[open] i'm taking back my life tonight

[bloodings]

WHO? Mordred/bloodings & unlucky people (you)
WHAT? Dreamin'
WHEN? During the event, 'til the 23rd
ANYTHING ELSE? contains f/apoc spoilers, violence. prose or backets is cool, i'll match you!

[ Servants don't dream, but things are different here. It brings her back to when she was alive, never human, but not a spirit; when she could still dream.

Loathsome dreams, dreams that made her wake roaring in anger long after her decision to kill the king was made. Bitter dreams, of toppling her father and taking his crown for herself. Worst of all — dreams of what she wanted from the start. Dreams of her father's hand in her hair and words of praise as his son. (But she's not. She's a filthy, unwanted child, born from his enemy, and he will never recognize her because of it.)

Dreams... ]

a.

[ ... of her training. Of bitterness, seeing children her own age and knowing she would be dead before they even reached adulthood. If she is to die sooner, then she will blaze brighter, and become greater than they will ever be. She will defeat the king and claim the throne. (At least, her mother says she will. In truth, she wants nothing more than to serve him.)

She's still a child, though. So anyone in the dream will be very suddenly pushed over (even an adult; she's freakishly strong) and greeted by a very young face staring back at them, smirking. ]

Heh.

b.

[ ... of Camelot. Of a woman, a man, with the same face as hers, sitting at the round table. The same man the knights call King Arthur. Mordred's own face hidden behind a helmet. It's the day she confronted the king, the day her love turned to hate, the day she was reborn.

Maybe you're there to see her plead with him. It's not a long discussion. Mordred, her face exposed, desperate for acknowledgement as a son, if not as heir; for him to take pride in her. "Even if it cannot be publicly known, you can accept me. As a father, if not as king!". And the king's simple response — "Born from the machinations of my sister you may be, but indeed you are of my blood. Yet I shall not recognize you as my son, nor shall I allow you the throne." — before he turns his back on her.

Either way, when she returns to her chambers her emotions are almost radiating off her. The door opens, and she glances up, still wearing her helmet... but her glare can be felt. ]

What the hell do you want? [ She knows it's a dream, this time. The worst moment of her life, and it's exposed for all to see. ]

c.

[ ... of Camlann. Of waking on the hill after her father's spear pierced her chest, alone, with tens of thousands of dead bodies around her. It's a nightmare, not a memory; she's a literal walking corpse with a lance straight through her body and blood oozing from it with every step.

On a hill of death, it's easy to spot the only other living, moving thing. She blinks in surprise at the figure in front of her. ]

How? [ How are you here, how is she alive... how did it all end this way. One hand rests on the spear in her chest, seemingly unable to pull it out. ]

Comments

b. SUR-FRICKING- PRISE

[scinlae]

[ It plays before her like some strange sort of play, of knights and kings, and a woman who looks strikingly like Mordred. A woman who is a man. A woman named Arthur. It leaves her confused and disorientated, the truths of her own past conflicting with what she is shown, with the truths of Mordred's.

There is a bitterness there, a familiarity that strikes deep into her core, her eyes bearing witness to the king's rejection of her. The hurt and anger Morgana knows to well. A part of her, distant yet still very much there, cannot help but feel pity. Uther did the same to her, though he never admitted it to her face, rejecting her blood and her claim for Arthur's.

It is a pain they share.

The dream takes her to Modred's chambers, takes her instead, to the visage of the spurned knight in full armor. An intimidating sight for any who did not know what lay underneath. ]

Many things. My brother dead, the throne, to wake from this endless dream.

screams

[bloodings]

[ Mordred snorts, derisive. ] Good luck with that.

[ She obviously doesn't mean it. She would never give her mother the throne — though, in truth, she has no idea what became of Britain after her death. But at that point, she no longer cared. It wasn't the kingdom she wanted, but for the man ruling it to look at her. ]

I should kill you right now. [ One hand falls to the sword at her side. It's plainer than the one she usually bears; she hasn't yet stolen Clarent, hasn't yet claimed the crown for herself. ] What would happen, I wonder. Perhaps it would be the end of your treacherous existence.

[ Rich, coming from someone only known for her treachery. But it all started with Morgan; from her birth, to her rebellion, to her death. This is not the same woman, of course, but even more than before, Mordred feels the urge to strike her down. ]

[scinlae]

[ Perhaps she ought to be afraid, but she isn't. Morgana moves about the room carefully, fingers ghosting over whatever she can reach as she studies it, her gaze focused on the armored knight. But there is no fear in her, no overbearing confidence, this is just a dream after all and not like the ones that plague her sleep. ]

Go ahead. [ Her eyes follow then hand to the sword, different from the one she had pointed at her when they first met. More plain. ] You could be doing me a favor, perhaps dying will wake me from this.

[ When she finally stops she leans herself against a table head tilted to the side, expectant. ]

[bloodings]

[ It's almost the perfect comeback — Mordred wouldn't be caught dead helping her, after all. Even if there's nothing of note in her room, even if it's not real, she growls in annoyance whenever Morgana touches anything, her feelings clear. ]

Then rot here. [ She won't, of course. Mordred will wake, and Morgana too, even if she doesn't hasten the process. But it's comforting, to imagine trapping a visage of her mother in this fake version of Camelot, this castle that haunts her. ] The king faced judgment for his actions on this day. I plunged his country into darkness, destroyed everything he had.

Do you think it just, woman? To drag an entire kingdom into a personal vendetta? [ Mordred doesn't. She also doesn't care. ]

[scinlae]

[ The corners of her mouth curve and a soft laugh passes her lips, amusement shining briefly in her sharp green eyes. It is a dangerous game to try and play with a girl like this, so full of rage and power beyond her small frame... Yet it is her hatred and her anger that makes it so simple - the ill will she bears towards her mother, Morgan, that sees her still breathe in this dream. ]

Do I think it just? [ Morgana's fingers curl against the edge of the table, her gaze going distant for a moment. Does she think it is just? ] There is no justice in the world, if there was your king would not have disowned you so, nor would have mine. If there was justice hundreds of innocents would have been put to the stake purely because they were born different. If there was justice I would have my throne.

[ If there was justice she would have Merlin's head on a stake, and her brother cowering before her. Yet instead she is here, instead she stands in the dreams of a girl that shares Mordred's name. A girl equally as scarred as she is. ]

[bloodings]

[ She hates the way this Morgana's words still worm their way into her brain, no matter how much she wants to ignore them. Her father was just. Was flawlessly so. The fact he disowned her—

—She hates him for it. But to the end, he was a perfect king. ]

You speak of innocents dying as if only the king is to blame. But thousands of men perished because of me, even as I cared nothing for them. I sacrificed them for my own purpose, and they tried to use me for theirs.

I admit that it was foolish. Selfish. Had King Arthur been a ruler like any other, greedy and unworthy, perhaps it could have been justified. Yet he remained ever perfect.

My father was justice. I was only his undoing. [ Under her helmet, she sneers. ] And if your brother is a fraction of the man he was, he will never fall to you.