章 76: 73. The Ritual
===Morgan===
Morgan looked down at the silver arm she had brought into the main room. Airgetlám. The silver arm had been a gift from the god Dian Cecht to Nuada, the Celtic God of War, after he lost his arm in battle. Through a series of events Morgan didn't entirely understand, it had come into the possession of Bedivere, passed on by Merlin. Now, it was hers.
She let out a deep sigh before glancing over at Godrick, who lay unconscious on one of the fishing tables in her makeshift home. He was so large that his remaining blackened arm dangled off the edge of the table, both of his feet touching the floor.
Morgan might have found the sight somewhat humorous under different circumstances, but the reality of what had brought Godrick here left little room for laughter.
She looked back at the arm in her hands, then, with a flicker of magic, altered its appearance to match Godrick's own arm.
"Jeanne, come here." Morgan's voice was calm but firm
Jalter perked up at the sound of her name, glancing over at Morgan with an irritated expression.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice laced with annoyance.
"I said, come here," Morgan repeated.
Jalter huffed but stood up, walking over to Morgan and pausing at the prosthetic arm in its case.
"I need your help attaching it. The process will be grueling, but in the end, it'll be worth it," Morgan said, her eyes focused on the young woman.
Jalter eyed the arm with a mixture of skepticism and disdain, but her curiosity seemed to outweigh her annoyance. She stepped closer, inspecting the silver prosthetic, now reshaped to resemble Godrick's armored right arm before he had lost it. There was no mistaking the intricate craftsmanship, the gleam of ancient magic woven into its very structure. Even she, with all her irritation, couldn't deny its power.
"What's the catch?" Jalter asked, crossing her arms over her chest, her tone more cautious now. "You don't just hand over a magic arm for free."
Morgan didn't respond immediately. Instead, she reached down and placed her palm gently against the cool metal of the prosthetic, her fingers tracing the lines of runes hidden beneath its surface. She murmured something under her breath, the language strange, ancient—an incantation meant to bind the arm to its new owner. The air around them grew thicker, charged with an eerie energy.
"You seem to be mistaken," Morgan replied after a moment. "It's about survival. If we don't get this right, Godrick won't make it through the fight. The arm… it's not just a prosthetic. It's a conduit for life, for power. I can't do this alone."
Jalter's expression softened slightly, though her wariness remained. She knelt beside the table where Godrick lay, her eyes scanning his unconscious form. His face, while not completely serene, looked almost peaceful, as if he were caught in some kind of deep sleep. His body was a mass of injuries, a few of them too severe for any healing spell to reverse, though no healing magic would have helped anyway.
"So, what's the plan? You're going to just… attach it?" Jalter asked, raising an eyebrow.
Morgan nodded, her face serious. "Not just attach it. We need to fuse it to his body. The process requires a delicate balance—his mind, his essence, and the arm's magic. If I fail… we could lose him completely."
Jalter was silent for a moment, her mind weighing the risks. Finally, she let out a resigned sigh and set her jaw.
"Fine. I'll help," she muttered, though her tone betrayed little enthusiasm.
Morgan gave a small nod of gratitude. "Thank you."
The older woman gestured for Jalter to assist, and with a practiced motion, she began preparing the space around them. She drew a series of runes on the floor—patterns of protection, wards against the chaos that would surely be unleashed when the arm was attached. The silver prosthetic hovered slightly in the air, encased in a faint aura of magic as Morgan spoke the incantations.
Jalter watched with a mixture of fascination and unease, her fingers flexing as she prepared to assist with the next phase.
"Hold him steady. I need to channel the energy into his body when the arm connects," Morgan instructed.
Jalter moved into position, one hand gently pressing down on Godrick's shoulder to keep him still, while her other hand hovered near his stump. Her gaze flickered briefly to the silver arm, her lip curling in uncertainty.
"You're sure this won't, you know… kill him?" she asked.
Morgan's eyes never left her work. "I'm sure. But the longer we wait, the less likely that becomes. Now, help me, Jeanne."
The young woman nodded, biting her lip as she positioned herself, ready to assist in whatever way she could.
With a final breath, Morgan began the ritual in earnest. The silver arm began to hum, its surface shifting slightly as the magic took hold, eager to merge with Godrick's broken form.
The air in the room thickened with an otherworldly energy, as if the very walls were alive, holding their breath. Morgan's voice was a low, steady hum as she spoke the ancient words, the runes she had drawn flickering faintly in response. Each word seemed to vibrate with power, pulling at the very fabric of the room, bending reality around them. The silver arm shimmered in the dim light, a quiet pulse running through it, as if it were anticipating the union.
Jalter held her breath, her hand steady on Godrick's shoulder. The unconscious man was heavy, his body a mass of muscle and scar tissue. She could feel the residual heat from his injuries, the almost unnatural stillness of his body. He felt like a mountain—solid and unyielding, but beneath that weight, there was a fragility, a deep wound that only Morgan's magic could heal.
With a final, fluid motion, Morgan reached forward, fingers dancing over the silver arm, guiding it toward Godrick's stump. The arm hovered for a moment, suspended in the air as if waiting for something—an invitation, a sign. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, Morgan pressed it to his shoulder.
There was an instant of stillness, of quiet anticipation. Then the room exploded with sound—crackling energy, a sharp hiss like air escaping a ruptured vessel. The air around the arm flared to life, rippling like a storm. The runes on the floor burned bright, their symbols twisting and curling as though they were alive, trying to break free from their magical bonds.
Godrick's body jerked on the table, his muscles spasming as the arm began to merge with his stump. The silver and the black seemed to melt together, the metallic surface of the prosthetic fusing with the raw, jagged flesh beneath it. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as if the magic was forcing his body to stay tethered to life. His remaining arm twitched, and for a brief moment, Morgan thought he might wake up, but the sheer intensity of the magic held him in a deep slumber.
Jalter's heart raced as she watched, unable to look away. Her fingers clenched against the table, white-knuckled. This is madness, she thought. What if it goes wrong?
Morgan's face was set in concentration, her brow furrowed in fierce determination. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her hands trembled slightly, but she did not waver.
"Steady…" she muttered, almost to herself. "Steady, Godrick…"
A pulse of light erupted from the arm, blinding for a fraction of a second. Then, silence. The crackling energy dissipated, leaving behind a charged stillness. The arm, once hovering in mid-air, was now securely attached to Godrick's body. The edges where the arm met his flesh were seamless, as if it had never been anything but a part of him.
But Morgan's eyes were still sharp, her attention unwavering as she observed the changes.
Godrick's breathing had slowed. The erratic jerks of his body stopped, replaced by an unnatural stillness. The arm, now fully fused, seemed to pulse with life—silver light dancing under the skin, energy coursing through it.
Jalter exhaled slowly, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Did… did it work?" she asked, her voice low, uncertain.
Morgan didn't answer immediately. She reached out with a trembling hand, brushing the edges of Godrick's forehead, checking for fever or signs of distress. After a long moment, she nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"It worked," Morgan said quietly. "For now."
Godrick's chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths. The arm—Airgetlám—had taken hold, and with it, the godly magic that coursed through it. But there was still much to be done. The fusion was only the first step, and it would take time for Godrick's body to fully accept the power now coursing through him.
Morgan stood back, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, her gaze lingering on the man she saw as a son. A son she had just saved.
Jalter stepped closer, her eyes scanning Godrick's face. "He's alive. But… you're not telling me everything, are you?"
Morgan's eyes flickered, her gaze distant for a moment. "No," she admitted, her voice soft but carrying an edge. "There's a cost to this magic. Airgetlám is a powerful relic, but it comes with a price. Godrick has been given another chance, but it will change him. The arm doesn't just give him strength—it demands something in return."
Jalter didn't need to ask what that meant. She'd seen enough of Morgan's magic to know that it was never without consequence. But for now, there was nothing to be done. Godrick was alive. And that was all that mattered, at least for the moment.
The room was quiet again, save for the sound of Godrick's breathing, steady and slow.
Jalter looked at Morgan, her eyes narrowing in thought. "What now?"
Morgan's gaze turned to Godrick's form. "Now we wait. He needs time to adjust."
Jalter hesitated, then nodded. "And in the meantime?"
Morgan's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "We prepare for whatever comes next."
===Jeanne===
Jeanne's eyes fluttered open, the remnants of a dream still clouding her thoughts. She blinked, her mind struggling to piece together reality as she slowly took in her surroundings. The devastation of the battlefield stretched before her—bloodied earth, shattered weapons, and the remnants of a brutal fight. Bodies lay strewn about of the soldiers the rest have slaughtered, but what caught her attention most was the absence of Godrick.
Mordred, who had been standing nearby, noticed Jeanne stir and quickly motioned for the others. They approached, their expressions a mix of concern and curiosity. As they neared, Artoria, her face hard with the weight of the situation, knelt beside Jeanne and gently took her hand.
"Godrick?" Jeanne's voice was faint, still groggy from whatever dream or vision had overwhelmed her.
Artoria's face softened, but her words were unflinching. "Gone."
A wave of confusion and denial washed over Jeanne. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. "No… I—I just saw him. He was with a woman... and my Alter. They were trying to save him."
Her eyes scanned the battlefield, her gaze moving from the bodies to the horizon beyond. She scrambled to her knees and stood up, still trying to steady herself, as if the ground beneath her feet wasn't quite real. She looked to the others, the Masters and Servants who had fought alongside her. They watched her, unsure of what to do, waiting for her to lead them.
Jeanne's eyes flicked over each of them briefly before settling on the northern horizon, her resolve hardening like steel.
"We press onwards," she said, her voice steady, but there was a hidden weight in it—a burden she couldn't entirely shed.
Mordred's disbelief was immediate. "But what about Godrick?" Her voice was sharp, full of confusion and frustration. Her hands were clenched, and she stepped forward, as if hoping Jeanne would offer some explanation, some sign of hope.
Jeanne didn't answer at first. Her eyes remained fixed on the north, the wind brushing against her face. The tension in the air was thick, and even the others seemed to hesitate, waiting for a sign of direction. But Jeanne stood firm, unwavering.
"You will not abandon my brother!" Mordred's voice cracked with urgency, stepping right into Jeanne's space, practically pressing her face to Jeanne's. There was raw emotion in her eyes—fear, frustration, and a deep, aching need to have her family whole again.
Jeanne turned slowly to meet her gaze, her expression calm but unwavering. She said nothing at first, her words quiet but deliberate when they came.
"I am not abandoning him." Her voice was firm, though tinged with something heavier beneath it. She paused, looking towards the north again, her gaze distant but resolute. "But we have no idea where he is. We can't track him, not yet."
Mordred opened her mouth to protest, but Jeanne's eyes narrowed as she continued, her tone hardening with the knowledge of what Godrick was, what he had always been.
"And if there's anything I know about my Juggernaut," Jeanne continued, her lips curling slightly with grim affection, "it's that he wouldn't die so easily. He will come back, and when he does, the ground will rumble with each step."
Her words were like a promise, a certainty borne from knowing Godrick better than anyone could. Mordred's frustration simmered in the air between them, but the fierce conviction in Jeanne's voice slowly wore down her resistance.
"I trust him," Jeanne said simply, her eyes returning to the north. "We have no choice but to continue. We fight for a reason, for a purpose. And when he returns, we will be ready to stand beside him."
Mordred, though still uncertain, seemed to falter at the weight of Jeanne's words. The fire in her chest burned hot, but it was tempered by the understanding that Jeanne wasn't leading them astray.
She stepped back, her shoulders still tight, but she didn't argue. Instead, she nodded, once, sharply.
The group stood there for a moment, the gravity of the situation settling over them like a cloak. Then, one by one, they turned their gazes northward, ready to follow Jeanne's lead, knowing that their next steps were more important than any lingering grief.
Jeanne's voice cut through the silence, steady and calm. "Forward."
And so, they moved.
===
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