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When she stumbled, wild-eyed out of the woods, into the gloaming and within sight of Arthur gasping aloud her name, though despite all outward appearances, Morgana knew she had changed, had deep down altered and been altered in the very pit of her soul by a flask of poison hemlock, by his manservant whom she had once called ‘friend’ and who was now her enemy, the one who had held her trembling body close as he murdered her in his cowardice, a martyr’s contemplative inwardness upon his brow as he did so—and then, the reshaping, the reconfiguring of her splintered self, the amalgamation into something shattered but somehow whole by her dear sister, that last to call her by name as she whisked them away from Camelot, to hunker down someplace safe, somewhere Uther’s men would never find them (unless they wished it so) so that she could heal her with her craft, never forgetting in that year to name her importance in their mission ahead of overthrowing the mad king, Arthur’s father…her guardian, so that Morgause’s words became planted into Morgana’s malleable mind as if she had been the one to voice them in the first place and repeat them back to her she did—how strange it was that once she would have delighted to see him again in those woods, grateful for the rescue, for the way he tore off his cloak and awash her in its crimson folds, for the manner in which he hoisted her up in his strong arms to ride alongside him the long distance back to Camelot.
Once.
Now though, she suffered a restlessness in his arms, remembering all the ways he had discounted who she truly was deep down in the pit of her soul, where the magic flowed out through her veins, to alight in her wary eyes, and the pain was rife again when she thought of all the times she wasted away languishing in the night, witnessing his death—if it was to come, it would come, so be it, she now resolved—and all but declaring him the truth of her witch-gift in order to shelter him for at least another day, not that he had ever, ever listened.
Until the anguish dulled, replaced with a fonder love, and memories of Morgause teaching her the nameless art in their secret grove, whereby she recalled what it was like to be loved as her father had once loved her in life for who she was deep down in the pit of her soul, ugliness, vengefulness and all, accepted and cared for by the sister she always longed for, but never knew she had—finally out from under the cold shadow of her guardian, she could know what it meant to be loved once again.
It was strange as they rode up to the castle gates; though Uther had used and abused her throughout her time under his ‘care,’ Arthur had spoken earnestly of the excursions he had led on his command to find her and bring her home, this place as it rose up toward her with its sunlit spires, proud in its glory, and its promise of gallantry, justice even, had been more prison than home to her, as she witnessed hundreds die upon its courtyard square from the comforts of her room above all the while shielding her eyes (though their screams remained imprinted upon her ears, forever echoing in her very nightmares) for the sole crime of being different, of being unusually gifted like her.
And yet, still, though a girl she was no longer, returned now a woman to trespass these very halls, this time with the irrevocable intent of treason, still, Morgana felt possessive of this place, this broken home and all the ones she used to know and love living still within it, as if untouched by the year she had been gone, and, unable to let go, she vowed it would be she who brought the great citadel of Camelot down, its walls tumbling down if it came to it, so that the old ways could be at last restored, promising shelter and freedom to those like she and her sister, to whom her loyalties now lied, and for whom her heart beat fiercely.
It had been Morgause, after all, to teach her, at the last, that magic, her magic, was not the curse she had grown up to revile and fear, but a gift she possessed that made her, finally, after all the years spent living in darkness, hollowed out by the grief of her dead father and the imposing presence of the much alive King Uther, her own person and a witch at that.