Thomas travels north, as the instructions in the nursery rhyme directed, and comes across a valley seeped in fog. He does not recognize the road, nor the trees around the road, though he does recognize a wooden post. It no longer had paint, as it had faded with time, and the rotting wood was pierced by rusty nails, but he recognized it as a prominent highway marker. Many people had used it to navigate to Brigadoon on the final stretch.
Thomas entered the mist without trouble, and traveled through it undisturbed. Eventually he came across a structure, and his heart quivered inside of him. It was the city gates, now overgrown with weeds and trees.
Thomas walks amidst the ruins of Brigadoon, a once magnificent city now reduced to crumbling structures and overgrown vegetation. The air is heavy with both the weight of silence and the fog.
He walks through the desolate streets, his footsteps echoing in the empty spaces. Dilapidated buildings and weathered statues stand where the prominent houses should have been. A field of wood shards and torn fabrics lay where the party tents used to be. He gazes across the ruins.
Thomas enters the courtyard of the castle, the heart of Brigadoon. The grandeur that once defined this place is now reduced to only stones and the most resilient paint colors. He walks with a heavy heart to the medical bay. There were dozens of cots with piles of fabric and bones still laying in them.
He can’t bear the pain, so he flees to the once majestic great hall. Sunlight filters through broken stained glass windows, casting an ethereal glow upon the desolate space. Dust dances in the air, disturbed by his course movements.
Thomas wanders through the hall to Fenella’s bedroom, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. He approaches a partially collapsed desk, covered in layers of dust and debris. As he searches the remnants, he uncovers letters addressed to him, aged with time yet preserved.
Thomas takes a seat, his trembling hands unfolding the fragile paper. As he reads Fenella's heartfelt words, etched with her devotion, he clings to the letter, his heart aching.
To the weary traveler, the inquisitive historian, or my dearest Thomas,
May these words find you. Within the pages of this letter, I, Fenella, share with you the dire circumstances that have befallen Brigadoon.
The mists sent by the witch have turned treacherous. It is heavy with a palpable darkness, sapping the strength from our strongest. Furthermore, we struggle to navigate through the ever-thickening veil. Our brave scouts have vanished. The future of Brigadoon teeters on the precipice of uncertainty. As time slips through our fingers, we have made a heart-wrenching decision. The people of Brigadoon, bound together, have chosen to leave our lands and belongings. We depart not out of defeat, but rather as a united force seeking a path through the danger.
In one week's time, our stores will dwindle, leaving us with no choice but to leave urgently. My father and I shall return to our old home in Caffinwell, where we can gather strength, organize our forces, and plan the redemption of this land. We will defy the witch's curse and reclaim Brigadoon from the abyss.
Oh, Thomas, my heart aches with the weight of our separation. The advisors say you are dead, but I, and the other knights who are your friends, hold out faith. I long for the day when we shall be reunited, when our steps will dance together. Hold fast to hope, dear Thomas, as I hold fast to the memory of our love. I shall forever cherish you, forever wait for you.
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With eternal devotion,
Fenella
Thomas whispers “Fenella... my love... I'm so sorry…”
He clings to the letter, his eye sockets filling with moisture.
As he is crying, another pair of footsteps echo from beyond the corridors of the stone keep.
Thomas rises to his feet in a fighting stance, since no one except him should be able to make it through the mists.
A figure emerges from beneath a stone archway. Her eyes widen with surprise, then she smiles seductively. It is Morag! Thomas stands before her, his face a mix of grim determination and disbelief. He demands answers.
“Morag, what have you done?”
She looks surprised. “Ah, my dear Thomas. It seems your little memories are returning to normal. Allow me to explain. After I stopped you from marrying the wrong girl, we had a lover’s quarrel and I placed you, my love, under a spell to help us reconcile.”
“200 years have passed!”
“Indeed. It was an enchantment that kept you in a trance, like a dream, and helped preserve my love for eternity.” She nods. “But the earthquake somehow disrupted the magic that held you in my embrace. You awakened, only to find yourself confused, and run away from me.” Morag's voice takes on a seductive tone, her eyes glimmering with a mix of desire and desperation. “I have been searching everywhere for you. Come back to me, Thomas. Embrace the darkness that binds us. Together, we can rule this small part of the world, forever intertwined.
He scowled. “No, Morag. I cannot and will not be swayed by your darkness. My heart belongs to another, and I will defy the world for her, not for you.”
Morag's demeanor shifts, a mix of frustration and sadness crossing her face.
“Why, Thomas? Haven't I loved you fiercely, faithfully? Haven't I shown you what true devotion means? Why would you choose a dead girl's love over mine?”
Thomas roars angrily and charges with his sword. Morag’s nails become deadly claws. She bats the sword with the back of her hand, and Thomas feels like he has just clashed with a shield. Morag scratches his armor, leaving indentations deeper than Kirdrey’s sword marks.
He punches her in the face with his gauntlet and Morag finally retreats. She backs up to the wall and then ascends at a rapid pace, stopping at the ceiling, like a spider. Her dress comes alive, the hem of it catching fire and then morphing into pointy shapes. Thomas retreats behind a door, where black arrows embed themselves in the frame.
He grits his teeth and uses the side access tunnels to skirt around the edge of the room. He draws a small crossbow and sends a bolt toward her. Morag growls in pain.
He ducks his head and moves to a different location.
They play this game until Thomas’ bolts run out and Morag’s dress completely burns up. Her skin is exposed and she looks even more seductive now. She seemed to be relishing the situation, even descending from the ceiling and standing in the middle of the room where Thomas could easily see her.
He continues to sneak around and barricade the doors so that her wolves won’t get through, then he charges at Morag.
Morag laughs and points her claws at him. Suddenly his movements feel sluggish. “You cannot beat me, or escape me, Thomas. I have defeated you once before, and I will do so again.”
Thomas’s eyes are locked with Morag’s, feeling a paralyzing darkness seeping into his bones. He begins to feel drowsy, his strength is waning.
Morag feels that victory is within her grasp. She calmly closes the distance between them and traces a finger under his chin, Thomas is unable to lift his sword, and the hilt is slowly slipping from his fingers. Then a white feather shines brilliantly and falls to the ground between them.
Thomas finds renewed strength. With a sudden burst of energy, he moves swiftly, pushing his blade into Morag's heart. She gasps.
Even as she is dying, she whispers one last time, her words full of malice, “You cannot turn back the centuries. Your beloved Fenella is no more. Ka… ha… ha… Now you are doomed to walk alone in eternal despair.”
As she breathes her last, the remnants of her dark power in his mind dissipates. He feels her death through his soul. He stares at her lifeless body, a mix of relief and sorrow clouding his eyes.