Angelica could only smile as Morgana returned the firebolt towards her. Redirecting the firebolt to land on the ground, conveniently hitting a brazier and setting it on fire. The statue of Hecate behind it turned from a dead reflection of the goddess into a seemingly silent observer, whether that was a deliberate flare for Angelica or convenient happenstance would forever remain a mystery.
Morgana also seems to be weak towards Holy Magic. An unfortunate possibility for Angelica as she thinks of her future moves. She is weak towards Holy Magic, sure. But as Morgana expected, that is not an area of expertise on Angelica’s part. She needed something much more subtle, more quiet. At that point, however, a thought came towards the elderly witch. And she smiled. Yes. That can work She thought. Deciding, counterintuitively, to sit down, her legs crossed as she started casting something small. Small and barely noticeable even to the most skilled magic users. Light flashes of purple and white seemingly going out like fireworks out from her hand. And at the end of it all, the flashes stopped.
The spell is ready. All she needs to do is provoke Morgana to act first, and make her think too emotionally instead of strategically. That would increase the chances of her plan working out. “Dearest Morgana. May I ask you a question? Why did you run away from this household? I know the reasons may vary daughter. Perhaps you wanted to explore other types of magic, perhaps you wanted to meet other people from other backgrounds in life? All very understandable reasons. But perhaps… you just felt that you would never be able to achieve the heights of your mother, and you ran because you needed the approval of some faraway, distant organisation that wouldn’t understand you. An organisation that will provide you with value, purpose, and direction in your otherwise unremarkable and unfulfilling life? Makes sense, you did ran away with your Witch’s Hat after all…
“Also, pray tell. Why did you always send me your research papers daughter? They are impressive papers, yes, but I am very sure the gods and fellow researchers at the OMR would understand that. So why did you send that to me? Do you crave the feeling, the desire that we will welcome you back to the fold? Did you want to prove that you were doing something with your life? To me? To yourself? That you hadn't thrown everything away for nothing? You could have come back any time, all you had to do was admit your mistake. It feels… pathetic, really. Oh, and of course I always burned whatever papers you’d sent to my address to the firepit. No need to peruse whatever forbidden, and ultimately, useless knowledge you’d have stumbled upon that I don’t have existing knowledge over.
“Really. In truth, this little job of yours is a little bit of a farce, isn’t it? Heretical studies? Who named that? I remain convinced that the director of the OMR herself took one look at the name of that department and thought it so preposterous that she approved it. Just to see how you would ultimately disappoint your new bosses just like how you disappointed your family.”
The matriarch also heard some yapping from the cells, perhaps some of her newly acquired captives didn’t understand their place in this whole affair, she decided to ignore whatever voices were coming out from the hanging cages, and recentered her attention towards defeating Morgana.
There is enough going on around the matriarch that focusing her attention on someone wanting to distract her would be a major mistake on her part. Just one provocative move from Morgana is all she needs. And the tide of the fight would turn in her favour, slowly, but surely…
It was probably too much to hope that her mother would start a monologue about something useful; all of her plans, how she had reached this point and how to stop her for example. Instead the older witch settled down into a comfortable position and began to recite the tired old song that was her disappointment with her daughter.
A familiar tune this one, Morgana could almost hum along to it. How could she leave? Who would be the next head of the Faith family, if not her? Why waste her talents there? The verses differed but the chorus was always the same; come back home and we will start again from where we left off. It had been year since she has last heard it and to those who did not know either Morgana or her mother the words might almost sound like those of a loving family member. Witches had long been adept as tricking people after all, even each other; even themselves.
Morgana knew what her mother wanted wasn’t an heir or a daughter, it was a pawn; she hadn’t always, but she knew it now. They both did, and both left it unspoken, but only one of them thought the other still stupid enough to believe the lie.
Ah, but this time the words were different and the chorus never came. Doing away with pretences this time were they? Was her mother finally giving breath to the truth that had laid behind her teeth all of these years, the truth that Morgana had finally figured out when she stopped paying attention to the words and started paying attention to the woman? Weak, stupid, helpless little Morgana. Ran away from home because she couldn’t follow her lessons little Morgana. Hid from her mother because she didn’t want to be scolded little Morgana. Attention seeking, desperate for approval she couldn’t earn little Morgana. Your efforts are beneath my notice, your job is a farce that I refuse to take seriously and your work is a joke fit only for kindling. Little Morgana.
She had heard those words even when they were spoken aloud, buried under layers and layers of the pageantry that witches were so fond of. And now that they were spoken out loud for all to hear, all Morgana could do was smile.
“Why?”
It was an ugly thing; all bared teeth and not a spark of joy. Rather it seemed to be carved of pure, terrible vindication. Morgana’s hands rose and with two fingers the witch began to rapidly draw a complex circle in the air, one hand covering the wide, sweeping motions while the other filled in the finer details. Three concentric circles, the space between each forming a ring that was quickly turned from empty space into scrawling script of what appeared to be mostly Arabic but was almost certainly made of multiple languages at once. The centre was left blank until the last moment, but as the outer rings were completed that too was swiftly taken over by an assortment of lines that formed a shape of some kind that hurt the eyes to look at for too long.
“It’s quite simple really. I hate you. I’ve hated you since I’ve been old enough to understand the gravity of the word.”
It was not beyond her notice that her mother had been casting this entire time; the wards on her person might not protect her from curses, but they certainly burned in their presence enough to warn her of their presence, if not their nature. She was aware too, or the counter-spell her mother had woven around her that would make direct offense against her difficult to achieve.
At the moment, Morgana cared for neither of these facts.
Heedless of the warnings buzzing against her skin, Morgana snatched the magic circle out of the air by its centre, her fingers somehow intersecting with none of the drawn lines in the process, and slammed it onto the ground.
As the flare of magic faded and sunk into the stone it took all of the light in the room with it. The brazier lit before the statue of Hecate went dark, as did every other source of illumination in the room as the two witches, the awaiting audience and the captive were plunged into unnatural darkness and the next words Morgana spoke echoed around the room with no discernable source.
“And I wish to make a mockery of everything that you stand for.”
And at a point positioned right over her heart, the curse began its work.
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