The fētis’ words danced on the stagnant air of the swamplands like a song only few could hear. This particular song was for the boy as he groaned and breathed rapidly atop a sweat-soaked bedroll.
“Wake up," his pet whispered to him, trying to shake him awake. "I think something’s wrong.”
Her efforts were in vain: the fētis was clever and its livēsēns couldn’t be dispelled by something so simple as a jostling.
The child continued whining and shaking, looking around for assistance; looking for Morrigan perhaps? If only someone warned the child they’d be in for a dangerous journey if they hitched their wagon to the boy’s cart. Oh wait, they were warned.
Foolish actions warrant appropriate responses.
Indeed, no one could fault Morrigan for letting the child suffer in her anxiety for a bit—such scenarios built character, she thought. After a bit more time, Rowan thrashed about and the girl shrieked, trying to hold him down.
Should Morrigan intervene? N?n: the fētis was still invisible.
Listen, Red, there’s nothing worse than wasted bait. If the bait gets snatched up, then the fish goes home happy. If you snatch the fish up, then you go home happy. But if the bait’s still on the hook? Tragedy.
The voice in Morrigan’s head this time wasn’t Isold?’s, but Tēlēmid’s. He seemed like a carefree sort; Morrigan couldn’t imagine actually being close to a person like him, yet his words were apropos for her current circumstance. No one would be happy until Morrigan’s trap was sprung. Bone conduction wasn’t working and her eyes couldn’t see anything, so Morrigan closed them and focused on her ears instead. The swamp was as still as the dead—not even the sound of trees swaying in the breeze could be heard because there wasn’t a breeze to be had—and Morrigan would use that to her advantage.
A slow gloop sound could be picked out beneath the sound of the child’s incessant crying. The figure was humanoid in appearance, clad in a polygonal abomination of plating. There were gaps in the armor, but they only seemed to house a lighter layer of armor beneath. What was most eye-catching however was the sword on the figure’s back: not a single part of it was remarkable. The blade was duller than a warrior would keep it and the hilt clicked loosely as the creature pointed it toward the sky. The sky? To swing it downward, of course. To strike.
“Zchto,” Morrigan muttered to herself as she sprinted toward the platform. “Oaki, child. Duck your simple head.”
The muck beneath her feet left Morrigan moving a bit slower, but she was no fool.
Waiting for the fētis to act left Morrigan with plenty of time to prepare. She’d carefully shaped and propped the soles of her feet on the bones of her midfoot, creating deep treads for her to step with. Had she not done so, Morrigan may have been too late to prevent the swing. Would it have snuffed out the boy, the child, or mayhap both? It didn’t matter: Morrigan was present, Morrigan was prepared, and the fētis was out of their depth. There was no time for a proper weapon and a lack of knowing exactly what she’d be dealing with left Morrigan unwilling to fashion one prior to the encounter. Instead, she caught the arc of the blade with her left forearm, her radius and ulna extending out of her flesh to form a shield of sorts. The poorly maintained sword was no match for Morrigan Queen, snapping free near the hilt and stabbing the mucky dirt past Morrigan. The fētis wordlessly looked at their broken blade and ripped open a hole beyond the offscape.
Morrigan looked back at the child: she was still gripping at Rowan, tears in her eyes. Helpless. Useless. Tsk.
“Rowan needs help,” the child cried.
“Mada: there is work to be done.” Morrigan responded, eyes back on her opponent as they pulled another blade from the hole.
This next blade was in better condition than the previous one and was quite different in design. The blade had but a single edge and no guard at all with almost half of its length monopolized by the grip.
“Curious.” Morrigan muttered as she looked at the rigid helm staring back at her.
There was but a single notch by which the creature looked back at Morrigan with their flaxen eye: a sign of the Malokith, yes, but their stare lacked the usual blankness that accompanied a thrall of the void. Instead, their eye was slightly closed as if the fētis was struggling to see. No, they were smiling. Morrigan pondered this as the hole vanished and the fētis leapt backwards. The fētis stood atop the swampland—their feet didn’t connect with the muck beneath them as if they rejected such a thing—and gripped their current blade with one hand.
“Well?” The fētis said, cutting through the sound of the child’s whimpers behind Morrigan.
The fētis’ voice was shrill, with rises and falls like a poorly constructed tune. Nonetheless, they spoke the natural tongue and did so with their own voice.
“Aren’t you gonna make a blade?" The fētis asked. "You’ll need one.”
“Tsk, where is your master?” Morrigan hissed, her hands separating her flesh at the sternum.
Her forge bubbled with boiling blood as Morrigan cracked a rib free and fashioned a long, straight sword with a simple handguard as she awaited the fētis’ response.
“I don’t have a master." The fētis giggled, mimicking Morrigan’s gestures of bone-shaping with their blade. "Do you?”
“You are a liar and a fool.” Morrigan said.
“No, it’s true." The fētis responded. "I’m simply a candidate, like you.”
“Candidate?” Morrigan’s eyebrow raised as her forge closed up, a freshly sharpened blade in her hand.
“I wasn’t even looking for you; I’m just here to kill him,” the fētis pointed at the boy, thrashing in his bedroll.
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“Why?”
The fētis tapped the side of their helm with their free index finger.
“Got a premonition.” The fētis put on an exaggerated voice as if they were telling a tale. “‘Kill the boy with the dark hair, the blighted arm, and your path to the End of Eons will be made tangible.’ Pretty good deal, right?”
“You are a fool following a prophecy of falsehoods.” Morrigan said, spitting to the side of her.
“Oh, you’re a sassy one." They retorted. "I’m more fun-loving and action-oriented than scathing words and saucy scoffs. But you can keep talking if you’d like: he’ll be dead before long.”
“It is you who will be snuffed out, fētis.” Morrigan growled, stepping off the platform and into the muck.
Maintaining her treads to move about in the swamp would cost more livēsēns than it was worth: Morrigan would simply make do with hampered mobility. Morrigan sprinted—what passed for sprinting, anyway, considering her circumstances—toward her opponent, sword in hand and bellowing. Yet, as she neared the fētis, they simply glided around Morrigan, creating more distance. Their lack of touching the muck was noteworthy indeed: the greaves encasing their legs had to be laced with livēsēns—they appeared as though they were skating on ice, not trudging through the swamp.
“Tsk,” Morrigan huffed, closing the distance only to be evaded effortlessly once again. “Fight, D?nazch.”
“Vo Katima?” The fētis snorted, eliciting a flicker of embarrassment from Morrigan she couldn’t quite understand. “I can’t speak your bygone language, grandma. Also, you’re dumb: why would I fight?”
Morrigan’s eyes widened with realization and disgust at the fētis’ words. “You intend what? To wait for the expiration of the boy? And then?”
The fētis cackled, “Law, you’re slow. Then I leave, stupid. I already told you: I’m not here for you. See I can tell just by looking at you: you’re of the physical sort. It makes sense, really. Your words are as delicate as dirt, your brain is full of holes, and you speak a language old enough to give me arthritis. You gotta be good at something. I’m betting that something is knocking skulls.”
Morrigan’s nose twitched as her eyes bounced around her sockets, searching for an answer as the fētis spoke.
“The words of a weakling.” Morrigan retorted, trying to keep the fētis talking as an answer came to mind.
She kept a composed face on the fētis as she began emptying her livēsēns reservoir, pushing her bonesmithing to its limits.
“Rude. I’m not a strength-focused candidate, no. I’m a bit more cerebral. That means I use this”—the fētis pointed at their forehead with their free hand—“for more than just headbutting.”
Morrigan snickered. “So I am strong and you are smart, is that it?”
The fētis clapped. “Very good. Maybe you’re not as dumb as—”
The fētis looked down at their left leg as a tendril snaked around their heel; Morrigan’s calcaneus bone, elongated and given a whip’s flexibility via an exorbitant amount of livēsēns, snagged them and pulled them into the muck. The fētis pulled at the whip, but it had no give. The fētis moved to swing their blade and cut herself free, but Morrigan would show her opposition no quarter. She reached into the muck with her free hand, pulling the fētis toward her like a prey into a predator’s maw.
“No, stop, get—”
The fētis whined as Morrigan pulled harder, lifting Morrigan’s opposition off their feet entirely. Morrigan’s raspy laughter filled the air as she pulled and pulled. Just as the fētis was within striking range, they poured more livēsēns into their greaves and floated higher off the ground. The bone whip grew taut as the fētis tried to fly above the trees, Morrigan holding them down with feet planted and one hand anchoring the whip.
“Let go.” The fētis growled, trying to pull free as they levitated above Morrigan.
Morrigan roared as she pulled harder, bringing the fētis closer once again. Once in range, Morrigan swung her blade in an upward arc, cleanly separating both of the fētis’ feet from their ankles. The fētis shrieked as they plopped into the muck, blood gushing from their stumps.
“All that talk of being smart,” Morrigan huffed, batting the fētis’ still-floating, bloody feet out of her face. They bobbed toward the trees like balloons, leaking blood as they rotated slowly.
“Rowan’s still…” Achaia whined, trailing off as she saw Rowan remained unchanged.
Morrigan looked back at the boy and back to the fētis. They panted and slowed their breaths, rising to newly formed feet.
“Tsk.”
Restoration livēsēns not unlike Morrigan’s own. No, it was better: Morrigan couldn’t replace limbs so quickly. Still, the fētis couldn’t fly away anymore. They’d have to fight. And they’d die.
“I’ll admit, you’re craftier than I thought, but the situation’s still the same.”
The fētis charged Morrigan. They swung their blade haphazardly, lacking any sign of formal training. Morrigan swayed to the left, weaved to the right, and—when the fētis’ amateurish swings revealed an inevitable opening—lopped the fētis’ sword-swinging arm clean off their torso.
“You can’t kill me quicker than I can heal.” The fētis hissed, their shrill voice ringing in Morrigan’s ears as an unmarred arm shot out of their bloody stump and brought the fētis back to full capability. “Though, I gotta say, it is annoying how easily you’re able to cut through this armor. What’s it even for?”
Morrigan simply scoffed at the fētis’ question. Armored plating was not without its breaks for mobility. It was a simple task for a warrior as skilled as Morrigan to target those gaps in armor. And though the fētis’ limbs regenerated, they didn’t come back with more armor: the task was only getting easier. Still, how to end the fētis? Morrigan considered her options as the boy began to cough.
“Please,” The child screamed as blood dribbled out of the corners of Rowan’s mouth.
“Tsk.”
Time was short and the boy was at the end of his mortal coil. The livēsēns was a manipulation type and Morrigan was far from skilled in such matters. Typically, if one wanted to disrupt manipulation livēsēns, one could simply incapacitate the livēdise and the problem would be solved. But the fētis refused to be dispatched quickly, intending to stall until the boy simply died in his sleep. But manipulation livēsēns couldn’t simply activate: there had to be an impetus, usually a verbal one at that. The boy was asleep, though, so this had to be a rare exception to the rule.
“Are we giving up?" The fētis mocked. "Or maybe you’re trying to flex that little brain of yours for a solution? It’s not worth it, I promise…”
Morrigan drowned out the fētis’ squawking and searched the library of her mind for an answer. Manipulation livēsēns can be interrupted by incapacitation of the livēdise, erasure of the impetus, or the target could break the influence themselves. Morrigan lacked the skill to livēda most manipulation livēsēns, but one. She recalled a memory with Isold? where she taught a means to speak into someone’s mind. It couldn’t influence the listener or harm them like so many other manipulation livēsēns: the livēsēns was more so a means to speak secretly to others. It wouldn’t stop the fētis’ ploy, but it might provide the boy a means to liberate himself. There wouldn’t need to be a lot of—
The fētis slashed Morrigan’s back, drawing blood. Morrigan scoffed in frustration: she’d been careless. Morrigan’s assumed invincibility only worked if she maintained her focus. Though she’d never admit it, she was at her weakest when in her own mind. Whether the fētis knew this or not prior to the strike, there was no reversing the revelation.
“Oh, dear. It looks like we both have an idea, now.” The fētis giggled, smearing Morrigan’s blood on their helm. “So, what happens now?”
Their tone conveyed a smile, Morrigan’s blood dripping off them like a baptism.
Morrigan didn’t dignify the fētis’ question with a response. She already knew what came next—bloodshed.
