Lena Luthor found herself standing in a dense forest, standing over a young, blonde-haired man dressed in a suit of armor. His skin was pale, his breath weak and ragged, his face beaded with sweat. He was dying. And Lena was happy.

Lena bent down and gave the dying man a cold smile. "Do not worry, dear brother. I won't let you die alone," she reassured him, her voice dripping with imitated concern "I'll stay and watch over you. Until the wolves come and feed on your carcass."

"No."

Lena shot up from the ground as another voice made her presence known: a dark haired man with blue eyes, carrying a sword. "There's enough bloodshed. I blame myself for what you have become," the man stated in a regretful tone "But this has to end."

Lena kept her head held high as she spoke in a proud tone. "I am a High Priestess. No mortal blade can kill me." Lena gasped as the man charged and stabbed the sword through her chest.

"This is no ordinary blade," the man whispered in her ear "like yours, this one was bathed in a dragon's breath."

Lena gasped as he ripped the blade from her chest, her lungs filling with blood as the man gently lowered to the ground.

As death began to take her, Lena heard the man utter a single phrase before surrending her soul to the all-consuming dark abyss. "Goodbye, Morgana."

Lena shot up from her bed with a start, letting out a terrified gasp as she woke from her dream. He heart was racing and her hands were trembling. She'd had that same nightmare ever since she was a little girl, but it had been years since the last time. And this one, it was more real than ever. She swore she could smell the trees in the forest, hear the ground as it crunched under her feet. Feel the blade as it ripped through her heart. With still trembling hands, Lena grabbed the bottle of pills from her bedside table and popped two the contents into her mouth, doubling the prescribed daily douse. Taking a steadying breath, Lena forced herself out of bed and recited the old saying that got through so many troubling days as a child in foster care "There is no Morgana. There is only Lena."

Lena sat alone in her office behind her desk, when a familiar face walked in. "Kara." The young business woman smiled. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to check up on you," the reporter replied in a gentle tone, sitting in front of Lena's desk "How are you holding up?"

"About as well as can be expected," Lena managed, pressing her lips together "being abducted by your mother and her psychotic anti-alien followers isn't typically in your day-to-day." Lena glanced over at the clock on her desk and scowled. "I'm sorry , Kara. I'm late for a board of directors meeting."

"Oh, well ,that's okay. Maybe we can get caught up over lunch?"

"I'd like that," Lena smiled as she rose from her desk. "Thank you, Kara. You're a good friend."

The second those words escaped her lips, Lena was transported. Once in her office, Lena now stood in an elegant medievalesque room, a young man standing in front of her. It was him, the man with the sword. He brought her flowers.

Lena smiled. "You're sweet Emrys. You've always been such a good friend."

The man remained silent, smiling for a moment before tears began to flow down his cheeks, his face morphing into a look of absolute self-loathing. At first Lena didn't understand, until she started struggling to breathe.

"Lena? Are you alright?"

The young Luthor blinked as Kara's voice pulled her out of her hallucination, grateful that this one was only for a few moments. "Fine. Just… didn't get much sleep last night." Lena quickly rose from her desk and hurried out her office, without another word.

An old man with a long white beard stood before a calm lake in the English countryside. In his coat pocket, a plane ticket to Natinal his hand, a copy of CatCo magazine, with Lena Luthor on the cover.

The old man stretched his free hand towards the lake, speaking in an ancient tongue that had not been heard in these lands for centuries, his eyes morphing from a pale blue to a dazzling gold.

An arm leaped out from the once still waters, tossing a strange and ancient object form the lake: A sword with a golden hilt and a razor sharp blade. The old man caught the sword as it flew through the air, hefting the weight of it in his hand. It had been many years since he wielded this blade. The old man looked down at the picture of Lena and scowled. "I'm coming for you, Morgana."