At times it was hard to tell which of us was the master or the servant. Morgan had insisted that I was her liege, that she owed me unswerving allegiance as the wielder Caladbolg, and she never wavered in this opinion. Yet I found myself increasingly inclined to the diva’s directives as our journey stretched on. The matter came to a head as we made camp just beyond the walls of Dorgshun.
The campfire danced between us, casting a soft glow upon the giantess’s unyielding features; a dress of emerald scales draped itself gracefully over her towering frame. Where safety should have derived from my own strength or that of the magical sword, I instead felt dwarfed by Morgan at this moment. She watched me over steepled fingers with a gaze both intense and steady. There was a certain power that seemed to exude from the heavenly beings core. When I first took up the blade — or rather circumstances forced ownership upon me — Morgan‘s arrival was believed to be a serendipitous one. She had told me that there would be those drawn to the blade, eager to serve a newly risen hero on whatever his quest may entail, but in our months of travel Morgan was the only angel I’d encountered. Caladbolg and she appeared to be inexplicably bound, but to what end? Where did I fit into the equation?
“Why was I chosen exactly? Not that I’m complaining, but I was merely out at the lake to catch a meal, not unearth some legendary sword. Why me? What am I meant to accomplish with Caladbolg that someone else couldn’t have done without it? Was I the best choice or simply a convenient option.”
“You were chosen, that is all that matters.” Morgan’s eyes were like forest fire, verdant pools that roiled with emulsion against the flame. They overpowered in favor of disarming. “Have I misled you some capacity?”
I shook my head, unsure if she was challenging me or honestly concerned. Morgan seemed adept at crafting questions that bore answers without words. It was the way angels dealt with men, using indirect means to bend will and influence thought; such an exchange was uncomfortable for me though. I preferred things far more straightforward, blunt even, than what passed between us. But how does one confront an angel?
Morgan caught my gaze again and held fast, reading every inch of me with a simple stare. A small smirk twisted the corner of her lips; the dance of flames in the dying light of the afternoon turned her pale skin a lovely bronze. We sat in silence for quite some time before the giantess finally spoke.
"Perhaps the better question to ask yourself is why I chose you," Morgan said softly, "Not Caladbolg."
When she moved it was like an avalanche. There was no commotion or awkwardness to it, no, rather the contrary. Morgan was nearly 9 feet tall but possessed an almost unnerving composure. Statuesque described both her appearance and demeanor, but there was also a fluidity to her movement; Morgan flowed where most struggled even to stumble. As she crossed the short distance between us, her approach could hardly be discerned from sitting down to rising. I was left stunned and motionless when the angel knelt before me. Our faces were level now as the giantess drew in closer, invading my space and personal bubble. I had expected to feel suffocated at being so near to a being of her size, but the sensation I received from Morgan was different. It was akin to standing within the embrace of some old forgotten oak — Morgan smelled of ancient wood and warm spice, intoxicating.
“Your path is yours to carve — be it king, tyrant or neither — I shall walk alongside you. Unless you prefer to be led,” mercurial irises stirred with unknowable power, “That too can be arranged.”
Something about Morgan changed then. Perhaps it was always there lurking beneath the surface, yet shrouded from view, but whatever it was I was made keenly aware of its presence now. Morgan exuded raw power — not unlike Caladbolg — yet somehow hers seemed less artificial. With Caladolbg I was granted control, power that any man might dream of, but the giantess was offering me something else. A chance to submit, to surrender the burden of choice and leadership.
Without conscious thought, my body responded to Morgan's offer. Subtle signs were sent to indicate compliance, involuntary actions that betrayed my thoughts: a slight parting of lips, pulse quickened, pupils dilated. They were signals, primordial in nature, that went largely ignored by women before.
“You will always be my master, as long as that is your heart’s desire.” Where I expected a cooing lilt there was merely cold indifference. Morgan needn’t require such base subversion tactics. Seduction in the pretense of the mortal guise was alien to the heavenly hostess, her methods far more direct and without subtly — a coupling of the flesh was entirely unnecessary for a being born of light. Synaptic feedback paled meant nothing in the face of spiritual domination. This was anything but angelic — at least to my limited, mortal comprehension. The remaining vestiges of my freewill harkened back to our first encounter, picking apart the diva’s claims regarding Caladbolg. Had Morgan lied or merely omitted vital information — deceit of omission. No, I hadn't been chosen at random, Morgan had selected me because of some undisclosed criteria. Now here she was, kneeling before me, willing to fulfill that purpose if only I would acquiesce control. From the corner of my eye, Caladbolg had taken on a form that stood in stark contrast to the silver-bladed sword of yore that I once believed it to be. Gone was the polished half of marbled ivory, replaced with a dull iron grip stained dark. Its twin edge resembled aged bone — its blade was was as black as the darkest night. A void where light went to die. How much of my journey had played out as I had perceived it? The enchantress’s words distracted me from the terror, “Are you afraid? There is no shame in it. To know fear is to understand the true weight of power; to master Caladbolg takes a great deal of resolve — not many men possess the fortitude required of such a task. Some seek it while others are forced to rise above adversity. You were not chosen to become another hero among many. That is what makes you worthy. It requires courage to reject the status quo, to forge your own path despite the opposition. Do you trust me? If so then lay down your arms, submit your will to mine — together we shall write the next chapter of history as it unfolds. The world has enough heroes, what it needs are visionaries: men who are brave enough to stand against the tide, men who are capable of altering fate itself — are you such a man? Forfeit your load and I shall assist you in all things.”
Raven hair rolled along her shoulders like rivulets of cooling magma, ebon wings unfurled into a protective shell around us. Had she ever been an angel or merely a deceiver? Had it mattered?
"What would you ask of me?"