Deep inside the verdant maze of ancient roots, where sunlight didn't like to linger, Morgana the Shadow Weaver knelt upon the whispering forest floor. Moss crept over her weathered boots like grasping, skeletal fingers, mirroring the tendrils of fear that wove through the fabric of her being. A shimmering cloak; she shrouded herself in the darkness of stolen moonbeams: the unhealthy glitter of it seemed as the first light of morning ventured to pierce the heavy canopy. Untold eons spoke for her, a chilling refrain within the wind-blown fireside tales: harbinger of nightmares that coiled about slumbering souls, and embodiment of despair clinging there to every flicker of the candle's fringe. But in the frozen reaches of her arctic heart, one bud, as fragile as it was single, had had the temerity to unfurl-a shiver of doubt, a flicker of something like regret.

It had grown from a seed as unexpected as that one-an act of mercy, as alien to her as light was to a tomb. A tear-stained little girl stumbled into the belly of Morgana's secret sanctuary, crying there in the mangled torso of the haunted woods. Morgana watched her from the shadows, her heart the site of a long battle between the old comfort of cruelty and a flicker of something long dormant.

"Why do you weep, child?" Morgana's voice, usually a chill caress, was rough with disuse.

She winced, the tear-streaked face tilting towards the voice. "Lost," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper over rustling leaves. "And scared."

Shadow creep out toward the girl, its caress promising oblivion. But Morgana held it back, her silent struggle within. "Lost, are you?" she rasped, her shadows reproachful around her. "And what brings you to my domain, little one?

The girl sniffled, her eyes reluctant. "I was running," she confessed and her voice barely came to her lips. "From them. They said you were a monster, but you don't seem like one."

The shadows receded, their symphony of darkness in disarray. Morgana, for the first time in centuries, felt the sting of their disapproval. "A monster, they say?" she sneered, her voice humourless, an involuntary laugh bursting from her lips. "Perhaps I am, child. But tell me, what is it that makes a monster?"

The girl looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. "Someone who hurts others," she said simply. "Someone who enjoys their pain."

Morgana watched her, and the truth of what the girl had said burned like a branding iron into her soul. She had reveled in pain, inflictive and endured, so very long that it felt like her essence. But in the girl's gaze, she did not find fear but a flicker of understanding, a reflection of the monster she could choose not to be.

"And what of those who choose to stop hurting?" she asked, her voice softer than it had been in ages.

A light of hope sparked up in the girl's eyes. "They can change," she said, and her voice gained strength. "They can be good."

And the shadows writhed, their whispers sharp now with venom. But Morgana stood firm; she felt the girl's words resonate within her like a forgotten air. With a sigh that echoed through the haunted woods, she knelt before the girl.

"Then let us see if this monster can be good," she said, her voice tinged now with a resolve she didn't know she possessed. "Come, child. I will guide you out of the darkness."

In that brief moment, between the din of darkness resounding within her, a jarring note was permitted. It could have been the real weakness etched on the girl's face or the reverberation of a long-lost dream hidden under the thick layers of bitterness. Whoever it was, Morgana found herself straying from the script: her hand not to snuff out the fledgling light of the child's life but to lead her away from the encroaching night.

The memory clung to her now, a glowing ember amidst the ashes of her evil deeds. It cast an unsettling warmth upon the icy plains of her soul, a discordant melody that refused to be silenced. And yet with the first caressing rays of the dawn kissing, half-cautious, the floor of the forest, and painting the moss with shades of hesitant hope, Morgana began to consider the impossible – a day when the reach of shadow might retreat from clutching deep, when a thin thread of light, however tentative, might dare pierce at the heart of the Shadow Weaver.

Out of the woods Morgana led the child and began to make her way into the Whispering Glade. Legends spoke of this mystical haven, where the creaking of one's greatest passion resounded within the ancient trees. Yet danger pulsed along the path. The towering trees bore mysterious runes etched upon their bark, the glowing embers of their eyes burning into her soul as if protectors. Laced with malice, whispering vines encircled her ankles that undulated in mouthwatering whispers of oblivion. Yet Morgana pushed on, her face tear-stained yet defiant against the darkness.

She stepped into the heart of the glade, a clearing bathed in an unearthly silver light that seemed to emanate from the air itself. In the middle, a behemoth of an oak stood resolute, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky. Stripped bare to the grain, the bark, weathered through centuries, showed carved into its deep skin the swirling symbols that pulsed, dripping with unseen force and seeming to call to Morgana like a moth to flame. As she reached up to touch them, whispers washed over her in waves, the disembodied voices of forgotten souls echoing tales of regret and redemption; their mutterings swirled around her, like fallen leaves.

The oak spoke. It was a chorus of leaves rustling and wind sighing, resonated in the glade. "Shadow Weaver," it boomed, its ancient tones stirring the air itself. "Once, your heart was a mirror to the abyss, reflecting only the cold emptiness within. But now, a flicker of light struggles to break free. What is it that you yearn for?"

Morgana's voice, rough from disuse, caught in her throat. "I." she rasped, the words tumbling out like pebbles fallen from a streambed. "I want to be free," she said. "To break forth from the shadows, from the chains of the malevolence that enfangles me."

The oak hummed, a vibration low but resonating deep within Morgana's bones. The whispers around her swirled, a cacophony of comfort and warning. "Remember, Shadow Weaver," the oak's voice echoed, "the road to redemption is replete with dangers, stones sharp as knives and the journey eternal. Are you prepared to bleed, to sacrifice whatever you cherish most in quest of the light?"

There was only the rustle of leaves, and the pounding in her chest for Morgana to hear, with silence laid like a shroud across the clearing. The oak's words weighed upon her, the choice stark and unforgiving. Yet, as she looked up at that gleam of moonlight casting its moonlight sliver between ancient branches, a new resolution smoothed over within her. The road ahead would be treacherous, but promise of freedom burned too brightly to deny. Her eyes had a set glint as she met the oak's stare. "I am," she whispered, voice laced with unwavering conviction. "I am ready to bleed."

Then listen. You must unravel the strands of darkness you have woven. Seek out those you have wronged, repair the broken bridges, and let your light shine upon them, however faint."

And with the first blush of early morning creeping across the horizon, tinting the sky rose and gold, Morgana emerged from the glade. The weight of her past still threatened to pull her down: a cloak of shadows clinging to her soul. But with each hesitant step forward, something inside of her began to bloom-a lightness she had not known in centuries. The road ahead was long and arduous. End. But for the first time, she walked not under the suffocating arms of darkness but toward beckoning light, her steps guided by the memory of a girl's tearstained face, shining like a beacon of hope in the world that had been lost to despair.

Thus began the hard pilgrimage of Morgana, the once-feared Shadow Weaver. Though the tendrils of darkness still whispered promises of oblivion in her ear, she now had a new melody playing within her heart: a fragile song of hope that dared dream of a dawn she had long thought unimaginable. The path of redemption paved with trials and tribulations, but every whisper, each bridge rebuilt, every shard of darkness banished, growing stronger, proof to the strength of the human spirit, a covenant to the power of redemption, even for those who had strayed furthest into the shadows.




WORD COUNT: 1464 Words
WRITTEN FOR: "The Midnight Traveler's Contest" 
PROMPT:
Write about a dark character:

What's their story?
What draws them toward the dark side?
Do they get better or worse?