REAP THE WHIRLWIND I FLYNN CARSEN

The Apples Doesn't Fall Far

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

The dream is gone...
Oh you did a good thing
She could have been a poet
Or, she could have been a fool...

"Why do you keep doing this!?" Clara yelled up at the Annex ceiling, shaking her fist à la Flynn. Whilst the others worked out the witchcraft, she'd taken a detour to the restroom to catch her breath, only to end up in the Annex, a regrettable reversal of events. But the Annex seemed fond of depositing Clara in different dimensions via bathrooms, so she had to play along with whatever portal took the Annex's fancy.

"Guinevere?"

Clara's head snapped up, shock stiffening her spine, the voice jarringly familiar yet unknown to her.

"It is you," Lucinda McCabe said, a smile spreading across her face. "Circe said you were back, if albeit a little confused, but still, you're here!" She made to embrace Clara, only for Clara to hastily back away from her, her eyes wide with terror. "Oh, don't be like that, honey," Lucinda pouted, pretending to be hurt.

"You're - you're the STEM organizer," Clara stuttered stupidly, barely recognizing Lucinda from earlier on. She'd only caught glimpses of a tall, slim woman in a green dress, but up close, she saw Lucinda was beautiful, with delicate features and pearly teeth, her dark red hair simply and elegantly styled, perfectly complimenting her outfit.

"Guilty as charged," Lucinda said with a laugh.

"You - you shouldn't be in here," Clara struggled to say, not understanding yet comprehending all at once, logic colliding with chaos.

"Understatement of the century, Gwen," Lucinda laughed again, "and there's been many of the latter, believe me. This STEM thing is just one of a long line of distractions I employ to occupy my neverending time." She glanced up, making Clara whirl around, only to see Jenkins, all the blood draining from his face. "How nice of you to join the party, Galeas," Lucinda smiled, secrets dancing in her dark eyes.

"Get out," Jenkins said, stepping forwards.

"Make me," Lucinda said, spreading her hands, the gesture cutting a table piled high with books and papers in two, scattering their contents to the wind. She walked through its jagged middle, trailing a finger through the destruction, biting her lip almost provocatively as she did so.

"Neat parlour trick," Jenkins said coldly, something flickering behind his eyes, an emotion Clara didn't understand.

"I see your sins have come home to roost," Lucinda said, glancing at Clara.

"Leave her out of this," Jenkins snapped, stepping in front of Clara.

"She doesn't know, does she?" Lucinda said, tilting her head to the side.

"Morgan, don't," Jenkins said, almost begging.

"Morgan?" Clara said, her voice cracking. "As in Morgan Le Fay?"

"You do remember me, then," Morgan purred, "and so you should. After all, I taught you everything you know."

"You corrupted her!" Jenkins burst out, now shaking from head to foot.

"And you couldn't save her," Morgan almost snarled. "You still can't." She raised her hands, Jenkins throwing himself forwards, only to be flung aside, Clara collapsing to her knees, the world suddenly rushing at her, the pressure of the past almost crushing her consciousness. "You've been living a lie, Clara," Morgan whispered, kneeling down beside her, "a half-life" -

- "What have you done to me!?" Clara screamed, clutching her head between her hands. The world was too much, everything too bright and loud, overwhelming her. But what was worse was the memories: dying on a distant battlefield; the terrible look on Flynn's face as he beheld her in her true form; Dulaque tracing the outline of her lips with his finger; standing before her mother's portrait, her heart breaking; Lancelot standing over her, her blood on his hands, dripping down the edge of his sword -

"I've set you free, Guinevere," Morgan said quietly, smoothing back Clara's hair, the gesture almost maternal.

"You broke the enchantment," Jenkins said brokenly, raising his head, not even trying to stem the blood gushing from his nose.

"Not just yours, but the Library's as well," Morgan said, getting to her feet. "Personally, I hate Benediction spells," she flung up at the ceiling, shaking her head in disgust. "Too old fashioned for my taste," she said in a loud aside to Flynn's desk, making it curse her in ancient Latin.

"Lancelot," Clara whimpered, the tears rolling down her face.

"Forget about him, honey," Morgan said, rolling her eyes, "he's the one who got you into this mess in the first place. But then again, neither one of you was ever any good at sharing."

Clara collapsed against the bookcase, her mind reeling, remembering Camelot, how she'd craved its kingship for her own, to sit at the Round Table as Arthur did. But she did more than remember; for the first time in a long time, she beheld the truth in its true form. She saw old allies as the enemies they'd been all along; Morgan and Lancelot, those she'd trusted and loved, her right hand and heart's desire.

Morgan had seen her ambition, encouraging it, using Guinevere as her cat's paw to bring down Arthur, instructing Guinevere in the Dark Acts, unleashing the magic hidden in Guinevere's heart. Morgan wanted to be the power behind the throne, planning Guinevere's downfall even as she orchestrated Guinevere's ascendancy. And Lancelot... Guinevere had loved him, so sure of his love for her, but he'd wanted more than what she could give; desiring her to make him a present of power, crowning him King of Camelot. But to rule was to rule alone, and so he'd killed her for the Crown, sacrificing his love for his lust for control instead.

"Your father slew me," Clara whispered, making Jenkins bow his head.

"And his son saved you," Morgan said, looming over her, "only to realise too late it was too late. You were not what he'd believed you to be, the mother he should have had, an innocent caught in the crossfire. He finally faced the darkness in your soul, imprisoning it, not realising it would be reborn. Your father died trying to save you, murdered by your mother, dying at her hands."

Clara just shook her head, clamping her hands over her ears, becoming a little girl again, denying she was different.

"Your father didn't know what your mother really was until the end," Morgan said gently, "what she was capable of, what she'd already done. She sacrificed her only daughter, her own baby, an innocent child. You were the vessel for Guinevere's resurrection, Clara, and on your seventeenth birthday, the final rites were to be performed, only your father foiled that little attempt."

"But the Serpent Brotherhood" -

- "To their rather doubtful credit, the Serpent Brotherhood had nothing to do with it, being completely unaware of your existence. But your mother had her own scores to settle with them, debts that needed to be dealt with, so she sold Chamberlain House and all its contents to them, before going on the run, trying to recoup her losses, thinking she could claw something back, but then she died, casting you adrift" -

- "Melisande was the mistress of deception," Jenkins said bitterly, getting to his feet, "I doubt I would have ever have found you Clara, if the Library hadn't brought you to me."

"Clara Hartley doesn't even exist," Morgan said, shaking her head, "just another one of Melisande's little jokes."

"She was protecting me," Clara wept.

"She was protecting her investment," Morgan snapped.

"Like you did," Clara said, shaking from head to foot, "exploiting me for your own ends."

"Nobody forced you to kill Arthur, honey," Morgan said, shaking an admonitory finger at her, "you were prepared to do that all on your lonesome."

"I played right into your hands," Clara cried, her fists clenching by her sides.

"I raised an army for you!" Morgan spat. "I gave Camelot to you on a silver platter. It wasn't my fault Loverboy got greedy and stuck a sword in your side!"

"You witch!" Clara screamed, spit flecking the air.

"I prefer sorceress actually," Morgan said coldly, recovering her self-control, "witch has too much gender baggage. And pot calling kettle black, honey," she said, tutting loudly.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Jenkins said, dark eyes distant.

"You have a cheek to talk, Galeas," Morgan said, trailing her fingertip across his cheek.