POV - Azra'il
Darkness swallowed me like an old acquaintance.
It wasn't the first time I had floated in a formless, weightless void with nothing but my own consciousness for company. After a few hundred deaths, you sort of get used to the sensation of lacking a body. It's almost relaxing, if you ignore the crippling existentialism.
Nagakabouros didn't mess around, apparently. When a motion-obsessed octopus-goddess says she is going to show you truths, she really means 'drown you in them until you choke'.
[Vital signs stable. Consciousness preserved. Connection to physical body: temporarily suspended.]
[Apparently, the ritual included us as a package deal. Or the goddess thought you might require supervision.]
[Also a possibility. No one has ever tried.]
I would have smiled had I possessed lips. At least I wasn't alone in this divine-aquatic limbo. Eos was irritating most of the time, but after so many lives together, her presence was as natural as breathing, back when I had lungs for it.
[Based on the pattern established by the ritual: memories. Likely Morgana's. Both of you were subjected to the same process. If you are seeing her memories—]
The thought should have bothered me more than it did. My memories weren't exactly... pleasant. Millennia of creative deaths, assorted betrayals, and that time I was a fungus for three years, no one needed to see that.
But for some reason, the idea of Morgana witnessing my existential mess felt... fair? She took me in, adopted me as her daughter. Perhaps she deserved some answers, even if they came in the form of shared trauma.
[You are being strangely philosophical about this.]
[You could count to a million. We have done that before.]
Before Eos could respond with some useless statistic about dissociation techniques, the void moved.
It wasn't gentle.
A force grabbed me, not physically, because I had no physique to grab, but in some way that transcended the need for a body. It was like being pulled by an invisible current, dragged in a direction that hadn't existed a second ago.
[Motion detected. Something is pulling us.]
[Resistance: futile. Recommendation: relax and observe.]
The darkness tore like old fabric, and light poured through the rifts. Raw light. Unfiltered. And then I was somewhere else.
A small house, built of grey stone and dark timber, the kind of construction that seems to have sprouted from the ground itself rather than having been erected by human hands. A hearth crackling in the corner, shadows dancing on the walls. Simple furniture: a table, chairs, shelves lined with clay pots. Dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The smell of smoke and something cooking.
And through the window, mountains.
Not just any mountain. 'That' mountain. Even seeing only the foothills, I recognised it, imposing, impossible, piercing the sky like a needle stitching the earth to the gods.
[Confirmed. Foothills of Mount Targon. Architecture suggests a period over a thousand years in the past.]
Nagakabouros was starting from the beginning, then. I don't know why that surprised me; gods generally love linear narratives. Much more dramatic than simply showing the highlights and moving on.
Then, I saw her.
A child on the windowsill, too small to be up there safely, legs swinging in the void above the stone floor. Black hair falling in messy waves down her back, a simple woollen dress worn from use. No more than five years old, if that.
And when she turned her face to look at the stars, I saw the eyes.
Blue. Clear. Limpid as spring water.
But not the Morgana I knew. No lilac in the eyes, no purple glow of contained power, no black wings or the chains that bound them. No shadow of millennia weighing down the corners of her expression.
It was just... a girl. A mortal child looking at the sky with the kind of hope belonging to those who have not yet learned that the universe rarely answers back.
[Identification confirmed. Estimated age: four to five years. Celestial Magic still dormant; no sign of magical awakening.]
It wasn't a critique. It was astonishment. The Morgana who raised me carried ancient power in every gesture, shadows that obeyed her call, a presence that made the air heavy. This child on the window was made of flesh and bone and nothing more.
"When is she coming back?"
The voice was soft, almost a whisper directed at the stars. There was something there that made me pay attention; it wasn't casual curiosity. It was the sort of question that had been asked many times without ever receiving a satisfactory answer.
"It's been almost two weeks." Little Morgana hugged her knees to her chest, making herself smaller. "She promised she wouldn't be long."
I knew that tone. I knew that mixture of hope and disappointment, of love and abandonment, of understanding that someone you love has important things to do and yet wanting, just a little bit, to be important enough to make them stay.
[You are projecting.]
[Your brainwaves indicate otherwise.]
Footsteps interrupted my rude response. Light, quick, small feet traversing the stone floor with purpose.
"Morgana! You shouldn't be on the window. You'll fall."
I turned to see the speaker. And for a moment, my brain simply... stuttered.
White hair. Short, cut practically below the ears. Pale blue eyes, the exact same shade as Morgana's. Delicate features, a determined chin, posture erect even at five years of age. A mini-adult in a child's body.
[Identification: Kayle. Twin sister of Morgana.]
But knowing and seeing were different things.
I had heard stories. Fragments Morgana let slip in moments of vulnerability, always laden with that specific pain belonging to relationships that should have worked but didn't. The sister. The judicator. The one who chose law over love.
But this...
Not identical. A thousand different details, the shape of the face, the bone structure, the way she moved. But the white hair, the expression far too serious for her age, that way of carrying the weight of the world on small shoulders...
[The resemblance is superficial. You share no genetic relationship.]
It was about recognition. About looking at someone and seeing pieces of yourself reflected back.
Little Kayle crossed the room and sat beside her sister on the windowsill, legs swinging in the same unconscious rhythm as Morgana's.
"Mother is on a mission. An important one." There was adoration in her voice, the kind of absolute devotion children reserve for heroes. "She is protecting the oppressed. Delivering justice to the oppressors." Small fists clenched with determination. "It is the most important job there is, Morgana. You should understand that."
Morgana did not take her eyes off the stars.
"I know."
"Then why are you sad?"
"I'm not sad." The lie came automatically, too obvious to fool anyone actually paying attention. "I just... wished she were here."
Kayle frowned, genuinely confused. As if the two things, missing someone and understanding the importance of their work, were mutually exclusive.
[That dynamic rarely ends well.]
[I am merely documenting the point of origin.]
The sound of metal against metal came from the back of the house. A pot, a spoon, the domestic noises of a meal being prepared. And then a voice, male, gentle, with that specific warmth belonging to people who love without knowing how to hide it.
"Kayle? Morgana? Dinner is ready, come before it gets cold."
The twins looked at each other. For a moment, the differences vanished; they were just two hungry sisters responding to their father's call.
Morgana hopped down from the sill first, bare feet slapping on the stone floor. Kayle followed, and together they traversed the narrow corridor to the kitchen.
I floated behind them, invisible, an intruder in a moment not my own.
The kitchen was even smaller than the rest of the house. A stone stove occupied an entire wall, a wooden table with four chairs that had seen better days, shelves cluttered with utensils. And there, back to the door whilst ladling something steaming into ceramic bowls, stood a man.
Black hair, with a few grey strands at the temples. Broad shoulders, but not a warrior's, someone who had worked his entire life with his hands. When he turned to greet his daughters, I saw the face.
And I saw Morgana.
Not the child. The adult. The same features, the same bone structure, the same shape of the eyes. Pale blue in him, just like his daughters.
The man smiled upon seeing them, and the smile transformed his entire face. There was weariness hidden in the corners of his eyes, the kind you learn to recognise when you've carried too much weight for too long. But he pushed it back, buried it beneath the surface, because children don't need to see parents breaking.
"There are my stars." He crouched to get to their level, a hand on each small shoulder. "Ready to eat?"
"So hungry!" Kayle replied, practically vibrating on the spot. "What's for dinner, Papa?"
"Beef stew." He stood, returning to the stove. "Your mother's recipe."
Kayle's eyes widened, and for a moment she seemed exactly like the child she was, no weight of the world, no grandiose destiny, just a little girl excited about her favourite food.
"Mum's stew! It's my favourite!"
"I know, little one." He ruffled her white hair with automatic affection, the gesture of one who has done it a thousand times. "Why do you think I made it?"
Morgana approached more slowly, steps hesitant. She tugged at the hem of her father's shirt with small fingers.
"Papa?"
"Yes, my sweet?"
"The stew..." she bit her lip, choosing her words. "Is it for a special occasion?"
The man, Kilam, looked at his daughter. And I saw the exact moment something passed behind his eyes. Not sadness, exactly. The conscious effort not to show sadness.
"I don't need a special occasion to make something nice for my daughters." He touched her face, tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear. "Now, go sit. You too, Kayle. Food doesn't wait."
The twins obeyed, climbing onto chairs that were slightly too tall for them. Kilam served three bowls and sat at the table, completing the picture of a family that should have had four people.
I noticed. Of course I noticed. Four chairs, three people. The space where the mother should be, screaming in silence.
For a moment, there was only the sound of spoons against ceramic. The comfortable silence of people who don't need to fill the air with words.
Then Kayle raised her head, eyes shining.
"Papa, do you think Mum has defeated all the villains yet?"
Kilam swallowed a spoonful, the gesture buying him time to compose his expression.
"Your mother is very capable, Kayle. I am sure she is doing what needs to be done."
"She is the strongest person there is." Kayle tapped her spoon on the table for emphasis. "No one can beat her. When I grow up, I'm going to be just like her. I'll protect people and punish all the wicked ones."
Kilam nodded, but his smile faltered. Just for an instant. Too fast for an excited child to perceive.
Morgana perceived it.
I saw her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly, studying her father with an attention that did not match a five-year-old. She said nothing. Merely observed. Filed it away.
[Perceptive beyond the average. The pattern is consistent with the adult profile.]
"Papa?" Morgana's voice cut through Kayle's monologue about her future heroic deeds. "Do you miss her?"
The silence that followed had weight. Texture. The kind of silence that happens when someone asks the question everyone was avoiding.
Kilam put down his spoon. Looked at the bowl as if answers were hidden in the stew. Then raised his eyes to the daughter who had asked what he didn't want to answer.
"Every day, my sweet." His voice was soft, but there were cracks at the edges. "Every single day."
Kayle frowned.
"But you know she is doing something important. Why would you be sad?"
Kilam looked from one daughter to the other. Two children, born together, already so different.
"Kayle, darling..." he reached out, touching her face. "We can admire what a person does and still miss them. Both things exist together. They don't need to compete."
Kayle chewed on that along with the stew, brow still furrowed in confusion.
Morgana said nothing. She continued eating in silence, but her eyes never completely left her father.
[Knew what?]
Dinner continued. Kayle filled the silence with grandiose plans, how she would train, get strong, be a heroine like her mother. Kilam listened, nodded, made the right sounds at the right moments. Morgana ate slowly, watching everything with those eyes that already seemed too old.
When the bowls were empty, Kilam stood to collect them.
"Bedtime, stars. The sun rises early tomorrow."
"But Papa—" Kayle started to protest.
"No 'buts'. Bed. Now."
The twins climbed down from their chairs, dragging their feet towards the corridor. Kayle went first, already yawning despite her protests. Morgana lingered for a moment, looking at her father.
"Papa?"
"Yes, my sweet?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Nothing. Goodnight."
Morgana padded away, bare feet silent on the stone floor, but she still watched her father from the corner of her eye.
Kilam was left alone in the kitchen.
I watched as he washed the bowls in silence, the mechanical movements of someone performing a task without truly thinking about it. Shoulders hunched in a way that had nothing to do with the weight of the crockery.
And then he stopped.
Hands still in the water, he looked through the kitchen window. Towards the mountain. Towards the peak disappearing into the clouds, where something shone with unnatural light.
He looked like someone waiting for a person he wasn't sure would return.
The memory began to unravel, colours bleeding out of the edges like watercolour in water. But before it released me completely, I saw the expression on his face.
It wasn't just longing.
It was grief. The kind you carry when the person is still alive, but no longer yours.
Darkness reclaimed me, and the last thing I saw was the silhouette of a man alone in a kitchen, washing dishes for a family that was already incomplete.
__________
💬 Author's Note
__________
Yes, you finally met mini Morgana, no wings, no chains, no intimidating aura… just a small child already noticing a little too much for her own good. 👍
And this is only the beginning, ok?
Now tell me 👀
👉 What did you think of kids Morgana and Kayle ?
I'm watching the comments very closely.
Your chaotically suspicious author 🐺✨