You only have time to do one thing, so you have to make sure it's the most important thing. Bone and Terri's problems aren't likely to get them into trouble right this moment, and Gemma will still be here when the third rush wears off. Annabelle though…You grab Alexander's wrist. "I need your phone."
"You need to sit down," Alexander says. "And get your head on straight. If you're this agitated when the third rush hits-"
Caledfwlch seethes under your skin, itching to be released, demanding acknowledgment. You are a Prince, a commander, a general. When you give orders they're to be obeyed, not questioned and countered. You tighten your grip, and Alexander squirms as something in his wrist pops. "I need your phone," you say again, and this time Alexander reaches into his pocket to produce a smartphone.
Your grasp on modern technology is tenuous at best, but luckily smartphones are so ubiquitous that you've picked up how to operate them basically through osmosis. You open Alexander's contacts and thumb down the extensive, emoji filled list until you reach the Bs, and with them Bailey's number, flanked by a smiling devil face, a tongue, a monkey face, a heart, and three fires.
God you don't understand emojis. What are they supposed to mean, how does everyone but you get them? Was there some kind of class you missed that teaches the significance of an upside down smiley face?
You push Bailey's name with a finger and bring the phone to your ear. It rings once, twice, three times, and for a moment it feels like your heart is frozen in your chest. What if Bailey doesn't pick up? What if she's away from her phone, or doesn't want to talk to Alexander right now, or doesn't even get reception in the "Observatory," wherever that is? What if-
The fourth ring cuts out suddenly, replaced by a moment of unexpected silence. "Hey you," Lady Bercila's voice purrs in your ear. "Isn't there some kind of three days rule about you calling?"
"What?" You ask, confused.
"What?" Bailey echoes. "Who the fuck is this?"
"It's Morgan."
"Who the fuck is Morgan?"
Seriously? "I go to your school!" You shout, slapping your free hand to your forehead. You don't have time for this. "Where's Annabelle? Is she okay?" You hear a door open behind you, and the music of the club flooding the small backroom. A moment later the door clicks shut again, and the music returns to a muted vibration in the floor. You whirl and see that Gemma has left the room, Alyse hot in pursuit.
"Annabelle?" Bailey asks. "What's going on? How did you get this number? Do you know Alexander?"
"Bailey!" You shout, and Caledfwlch carries on your voice, your presence reverberating in every syllable. "Is! Annabelle! Okay!"
"Fuck," Bailey says. "Matthew!" Her shout is muffled, as if she's covering the phone with one hand. You hear voices from the phone, low and intense, and you check the digital clock on the phone. How much longer will you have lucidity? Will you be able to carry a conversation once the third rush hits?
A moment later Matthew's voice comes through the phone. "Morgan?" He asks. He sounds…frightened. Desperate. It is not a tone you are used to hearing in the voice of Merlin Ambrosius. In times of stress his manner had always been neutral, calculated, the result of a lifetime spent facing crises.
"Whatever Lorelei did, it shattered Caledfwlch. Perhaps she exploited a flaw, a defect in the armor, but it's good he woke up when he did. Without the conscious mind to stabilize the loss, damage could have been much more severe."
"Annabelle's hurt," you say. It's no longer a question.
"But…" Matthew stammers, "I- how- you-" he takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost much of its frantic edge. "Yes. Can you help? Please." There is so much desperate longing in his words that for a moment you're convinced you're back in Camelot, that everything since your awakening in the cave has been some fever dream from which you're only now emerging.
"If she's unconscious, you need to wake her up," you say immediately. "She got hit in the soul, Matthew. Past the armor, and her skin. She's still mortal there."
You can practically hear Matthew's face go pale. "Her soul?" He asks. "Gavin can't- I mean he's never-"
"I don't know how much he'll be able to help her. But every little bit counts." King Gwynn had been unable to attend to you, of course, but you're not sure a direct attack to the soul can be fixed through traditional healing magic. "Also, there may be residual energy trapped inside her. If you can push it, it should go back the way it came."
"Which is where?" Matthew asks.
You grit your teeth. He's going to figure it out anyway. "Though a soul bond."
"Through you," Matthew says. "Morgan, what are you hiding from us?"
"That can come later," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "After you help her."
"We know where you are."
"I know."
"If you run, we'll find you."
You swallow. "I know that too."
"Thank you for helping," Matthew says. "I…I should tell Gavin what you told me."
You hang up the phone. It slips between your fingers and falls to the ground below.
The Third Rush – Babble
The wooziness hits you immediately, sending you stumbling. Your head feels simultaneously too light and too heavy, as if it is off balance, falling up towards the ceiling. It's not an unpleasant feeling, actually, but it is disorienting.
"Alright, buddy," Alexander says, slipping an arm around your shoulders. "Sit down."
"I can't," you say, surprised to find that your words are precise and well enunciated. Your thoughts are slow to get going, but once you open your mouth they rush up through your throat and across your tongue. "I have to find Gemma. I fucked up, I fucked up really badly, but I had to. It wasn't my fault…what can you do when you're dealt a shit hand except deal with it?" You press a hand to your forehead. "I've had nothing but shit hands, and everyone else…everyone else treats me like a leper when I try to make the most of it. What am I supposed to do? Why can't everything just be simple again?"
"Nothing's ever simple," Alexander says reassuringly, guiding you back to the couch you awoke on. The leather is still damp from your sweat, but you hardly notice it as you sit down. "Uncertainty and confusion are always the first things to be forgotten, but they were always there."
"No," you insist, "no, you're right, it wasn't simple, but it was clear. It was a hard decision, but once I made it I knew it was the right one. Except maybe it wasn't! What if everything I knew was just something I thought?"
Alexander shrugs. "We're only human," he says. "Well, I'm not, but you get the picture. We all make mistakes."
"I can't make mistakes," you say. "If I do…I threw away my morals, but I had to. It was necessary. That's what rulers do, they make the hard choices. But they have to make the right ones! If they don't…if they just throw away what's right whenever it becomes convenient…" you struggle for words to explain what you're feeling, but none come.
"It's about justice!" You scream at Gwynn, voice thick with a frustrated rage. "It's about what's right! If you're just acting moral to win the support of the people you're nothing but a despot in a mask!"
Gwynn slams his hand on the table. "It's about what's necessary," he says, and though his voice is loud to match your own, the fire of his voice does not rage as hot as yours. "A ruler must be kind, and generous, and wise, yes, but above all he must be practical."
"Can I tell you a story?" Alexander asks. You look up at him, fistfuls of hair clutched desperately in your fingers. "Alyse and I, our father was the human," he continues, taking your silence for assent. "He was a scholar, actually. Kinda weedy. People think True Fae are always going after supermodels, but that's not true. They see beauty differently than we do. Our dad, he was obsessed with the Fae, with their legends and culture. His passion drew our mother to him, and kept her in his heart long after she left. He would tell us Fae stories when we were children, real Fae stories. To help us understand who we were.
"Our favorite story was called The Wise Brownie." He pauses, tapping his chin. "Actually this might be a bit confusing. Brownies-"
"They're extinct," you mumble. "They were the Seelie equivalent of Goblins, right? Small and weak, but helpful and kind instead of savage and cruel."
Alexander blinks, surprise. "Yeah, actually. You know your stuff. Anyway, the story goes like this: One day, there lived a Brownie on a farm. Like most Brownies, she was kind but a little stupid – but most importantly, she was very wise. And while most Brownies could only use their magic to patch shoes or clean houses, this one was far more powerful."
"How?" You ask. Fae castes are relatively static, you remember. It's not often an Unseelie rises above their station, and as far as you can remember, Seelie Fae were mirrors of their darker cousins.
"She was strong, where the rest of her kind was weak," Alexander says with a shrug. "Her choices wrought power from fate, and lit her like a star. She held in her hands the power to shape worlds, to rise above even the True Fae. But she didn't."
"She didn't?"
"Her power touched all that lived, and they were like clay before her, to be molded by her strength. In her wisdom, she saw the righteous path that she could take. But she also saw the darkness she could bring, and most importantly she saw her own weakness. She was only a Brownie, kind but a little stupid, and she knew that she was unworthy of the power she held. So she carved off the barest sliver of it for herself, and locked the rest away, only to be returned to her when she was worthy of it.
"For years and years she struggled, achieving great deeds, proving herself. Slowly she approached worthiness, slowly she approached the choice that would bestow her full power unto her." Alexander stops, as if waiting for something.
"So?" You ask. "How did she prove herself worthy?"
Alexander smiles. "One day, an Unseelie Fae came along," he says. "He saw the power the Brownie possessed, but had locked away. And so he gobbled her up, and took all her power for himself."
"He what?" You ask. "That's…that's an awful story. Your dad told you this as a little kid?"
"It's an Unseelie story," Alexander says, laughing. "Did you expect a happy ending? There is a moral though. If the Brownie had embraced her full power at the beginning, the Unseelie Fae never would have been able to kill her. Some might say her wisdom, her sense of what was right, was her strength. But power was her strength, Morgan. Everything that kept her from it was weakness, to be exploited." He shrugs. "Throw away what holds you back, whether that be doubt or confusion or wisdom. The only way to survive in this world is to be strong."
You sit with your head in your hands, considering his words. After a few long minutes, Alexander stands and exits back into the club proper, leaving you with your thoughts.
It was several minutes more before you collect yourself enough to search for Gemma. Alexander's story bothers you as you hunt through the twisting hallways of the club. Is your doubt and hesitancy to commit what makes you weak? You have done nothing but waffle back and forth ever since you woke up in this new world. You've told yourself that it was to learn, to understand the consequences of your previous actions, but has that been a lie? Have you been afraid to seize the power this new world gives you?
The Knights will come for you soon. Is allying yourself with them the right decision to make? They are not the women and men you fought against in Camelot, but they bear the same scars. Are you moving backwards, instead of forwards? Despite your hesitancy to admit it, you like much of the Breakfast Club. Piper, Matthew, Gavin, Gemma…Annabelle…they are kind to you. You are less close to Ginny and Bailey, but they seem to have their hearts in the right place, even if that place brings them into conflict with you. Could you build your new Camelot with them, rather than over their corpses? Could you stand with them against the Forces of Darkness, rather than the other way around? Or are you nothing more than a child, letting fear and regret drive you into the arms of the familiar? Throw away what holds you back. But is that your attachment, or your mistrust? The only way to survive in this world is to be strong. But is strength standing on your own two feet, or being able to trust others to catch you when you stumble?
You have failed before. Desperate and alone, you attacked your home and family, and found yourself imprisoned for a thousand thousand years.
No.
Not years. A thousand thousand cycles. You can see it in your mind's eye, a million lives lived and lost. You found yourself imprisoned for a thousand thousand lives, but now you are awoken, and you have a chance to try again.
You will not retread the same path. You have been dealt a new hand, been given new opportunities. There is a path now where there was none before, a path where you forge something new and truly golden.
"Hi," Gemma says.
You look up. She is beautiful in the smoke, the ghost of a girl who died a thousand thousand deaths ago. She strides forward and before you can react she kisses you, her lips feverish against yours.
When she pulls away you can see her eyes in the dim light. Her pupils eclipse her irises and waver around the edges, as if unable to support themselves. "I just…" she whispers, "wanted to try that. Before…you lied to me. You said she and her weren't anything."
"We're not."
"A soul bond is something, Morgan," Gemma says, the barest hint of a smile on her lips.
"I didn't know. Or I didn't want to know. I don't like thinking about her too hard, Gemma. She…terrifies me."
The hint of a smile turns to one in truth. "She should," Gemma says. "I've seen the face of God, Morgan, and it's a child with a complex. I thought I could be her for you, I thought that was what you wanted. But I don't know what you want."
You grab her hands. "I want you."
"No you don't. You look right past me, like I'm just…just a new face on an old girl. You see someone when you look at me, I don't know whether it's Annabelle or that girl you left in Atlanta, but it's not me. You don't even know me."
"I-" Lightning spikes through you, raw and uncontrolled. You grit your teeth against the pain, and shield yourself with the knowledge that Annabelle is being helped. Whatever residual energy still lingers in her body, it won't be enough to injure, although it hurts like a bitch.
"I want to know you," Gemma says, studying your face. "Ever since I met you, I felt like…like I'd seen you somewhere before. It was driving me insane. I felt like we had a connection, like we were just two people who understood each other." She exhales sharply. "I've spent so long complaining about Annabelle's obsession with true love, but I guess I wanted it too, a little bit. But how could I love you? I don't think I even see you when I look at you, any more than you see me. I see…escape. Proof that I don't have to live my life for her. I see…I see a normal life. Away from the drama and craziness and terror I wake up to every day. I feel like I see...everything but you." She shakes her head. "I'm selfish. We're all selfish, that's the problem. When Gavin looks at Annabelle he sees validation, and when she looks at him she sees the person she could be, stronger and better."
"That's…selfish?"
"They should be seeing each other!" Gemma shouts, and she shoves you, hard, your shoulders hitting the walls with a crack. "I want to see you Morgan, but I can't! I don't even know you, I just feel like I should." She stumbles backwards. "I've been lying this whole time. About who you are…about who I am. And now my friends are coming, and they're going to see…I don't know if I can face them, Morgan. I ran away because I couldn't. I…" she trails off, helpless.
You stare at her, at Gemma, and past her, at the girl you once knew. A thousand thousand lives ago you'd run, but you'd never had to face the consequences of your actions. Now…
[] What?
