"First things first," Morgan said, the air positively crackling with her power, "can someone explain to me where all this lovely, lovely Qi has suddenly come from?"

She inhaled several times as if that could speed up her rate of Qi absorption. "It was never like this before. Like drinking a wyvern through a straw, it used to be."

I engaged my Magic Eyes and was startled to see what looked like a tornado emanating from the woman's chest. It was a sickly green and appeared to be . . . I think 'slurping' is the only appropriate word in this situation.

Merlin only went and fucking died, didn't he!

The tornado abruptly stopped, and the woman turned to stare at Drynwyn, mouth wide open. "Merlin's dead?"

I sensed Drynwyn was likely to be about to go off on a monologue of metaphors that was destined to cause a copyright infringement claim from purveyors of deceased parrots.

I chose to intercede.

It took a disappointingly brief amount of time to fill Morgan in on the series of events that had brought me to the Dark Ages, my adventures thus far and how we now all found ourselves in a drafty prison corridor. I mean, I wasn't hoping for Don Quixote or anything like that, but when you said it out loud, it seemed less . . . significant than it had all felt at the time.

Actually, that's kind of the point of Don Quixote, isn't it?

I'm getting distracted again, aren't I?.

"So, what you are telling me, dearie, is that there have been months and months of all this wonderful Qi swirling around just waiting to be gobbled up, and I missed it?!"

I couldn't help but feel that Morgan had slightly missed the point of my narrative. "Well, I guess, tangentially, that has been the case. But did you miss the bit about the Saxon invasion and . . . "

Morgan waved a hand dismissively. "Saxons being Saxons is hardly news. You know as well as I do," her eyes were suddenly fixed on mine, "how all of these little genocides shake out. Merlin is not the only one to get visions of the future, don't you know?"

With that, her eyes unfocused, and her voice took on an odd, declaiming tone.

In the realm of mist and stone, where ancient Britons thrived,

By sacred hill and henge, their earthen homes derived.

Their chants, like wind through druid oaks, in mystic harmony,

In lands of myth and ancient lore, their spirits roamed free.

Then came the Angles, Saxon kin, with iron, flame, and sail,

Their longships parted morning mist, a stark, foreboding gale.

They carved their runes, imposed their will on British shores so fair,

In mead halls filled with warrior songs, they spoke of conquests rare.

The Jutes joined in, from distant lands, a lesser-known but fierce band,

Together with the Angles and the Saxons, they reshaped the British land.

A trinity of Northern might, they forged a new domain,

Their legacies intertwined in history's grand refrain.

Vikings next, with dragon prows, from icy fjords they came,

With axe and shield, in longboats fierce, they sought to claim their fame.

They stormed the isles with ruthless will, their sagas sung with pride,

In halls of mead, their stories told, of seas they'd conquered wide.

At last, the Normans, regal, stern, across the Channel's broad expanse,

With cavaliers in gleaming mail, they sought to enhance.

Their castles rose, a symbol strong, of a new era's birth,

Their legacy in stone and song, a testament to their worth.

Through time's grand march, these cultures merged, a tapestry so vast,

Briton, Angle, Saxon, Jute, Viking, Norman, cast.

In every stone, in every stream, these stories are enshrined,

A chronicle of many races, in England's heart entwined.

I mean, apart from the shitty rhyme scheme - expanse/enhance, really? - I did rather have to take issue with Morgan's 'vision' suggesting the make-up of 'England' ended in 1066.

She'd be advocating for Brexit next.

"So you can see," her voice returned to his normal, "why I never had any truck with Merlin and his 'Once and Future King bullshit."

Her tornado sucking in Qi started up again, and I switched off my Magic Eyes. The image of the bottomless green vortex sucking in energy was starting to disturb me. A thought struck me, did Morgan conceptualise her Qi as wind?

"The old fool can go on as much as he likes about a "golden age of Britain" and "peace in our time", but that isn't going to stop the Saxons stomping all over Tintangel when the time comes round. Nor the Normans - whatever the fuck they are - sticking it in and breaking it off to those smug blonde bastards when it is their turn. Where are the Normans from anyway?"

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Erm," I cast my mind back to try to remember what the French were called around this time. "Frankia, I think?"

Fucking hell. Melt me down for slag and pour me in the lake. The Franks end up top dogs on this island? Bloody fucking bollocking hell.

I couldn't help but feel I'd lost control of the general thrust of this conversation.

"So, what's the plan?" I asked, gamely trying to wrestle the conversation back into some sort of order. "Can you get us out of here?"

Morgan didn't seem to hear me, so I tried again. After she ignored my question for the third time, I was starting to get peeved.

"Morgan," I reached out to put my hand on her wrist, "I asked. 'Can you get us out of her?'"

The second I made contact with her, I felt myself being pulled down into a raging storm.

I found myself in what was apparently Morgan's equivalent of my Artist's Studio. However, to try to draw comparisons would have been facile. Whereas I had a blank canvas on which to paint my Qi, Morgan seemed to have a craggy rock around which roared a hurricane.

I don't know if this was reflective of how much more power she had than me or whether it was the difference in our temperaments, but as I clung desperately to the rough rock to keep from being buffeted out into oblivion, it was clear that OG Morgan and I were not especially alike.

"How did you find your way in here, dearie?"

A hand reached out towards me, and I grabbed it gratefully. I was hauled like a sack of potatoes upwards and deposited on a flat stone surface, making it slightly easier to cope with the ongoing buffeting torrent.

I glanced over to say 'thank you' to Morgan and was somewhat astonished to see the change in her physical being. Gone was the endearing, slightly grouchy grandmother figure, to be replaced by someone who would have made Maleficient and Hela look at each other and say, 'Nah, I think that's pushed the S&M-Bitch-Queen-from-Hell thing a little far. Let's dial it back. Smaller horns. Go easier on the leather.'

She absolutely towered above me, with eyes the colour of the sickly green tornado I had seen earlier.

"I don't know. Happy to be sent back, if you know how?"

"Of course I do. But let's chat for a moment. So, with Merlin gone, you're the head cultivator honcho in Tintagel?"

"Well, I wouldn't quite put it like that . . ."

"How would you put it? There's no other cultivator of substance in the court of Uther, is there?"

"No. Well, then, yes. If you express it in those terms, I probably am Top Dog cultivator."

Funnily enough, barely able to stand in the middle of a colossal maelstrom, at the mercy of a legendarily capricious Witch and still reeling from the effects of the time loop on my fragile mental state, I wasn't sure this was much of a recommendation.

Morgan made a gesture, and the swirling winds subsided significantly. I realised I had been shouting. She looked at me silently for a few moments, her head cocked to the side. It felt scarily like she was an enormous bird, considering whether it was worth her while consuming a particularly unappetising-looking worm.

"You have extremely deep wounds," Morgan said, her demeanour not changing.

"I know. The dickhead who brought me here tore out all my techniques -" but Morgan was shaking her head as I spoke - "What?"

"Those are not the wounds of which I speak. Techniques come and go. What you had once, you can have again, should you think those skills were valuable." She frowned for a moment as if reading something. "I would, for example, suggest there are better uses of your time than giving tree spirits little blue pills." I may have blushed. "No, not the gaps where your techniques were. I allude to different wounds."

Images from the time loop flashed through my mind, and I felt the blood run from my face. "Morgan, to be honest, I think I've spent long enough wrestling with my demons. If it's all the same to you, I'm trying to put it all behind me."

The wind shifted in direction and began swirling the other way as she smiled a somewhat rueful grin. "But that is not what being a cultivator means, dearie. It's not all about power, saving the world and -" that frown had returned, "did you use a Dark Kelstrel's Strike to rip the head off Voltigern's Dragon?"

"Kind of. But only once. And I also inhaled."

"You are a funny little thing. I am not quite sure what Merlin thinks he was playing at trying to turn you into another version of him. You simply do not have the foundation for it."

I opened my mouth to protest, but a gentle tap of wind closed it, clattering my teeth together.

"I do not say this is a bad thing. Merlin was . . . unusual. Those who see their journey to the heavens in terms of water are often single-minded. Relentless. And yet also prone to predictability. Merlin, though? He did something unexpected. He stole a march on the rest of us, and by the time we even realised we were in a race, he had won, and his great need for Qi left us all fighting for scraps."

Morgan flexed her arms, and the wind picked up, the hurricane around us lifting her into the air. "But it seems that time is over. With the old goat gone, there is, for the first time in generations, Qi to spare on this island for the rest of us. That puts me in an uncommonly good mood. And that is before remembering the gratitude I should feel towards you for freeing me, dearie."

"If this is the moment when you give me all manner of powers, weapons and supernatural goodies, I am absolutely here for it."

Morgan looked down at me and smiled. The bird/worm analogy suddenly upgraded to a sabretooth tiger and a very small rodent.

"Cultivators should never be 'given' anything, dearie. You take what you can through the strength of your own power. You never surrender. You never accept defeat. And you never, ever say sorry for tearing your due out of the flesh of the world."

Well, that didn't sound remotely sinister at all. It struck me that if Merlin was a crotchety old Jedi Master, Morgan was a hot Sith Edge-Lord.

"However," she continued, "I will choose to reward you with several things."

I kind of think we were playing a bit with semantics here - Gifts. Rewards. You know what I'm saying?

"Firstly, I will break the time loop around your mind."

A weight I did not know was still settled upon my chest suddenly lifted. From the moment Drynwyn mentioned it, I knew it could not be as simple as breaking free from the cell. To have that appalling horror behind me felt wonderful.

"This is not a wholly altruistic act. Should your loop remain unbroken, I fear I will find myself back in my cell tomorrow morning, and we will have to go through all this again."

"I don't care whether what scratches my back also tickles your fancy. That's the best news I've ever had. Thank you!" The rushing air pulled the streaming tears off my face.

"Secondly, I will allow you to continue to use my name."

I'm not going to lie, that felt like a bit of an anti-climax. "Thanks, I guess?"

"Again, this is not an entirely selfless gift. If what you say is true, then there are those of us who have had some time to plan their next steps once Merlin was removed. It serves my purpose for my re-emergence in the world to remain obscured. Word of Tintagel's new Cultivator will doubtless already have spread. Should people come looking for me but find you . . . well, there are benefits to me in that."

This second gift felt like less of a reward than becoming the goat at the start of Jurassic Park. "You know, I'm quite happy with picking another name. I've always thought that Æthelflæd was pretty kick-ass, I don't mind -."

The wind picked up again. "I have spoken!" Fuck me, this broad was touchy. Then she continued as if she hadn't just channelled every ineffective Supply Teacher trying to bring order to 3:00pm on a Friday afternoon. "When our business here is done, I will retreat from the world for a time to attempt to catch up with the power of the others. My name is yours until my return."

It seemed unwise to press the issue. "Peachy."

"Two more rewards. The first, I hope, will be helpful to you in healing your wounds. You already bear one of the thirteen treasures of Britain: Drynwyn, the sword of Rhydderch Hael. I shall gift you a second, the Cauldron of Dyrnwch the Giant."

A bronze pot about the size of a bucket appeared in my hand. It smelt distinctly of sulfur.

"This Cauldron increases the potency of anything created within it. Food will be more nourishing, drink will be more refreshing, and -" I think her eyebrows waggled here - "the quality of elixirs, pills and potions brewed within will be improved immeasurably. I am sure Merlin has the necessary scrolls squirrelled away someone to explain further."

Okay, so that was actually reasonably useful. But only if, you know, I could actually get back home to use it.

"And for my final reward -"

"You'll teleport me back to my friends?"

A sad smile crossed Morgan's face, and I began to feel her pushing me out of her internal realm. "You must start thinking more like a cultivator, dearie. To get home, you must develop the power to do it under your own steam. No, what I will give you is far more valuable. I will tell you the name of which of us imprisoned you."

"Bit of a shit sandwich situation there, but if a portal home wasn't on offer, I'd take a bead on whose arse I'd be ripping a new hole into.

I could barely hear her now as the wind noise raised, and I became increasingly insubstantial. "Who, who did it?"

"Why, the same man who captured me. The man who, after torturing me to share all my secrets, threw me in a dungeon and left me to rot for ten years. I understand he now calls himself the Bretwalda, but I know him by another name."

This felt like an unnecessarily pantomime-esque build-up to the big reveal, but I guessed she was owed a little drama.

"Which is?"

There was a pause where I am sure, in her own mind, there were three chords of organ music.

"Aurelius Ambrosius."