence, like a flame to parchment. Ishild cleared her throat, attempting a polite smile. "I'm fine."

"You've not touched your food," Morgana said, furrowing her brows. There was a strange softness to her eyes, as if the face was unfamiliar with the expression.

Ishild's stomach muttered. "I'm not particularly hungry."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite."

Morgana stared at her a moment longer, resolved to question. When she found no answers, she continued eating. "How did you find the dresses I sent you?"

Ishild warily straightened her gambeson. "They were lovely. It was very kind of you to give them to me."

Morgana hummed shortly. "It was my pleasure, really. Pity I haven't seen you in any of them."

"I'm sorry?"

Morgana cut into a piece of meat, arranged a few scraps to be skewered onto her fork, and popped them into her mouth. She chewed liberally, seeming to forget about the conversation. Ishild's expression changed, and Morgana swallowed. "Ah. I hope I was not being rude?"

The other gritted her teeth. "You weren't."

"I'm sorry, I'm so thoughtless sometimes. I make a great deal about trivial things. I did not mean to offend."

"You didn't."

The ward flexed her jaw, indicating with a lazy hand to the table. "Please, help yourself to more food."

Morgana continued eating, swallowing one large spoonful after another. The sight of it sickened Ishild. Still, her stomach grumbled agitatedly, begging for some satisfaction. Reluctantly, she poured a few slices of dried meat and began cutting with the side of her fork. Raising a piece to her mouth, she grimaced at the aroma, but took the meat between her teeth. Salt assailed her taste buds, burning the back of her throat as she swallowed. Ishild snatched her goblet and took a swig of water.

"How have you been finding Camelot?" Morgana asked.

Ishild coughed. "I honestly have not seen much of it."

"Well, that can be easily remedied. Me and Guinevere are going to the lower town this afternoon, if you'd like to join us."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to accompany you today."

Morgana twitched. "Maybe next time then."

Ishild did not reply.

The ward laughed faintly, placing her fork down with a clink. She propped her elbows up and rested her chin on her clasped hands. "Forgive me if this has been...well, not what you had anticipated. It was an endeavour to get to know you better. Arthur and Uther have spoken so much of you, and I suppose I just wanted to see you for myself."

"Their descriptions can't have been very detailed."

"No, they weren't. But they did pique my interest. Princess Ishild, forsaken of the gift of her ancestors and exiled from her own kingdom. You made it out of the wild with nothing but your sword and your wits; all whilst the rest of the world thought you dead. It's a tale that I know too well. I too was lost to the elements for a year. I too endured."

"Did you?"

Morgana lowered her arms to the table. "I know of your struggle. I have felt it rock through me, every night and every day. The world as you know it has been upended, ripped from the roots and dashed to the seas. You are at the mercy of the waters. All you can do is hold your breath."

"You know nothing of what I went through," Ishild snapped. The words spilled from her lips in a torrent that left her throat burning.

"You are right," Morgana admitted. "I will never know fully. But we have an understanding, Ishild. Admit that at least. I have spent the last few months...adjusting to this new norm. I eat and sleep just as I used to. I watch the sun rise and fall, watch the moon wax and wane in the night sky. Arthur and Uther are just as they used to be. My servant, Guinevere, is just as she used to be. It is all unchanged. But I am not. I have seen things. I have sought things. Yet here I am, expected to be...unchanged. Expected to have no reproach, no injuries, no fault! I am given gold and dresses as my solace. They give me no comfort, for this is no longer my world. No longer our world. And we –" the ward gasped, a mangled sort of sob, letting her last words roll off her tongue in a whisper "—can never go back."

Changed indeed, Ishild thought, for all the gold in the world could not make you happy.

"But," Morgana continued, a newfound vitality breathing through her, "I did find a path forward. I found power and purpose." Her voice strummed the air with a palpable force. The window frames whined as the wind picked up. "I found solace. Not in the gold, not in the riches, not even in the mundanity of my old life. The pain has left its mark, and the scars will not heal, at least not if I continue to pretend. So I don't pretend anymore. I no longer deceive myself, nor do I hold onto the ignorance of my childhood. I can never go back, and I never will."

An intensity arose in Morgana's eyes, but it fizzled, drowned in the pools of her tears. She chuckled softly, and, with rough strokes of her fingers, she wiped away her laments. An apology escaped her lips.

There was an artistry to her tears. There was no question that it was honest, Ishild could admit that. But the pain was bent. It hid the open wounds, the pouring blood, and the wrangled night terrors. Her beauty was an insult to the agony. It was just a story now, just a charming fable. It was no longer the very air Ishild had fought to breathe, nor the souls that she had snatched from bodies. It was art for those who would never know such woes to admire, not the barren reality that was stilted on the bones of the nameless.

When her tears had dried and mutterings ceased, Morgana reapplied her caricature and smiled absently.

"What, if you don't mind me asking, happened to you?" Ishild asked.

Morgana shrugged and leaned back into the chair. "A wicked witch stole me from the castle. I had to find my way back to Camelot."

"And you didn't even have a sword?"

"No. Not even that."

"Not even your wits?"

Morgana grimaced and forced out a shrilly laugh. "It was difficult. I thought every night would be my last; but I endured. I fought, survived, and now here I am."

"You are lucky. I do not think I will ever return to Ayarene."

"You never know. There may be a day that you are welcomed back by your people with open arms."

Even with a look of concern, Morgana was cocky. Ishild had to take another drink from her goblet, gulping greedily to stop her words from flying.

"It is a pity, though," Morgana continued, "about your brother. Kellagh sounds to be quite the piece of work. I hear he is causing quite a stir in Ayarene, claiming sorcerers are the divine superior to non-magic users. Such disgusting behaviour." She added the last few words as an afterthought.

"Kellagh is deluded," Ishild said. "Entitlement won't end this war. He knows that as much as anything. But men in power rarely see reason, even when it stares them in the face. They rarely see anything other than their own legacy. This war between non-magic and magic users will only be exacerbated if we continue like this. Not that our rulers will ever listen to reason, too hell bent on vengeance and cracking open the world to compensate for their own guilt."

"Our rulers? Even Uther?"

Ishild opened her mouth to reply, but the words died in her throat. Scolding herself, she swallowed another piece of the repugnant meat, painfully repressing a gag.

Morgana sighed. "That is what you think? Guilt? Not ignorance, not entitlement, not...not disgust?"

Ishild stiffened and raised her head. "How so?"

Morgana looked away, seemingly not hearing her question. Her eyes wandered loosely, as if lost in a daydream. "I wish we could have peace," she said softly. The vigour that had previously echoed through her words was gone. "If only it weren't for the selfish blunders of kings."

"I fear that peace is stretching further away from us. Our judgement has been clouded; our resolves hardened to steel. The price of peace is violence. The cost of peace is bloodshed. It's an endless cycle that no one is willing to yield to."

Morgana tilted her head, nodding firmly. "Then there needs to be something done; don't you think? To herd the cattle back into their pens."

"You mistake the predators for the prey, Morgana. They will not go willingly. There will always be a debt, and it can only be paid in blood."

"Not necessarily. Times are changing, and so will the people, whether fate allows it or not."

Ishild's eyes flickered. "Changing fate requires power."

"We all have power, in some regard. Some have more influence than others. It is all determined by birth, and what gifts we are given. We can either waste them away with trivial matters or use it. Use it to its full potential."

The princess leaned back, bewildered. Fate was the domain of the gods, a game for the pleasure of the divine. Mortals, the pawns, were given glimpses, advantages, if they were favoured. But no mortal had ever dreamed of breaking the board. As much as Ishild had tried to fight the raging tides, she knew she could never conquer them. Avoidance was one thing, but changing fate? Ishild didn't even know whether it was possible. She didn't think anyone would be foolish enough to incite the wrath of the gods.

"I'm sorry, I've been blathering on so much you haven't had the chance to finish your food," Morgana said.

"No one should have that much power," Ishild insisted. Her voice was shaking, stirred by the rapid convulsions of her heart. "No one."

Morgana smirked. She took a piece of fruit in her mouth, chewed, and nodded patronisingly. "And yet they do."

The table shuddered and the bowls clinked. "Power," Ishild growled, "power is putrid. Toxic. It consumes the very nature of you. You are stripped, inch by inch, of everything that makes you humane. You are not even an animal; you are barely even alive. You are a shell of skin and bones, a host to something greater. You cannot change fate without the will of the gods, and no god is human. That power is impossible for any mortal to wield. Even here in Camelot, you believe that. But those in power are entitled, believe they can conquer it. It's a fool's errand."

"It can be conquered. You speak of power as if it is sentient, as if it has a will of its own. It is a tool for us to use, Ishild. Our intentions mould it."

"Upon my word, you sound just like them! You think you have it inside of you to bend it to your will? Power has no intention; it is the ambition to satisfy every lustful and gluttonous thought that has ever entered your mind. It is a tool, yes, but a tool that, if given the chance, will break the world. No one can resist its temptations. Power cannot be steered, no matter how steely your mind is. It is chaos; chaos incarnated."

Ishild laboured with her breaths, gripping the wooden surface as if it might be ripped from her clutches. There was something in the air that chided her, encouraged her to unleash her claws. The wind whistled harshly, like a shepherd would to his violent-mannered dog. The cool air swathed them, taunting their throats with shameless caresses.

"You don't seem to have much faith in people, do you?" Morgana said.

Ishild could not bring herself to speak. The air was polluted in the ward's presence, a shifting tide in an otherwise calm ocean. A seething soul burned by the light of the sun, inviting, coaxing, begging for the princess to hold her hand and guide her strength. With the changing tides, Morgana lifted her veil of smirks, and began to bleed. Bleed out her strength, her anger, her fire. Her irises had been gold, burnt by her disfigured heart. She had reached, unknowingly, and Ishild did not know how to answer.

"Ishild?" Morgana asked.

The princess shivered, releasing a shaky breath as her senses drew back from the aether. "You have power," she said. "Real power. Do you think you use it well?"

Morgana bristled. Her eyes glowed faintly, and she raised her chin. "I don't have power. Not here, not locked in Camelot. I have an inkling of it. A shred of dignity in comparison to what Uther and Arthur wield. Power is not something they want us to possess. We are to be paraded around, looked at as pieces of art, and eventually used as bed slaves to the sex so often called the 'superior'. We are not given that power."

"We?"

"Well of course. But you were lucky. You were not only born to a king without a prejudice towards daughters, but you fought. You fought for your worth and your power and you took it. You were perhaps the most powerful princess on the continent. But you left your power, willingly, and now...you are here. Powerless."

"I had to leave it."

"I don't fault you for it. I just wonder, to have so much, and then to have it all taken away."

"What is your point?" Ishild snapped.

Morgana grinned, chuckling softly. "I did not mean to vex you."

"At this point, Morgana, I wonder if your apology holds any sense of merit."

"I wasn't apologising."

Ishild chortled, shaking her head. "That is perhaps the most straightforward thing you have said this morning."

"Are you saying I haven't been candid?" Morgana's voice was honeyed with venom.

"I don't know," Ishild lied. "Do you feel you have been candid?"

"My feelings will not matter. It is whether you believe me, or whether you have already made up your mind. The truth is subjective when it comes to belief. You can have every intention in the world, and yet belief can make it irrelevant."

"And what makes you think I won't believe you?"

Morgana shifted, dipping her head down as her hands smoothed her skirt. "You do not know me. Nor do I know you. Not truly. As of yet, you have only heard my words. You have not seen my actions. Words can be feigned."

"So you admit it?"

"Perhaps I do. But how do you know that that is the lie? How can you tell when you have been deceived, and when I have been sincere?"

"This conversation is not exactly helping your case."

"But it is honest. That is what you wanted, wasn't it?" The ward smirked when Ishild gave no answer. The chuckle that left her lips was unnatural, as if death itself strummed her voice box. "Now it's your turn; be honest. Don't you miss your power?"

The princess leaned forward. She lowered her voice to a growl, a rasp like the sound of a blade being sharpened against stone. "Is this an interest of yours? The misfortune of others?"

"I have given my story. I want yours, from the horse's mouth, clear and candid. Just as I have been."

"If that's what you call candid, I wonder what you think deceit is."

Morgana's eyes darkened. "Then why don't you show me how it's done? They are just words, after all."

Ishild opened her mouth, but she was too mirthless to laugh. She let her tongue go dry, let herself stutter. Her chest tightened, as if her heart was between a vice. Her mind fumbled for a reply, some semblance of certainty, but nothing came. Her thoughts were blurred by bloody echoes and blinding flashes. It had been those words that had kept her up every night and had made sleep unbearable. Those words had forced her out of her homeland. Those words had forced her to draw her sword almost every day and night, in fear that the shadows might harbour something more than their voids.

Ishild dared to take another glance at her host, the torrential embers of her dark eyes smouldering the jade forests till it was all purged to ash. It was her final warning, as she gathered herself. "Words indeed," she muttered, running her hand over her mouth. She skittered her chair back and took to her feet. Morgana made a noise of protest, but she ignored it. "Forgive me, I have lost my appetite."

"What in this world are you hiding?" Morgana sneered.

"I'd ask you the same, witch." Her tongue cracked like a whip, and by the look on Morgana's face, it had struck through an artery. Her mouth hung open, like a fish, and her cheeks drained of colour. Ishild swallowed. "Excuse me." Stepping out from behind the table, she made the slow march to the door. It took an eternity, but she found the handle, fumbled, and fled.

Her pace quickened to match her pounding heart. The corridors were empty for all but the guards that were like statues. They were at every turn, dead faces in armour, waiting to come alive. She couldn't find cover from them. They watched, surveying her panting lungs and staggering limbs as she tried to recall the path Guinevere had taken from her chambers. Her mind scrambled between directions and delusion. Footsteps followed her in hot pursuit, a lurid vision of Morgana puncturing her mind's eye. The ward's phantom was cackling, reaching a pale hand to the princess's shaking arm. "And how would you know that I am a witch if you're so 'powerless'?"

Ishild turned to bite back, and the mirage broke. The corridor was empty, all for a young soldier who was a little too small for his armour. He was shivering, despite it not being particularly chilly. Exhaling, the princess resumed down the corridor and turned around a corner. The soldier's teeth stopped chattering.

She found her room shortly after, and discovered its embrace was not as comforting as she had hoped. Ishild retreated to her bed, burying her face into the pillows. She groaned slightly, her stomach protesting due to her negligence, and her head panged with a migraine. Her limbs were heavy, and her eyelids drooped. In those next few hours, she slept blissfully, dreamlessly. When she was roused that afternoon, she tried not to think of her hallucination, and instead focused on keeping down her food.

When Guinevere came knocking at her door, Ishild prepared herself. The King wanted his soldier, and she was more than ready to serve.

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author's note!!

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(I didn't make this. this is on the internet and i happened across it one day. it felt like fate.)

hello everyone. so it has been a while. i apologise for the long wait, but i hope it was worth it. honestly i ended up having a lot of trouble with this chapter and making it interesting. i danced between an encounter with gaius and ishild, where merlin would be introduced to her, but it didn't feel quite right. i ended up with this scene which was inspired by an earlier draft of this fanfic, and wrote the entire chapter in two weeks. it ended up being awful. so after a lot of editing, here it is, in a form that i actually really like.

i'm sorry it took so long, its just writer's block and personal stuff got in the way of me writing properly, but hopefully now you guys will be getting more content. i am trying to write more regularly, so maybe the chapters won't come out every year or so!

also i'm really dumb and didn't announce this but i have finally made a spotify account, and CQ's playlist is on there! check it out if you're interested.

i hope you enjoyed the chapter! and thank you so much for sticking around, i really really appreciate it. i hope you have a good day <3

TW FOR CHAPTER THREE: swearing, mentions of violence.

published: 12.01.2023
edited: N/A