Accepting the Mantle: The Phoenix Succession, #3

By Helen Savore

How can Jamie and Alexandrea defend us from fae, if they can't even see themselves? 

King Arthur has returned.

But what does that mean? There are no more dragons to slay in modern day Wales. Even Oberon has been satiated… probably. Best to hide and wallow in guilt for the two lives he took: Jamie and Drea. At least she gets a chance at a normal life.

 

But she doesn't want it.

Alexandrea is haunted by memories she doesn't trust, and she isn't sure what she's more afraid of:

Delusions of controlling the elements?

Or falling into Jamie's arms?

 

Amid their uncertainty rises an old threat. 

Morgana. 

 

Forced into a new body too fast, she tries to refresh her life; but the Grail is gone!

How?

When?

And Who is even around still to care?

 

Realizing Druids have returned, Morgana vows to find them, and take one for herself.

 

You'll love this modern day Arthurian continuation, because sometimes it takes  time to figure out who we are, and what we're truly capable of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oberon's Forge Press llc
• Release date: Jul 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781946625083

Helen Savore

Helen Savore writes fantastical worlds filled with a mixture of modern and medieval settings. She explores stories loosely based on Arthurian legends, secretly wishing that King Arthur would return to pull the world from the brink of darkness. An engineer by day, and a gamer when time allows, this paper ninja writes, reads, plays with pen-and-paper RPGs and folds origami. It’s not surprising that her stories are filled with unexpected folds and twists that blend seamlessly with reality. Learn more about Helen’s stories at right here. You can also follow her on Twitter @ImaPaperNinja.

Book preview

1

Masks

Morgana reached the quiet copse of trees bordering a low running brook, eyeing it with trepidation. She looked absurd in this forest, dressed in a camel tan pencil skirt and a white pleated blouse with balloon sleeves with every hair in place and blemish hidden, ready for a stroll along the Gran Via or Champs-Elysées.

Between the moss-ridden stones of the small pool reflected a swarthy woman with long ebony hair beginning to lose its luster. Morgana hadn't determined how to maintain it properly yet. She twirled it, then swatted the other hand away. A habit she had forgotten, it had been a while since she wore her hair long.

Absurd, but there was much the modern eye missed.

Rubbing her rose quartz ring and then taking a breath, she leapt, not concerned for any of the slippery stones. She needed to only touch the water with determination.

When her brown rugged boots appeared above her instead of water, Morgana realized she made a mistake.

Pain coursed through her head, crawling and pounding, the thumping driving her deaf and mute, unable to piece together words within her mind. Blood teased the edges of her broken vision, but she couldn't do anything, as she struggled against her loss of control.

She existed in this interminable murky shock until a thin white snake slithered into her consciousness. It twisted and fused, taking up more space until enveloping her physical and mental mind.

In a cruelty, her senses returned first. When she reared up off of the rocks and out of the stream, her head was healed, her entire body whole except for a smattering of minor bruises.

Damn the hearth, no! Too much! she yelled into the empty forest, her error haunting her.

The limited pool of healing she brought with her flickered and diminished, her fire shrinking. It wasn't out, not yet, but she needed that strength for something else.

That's why she came here.

Or came here on the way to somewhere else.

Must I suffer for chasing the shortcut? She brushed herself off the most surface level disarray, but the muddy remnants of her head wounds remained.

Morgana needed to get to Mount Etna. She resided near her old workshop, just at the foot of the awesome volcano. As time passed, she found it was less important to remain nearby. She moved out as she moved on from her earlier lives, and for the few times she must visit, there were hidden paths.

Were, past tense now.

She questioned herself and searched up and downstream, running her fingers through the low waters to sense for deviations that hinted to the entrance's location. The cool current reminded her of the mess of this body though, so she halted to sluice the blood stains.

Who are you? The voice was rough and cracked, but still held a lyrical lilt.

Morgana rose to see a lean wolfish demion leaning against a nearby tree. In addition to black fur, a cascade of grey hair flowed down to their hind legs, covering them like a cloak. The hair was laden with vines filled with sap, matting and pulling on the impressive display.

A fae. She knew some were still on Earth. Oberon had cut off Avalon too quickly.

Morgana’s eyes widened, and she couldn't resist smiling, though it hurt her cheeks. I haven't seen you in a long time.

We have never met.

One of your kind.

I could say the same for you. They stepped out, feet dragging against the forest floor. You are a Druid?

She stilled her face, not wanting to betray her affront. The last that realizes it.

The demion motioned toward the stream, their hand opening to reveal claws that looked more like the ends of branches with slight budding growths. A fae, but not akin to those from long ago. It is no longer here.

Morgana stared, refusing to rise to the question. Elemental magic was easy to understand, even scientific to a degree, as she had witnessed human's understanding of the world evolve to explain phenomena. But there was other sorcery from those days, some she recognized, others not so much. She had to put all magic behind her, all but that which she needed to extend her life. It was the only way to hide from the slaughter.

One never asked questions of the fae, especially without an exchange of hospitality first.

Fortunately, they offered the answer freely. The portal to the Waterways, it is lost.

Lost? How did they come to know of Viviane's Waterways? Especially for someone who came after Camlann. The fish smith had paid for sharing its existence, for sharing it with her.

How could they be lost? Morgana had used them only five decades past—two hosts ago—since that host had contained latent druidic talents. But this one did not, hence the urgency to retrieve the grail.

Why now? Viviane maintained the Waterways after Camlann, despite losing Arthur. If she did not withdraw, then Morgana could not imagine any reason she would.

The fae craned their neck in consideration. I do not know and neither do the others I have consulted. Those bound bodies of water are most distressed.

Morgana stilled her response, then drew her mind into a descent, trying to recall the speech patterns she used over a millennium ago. She was still Morgana, no matter how many faces she wore. The supreme Druid of her time after Merlin, who was Phoenix and defied generations. If they would not recognize her, she would outlive Arthur and all of Camelot, even Merlin. Now she was the last Druid.

I do not know this binding to water. I would like to understand it better.

In time all things may be known, but humans have but a flicker. Before the demion could disappear into the forest, they took a brief look back. I owe you thanks, little Druid. This encounter is a novelty I will savor for some time.

Pain radiated from Morgana's jaw, but she overcame it to speak. My life is no flicker. She rose to her full height, slowly so as not to betray her dizziness, still more familiar with her previous compact body. The more recent voices in her mind told her she was being petty and there was no reason to antagonize this fae, but her soul held pride above all else, and it would not be denied. You know of Camlann?

All fae on Earth know of Camlann.

She should have known all fae took part in the massacre, especially one stuck on Earth. There were not any fae not alive during Camlann, since there was no Phoenix to continue their cycle of rebirth.

Morgana would not have suspected, but again this was a fact and did not change her actions. I am of Camlann. It was not precisely correct, but germane and fit the tempo. The fae massacre of the Druids was named after the gentle river Camlann, where Camelot's Knights of the Round Table turned it red with mortal wounds. Through her years, Morgana came to understand they were not the only Druids to die that day, but Arthur's death mattered most of all

They’d ended it, the land and the peoples lead what the world was to become. Both Earth and Fae Worlds were safer for it.

Morgana at one point was allied with the court of Camelot, even predating it. She started her druidic training before her infamous half-brother was conceived. But their goals did not remain aligned for long.

That explains much, yet changes nothing. The demion lingered though, betraying their words.

I am a sorceress like none other. Merlin was Phoenix and his power was out of reach, but Morgana was unique as well for no mortal could attain her might. She still was. Please do not trivialize my worth.

I do not. Your worth is simply not relevant. The demion turned their gaze away and caressed the closest tree.

Morgana circled round, coming closer but not touching their tree. If they wished to seek comfort when engaging her, she would not deny them the weakness. Were the Waterways a novelty too? Will those 'bound water bodies' distress pass as if a storm through drought lands?

What is there to do? We may shape our lands, but the Waterways are more, not simple elements, neither of Earth nor Fae. Their fingers grew into longer tendrils climbing along the tree bark, two appearing to pierce it before buds grew from the lowest hanging branches.

Morgana closed her mouth; she had no attention to waste on amazement. They could be a cristiline and not a demion to be that flexible, but that shiver of the tree was nothing an admixture of foci accomplished. Perhaps this was similar to the 'bound water bodies' that were not yet known to her.

It did not occur to Morgana that she discounted their abilities as she had assumed the demion did of her.

The loss of their paths is distressing to me as well. I will bring them back.

You think to accomplish what we cannot? Their face crinkled and some of the black fur of their mask flaked like leaves abandoning their trees. Was this disbelief or surprise? I do not underestimate you, gentle human, but we are not gods, heralds, or even Smiths. I do not see how that is possible.

You cannot discern I am no Smith. Morgana spun her arms and summoned memories of wielding a hammer, but they would not twist into a craftsman's grip nor anything useful.

Life Smiths are too valuable. The demion halted, holding their words to let their meaning sink in.

Take injury and see how valuable I am.

The demion ignored her remark. They are killed or captured. Boderien passed a few seasons ago, despite Bohord and Moralynn's protection.

All fire drained from Morgana through the metaphorical pit in her stomach. It could not be Moralynn, her Moralynn, her daughter. Moralynn was the casualty she regretted most from Camlann. At least part of the agreement Morgana struck was that Moralynn's death would be swift and as painless as possible for a Druid defending themself.

Moralynn... She began, but how might she describe Moralynn in a way this fae would recognize? If it was Moralynn, what did it mean? How did she even feel? Morgana's mind switched to inquiry and facts, refusing to let in emotions.

Not so knowledgeable for one of the last-

Morgana interrupted them with fierce words. I will summon back the Waterways, and then you shall follow me in exchange for my protection. You and those water bodies.

The demion's snout dropped. What need of bargain must we make for something you have already proclaimed to accomplish?

That was no ask. Morgana's threats ran on fumes, but the embers could yet be stoked. Anger, power, confidence. She needed to ride those to return her power from lives ago.

Besides, Moralynn was long dead.

I am stating fact. I must depart. There is too much to do to dally here. If she intended to try anything with her magic, she need not forget the original reason she came. It might be some time, but we know you do not count your days in human lifespans.

A thunk drag grazed the ground behind her. I do not alloy with your cause, but I will pursue my curiosity further. The demion again caressed each tree they passed, their branches bouncing without the aid of the wind as if they waved goodbye. I am afraid if you left my sight, your life might snuff out and I shall miss this wonder you promise.

Obligation, protection, it was a start. Dragging a fae on this journey would be worth any inconvenience, this one especially. They exhibited control over the trees to a point of sentience. Had fae magic evolved so in the last fifteen—or was it sixteen—centuries?

It was sloppy to let her sorcery go; the danger was long past. Even if she set aside questing for the Waterways, this may be the lifetime to regain her powers. No, she took this form too fast, better for her to prepare. Next she must not let this curious fae go, no matter how tenuous the cause.

Where do we travel? the demion asked as they passed Morgana, seeking the path.

To retrieve my grail.

2

Hidden Madness

Alexandrea tipped her head forward, clumps of her brown hair falling into her face and casting a thicket over her vision. This was her attempt at nodding, pretending to listen to the doctor's instructions. Behind him, over his shoulder and out the window, a sylph hovered in the hall. Or at least what she imagined one to be. A wispy being with uncomfortably elongated limbs floated. It was so insubstantial that if it hadn't been for the shape, she would believe that a touch of aquamarine tinted the air.

She reminded herself to pay attention. Don't let them see this.

The doctor's nose twitched. She hoped from an itch of his mustache and not from noticing her distraction. We are worried in how your memory loss has presented. While common surrounding an incident, you have reported larger gaps.

It wasn't as large as she could have shared. Alexandrea's hands went clammy, and she had to resist shaking. She had to lie, these delusions meant she was worse, but she couldn't risk what the doctors might do, how they might try to restrict her even more. Alexandrea could not recall her entire life, but she craved to return to it. She didn't want to go to a facility like Jamie's mom Catrin, not that that was a problem for her, but Alexandrea still had her facilities, didn't she?

There is a probability this isn't your first seizure. Given the severity was enough to drive you into a coma, we would have suspected, regardless. It is lucky your friend could bring you in so quickly. He paused again, looking at his clipboard, though she knew there were no answers there.

Not entirely lucky. Apparently, Jamie paged his former EMT partner driver, Deiniol. The doctor must know Jamie, from one of his on and off stints in emergency response, but opinions among the hospital staff varied from appreciative of his persistence on the job, to downright fickle with his commitments.

A swift movement snapped Alexandrea's head back to attention, not to the doctor's words, but the creature. They swiveled from profile until their molten eyes rested on her. Before she could panic, the eyes flared like a fire given more fuel and stretched an arm towards her.

Alexandrea sunk back, gripping the rail and debating if it would be easier to rip everything out of her wrists or drag the whole contraption.

This is manageable, the doctor continued assuming he caused her to cringe. It will be a mixture of medication and self-care. Though some changes to habits...

The sylph's arm lowered, and their head pivoted to present Alexandrea their profile. As she caught her breath, the creature paused, maintaining a stillness not possible for a human, and drifted along the hall.

Do you have someone who can mind you at home while you recover?

No. Alexandrea was alone. Why was she alone? She enjoyed her quiet spaces, those of a library with comfortable chairs, little visited forest groves, or abandoned ruins even the tourists didn't care for.

The Morgan family estate was well out of town and with her parents passed her only company was Phil, the caretaker, and sometimes the current housekeeper. Would she have to hire a nurse? Jamie would...

She stopped that thought before it left her mind.

Alexandrea couldn't recall why, but she wasn't friendly with most of the village, besides Rhys and a few of his football team members.

Because she had been imaging magical beasts, spinning a tale out of a novel, trying to bring meaning to her dull life. She recalled creatures that changed shape in the blink of an eye in a room filled with uneven pillars that held miniature lightning storms, the twinkling highlighting the border between reality and unending darkness. A damp dungeon that somewhat resembled the tiles of an indoor pool, but one that went on forever and had fish monsters that moved more realistically than any movie or video game.

Sometimes the flicks of her own hands coincided with the flow of water. The most unbelievable part was flying while embracing Jamie.

It was nothing, it would never be anything. He might have brought her to the hospital, but he left, like he always did.

The door creaked open, but the doctor blocked it and Alexandrea couldn't see who was there. Is Alexandrea ready to leave?

Thank you, Phil, Drea said as she pat the hand of the estate's caretaker. It wasn't who she wished had come to visit, but she hid her disappointment. I appreciate having some things to feel a bit more human before leaving, even if it's just to go home. Phil surprised her by bringing her an outfit of complimentary greens. She could have gone home in sweats, anything was better than the hospital gowns. It was nice to shimmy into the leggings and wear layers on her arms with the light blouse and draped sweater. Though she had to shimmy out just as quickly, suddenly needing to visit the water closet. Afterward, she reveled in her pockets and stashed the chunky necklace she found at her bedside. The brush was most important though, her long hair tangling from too many days of neglect.

It pondered the old man's intentions. Maintaining the house and grounds took time, but this wasn't the first occasion he'd helped her. Never intrusive, but he had been a reluctant pillar in absence of her family.

She ought to talk to the Morgan's managers. Phil was ancient when she was a child, always scolding them with a kind, wizened face, but his frame was still strong for managing the tamable plants within the property. It surprised her he hadn't retired yet and was afraid her moping would put him over the edge.

Phil tipped his newsboy cap. Sure, but I thought you might liken to stroll about the store? His eyes flicked to the hall, then back as he leaned to her ear. I don't mean to pry, Ms. Morgan, but you seemed lost after it burnt down. The building is remade, maybe working towards reopening would help... She couldn't put to words what she was going through. Was it any wonder the people in her life didn't know what to say either? The what, three people in her life now? She couldn't put to words what she was going through, was it any wonder the people in her life didn't know what to say either? The what, three people in her life now?

It might help, he reiterated before withdrawing towards the back wall.

Her head beat as if a gong had replaced her brain, forcing her eyes into a wince to stop it. Tears leaked from her, the sensation becoming too familiar. Why couldn't gaps just be things she forgot? Not her mind struggling to find it?

Why had she let the store alone?

How had it been destroyed?

A rotating and pulsing pillar of fire filled her vision, spinning close but never enough to consume her. Instead her arms were flung wide, holding on for dear life, though she couldn't see to what. But they sagged as if she carried the literal world on her shoulders.

A bellow spun out from the fires, and they sped up as if the voice directed them. They parted and revealed a figure decked in black burnt armor, arced back to the point of falling, their throat pulsating with the scream. Their arms stretched up to full extension and licks of fire engulfed them.

A great cry echoing the figure's ripped from Alexandrea's throat, and though the pain lingered, the words were gone. She heard others as faces attacked her and melted like wax masks.

The last was Trefor, the cafe owner next to her bookstore. His eyes bulged wide then rolled out of his sockets as he cried What did you do to him?

Nothing! Her mind formed the word, but nothing intelligible made it past her cries.

I did this, a voice said, not hers. Male, familiar, but too high and panicked to be recognizable as Jamie’s. What's wrong? Is this magic or more?

A yank drew Alexandrea back, and when she fell the flames disappeared. The world went silent as if sound had no power here. Before she could comprehend where she was, it went dark too. Her sense of touch remained, and she realized her legs tangled in another’s, Jamie's. Alexandrea rested against his chest, and she tried not to wonder when he had gotten so firm. She shouldn't be able to compare. Then she flushed, as she shouldn't be here either.

She heaved, trying to find a break in which she could hesitate and hold it, stopping the continual compulsion that pounded in her breast. Jamie's arms slipped beneath hers and embraced her. There was still no sound, but she could hear his voice. Oh dear Drea, what did I do to you?

He synced his breathing to hers. As he slowed, she calmed too. I thought this was the better way.

You did nothing, Alexandrea attempted again, but the words lingered in her own mind. Unlike Jamie's words, he didn't react to hers. You did nothing wrong! You're helping me; you're here with me. Please, stay with me?

But the more she screamed, the more her head swelled. Jamie continued to rock her, and she wanted to surrender to the sweet moment and enjoy this delusion.

Weight shifted behind her and soon his chin dragged her neck, the slight stubble less tickling than piquing her interest. Jamie dropped a small kiss at the juncture between her shoulders, and she shuddered. Alexandrea threw her head back into him and water welled up in her eyes, dribbling to the same sensitive spot where his lips lingered.

Why did her imagination commingle these dread destructions with such inappropriate delight?

I'm so sorry.

His presence dissipated. He didn't move away. Her arms dropped without his to prop them up, and the firm support from her back was gone. Alexandrea fell, but she didn't care. The tears kept coming as she cried to nothing and nobody in this sterile space.

3

Reputation

Jamie couldn't tell whose face stared back from the mirror. This was the face that belonged to the bulk of his memories, but something changed in the Phoenix flames. How much had he become Arthur? Modernity was still familiar, and Llehfin customs a recent memory, but he did small strange things, like using the word modernity.

Was that the influence of King Arthur's soul or the connection to the Phoenix? Too much had happened too fast, but he got Ober-jerk off humanity's back and now it was done.

Jamie put a hand to his cheek and drew a thumb over the dark brown scruff. Once upon a time he had an unruly beard, but even this trim layer had become uncomfortable. He wrung his razor in his hands, almost breaking the plastic. Orange spotted the three blades. Rust. It'd been too long since he used it.

Jamie lifted a finger towards it, hovering close to sense the