#help in battle because better an untrustworthy ally than dead? sure

[tmae3114]

currently Many Thoughts, Head Full about the Guardian Tower dialogues re: the Rose

something something the Rose as an organisation views itself as the only solution to their view of the problem something something the way they actively drive out competition fundamentally undercuts their ostensible goal of “protecting people” and reveals that their anti-magic attitude takes precedence (nobody is surprised) something something the Rose have been repeatedly picking fights with Falconreach’s guardian patrols and thus testing Falconreach’s defences something something is it any wonder that these people showing up and offering to help rebuild the town post-Calamity almost incited a riot?

[faquarlofmycenae]

A first summoning

Summary: A young sorceress seeks assistance for a crucial task and decides on finding an ally with whom she indirectly shares history, but not everyone shares her idealism.

Notes: I said I was going to write the story of how Morgên and Nimuë met so here we go. There is a certain amount of backstory to both characters that I’ve either not typed out or throughly explored yet but there will be more to come, eventually, as well as said backstory not being that relevant for the understanding of the following story. 

I might even crosspost it on AO3 (which is obviously a much friendlier platform for writers) so once I do, I’ll post the link to it.

Any commentary is more welcome. Enjoy!

Morgên waited in the summoning circle, still as a praying mantis, eyes closed and legs crossed as she sat on the floor. Impatience was beginning to gnaw at her in addition to general nervousness, and she felt a single bead of sweat travel from her forehead over her temple and down the side of her face. But she didn‘t swipe it away, she remained a statue, the only movement about her being the slow rising and falling of her chest as she tried to keep her breathing calm.

The smell of incense clung in her nose, different herbs than those the other magicians used, so she had been told by the minor djinni that had been in her service until recently.. There had, of course, been a fair chance that it was attempting to trick her but despite her better judgement - something instilled in her by Myrddin that had always been along the lines of „Demons are inherently untrustworthy, vile and wicked, watch your back around them because otherwise they will not hesitate to kill you“ - she had done as the spirit had told her, thanked it by promising to not summon it again and erasing its name from history to end its slavery. The entity that had appeared to her as an innocent goldfinch had thanked her in a raspy deep voice but it had been obvious it didn‘t believe her. She couldn‘t exactly blame it.

The temperature shifted in the ruins and Morgên felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She felt a gush of wind messing up her long auburn hair and how another smell crept up her nose; that of brimstone and ash. The faint noise of cracking flames could be heard.

She swallowed thickly, straightened her back just a portion and took a deep breath. Then she opened her eyes and looked at the figure across from her in the other pentacle, most likely constructed by some minor lord's magicians before their sovereign's fortress had been torn to its foundations by battle and time - but still, the symbol of slavery had remained. In this case, it had been to her advantage.

The form the spirit had chosen for this encounter was certainly human-shaped, two heads taller than Morgên and had pale skin with a vague green-greyish tinge and limbs so thin and spidery they almost appeared skeletal. Clad in a thick grey cloak over a green dress so dark it was almost black, long hair, as white and brittle as chalk fell over the torso. The face was gaunt but at the same time had an absolute agelessness to it. The most otherworldly feature though were the eyes of the spirit’s guise: a pair of empty sockets as dark as the void of the night sky in which two small balls of green fire raged. The veins running down the cheeks were visible and gave the face even sharper features, as if it was merely skin taut over a skull. Around the feet of the entity a circle of flames lapped at the dress and cloak without burning it, the same shade of green as the terrible eyes.

“Most exalted spirit hailing from the Other World, pardon me for awakening you from your slumber.”

She tried to keep the voice at level and had chosen the words carefully to address a creature such as what she had summoned. This was no mere foliot or even a djinni but a noble afrit; a spirit made of pure fire and the second most powerful sort of entity magicians could bind to do their bidding. 

As Morgên had spoken, the spirit's head had been tilted sideways and the green fire regarded her calmly. She took that as a sign to continue. 

“You may call me Morgên, and I called you, great Nimuë, to this mortal plane to ask for your assistance.”

The thin lips were curled as if in a mixture of revulsion and amusement and the hairless brows were raised. 

“I know your story. I summoned you specifically because of it for I am in need of an ally who will help me avenge not only the wrongs done to them but to you too - and the countless spirits that endured penalties and hardships underneath them. But for that I need you to assist me in a journey I need to take, to gain knowledge from someone who, judging by your guise, you at the very least have heard of: Mórrígu, the Queen of Spirits.”

Morgên took a deep breath and looked up at the banshee, waiting for her response - and there had to be one.

It opened its mouth, a flash of bright and (to Morgên's surprise) human teeth. A voice that sounded equally ageless as the face of its guise, clear like the ringing of a bell and in a way reminded Morgên of someone she had once known but banished their memory from her mind.

“You certainly sound like a most ambitious woman, mistress.”

“It is a tremendous task, I won't deny it. What do you think of it? Speak as freely as you wish.”

The afrit crossed the arms over another and looked down at her. 

“The simple fact that I am bound by mortal chains in this circle forces my hand into accepting this. Otherwise I'd have a lot to say.”

“Please do. But before, sit down. It hurts my neck to crane it that much.”

The fires in the empty sockets didn't leave her as the afrit crossed its legs in the air, in a similar way to how Morgên was seated and gently floated to the ground.

“Be so kind and tell me your thoughts, great spirit.”

“'Be so kind? Tell me, girl, is this your first summoning?”

Morgên blinked. Something told her that this was going just as she had predicted but she tried to keep her cool. 

“By far not. You're only the latest of spirits I have summoned.”

The afrit nodded and I studied her face. 

“Are we in Cymru?”

“Yes, indeed.”

This seemed to have an effect on the spirit. Something within the sockets stirred and the air around them grew even hotter. The smell of burnt thyme intensified and Morgên stopped herself from pressing her hand to her nose to avoid the smell from stinging her nose.

“I know who you are, vile witch, and if your doughy brain is not beyond salvation besides everything else that is wrong up there, you'd do well to speak the dismissal right away, lest I will break out of this circle and tear your throat to ribbons.”

Morgên forced herself to hold the now-terrible gaze of the afrit and straightened her back. 

“I will not. What issue do you take with my demand? You're going to have to fulfill it either way, there is no way for you to break out of the summoning circle.”

The spirit's gaze traveled alongside the circle. They both knew Morgên had spoken the truth; if there had been even a minimal error in the summoning, Nimuë would have doubtlessly seized the opportunity and ripped her into pieces, the presence of the thyme incense, a much less irritable alternative to rosemary and sage but to be used in much higher dosage, as a peace offering wasn't enough to prevent a being as powerful as an afrit from breaking through. 

“Spoken like a true slavemaster.” The afrit said dryly.

Morgên jerked up. As she did so, she noticed how Nimuë's long spider hands might have grown sharper and longer nails than before. She forced herself into a relaxed position once again.

“I ask you again: tell me your problems with my charge. Don't beat around the bush, I will consider your criticism. And don't attempt to throw me off with threats upon my person - it will not work.”

“Aren't you a prim and proper one?” The afrit regarded her with an amused expression, the thin lips were curved in a sardonic grin. “But what else to expect from someone who carries the blood of Uthyr Bendragon within herself? His stench taints everything about you and makes my essence revolt more than any iron or silver ever could. I'm beginning to reconsider my previous statement - killing you and throwing your corpse into the courtyard of his accursed fortress would give me much more pleasure.” 

Morgên wasn't surprised, neither by how Nimuë had figured out her heritage nor the fact that spirits were able to do such things. 

“King Uthyr is long dead. If you want to exact revenge on his person, I have to disappoint you; all there is left are the bones in his tomb.”

“Fair enough. But I sense something else about you and it disgusts me just as much as your blood. You shouldn't even dare to put my name in your mouth or mention knowing anything about me.” If the afrit's haughty look could have burned her, she would've surely been aflame by now.

A quick gaze traveled to her own pentacle, something not unnoticed to the sharp eyes of the spirit. She almost slapped herself for her stupidity. Not even during her first proper summon on her own, back when she had been a maiden of thirteen summers in Peredur's chambers which always smelled of herbs and sulfur, had she been so out of her element. If she was going to make a simple beginner's mistake such as openly showing insecurity, then maybe Nimuë deserved to break out of the circle and tear her into shreds with a swipe of sharp claws. 

“I know of your enslavement at the hands of the magicians of Caerleon. I know of them abusing your skills for the late king to wield power to lay waste to his enemies - and I am truly and deeply sorry for it.”

There was silence. The flames which surrounded the afrit flickered briefly and changed from forest green to sea green, the temperature in the room subsided but instead of remaining comfortable grew even colder.

“'Abusing my skills', that is a fine way to describe that little affair. And do not try to explain the predicament of my summoned siblings again, mistress. I have first been summoned by the shamans of the Steppe, then the Phoenicians, the Romans, the magicians of the Germanic tribes both on the Cold Peninsula where the sun doesn't rise for half a year and don't descend another as well as beyond the Rhine, and then,” a grimace, “your miserable lot on Britannica. I remain a slave, no matter if granted some freedoms or none at all. But do tell me which magician you wish to see destroyed with the power of,”, Nimuë chuckled, “this charlatan queen. Then let me leave your service so I don't have to be surrounded by your vapid idealist insanity.”

Morgên couldn't help but register how talkative this spirit was on its first summoning. Other afrits she had seen summoned hadn't been like that at all, instead there had been a deep distrust between the two parties as well as an additional layer of mystery in their words. This individual was different; resentment bubbled openly and dripped from each word like the sweetest poison.

The thin lips curled into a smile. “Still on track with your demands? Or did,”, the afrit sniffed, “whatever that is supposed to be, cloud your senses?”

Morgên chose to ignore the latter remark and cleared her throat. It had been suspiciously dry.

“I wish this could work without the process of binding, I really do. It brings me no joy to rip spirits such as you from the Other Place - quite the contrary. It's the reason why I parted ways with my master.”

The afrit sneered. “Surely that is what happened. Is he the one you seek to destroy once you hold the wicked sword in your hands? What a typical thing to do for you witches.”

Morgên smiled. Now that was her trump card.

“Yes, I indeed intend to destroy Myrddin Wyllt.”

The flames burst into a column of green fire, filled out the entire pentagram and both brightened the entire room as well as sucking all light from it. Candles were blown out, a sudden burst of wind roared around them and the banshee within the circle had disappeared. Bolts cracked within the fire column.

“I know how famed you were for your abilities as a blacksmith, great Nimuë.” Morgên spoke loud, louder than before. “And how my master used and tricked you into not only forging Excalibur-” a loud pained scream cut her off. The piercing yell made the ruins shake as well as the floor. Beyond the ruins and in the forests, resting birds took flight in panic.

“Don't you ever speak that thrice-damned name, foolish girl.” The voice was thunder and lightning and for a moment Morgên feared being swept away by the wind.

“- but also to imprison fellow spirits for magicians to use them for their own ends. This is what I wish to correct, for there never to be a spirit who has to suffer, be it the burden of committing this crime or being the prisoner.”

The column of fire raged on and on, had this fury been underneath the guise the whole time? Her father Uthyr, long gone 20 years ago as an illness had claimed him, had been given the sword by Myrrdin to seek victory over his enemies on the battlefield. That must've been 40 years ago… a lifetime for her, who hadn't been alive back then; but nothing for an immortal being. 

There was a deep sigh within the column and slowly, very slowly, the lightning subsided, the rotations grew slower and when it halted, the fire shifted and as it fell away gave view to the banshee, floating above the ground and regarding her with a steely look in the burning sockets.

Morgên's legs shook as she slowly rose, careful to not cross the lines of the circle to Nimuë's level - or at least something close to it.

“How many winters are you old?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You cannot be serious about this.” The afrit snarled. 

“I have never been more sure of something.”

Nimuë sneered. “So be it then.”

“So you will assist me in my journey?”

The afrit regarded her for a long time. “I am bound to your commands, but I will not deny that I am not convinced of them.” White hair framed the haggard face as Nimuë's piercing gaze searched her face. “But Mórrígu is a myth - she never existed. This is a futile charge, any imp could recognize that.”

Morgên smiled. “I have evidence that shows the complete opposite. And I will prove it and use her wisdom to change the way of magician-spirit relationships forever.”

The afrit looked at her, Morgên couldn't tell whether it was disdain or pity this time. Neither pleased her.

“Of course, mistress. Now, would you mind stating your definite charge so I have something to actually work with?”