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The wizard had brought Arthur into being and then made certain he had only one path to choose from. One destiny, predetermined. No family to protect him, to let him grow as he chose, to let him find his own way in the world.
Morgana looked at her own precious child and wept, holding him close, swearing to him that he could be whoever he wished. That he would be raised among both humans and fairies, live a life of whatever wonder he could find.
But even that was a lie. Because Merlin chose Arthur’s path, and Arthur’s path led him to Mordred. Mordred had seen how his mother mourned and suffered. How ephemeral and fickle the affections of his father and grandmother were. He wanted to know his human family, to see if there was a way for him to save Arthur from the wizard’s rule, to alter his course. And so Mordred had to watch as Arthur unmade the Green Knight. He had to watch as they chased down the body of the Dark Queen and hacked it into pieces. He had to watch as Arthur systematically hunted and destroyed the magical things in the world that had led to both of their births.
And Morgana had seen it all. Had always known what was coming, and had always been unable to prevent any of it. She had not even been able to choose her own part in the story. Merlin had written it for her, creating her as a villain for her own half brother so that she could never bridge their divide and offer him what Merlin had stolen:
A family.
And that was the great tragedy of Morgana, Morgan le Fay, the sorceress. Magic and power and vision, and still she was unable to save her mother, her lover, her brother, or her son from the destinies Merlin decided they would have. Nothing she saw or did changed Merlin’s plans.
Until a girl arrived in Camelot with secrets knotted into her very being.
“But—but that is not—it cannot be true.” Guinevere’s fingers were cold and her toes beginning to tingle. Some part of her was coming back, starting to raise the alarm that should always have been there with a knife at her side and Morgana murmuring in her ear.
“Has the wizard ever told you the truth?”
Guinevere could not say that he had.
Morgana sighed. “I really did like helping your sister. I am glad she is out of your father’s clutches and safe here. But mostly I wanted to meet you. To see for myself the girl who brou
ght back the Dark Queen and undid Merlin’s destruction. Mordred thinks you are something special. Something new.” Morgana frowned, pressing her forehead against Guinevere’s in an embrace. “But we are always special. We are always new. Until they manage to destroy us.”
Guinevere’s hands had enough sense to reach into the small pouch at her waist, pull out the rock intended for Lily, and slip it into Morgana’s own pouch.
Unaware of what had happened, Morgana moved the knife from Guinevere and stood. She clasped Guinevere’s hand, her grip as tight as a chain. “Poor Arthur never had another choice but to become this. I can save you still. Come, we will—” She froze, then shifted so her back was to Lancelot. Guinevere glanced in that direction. Arthur was striding toward them, smiling easily, his hand on the hilt of Excalibur. Morgana leaned down and whispered, her voice harsh with haste. “Do not let the wizard erase every other Guinevere you could have been. If you want to learn the truth, I might be able to help. The offer will be there, whenever you are ready.” She turned, then paused at the sight of Guinevere’s stricken expression. “My sweet, foolish boys. My stolen brother and my tragic son. You may yet be the death of them both.”
With a whisper of skirts, Morgana walked away into the soft purple of evening, vanishing between tents.
Arthur was still talking to Lancelot. Guinevere wanted to call out to him. To warn him. But Morgana was heading in the other direction. And if what she had said was true—if any of it was true—did Guinevere want Arthur to catch her? He was convinced she was Morgan le Fay, the villain out of Merlin’s stories. Would he listen to her?
Should he listen to her?
Dazed, Guinevere did not know how much time had passed before Arthur reached the bench and crouched in front of her. “That was the most fun I have— Guinevere? What is wrong?”
She had to tell him. This was not Mordred in a faraway forest. This was a sorceress in Camelot. “Morgana,” Guinevere gasped, still not in full control of her body or her mind. “That was Morgana. She was here.”
Arthur stood, his happy ease replaced with steel-like tension and resolve. “Sir Lancelot!” Arthur pointed at Guinevere and then sprinted in the direction Morgana had disappeared. Guinevere did not want him to go alone, but he had Excalibur. He was better off without her.
Lancelot rushed to Guinevere’s side, hand on her sword, staring after Arthur in confusion.
“Get the other knights,” Guinevere said. “Follow him. Anna is Morgan le Fay. I will light anyone on fire who touches me. Your king needs you right now.”
After only a moment’s hesitation, Lancelot ran. Guinevere did not know how long she stayed frozen on that bench, but night had fully settled around her before someone broke her horrified reverie.
“There you are!” Dindrane and Lily approached, arm in arm, laughing. Dindrane sat next to her. “You found the worst-smelling place in the entire festival to rest. But I am happy to see you managed to keep yourself from being captured by enemies this time.”
Guinevere burst into tears.
Dindrane looked at Lily, at a loss for why Guinevere had reacted the way she did. “I—I am sorry, it was a joke. I said it in jest. I did not mean—”
“It is not that,” Guinevere squeezed out, her throat tight with pain and sorrow. She imagined Arthur catching up to Morgana. Drawing his sword. Killing her. She imagined Morgana, vengeance and fire in her eyes as the sorceress Morgan le Fay, killing him.
But if Morgana had wanted Arthur dead, he already would be. They all would be. She had been living in the castle for weeks now. There was poison. A dagger in the side. A quick push off the soaring stairways. All that time Guinevere had suspected Lily when the real threat was sitting in the corner, quietly helping.
None of it made sense. Or maybe it was as simple as Morgana had told her. A woman, plagued by loss, hopeful that someone else could break the cycle created by Merlin.
She pulled her own rock out of the pouch and clutched it. If Morgana were still near, it would have been hot. Instead, it was cooling. Morgana was getting farther away, and quickly.
