[???????'s Pov]
Every night, I keep having the same dream.
Though, I'm not entirely sure "dream" is the right word for it anymore. Dreams imply fantasy, distortion—things warped by the mind. These aren't like that. These feel too clear, too grounded. They're more like recollections than dreams.
Memories.
Fragments of past events replaying themselves with relentless precision.
They're nothing grand or heroic—nothing that would matter to history. They're from when I was a baby. Barely conscious, barely aware of the world, yet somehow those moments have rooted themselves deep within me.
They are a side effect. A consequence of what I am.
Every century, I am reborn through the blood of my descendants. I don't get to choose when I return or at what stage of life.
Sometimes I awaken as a child, helpless and confused. Other times, I return as a crone, already weathered by years I never truly lived. The body is never mine to choose—only to inhabit.
And with each rebirth comes something far worse than the loss of control.
The memories of the vessel don't disappear.
They merge with me.
Everything they felt—every joy, every fear, every desire, every quiet hope and crushing disappointment—becomes part of my own. I inherit their emotions as if they were mine from the start. There have been moments, countless moments, where I nearly lost myself in that sea of borrowed lives, where the weight of so many identities threatened to drown what little of me remained. Somehow, I always managed to claw my way back.
Somehow.
The memories from my most recent rebirth only span four… maybe five years at most. Compared to the centuries I've lived, they're insignificant. But that doesn't stop them from cutting just as deeply. Sometimes, the shorter the memory, the sharper it hurts.
Every dream—every recollection—begins the same way.
It's night.
I'm a baby, barely able to move, my body heavy and unresponsive, betraying every instinct to act. I cry. Endlessly. I don't know why I'm crying. Hunger? Fear? Loneliness? I don't have the capacity to understand it. I only know that I am crying, and that the sound feels like the only thing I can control.
Then I hear it—grunting, shuffling, the soft scrape of wood against wood.
I turn my head as much as my weak neck allows and look past the bars of my crib. In the dim light, I see another baby. He's only about a year older than me, but even then he feels impossibly bigger. Bright yellow tufts of hair stick out in every direction, and his eyes—wide, innocent, and impossibly blue—shine with mischievous determination.
Arthur.
He climbs his crib like a monkey, all clumsy limbs and reckless confidence. When he reaches the top, he pauses for just a second before sliding down the bars on the other side, landing with a soft thud. He waddles toward me, trying—and failing—to be quiet, his steps exaggerated as if stealth were something he could already master.
He reaches my crib and starts climbing it with his tongue sticking out in concentration, like a man on a mission. After a bit of struggling, he tumbles inside and beams at me with a wide, toothy grin, even though most of his teeth haven't grown in yet.
"Feeling lonely?" he asks.
The words come out slurred and imperfect, his mouth clearly struggling to form them, but I understand him anyway.
He reaches for my pacifier, gently placed back as it had fallen, then offers me his finger to hold. Instinctively, I grab it with my tiny hand. He curls up beside me, awkward and cramped, yet somehow warm. I cling to his finger as if it's an anchor.
"Don't worry, Momo," he whispers softly, his voice barely more than breath. "You're not alone. Your big brother's here."
And somehow… it works.
My cries soften into whimpers, then fade altogether. Wrapped against him, listening to his breathing, I slowly fall asleep. He kisses the top of my head—careful, deliberate—and whispers one last promise.
"You'll never be alone…"
We fall asleep together, pressed against each other.
He lied.
Morning always comes after that.
Our mother stands frozen in disbelief, staring at the crib, asking herself how Arthur once again managed to escape his and crawl into mine. She scolds him gently, exhausted more than angry, while he just smiles proudly as if he's accomplished something great.
It was a sweet memory.
Now… it's bittersweet. Bitter enough to make my stomach churn.
There were many moments like that.
When our parents began to argue—voices raised, words sharp and venomous—Arthur would cover my ears with his hands. He'd sing nonsense songs, nursery rhymes he barely knew, anything to drown out the shouting. His voice would crack and waver, but he never stopped.
When the arguments turned physical, things changed.
He still tried to shield me from the sight of it, but sometimes it was too much. Too loud. Too violent. I was young, but I wasn't blind. I knew what was happening.
Arthur was a stupid child.
Stupid because he always put himself in harm's way. Stupid because he believed his small body could stand between rage and ruin. Stupid because he kept choosing pain if it meant sparing someone else.
He did it to protect us.
To protect our mother.
In one memory, our father is throwing things—plates shattering, furniture crashing. He raises his hand toward our mother, fury etched into every line of his face. Arthur doesn't hesitate. He rushes forward and bites our father's calf with everything he has.
The scream that follows is raw and animalistic.
Arthur pays for it.
He's beaten so badly that he's left bleeding and bruised, our mother sobbing as she clutches him to her chest. His face is swollen, his nose bloodied, tears and red streaking down his cheeks. Yet even then—especially then—he smiles.
Bright. Brave. Unbreakable.
He focuses on comforting her.
"Look at the bright side," he says cheerfully, his voice trembling but determined. "I'm not old enough for school yet, so that means no one's gonna ask questions."
He grins wider.
"I call that a win in my books."
He didn't just protect our mother from the beatings.
He protected me as well.
In fact, I was perhaps the only person in that household who never truly suffered physical abuse—and that wasn't by chance. Arthur made damn sure of it. Every blow that could have landed on me was intercepted by him. Every raised hand, every belt, every outburst of rage—he placed himself between it and me without hesitation. As if pain were a currency he was willing to spend endlessly, so long as I remained untouched.
For the longest time, I didn't understand the cost of that protection.
There came a day when I grew tired of watching Arthur get beaten in my place. Tired of hearing the thud of flesh against flesh, the sharp intake of breath he tried so hard to hide, the muffled sounds of suffering he endured with clenched teeth and stubborn pride. Something in me snapped. Something reckless and desperate rose up, and I decided—foolishly—that it was my turn to protect him.
Before our father could lay his hands on Arthur again, I grabbed the nearest thing I could find and flung it.
A toy.
It struck him in the temple.
The room froze.
Then hell broke loose.
He turned on me with a fury that stole the air from my lungs, storming across the room while yelling incoherently. His hands fumbled at his waist as he yanked his belt from his pants, leather hissing through the loops like a promise. He seized my arm with crushing force. I squeezed my eyes shut, my entire body trembling as I braced myself for what I knew was coming.
For the beating that always followed.
But it never did.
"Father!!"
Arthur's voice rang out, loud and exaggerated, almost theatrical.
We all turned.
Arthur stood there holding a glass cup in his hands. Without hesitation, he smashed it against the ground at his feet. It shattered loudly, shards skittering across the floor.
"Your son demands another beating!!" he declared, spreading his arms wide and closing his eyes dramatically, as if presenting himself to an audience.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Our mother stared in horror. I stared in disbelief. Even our father seemed momentarily stunned, as if his rage had tripped over itself.
"What. Are. You. Doing?" our father asked slowly, teeth clenched so tightly the words sounded forced through a vice.
Arthur cracked one eye open, glanced down at the broken glass, then back up at him. He blinked.
"Was my demand not made clear?" he asked innocently. "Do you want me to get another glass?"
That did it.
"You bastard!" our father snarled, releasing my arm and stomping toward Arthur. "Do you think you can disrespect me in my own house?! Get back here, you little smart-ass!"
Arthur's face lit up.
"Yay!" he cheered. "My favorite game! Run away from the abusive father!"
And with that, he bolted.
Our father chased him through the house, roaring in fury, furniture rattling as doors slammed and footsteps thundered across the floor. I stood there shaking, my arm still aching, watching Arthur disappear down the hallway—laughing, taunting, deliberately keeping our father's attention fixed on him.
He was a good child.
He was a good older brother.
…Until he wasn't.
After I gave my life to him.
After I willingly threw myself in front of a blade meant for him.
He laughed as he watched me bleed out in front of him.
Not the hysterical, broken laughter of someone pushed too far. Not grief. Not despair.
It was mocking.
Cruel.
Evil.
I remember clinging to his feet, my hands slick with blood, my vision blurring as the world tilted and spun. Our father lay dead nearby, his corpse cooling on the floor, the threat finally gone. I cried to Arthur, begged him, sobbed his name like a prayer.
"It hurts," I whimpered. "Art… it hurts… please help me."
"Hahaha!" he laughed. "Of course it hurts, you retard. You were stabbed with a knife."
I stared at him, unable to comprehend the venom in his voice.
"And help you?" he continued, sneering. "Why the bloody hell would I do that? Sounds like a waste of time to me. You already served your use."
His laughter twisted, sharp and ugly.
I tried to hold onto him again, desperate, terrified.
He kicked my hand away.
"And stop clinging to me," he snapped. "God, your pathetic crying is seriously doing my head in."
He stepped down on my hand.
Hard.
I screamed—not just from the pain, but from the confusion. From the disbelief. From the unbearable realization that the brother I loved was standing right there… and yet gone.
"Listen here, Momo," he said, the nickname dripping with mockery now. "I'm not your brother. I never was."
He looked down at me with complete indifference.
"I don't care if you bleed out and die in front of me. In fact, I might summon some popcorn and enjoy the show."
He leaned closer, smiling.
"So go on and croak. You'll be doing us both a favor."
That day…
That day is the one that replays most often whenever I close my eyes.
That was the day I didn't just lose my parents.
That was the day my brother died.
And I was reborn.
I don't know what is wearing his skin now. I don't know what thing walks around with Arthur's face and voice. But I know this much—it isn't the boy who climbed into my crib at night. It isn't the brother who sang to me through screaming walls.
And I want that imposter dead.
As I stared into my crystal ball, scrying upon the scene unfolding at Hogwarts, my resolve hardened like iron.
I would make damn sure of it.
The resentment Le Fay holds for the Pendragons has endured through countless lifetimes.
And it hasn't faded.
It's only grown heavier.
********************************************
+10 advance Chapters and my other patron exclusive content on: patreon.com/Shadow_D_Monarch3