One burning scene pivots to another; the fires of Wales giving way to the ashfall of Camelot. Here is the heart of Fairy Britain set ablaze - its fire different to that of the autumn forest, an all-consuming thing from the devouring heart of one of its most devout protectors. The fae have been pushed beyond their limits ( or broken already, perhaps ). Chaos crawls like insects over a carcass; the tragedy still in writing.
There’s no satisfaction to be found here, recreation or not. This is an end he knows well enough: no one survives, happy never after. But while he knows the intimacies of this story, it’s something she never saw; toppled right before the grand finale. The fire streaks across Morgan’s figure but never quite approach her -- shying from her cold visage, too perfect to touch. Barghest’s shadow lingers somewhere in the distance, beyond an ocean of flames; her cry a sorrowful thing.
A hundred-thousand unsaid things linger in the air -- hateful ridicule and sombre congratulations. They’d been two opposing forces running parallel, never meant to meet, but here they are all the same. But it’d be a lie regardless, and so he laughs. Laughs at the burning moment, at the solitary queen, and at himself above all else.
@emptyrule