UNLIKE ALL THE REST, Morgana awoke in a warm bed, surrounded by the scent of fresh rain and earth. It took him a moment to realize where he was, but as the memory of his companions falling at Chalice's hands, who saved him for last, he could put together where he was. That was when he noticed the chains holding his wrists to the bedframe, but it didn't burn like iron. It was something else, something strong enough to keep him there, but it wasn't meant to hurt.

"About time," said a voice that sent shivers down his spine. It was the Summer Princess, lounging over a chaise at the corner of the room in a dress far too extravagant for a woman holding prisoners. Her eyes traveled over him, and he didn't know what she was looking at. That is, not until he felt the cool air against his chest, and he shot up in the bed, rattling his chains.

"Where am I?" he growled, though he had a feeling. "And where are my clothes?"

The Princess laughed, and while it sounded like church bells, it felt like a war cry. "You smelled like fish, and since I wasn't allowed to throw you in the dungeons, you had to get washed up."

His stomach churned, and if his face wasn't already as pale as a face could be, he would've gotten paler. "You--"

She could see the horror written across his features and giggled again. "Don't worry, I tried not to enjoy it. You're a beautiful creature, though, Morgana. It was difficult." Before he could try to rip her throat out again, she stood up and continued on. "I've also been tasked to act as your wardrobe maid, do you have any preferences?"

"I would prefer not to be locked up. And I want my friends."

"I know you like black," she said, ignoring his remarks. "I'll only add a little color, but I doubt Her Majesty would appreciate being presented with a man dressed as an assassin."

"Well technically, I am one," Morgana murmured, but she didn't hear him, as expected.

She disappeared into a large closet and returned with a pile of clothes that were far too fancy for his tastes, and he'd be a bit more worried about them if he wasn't already concerned about everything else going on around him.

"Red or blue accents? Personally I think blue suits your complexion better, but you act like a red kind of guy. What do you think?"

Morgana had no patience for dress-up. "Where are my friends?"

"I'll give you blue. How do you want your hair?"

"Where's Giselle?"

"Answer my question."

"Answer mine." He clamped his jaw and glared up at her. She was avoiding the issue at hand, and he had a sense that it was because she wasn't allowed to say anything. She was just as much of a puppet as Chalice, even if she had too much pride to admit it. There was something about her that reminded him of Kit, not only the golden complexion, but her stubbornness and pride as well. It was hard not to pity her when she had eyes like that.

The princess swallowed. "I can't. Ask the Queen when she sees you."

"Namyra."

She met his gaze with a fire he knew too well. "Don't."

A long time ago, this feeling in his chest would've made sense. He forgot how to hate her for a moment, and that hatred turned into a passion reignited by that scared look in her eye. Morgana hated it, but his protective streak made him a sucker.

His cold hand slid over her fingers. "I need you to tell me. And I need to know why the hell you're working for her. This isn't you."

Namyra yanked her hand away. "This isn't the me that you know," she told him. "But it's me. I know what it takes to survive, you of all people should know how that is. Everyone has to make sacrifices to keep going."

It shouldn't have hurt, he'd gotten over Namyra a long time ago. Watching her give up everything she believed in before just to be on the winning side was a familiar pain, but not for her. She wasn't the one to give up her morals to keep herself alive, that was his job. They were trading places.

The two of them went quiet, and she fished something from the long pockets of her dress. It was a key, but she made no move to free him from the chains.

"I can dress myself."

She threw a pile at his face. "No you can't. Not when you're a prisoner."

"If I'm a prisoner, why am I in one of Titania's finest guest rooms?" he asked, looking down at the flashy fabrics in his lap.

Finally, she gripped his arm and slid the key into the lock. "Holding an Unseelie prisoner in the dungeons is against her agreement with Mab. As long as you're not in a cage like an animal, she isn't breaking the truce."

The chain fell away from his wrist, but he knew full well he wasn't free. Namyra stayed a bit too close when she released the other one, and she never moved. She was sitting inches away from him on the bed, staring at him like she was begging for something, and he didn't know what.

For a moment, Morgana thought she might do something. Instead, she moved aside and plucked the undershirt from his pile, and slipped it over his torso. Her fingers brushed against his skin too many times to be an accident, and he felt guilty for enjoying it. He had no reason to feel guilty, other than the fact that he was letting the enemy make his stomach flutter like this, but something else made him feel it, too.

Why was she the enemy, though? Morgana cared about the people of Faerie. He was sure Namyra and Titania did, too. So why were they his enemy? They were his companions' enemies, but they cared about the welfare of their people, too. They shouldn't be enemies, but the Seelie Queen couldn't get past her own agenda even for people playing on her own team.

It made his head hurt. Everyone was everyone's enemy and ally all at once, and Morgana's chest was thundering while Namyra exposed his bare legs to slide trousers up to his waist, where her hands lingered a second too long.

They never did anything about the obvious tension that was there forever ago, there was no reason to do anything about it now when they didn't give a damn about each other. But it was too much and nothing made sense, and suddenly Namyra's hand was pushing him against the headboard by the neck, the other tangling in his hair, and her mouth was hot against his own.

It didn't feel good, not like he thought it would when he was younger. It didn't feel good like it did when Kit was pushing him against the wall of his cell and breathing him in like oxygen. But there were lips on his own and his mind was traveling, and suddenly her lips felt plumper, hotter, and her slender hands turned rough, callused, strong against his throat.

He could deceive himself as well as he could deceive anyone else. The moment he thought he was kissing someone else, he liked it. His mind was numb and everything he was worried about melted away, and he let himself think he was okay.

Namyra's teeth sunk into his lip, but it wasn't anything she wanted him to enjoy, and he was knocked away from his trance to let out a sharp cry. Blood pooled over his tongue, but there was something else mixed in.

"What the hell--"

The princess pushed his chin shut, but the blood and whatever else it was still filled his mouth. "Swallow."

She gave him something, he realized, and he was too busy panicking to scold himself for kissing her like an idiot. He couldn't bring himself to do what she said, and instead he started coughing. The blood shot out from his nose as he choked, but she refused to let him open his mouth.

"Swallow."

Whether she was drugging him or poisoning him, he had no idea, but either way, he didn't like what she was trying to make him do. He clawed at her hand, but she didn't budge.

His eyes were watering now, and the cracks on his cheeks began to ache. He shook his head, but he didn't have a choice anymore.

It felt like hell when he did as he was told, and she released him. Morgana doubled over, wheezing blood against the clean, white sheets, while his split lip dribbled red against the fabric.

"Good Lord, I didn't expect you to bleed that much," Namyra hissed, pulling him up from the bed to prevent ruining the bedding further than he already had. "Take this."

She slipped something into his mouth, and if it didn't taste like heaven, he wouldn't have accepted it. But he had to, it tasted like an irresistible temptation, and he swallowed. Just like that, the bleeding ceased, and the princess watched with a querying brow.

"Did it work?"

He nodded, but that simple move of his head was all it took to make him dizzy. He collapsed against her, and she groaned into his hair, like she was the one being inconvenienced and not Morgana, who felt like he'd been drugged, ready to be taken to his doom.

"You're clever," he groaned.

"She didn't tell me it'd turn you into this," she said. "I should've done your hair before I gave it to you."

All of his limbs were numb now, and he could hardly move his head. "Please, God, don't touch my hair. I don't trust you."

"You're not having boring hair for the Queen," she hissed, dropping him into an armchair. "Sit still, it won't take me long."

But it did. It felt like an eternity as Namyra twisted his hair into an intricate style, complementing the discoloration as best she could. It was the kind of updo that would take hours to get rid of, and he was convinced he'd be finding pins tucked in his thick waves for weeks to come. That is, if he even made it that long.

To her credit, she left some of his hair down. It still made his scalp ache, though, and he thought she might've turned his own head into a torture device. Giselle would've been gentle, at least.

"Finally," she sighed, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Let's go meet her, yes?"

"No."

"Too bad."

She pulled him to his feet, and he fell right into the wall. Namyra seemed less than happy to carry him the entire way, but she didn't have much of a say in the matter.

"At least you're light."

Morgana gave an uncharacteristic giggle. "I've heard that before."

"I was being sarcastic."

He looked up at her. "I wasn't." His gaze shifted ahead of him. "Kit could carry me fine. You're just weak."

Namyra tightened her grip on his waist. "Watch it."

"You could always let him out and he'll carry me," he told her, words slurring together.

"Kit wouldn't take you where you need to be," she growled. "He'll try to escape with you and then Titania would have my head for letting you get away."

"Why does she even want me?" he wondered.

Namyra pushed him around a corner, and two tall doors came into view. As soon as they saw her, four guards heaved them open, and she led Morgana inside. He was stumbling like an idiot, and if there was any bright side to whatever this drug was, it was that all her efforts to make him look presentable would never make up for the fact that he was as high as a kite and making a fool of himself.

Titania's voice was enough to pierce through the high, though, grabbing his attention and forcing his eyes into alertness as they settled on her figure, sprawled across her throne with a grin.

"Well, hello, Morgana," she mused in her molasses voice. His knees trembled when she said his name. "You look dashing."

"What do you want? Where are my friends? Why are we here and why is Chalice alive?"

Titania's eyes sliced into him. "You don't get to ask the questions here," she spat. "I am in charge here."

"I'm Unseelie. You have no jurisdiction over me," he replied, less forceful than he wanted. These drugs were making him weak.

"You're a gray area, child." Titania sat up straight. "I have enough jurisdiction to tell you to shut your mouth."

As much as he hated to obey, he didn't have the strength to argue. He pressed his lips together, but he made sure to look as angry at her as possible.

"Now. I can tell you some things." She drew a sword from beside her throne, and Morgana gulped when he realized what it was. "I need this. And now I have it. But I can't use it without your prince. If there's anyone that can convince him to do what I want, it's you."

"Well, I won't."

A sudden, horrible pain shot up his arm. It was his wooden hand, and it appeared to be growing roots, which dug into his arm with vicious determination.

The hand was made of Seelie magic. Shit.

"You'll convince him, or this will eat you alive," Titania said. "And you can't be dead to complete this mission, can you?"

His stomach dropped to his feet, and his heart sped up. It was a trap. He can't save the people from this plague if he's dead, but if he does what she says, who could say what kind of chaos she'd bring if she had control over Excalibur? People would die either way, and it was up to Morgana which ones it had to be. It made him sick.

He'd have to find a way.

His jaw set, teeth grinding together in anger, and it took every ounce of strength he had to utter his next words.

"Then let it kill me."