Camelot's Crow | ✓ [BOOK 3]

~ 4 ~

THERE WAS A HOLE in the wall where Morgana's flesh fist drove into it, over and over again until his hand was nearly mangled. Even still, it took Namyra bursting into his room and yanking him away from the wall to get him to stop. His hand ached and burned, still cut up from the glass he crushed earlier, but he didn't want it to stop. He thought that maybe, if something else hurt worse, he wouldn't have to think about the deep, ugly cut in his heart.

"I'm an idiot," he choked into Namyra's shoulder. "What if I never see them again? I didn't even get to say goodbye."

He'd tried, he'd tried so hard to make it in time, but he was too late. Did they even see him there? Sleep would not come easy to him now, not like this, not with a thousand regrets spinning over and over in his head. But Gods, he was so tired.

"Will those blasted kitchen servants let me have a drink now?" he asked, pulling away from Namyra's arms. They were warm, and he couldn't decide if it was comforting or unsettling how much she reminded Morgana of him.

Namyra brushed her hands awkwardly over her thighs. "I'll go get you some. Focus on healing your hand for now."

She left the room then, leaving Morgana alone to stare at himself in the mirror. He'd glamoured his hair black again, leaving a few streaks of white, just as it used to be before he changed. Over time, it grew on him, and now seeing himself with white hair felt wrong. It reminded him too much of Titania. He didn't like the thought that he was hers. She might've birthed him, but she was no mother of his.

Morgana thought of his real mothers then, Astyr and Saoirse, who dropped everything to care for him when he was left at their door. Astyr was the village healer, while Saoirse was the most talented seamstress the Autumn Court had ever known. His childhood was never wonderful, but at least he never had to be alone with everything terrible that happened to him. He was always sick, and Astyr would never sleep until he was better. Saoirse taught him things about the world, told him stories about his people, gave him something to smile about.

When Saoirse died, he and Astyr were heartbroken. Morgana often heard stories of parents hiding away, forgetting about their children when their spouses died, but Astyr never did. She never blamed him for Saoirse's death, either, even when he did. It happened so long ago that the wound was not fresh anymore, but he grew solemn whenever he thought about that night.

Astyr. He didn't realize how much he'd missed her. He used to see her all the time, but the day he took it upon himself to attempt an assassination, that all had changed. Nothing was peaceful anymore, and he longed for his mother's peace again.

Before he could spiral down into that road of longing any further, Namyra stepped through the door, a bottle of liquor in each hand. She handed him one, and he popped off the lid with the sharp knuckle of his metal hand. He could smell it right away, sharp and hard, and it made his nose curl. Perfect. It burned down his throat, and he knew this would surely take the pain away, even if it didn't last forever. Namyra's eyes were wide on him as he took the entire bottle without stopping for air.

"Heavens, Morgana, do you know how hard that stuff is?" she asked. "It's ancient, Titania's best. You're going to be seeing stars at this rate, you idiot." She swiped the bottle from his hands, but he didn't protest. His fingers were losing their strength, and he had nothing in him to hold things.

He watched with dazzled eyes as Namyra took her own drink, the world blurring around her until she was all he saw. She was gold, as gold as Kit, and he knew the alcohol was working when the thought of him didn't break him in two. They could've been siblings, but while Kit was big and muscled, Namyra was lean and tall compared to the prince, even though her stature was bigger by Sídhe standards. She fought like Kit, too, angry and aggressive and full of force.