Etna & Alter

07.21.198 UI

In the farthest reaches of memory and on whispers of myth, a grand castle stood on high. Tall turrets reached toward the heavens, cloaked in banners of gold and crimson. The town below shined alight with the proud and joyous faces of its people. Green hills and forests surrounding the kingdom stretched as far as the eye could see, and the realm sang with contentment and peace. For all within its borders, and many beyond, knew that this place was protected. They knew that this place was loved—for it was ruled by those seen as the very embodiment of love itself.

This was not that place, however. This place was cold. This place was hard like stone and reeked of the dead, dark and silent as if death had taken all things and nothing but blackness remained, until...

“Lord Morgan?” came a whisper in the stillness.

“Morgan?”the darkness thought, “A familiar sound.”

“Lord Morgan, it is time,” the stillness spoke again, “The magic in this place weakens. You must return to us now!”

The darkness heard the demands of the stillness, yet did not comprehend its meaning, nor care for its tone. Return? Return to what? Return from where? Be still and let me drift back into nothingness...

“MORGAN LE FAY, WAKE! NOW!”

Morgan’s eyes snapped open, though little changed in his vision as the tiniest source of light burned into his skull. The notion of pain came screaming back, his body racked with the soreness of muscles lain dormant for the gods knew how long. His throat was as dry as sand and just as coarse as a moan of agony ripped free.

“Lord Morgan!” the voice called, “I can do nothing to move the stone! You will have to lift it!”

Stone?

Feeling returned slowly to his fingertips, the surface beneath them cold to the touch. His fingers crept their way across the stone, finding resistance on either side of his body. His hands achingly responded to his thoughts, meeting above against another barrier. He gave a weak push, and his joints seared like fire.

“I...” he croaked, “I need... magic...”

The voice remained silent as Morgan continued to feel his way around his resting place. He could feel his blood begin to flow, his heart beating beneath his chest once again, sending warmth through his body. Despite his returning strength, the stone slab held firm. What cruel trick was this to disturb his death only to leave him entombed?

“Help me!” Morgan gasped, “I need-”

“The runes!” the voice cried, “On the outside of the sarcophagus! One of them is cracked, but the others glow dimly! Can you use your gift on them?”

He outstretched his fingers on each side of the stone, feeling for the magic that was intended to keep him in. If even one of the runes in the sequence was damaged the spell would be inactive, and the magic used to power it lying dormant. If it hadn’t been damaged for so long that the magic had simply dissipated, if he could locate enough to grab hold then—there!

Power resonated beneath his palms. It wasn’t his own, but Morgan had a rather special way with magic—a secret known to very few. He pushed into the stone, commanding what lay there to bend to his will, commanding it to break this prison and set him free. The magic resisted ever so slightly, offended at being disturbed not unlike he had been moments ago, but it relented. A sharp crack split the air. His eyes filled with the light of nearby fires before everything was obscured in dust.

Inhaling the debris into his ragged throat left him heaving and retching as he scrambled away from the broken sarcophagus. He wiped at the dirt that caked his eyes, falling to the stone floor. Water dripped from the ceiling. Torches revealed a dark hall of stone. A chill swept over him as the adrenaline faded, and it occurred to him that he was entirely naked.

“Honestly! Not even the decency to clothe me?” Morgan rasped as he stood, wiping himself free of dirt as best he was able. He did a double take at his right shoulder where swirling, black markings he had never seen before ran the length of his arm, from his hand and up his neck. He traced the pattern with his fingertips. “Interesting.”

He had never been shy of his body, so he hoped that whoever might witness his great escape enjoyed the spectacle. He outstretched his arms in front of him, giving them a once-over before glancing down to make sure everything was... intact.

“At least I failed to wither away in sleep. Bare is one thing. Bare and ghoulish?” He shuddered at the thought.

A laugh echoed behind him, and he turned on the spot, coming face to face with a dim, spectral figure.

“You were clothed, my Lord.” The ghost gave him a sad smile. He was young, only near twenty when he died. He donned a patchy suit of armor, bent and broken in several places over dark, translucent skin. The leather bindings were frayed and snapped, and a gaping wound soaked in blood blossomed across his chest. “The magic here only protected your body, however.”

“How-” Morgan sputtered, “How long, Daffyd?”

Daffyd pressed his ghostly lips into a thin line. “Nearly seventeen centuries.” He hung his head.

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “No...”

“I am sorry, my Lord,” Daffyd said, “I know not why the magic here held for as long as it did. The rest of the world has not been so fortunate.”

“What do you mean?” Morgan asked, still processing the length of his imprisonment.

Daffyd inhaled sharply, though no air filled his lungs. “I hear only whispers, I am afraid. On occasion, weary travelers make camp near your resting place, allowing me to inhabit their minds and learn their thoughts. Another witch has come very close as well—a powerful one—whether by accident or machination, I cannot say.” He gestured down the hall toward a stone staircase. “But we must leave. I shall explain on the way.”

Morgan nodded tensely, uncertain of what lay beyond his tomb. The hard stone cut into his feet as they made their way up the staircase, and he savored every wincing moment that reminded him of the life now coursing through his veins.

“As you know, the kingdom was lost to the world not long after you were cursed. I suspect the castle stood no longer than a century more,” Daffyd continued, “Has your memory improved since last we spoke?”

Morgan pulled at threads in the back of his mind. Camelot. He remembered the castle. Torture at the hands of Uther Pendragon flitted through his thoughts. He recalled the day Uther left this world and his son was crowned King.

Arthur, the prophesied Once and Future King, supposedly destined to return to this world to save it from itself—a face stolen from his mind.

He found that other faces were absent as well. He remembered names—Guinevere, Lancelot, Gawain—but their likenesses eluded him. He saw glimpses of laughter and cheer, flashes of steel and magic, moments of adventure, and... something else. Something his heart told him was important, but so very far beyond his reach.

He sighed again, shaking his head. “It seems worse, if anything.”

“I am sorry, my Lord. I feared that time might steal from you.”

Morgan blew air through his nose. “Stop apologizing, Daffyd. You kept your end of our bargain. The circumstances were beyond both of our limits.”

The ghost looked back toward Morgan, inclining his head.

“Now.” Morgan stared onward, jutting his head with a grin. “What sort of world am I about to stun into silence with my glorious, naked form?”

Daffyd unsuccessfully tried to stifle a chuckle. “From what I understand, magic is rare in this age. Not like it was in your time, where practitioners were few, but they say that the Wells are depleting.”

Morgan gaped at the ghost. “The Wells? As in Avalon itself?”

Dafydd nodded. “Avalon is the most heavily protected of the Wells. Some governing entity stands at its forefront, barring access.”

Morgan’s brows creased. He lifted his hand ahead of him, palm upwards. The final remnants of his sleep came unraveled, falling from his aching muscles as power surged through him like a refreshing wave to quench a long-neglected thirst. His connection was alive. The glorious ecstasy of magic tingled across his skin and up his fingertips as the dark stairwell lit with a sphere of bright, violet light. Morgan pulled the orb toward his face, a smile growing wider as he gazed upon the simple bit of witchcraft. “It seems my pact is sorely beyond their control.”

“They shan’t appreciate that. A rather aggressive sort, I am to understand,” Daffyd grunted.

“Let them test me.” Morgan shrugged as they continued walking. “Besides, that is not the way of magic. It takes as much as it gives. There is no reason the Wells should run dry.”

“You suspect a fa?ade?” Daffyd asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Trust no one that tries to place limitations on magic, Daffyd.” Morgan scowled, absentmindedly gripping his left forearm. “They tend to fancy themselves our betters, fearing any who might challenge them.” He sighed in relief as they reached the top of the staircase. A small stone door, split right down the middle stood ahead, carved with countless runes, all intended to keep something in, he noticed. “Am I truly worth all this trouble?” he mused, tracing the runes with his fingertips. He could feel the magic within, far more aggressive than the runes on the sarcophagus had been. At his touch, it almost seemed to snarl. “I hope you have a way past this door. It very much does not care for me.”

Daffyd folded his arms over his chest. “Bloody hells! The magic has already returned in full! I thought we would have more time!”

Morgan continued examining the runes, seemingly unvexed by the hitch in Daffyd’s plan.

The spirit glided closer, hovering over his shoulder. “Can you break through?”

Morgan simply hummed in reply, giving no indication to the affirmative or negative as he worked. He carried on for a time, lost in his thoughts as he traced each mark one by one, muttering to himself now and again. “I cannot break it,” he huffed, crossing his arms and widening his stance, still unfazed by being on display, “I believe I can confuse it, however.” He knelt to pick up a jagged stone from the ground before turning back to Daffyd.

“What do you mean to do?” Daffyd asked, concerned.

Morgan held his hands outward between them. “I need to know everything you know about this time. This world. Every detail.”

“How-” Daffyd stuttered, his hands faltering in the space between him and the witch, “How do I-”

“You need to possess me,” Morgan answered.

Daffyd gawked at him.

“Worry not,” Morgan said, “you’ll be only a passenger. I’ve been warded against spirits for most of my life, but it will allow me access to all the knowledge you hold.”

Daffyd drifted backward, hesitation filling his voice. “Everything?”

“Yes.” Morgan’s hands dropped, understanding the intimacy of his request. “All of it.”

Daffyd’s brow furrowed for a moment, but then his eyes lit up. “I’ll do it.” Morgan opened his mouth, but Daffyd continued, “Though I wish to change the terms of our deal.”

Morgan pursed his lips, offering the ghost an amused scowl. “Go on.”

Daffyd mulled his words over carefully before speaking. “I do not want just any body when you restore me. I want one with an affinity for magic,” he said, “And… I wish to be your… apprentice.”

Morgan broke into a cackle that resounded off the stone walls and likely would have made the hair on Daffyd’s arms stand on end were he alive. “Is that all?”

The ghost swallowed his nerves. “There’s... something else regarding the body, but... we can discuss that later if it is all the same to you.”

Morgan nodded. “You need only bring it to the front of your mind while we travel.” The witch’s eyes burned like fire as he thrust his arms back out. “We have an accord... my apprentice.”

Daffyd smiled as he snatched Morgan’s outstretched hands, his ghostly form dissipating in a burst of glowing light. Morgan breathed deeply as a second soul sat within his body. He raised his hands to his temples as thoughts that weren’t his own began to enter his mind.

Sand. Ruins. Dilapidated structures in neat rows with cracked rivers of solid black running between them. Not a tree, nor a blade of grass in sight. Harsh sunlight and frigid moonbeams, one after the other. On and on the lifelessness went. This was no small part of the world. This was the very essence of existence being stripped from the land.

Just when Morgan began to wish he had never awakened, when the idea of returning to that shattered grave seemed like a haven in comparison to what lay beyond this door, something rose in the distance.

Pillars stacked neatly beside one another, all different sizes, reaching toward the sky. Modern-day castles littered with crystal panes to allow the sunlight in. A word came to mind as the image drew near. A name. This place—this city, they called it—was named Etna.

Hundreds of thousands of people crawled the streets below, cloaked in vibrant colors and glints of metal as they dodged large mechanical transports. They wore not only jewelry and armor; this was flesh and iron made one. Humans had forged themselves, whether for battle or beauty, he could not say.

Night descended, and the world came alive with color. Portraits moved on the horizon, emblazoned with unfamiliar words. Every structure glowed in different hues, bathing the streets in light as if claiming their territory. Pulsating vibrations flowed as people reveled in the darkness, filled with passion and lust—and violent intent. Small weapons of iron, held in the palms of their hands, drew blood with a single flick of the finger. Some commanded lightning itself, though Morgan sensed no magic.

Magic. There was magic here. He felt it in the dark places. Down back alleyways and in the shadows. As he searched, one of the structures rose into view; the tallest and most imposing of them all, with a strange word proudly crowning its peak.

“Coming for you, my dear,” he whispered.

He cast the images away, releasing his hold on Daffyd’s mind and turning the stone he had plucked from the floor over in his hand. He lifted his left arm, placed the tip of the stone against the inside of his bicep, and pressed hard. Blood trailed down his arm, dripping to the floor as he worked, carving a diamond shape with a single line through it. A rune—alter.

“Farewell, Morgan le Fay.” He breathed deeply, dropping the stone. He held his hand over the bright red cuts. His eyes blazed like violet flames as purple light filled the wound beneath his palm, forcing his magic into the spell. “The world shall remember you soon enough.”