The pain was agonizing and profound. Over and over in my head, I could feel Serena’s death at the hands of the sword; I could feel every single person I had ever killed. Without Tyrfing to filter, to bridge, to safeguard my mind, I was vulnerable to every horrendous thing I’ve ever done.

  I screamed and pounded on the stone walls, but nothing changed. I clutched at my hair, the memories looping behind my eyes like old film reels. I had lost a few fingernails from clawing at the stone prison. I had carved deep gashes over my eyes, from trying to claw them out. And then I'd cry myself to sleep.

  When I awoke, it continued. Over and over and over again. It didn’t stop except when she came to visit. I could hear her heels clacking against the cobblestone floors, and her magical aura radiated calm. She stopped just before my cell and I looked up at her with bleeding eye sockets.

  “Please, make it stop.” I begged.

  She looked at me with pity, or sympathy. I couldn’t tell. But this time, she seemed intrigued. This time, she stayed, kneeling in front of the bars to my prison.

  “You have quite the powerful aura, even without your cursed blade." She said, flicking some of her long black curls from her face. "Tell me Chase Morgan, do you know the significance of your bloodline?” She reached a slender hand inside my cell. I scurried forward on my hands and knees just to feel her touch. I nuzzled her palm with my face like an animal.

  Her healing magic washed over me, and for the moment, I was restored. I gasped, trying to catch my breath. She waited patiently as I adjusted myself into a more dignified persona and sat cross-legged in front of her.

  “To my understanding, I am of the bloodline of Mordred, slayer of Arthur. As for significance, I couldn’t tell you." I winced, reminded of how Gideon Solarin, my old Master had guilted me into hiding who I was to protect Anders. Guilted me into accepting Tyrfing. "In my life, it has been nothing but a hindrance. Something I had to hide, even more so than the cursed sword Tyrfing.” I told her. "I know it has granted me powerful control over magic, at least."

  She looked disgusted, then deeply saddened. Her violet eyes seemed to glow with power as she stared at me, unblinking.

  “Do you know who I am? Can you feel me?” She cocked her head, her long black curls falling in front of her face again.

  “I have a few educated guesses. I’d hate to be presumptuous.” I offered a small smile, some fragment of my real personality shining through. “It would seem you have me at a disadvantage. You know quite a bit about me, and I don’t even know your name.” She sat back on her feet and watched me for a long moment. It made me feel like a zoo animal.

  “I have been called many things. The legends of mortals start to blur the lines of who I truly am, the further they got into the twenty-first century. I’ve been mostly forgotten, all alone out here.” She reached into my cell again and brushed some of my hair from my face. I could feel myself melt into her hand. Something in the back of my mind screamed against it, but I was powerless to resist her.

  “I am Morgan le Fay. But you, my dear one, may call me Lady Morganna, as I've taken to being called.”

  I felt my jaw drop a little bit and I had to make a conscious effort to close it. Which seemed to amuse her, as she gave me a coy smile, posing as if to flaunt her ego.

  “It's an honor.” I bowed my head towards her, but she ruffles my hair as if I were a small boy. Perhaps to her, I am. My ancient ancestor; likely the beginning of my bloodline. The source of my magic.

  “At first, I had thought you were my sweet Mordred, come home to me at last. I began to sing an ancient song that only my blood should be able to hear. Instead of my son, I found you.” Sadness returned to her porcelain face. “I felt your pain, your darkness, from so far away. When I arrived, your mind was nothing but the chaos that sword had made it.”

  “Yes, well,” I sighed. “I had become quite dependent on that sword for a good many years now. While I thank you for your efforts, I was certain I was going to die. Where is the sword now, if I might inquire?” I search her face for any kind of indication. As much as I hated Tyrfing, I worried about what it might do if it fell into the wrong hands. She strokes my face gently and my mind becomes static.

  “I would not let my own blood perish so…” She mulled over words for a moment. “…Uselessly. The sword is gone. I don’t know where it got to.” Morganna’s eyes flashed with a magical surge, as if she reached out with her powers, searching in my mind. I could not deny her.

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  “That could prove dangerous.” I told her.

  “It is no longer your problem. That was not who you are. I will show you, who you were really meant to be, child of my blood.” She stood, and I found myself following the same motion, even though my knees are weak, and my body is fighting against my mind. Or, whatever she was doing to my mind. How long had I been down here again? A flicker of memory staggered across the back of my consciousness. The sickening sound of a skull splitting. The familiar scream. The words ‘I love you’. I desperately crave her healing touch again. I want to be free of my past, of myself.

  “Yes, you keep telling me that’s not who I am. But my Lady, that is who I have been. I can’t change the horrid things I’ve done and they haunt me every moment you aren’t here. Your healing arts are phenomenal, but I can't come to rely on you. It would do the world good if I had the sword back.” I felt like an addict, torn between two substances; withdrawal from the cursed blade, and craving for her magic.

  “I am well versed in many different magical arts, both curative and destructive. As you must know, magic comes easily to us. My dear Mordred was not quite so well off. I blame his father’s vile blood for tainting him.” She crossed her arms and looked away, but when her eyes return to me, it’s as if I am suddenly a delicious prey. She waved her hands and the bars to my cell simply vanish.

  “Come with me. There is much to be done and so much I have to explain. I will show you who you are meant to be.” Her heels click-clacked as she moved down the long corridor and up an equally as long staircase. Despite my exhaustion, I kept pace with her, trailing along behind like a puppy. Every time I lost a certain proximity of closeness to her, I started to spiral out into dark memories that would consume my being. She led me through ancient ruins of what was probably once a castle, and eventually we pop out into a grand lobby. The room ignited to life with magical torches and the décor is extensive. Rich marble floors adorned with red velvet rugs. Tapestries and stained glass windows depict many scenes familiar from Arthurian lore. I could feel my heart pounding wildly in my chest. My magic surged to life inside of me and I could feel my true Artifacts trying to manifest of their own accord, as if their home beckoned. Morganna led me to a small room, with a luxurious four poster bed, a mahogany writing desk and large porcelain tub.

  “This is to be your quarters. If you happen upon somewhere else you might find more accommodating, you may move their instead.” She gestured to the room, watching my every move intently. I stumbled into the large space, taking in my lavish surroundings.

  “This is more than enough for me. I served in my country's military. I would be fine on the floor.” I chuckled to myself. She looked at me concerned, patting my arm.

  “The blood of Morgan le Fay will not sleep on floors. Who made you do this?” She seemed eager and more than capable of killing my old commanding officers. There was something beyond the magic in her eyes. It was gone in moments, but I could see the fraying ends of her mind in that moment of emotions shifting.

  “No one made me. Just an occupational hazard I suppose.” I said slowly, trying to calm her. Sometimes, when I spoke to her, I felt like she wasn't paying attention, but simply staring through me, reading my soul; a soul I had thought was damned to bear the curse of Tyrfing, but no more.

  Morganna moved from the doorway, and my brain decided to flicker to a memory of a very particular sniper shot, that may or may not have caused a revolution in a third world country. I shook my head, trying to forget the moment in time.

  “There has to be some way to stop what I’m experiencing. These memories, they cause me unbearable pain.” I told her, moving close behind her again, using the proximity to clear my head.

  “This is mortal guilt. I can do nothing.” She said flippantly. She turned around to face me, but her eyes don’t meet mine.

  “I...don’t believe you.” My eyes narrowed, but she softens my gaze with nothing but her own. She continued on down the hall to the big corridor and then down to a large set of doors. I followed diligently, not letting her get too far. The wood doors were a beautiful oak, barred with magical iron, and armed with more than a few magical wards.

  “Can you keep a secret, Chase Morgan?” She glanced over her shoulder with wild excitement in her violet eyes. Sometimes she reminded me of a child, other times she reminded me of a sagely old crone. But she was definitely all crazy, and coming from me, that's saying something.

  “I suppose. Being a spy and an assassin most of my young adult life would likely imply I'm capable of harboring secrets." I chuckled again, trying to be disarming. I stood close behind her as she waved her hands in the air, a melody of chants escaping her and suddenly the wards around the door come down. She swung a hand, and a blast of air blew the doors wide open. Inside, is a wide concept throne room, lined with banners from various knights and countries all from different time periods. The floor was bone white stone, decorated with the same red fabrics from the hall. The mighty high-backed throne loomed ominously over the room, but it was nothing special. What caught my eye was the circular table made of granite and marble in the center of the room.

  “A table where every man is equal..." I muttered, staring at the Round Table of Arthurian legend. But then the looming throne didn't make sense. If Arthur sat at the Round Table, equal to all his knights, then what purpose did he have for a throne. I asked her as such.

  “Yes, well,” Morganna put her knuckles to her chin and bites her lip. “My brother wasn’t quite as fantastic as the stories would make him seem. I knew him for what he was all along. And in the end, I still tried to save him. I took him to Avalon to be healed.” She sighed. "Alas, the poor bastard died anyway."

  “But why? Wasn’t it you who groomed Mordred to kill him? At least, that's what legends said.” I tried to get closer to her, so as not to the lose the proximity of her healing aura. Which proved to be a massive mistake. Morgan le Fay, one of the most powerful sorceresses of all time, spun on me, her eyes wild, magic surging around her palms.

  And I’m pretty sure I pissed myself.