Excalibur's Seven | ✓ [LGBT]

~ 28 ~

A ROUGH HAND PULLED Morgana to his aching feet, yanking him from his unconscious state with a violent force. His head was screaming, every limb absent of control but throbbing with incessant pain. He hardly felt the fist that drove across his face, cutting open his lip and filling his mouth with the unmistakable taste of metal.

"Wake up, you dirty pixie," the man spat.

Morgana gave him no sign that he was awake. He couldn't if he wanted to, he was using up strength just to stay conscious.

The guard tossed him against the wall, holding him up by an arm to the chest, but he didn't do anything else to him. "Breathe in," he growled.

Morgana could hardly process what was happening, until a plume of powder exploded beneath his long nose and he couldn't help but inhale, letting the remedy fill his senses. If he had any reasoning left in his tired mind, he wouldn't have accepted it, letting himself stay as useless to them as he could be. But his body's need for survival didn't let him refuse, and he could already feel the strength returning to him.

His foot shoved the man away on instinct, but that was all he managed before hunching over and falling back against the stone wall of the dungeon.

"See, you know it takes a minute to work," the guard bellowed. "Don't try to fight back, you're outnumbered and we know you're no Selene O'Leary."

"I wasn't planning on it," he chuckled, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. "And it's Lady Selene."

"Not anymore," he growled, grabbing Morgana's arm again. "Enough talk. You're coming with us."

The Unseelie was too weak to fight back as he was dragged from his cell, up the stairs of the dungeon, and back to the well-lit halls of the castle. Morgana kept track of their path as they took him into the throne room, tossing him onto the ground before the King.

Putting up a fight would not be so simple this time.

A dozen men surrounded him, holding chains and swords made of a material he didn't see often but knew full well to fear. He could feel the buzz of the iron from where he sat, on his knees before His Royal Majesty, a stoic bastard staring him down with a chill he could hardly master himself.

"You've had a change of hairstyle since I saw you last," said the King with a lazy gesture towards the faerie.

Morgana's hand flew up to his hair, holding a handful of long waves, once white as snow and now the color of a raven's wings. It was almost completely black now, but the hair hanging down in his face kept its pale tone. He feared it might go fully black if he lost himself again.

Wylan chuckled at his distress. "Not what you wanted? Shame."

"Is there a reason you called me up here?" Morgana gritted. He had his suspicions, but if King Wylan had any plans for him, he just wanted to get them over with.

"Of course," the King replied, pushing himself to his feet. "We need information."

"You realize you're asking a faery to tell you the truth."

"You can't lie."

"Yes, but I'm sure you're aware that I am not compelled to honesty, either." He side eyed the swords and chains in the guards' hands. "And torture is pointless. I won't tell you anything."

"Maybe not. But your friends will come back for you. And when we do, we'll have what we want."

Morgana kept a leveled gaze. "I'm sure they've concluded that I'm already dead. It would be pointless to come back for me."

"Would it? You still have something they need."

He gulped, fist clenching against the marble. The shard was still lodged beneath his armband, buzzing against his skin. It must've been what kept him alive.