[Fic] Jewelled Bravery - for miakun
Title: Jewelled Bravery
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: miakun
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Mordred/Morgana
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Up until the trailer for 2x11.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,100
Summary: Morgana leaves to join the druid camps once more.
Author's Note: Beta'd by the lovely 'I', but all remaining mistakes are my own entirely. This is most likely going to be entirely jossed by this week's episode, so we're going to have to call it a pre-emptive what-if AU.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
The woman stands motionless at the edge of a great lake. Waves lap around her feet, but she does not look down. Beside her, a golden boat bobs, tugged in all directions by the wind, though the woman's dress and hair are still, as if around her the very air dare not move.
About her waist is fastened a rusted scabbard, empty of the sword that is meant to fill it. Her hand rests lightly upon the sheath, fingers tapping out a rhythm to some faraway tune. It will not be empty for long.
In the distance, she can see figures approaching and only then does something like doubt cross her face. She watches with full eyes as a weary funeral procession winds its way to her, staggering over the rocky path.
It is not over, she thinks to herself, whatever it is that has ended now.
***
Summer in the castle had never been the easiest, each room growing stuffy in the day, even the shade seeming as warm as standing in the centre of the courtyard outside. It was a wonder that anyone could sleep in the intense heat, and for Morgana, who had not slept for more than a few nights at a time for months, it had grown more unbearable by the day.
Morgana's toes curled in the sheets, her head resting listlessly against the wooden bedframe. Knees tucked against her chest, she stared with shadowed eyes at the sunrise and tried not to listen to the whispering in her head.
Stretching, she slid back beneath the light bedcovers and closed her eyes, counting silently until Gwen's familiar footsteps sounded outside her door.
***
Morgana twisted, tangled in her nightdress, her head filled with fire, the smell of scorched flesh curling, choking around her. She opened her mouth to scream, but could not hear herself over the crackling flames. Hands reached for her and she scrambled towards them, towards pleading, dying voices.
Help us, they called to her, and she tried to call back. Sparks licked at her fingers, but she ignored them, trying to catch hold of the outstretched arms.
"I'm trying," she told them, desperately, "I'm trying."
Fingers met fingers, but she could not hold them. She could feel her flesh burning and she screamed, in pain, in frustration. "I'm trying."
"It's all right, Morgana," said a voice close behind her. Her head whipped round to meet bright blue eyes.
"They're-" she began, but a small hand pressed against her face.
"They're nothing to worry about," said Mordred. Morgana's breath sounded loud in her ears and she realised that the flames had disappeared.
"I can still smell burning," she said.
"It's gone," Mordred told her.
"But it will come back."
The young boy is silent for a moment. "Yes, Morgana," he said at last, "it will have to sometime."
Morgana rocked back on her heels and pushed her hair from her forehead. Distantly, she noticed that her arm was still black with soot.
"Are you really here?" she asked after a moment. "I suppose you're not. It's only a dream, isn't it?"
She didn't look up to meet his eyes again, knowing the answers were to be found there. "I don't want to know, not yet," she whispered.
"Why didn't you stay?" Mordred asked. Morgana could feel him now, the coolness of his body soothing the afterimage of fire from her face.
"I couldn't," she said, "Merlin... I mean, I had to-"
"Come back," said Mordred, taking her face in his hands. Morgana smiled at him sadly.
"I will," she promised, and knew that it wasn't a lie. "Sometime."
"My lady?"
Morgana started as the world disappeared, taking the druid child with it. She found herself wrapped in familiar arms, and with a shaking sob flung her own around Gwen.
"I have to go, Gwen," she whispered into her hair. With every tear that fell, the embrace grew tighter around her. And even when Morgana began to feel sleep returning to claim her once more, she could feel Gwen's face pressed against her neck as the world darkened around her.
***
The night was warm, but Morgana pulled her cloak closer around herself as she hurried out of the castle. A long sword swung heavy against her legs and she cursed herself for choosing it over any number of smaller weapons. Darting into shadow, she crouched, willing herself to be as still as possible as the heavy footsteps of a patrolling knight passed by. She did not have long, she knew that, but she forced herself to be patient.
It seemed like minutes passed before the knight had disappeared around the corner, but rationally, it could only have been seconds. Morgana sprang silently from her hiding place and padded as quickly as she could down the alley, following Camelot's walls towards the outside. Her path glowed silver in her mind, with every footstep she made, she could feel something that felt like purpose spurring her on. Only the breath of a pause when she reached the boundary and Morgana continued, heedless of the jagged stones catching at her clothing, or the smell arising from the sodden ground.
She could barely see where she was going, but she hurried on regardless. Reaching the forest, she halted a second, heart racing. Her mind filled with images, memories of monsters and she cast a look over her shoulder, back in the direction she had come. She could make out the faint image of Camelot, her imagination filling in the details lost to her. For one moment, it seemed as if the walls glowed with a brilliant, pale light, as if the moon had entered the heart of the castle itself. Morgana bit her lip and closed her eyes.
She did not open them again until she had turned back to the forest and taken her first step beyond the treeline.
Behind her, Camelot slept.
The forest shadows frightened Morgana, curling around her heart, invading her lungs with icy, brittle fingers. She stepped carefully, conscious of every noise her feet made, but did not know how to make them stop doing so. Leaves and branches brushed against her face, but she barely noticed them.
She tried not to imagine the look on Gwen's face when she found her room empty in the morning, tried not to hear Uther's roar of despair.
Of Arthur, she could not bring herself to think at all.
A fallen tree trunk and a moss-covered boulder sheltered the king's ward when her aching body finally insisted on rest, sometime soon after the dawn broke, turning the forest into a grey, ethereal place. Every limb burning, Morgana sank into the shadows, scrambling bloodied fingers into her bag to scrape whatever little sustenance she had left behind. She stared at her hands with awe, taking in the deep bramble scratches and her sore, torn fingernails; trepidation fluttered at the edges of her mind. With a shake of her head, Morgana tipped a little water over them, scrubbed them against her skirts, cleaning them as best she could with none of Gaius' ointments to ward off infection. She would find the druids soon, she was sure of that, and then she would worry about her ills.
Her skirts tangled in the muddy ground, water seeping up her legs, but Morgana did not notice. Her eyes were closed, and with her smooth, dirty cheek pressed against cold stone, she fell into sleep.
It was not long before she became aware of presences around her, of gentle whispering voices and harsh scratchings of what could not possibly be human speech. She darted upright in an instant, wide awake and clutching at her sword. Her makeshift shelter was empty, and she peered out around her, breath ragged in her throat.
"Who's there?" she called, with every morsel of royal self-righteousness she could muster. "I demand you show yourself."
Easy, Morgana came a voice in her head, and she twisted, searching the grey woods. Nothing. The whispers faded to the whistles of the wind in the leaves, but Morgana knew that she was not alone.
Slowly, watchfully, she got to her feet, her dress heavy with mud, swinging against her legs. Clutching the sword with both hands, she edged her way around the tree trunk, her back pressed against the rock. "Show yourself!"
Somehow, she thought, as a familiar shape stepped from between nowhere she could see, I knew it would be you.
Mordred smiled at her and held out his pale hand.
"Come with me," he said gently. This time, Morgana did not hesitate to let him lead her away. It did not disconcert her that she did not know where she was or where she was going, only her lack of care sent a brief chill through her spirit.
"How did you find me?" she asked, as they made their way through denser and denser foliage. If the sun was up, they were barely able to know it and Morgana marvelled at the way her guide navigated, surefooted like the deer, around outstretched branches and ancient roots that sent her own feet flying and bruised her shoulders as she brushed by. Mordred's hand was icy in her grip, but soft, and he smiled her when she spoke.
"I can always find you," he told her, "I know how to look."
"I suppose that's all I'm getting, is it?"
Mordred laughed then, and Morgana could not help but let a small answering grin cross her face. She tightened her hold on the young boy's hand. "It is all I need for now," she promised.
***
A small part of her mind had thought that once she was ensconced in the druids' camp that the nightmares would no longer come. They had not come for a week now, for she had not dreamed at all. Her life had been a whirlwind of faces and names, tall fires that swirled long into the night and the melodious rise and fall of stories that she had not heard since she had been a child. When she slept on those first nights, she slept in a blissful dreamless state and awakened each morning renewed. Mordred came to her when she woke, brought her food, tea and stories of the people who drifted in and out of the camp, giving each face a history, teaching her the hearts of people whose names she could not yet remember. They passed their mornings in quiet conversation, as the camp unfolded around them.
At precisely noon, the camp would gather together, its numbers swelling and shrinking daily. Lunch would be served by fresh hands each day, and afterwards cleaned away by another set. Morgana's turn fell four days into her stay and, though she had never done a day's work before, she fell on it with gusto, and took the teasing of the men and women around her in her stride. They corrected her mistakes with gentle gibes and did not seem to mind that her cleaning made more mess than there was to begin with.
Slowly, she began to learn their names, Eluned, Hefeydd, Olwen, Culhwch, Niniane...; every time they sat together, she'd recite the names to Mordred under her breath and he hinted and cajoled her until she could pick each one out herself. The first time she managed, she cheered her own small victory and went to bed with a smile on her lips.
It was on the seventh day that she woke again, screaming.
Flashes of images dancing behind flame, swords, ships, a thousand soldiers streaming blood upon battlements almost too tumbled for her to recognise. A woman, back turned, running her hands over a battered shield, her own silks torn and filthy. A cave of moving shadow and ancient screams. A king, kneeling in the mud of a riverbank, alone. And Mordred, in bright armour, his face twisted into a terrible scream, holding a sword high above his head.
"Will it happen?" Morgana demanded, pictures still vivid in her mind, when one of the women drew back the curtains and reached her. Hands went to stroke her head, but she knocked them away. "Will it happen?"
"I cannot tell," said the woman. "I am no seer, my lady."
The colours were fading in her head, and Morgana could not quite recall the details that had been there. She stared at the woman with piercing eyes. "But you did see."
"Only because you did, Morgana," she told her, "You must learn to close your mind, or who knows what person might take control of your dreams?"
She reached her hands to Morgana's head once more, smoothing down her tangled hair and, softly, began to sing. Morgana fancied that she could hear the trees creaking closer in to hear her voice. The curtains twitched again, but Morgana was only dimly aware of the movement, or the warm presence that curled at her side, as she slipped once more into a dreamless sleep.
Only when she was sure that Morgana was asleep, did Olwen cease her song. She pulled a blanket over the young woman and laid a worn hand on the face of the boy who had stolen in to sleep beside her.
"You cannot protect her, Mordred," she whispered, "you are neither of you yet prepared for what is to come."
The boy's eyes opened and Olwen shuddered, cold suddenly in the warm summer night. "The future does not control us," Mordred said quietly, "it is for us to take."
He settled once more, Olwen stepped gently from Morgana's tents. The wind picked up, whipping her hair about her face.
"We shall see," she whispered to nobody in particular and made her way back to her own bed.
***
It was the morning after the nightmare that Hefeydd came to her. The eldest of the druids, or so he looked, his hair white with age, his skin lined and sagging. It was his smile that warmed Morgana to him in an instant, a wide, honest smile of a man who had lived too long to bear ill will towards the world.
"What do you know of us, Morgana?" he asked her, when Mordred, her constant shadow, left them alone for a moment. "You have lived here a week with us, tell me what you have learned."
Morgana's mouth was dry, but his kind face soothed her. "I have heard a hundred stories," she confided, "and I do not have the time to tell you them all. I do not even know if all of them are true."
"Mordred does not always care for the truth," Hefeydd agreed, conspiratorially. He leaned in, beckoning for Morgana to do the same. "He would much rather the story."
"I can't say as I blame him," Morgana said, wistfully. "The truth is rarely easier to hear."
"Or to see, Morgana?"
"That is the hardest thing of all," she admitted. Herefydd covered her hand with his own, patting his large, weathered palm against her skin. "If it is the truth," she said.
"You know it is," Mordred had reentered and was gazing on the scene with interest sparking in his eyes.
"It is a truth," Herefydd allowed; his brows had knitted into a frown and he waved Mordred to sit next to Morgana. "You do not know yet the difference."
"There is no difference," Mordred insisted sharply. Herefydd shook his head.
"The acorn does not know what kind of oak will grow, just because it knows it will grow into an oak. It cannot tell what ravages man, animal or even the weather will have upon its branches. So it is with prophecy."
Mordred snorted.
"Aglain began your path," Herefydd said, rocking back on his heels, "now I can help him to finish it." He stood and held out his hands to his young wards, "it is time for your lessons."
***
Seasons passed and years passed and the skin on Morgana's hands grew rough with steady work. Every so often, news would drift from Camelot that an army was coming to them, and the camp would move, but after a year, two, three, these reports grew fewer and further between, until the time came that they stopped coming altogether. Morgana sometimes wondered if she had been forgotten, but in her heart she knew that it was not true. She missed great feasts and tourneys when the wind howled through the trees and she imagined falling asleep wrapped in silk and soft linen when the rains came. On the coldest nights, she would conjure the image of Gwen into her mind, sometimes Arthur, even Uther from time to time, and wondered what fates had befallen them. She tried not to think about the possibility that she already knew.
Every day, she took instruction from Herefydd, or Olwen, or any one of the dozen elder druids who passed their way. They talked of the land and told tales of the spirits who danced in the trees, who lived in the lakes and sang to those who passed by. They taught her how to tell what was good to eat and what would cure a headache or a heartache; how to hunt and how to heal. Though she still woke with nightmares, they helped her to remember and interpret what she saw, to record it all and sift through for what the ancient powers were trying to tell her. Every month, one of the nomadic druids took her to the lake, and there they would sit from sunrise to sunset, scratching runes and sigils in the dust and ask each other questions of what would be and what had always been. It was he that took her deep into the forest one day, tracing lines upon her arms, legs, breasts, and watched as she marked herself with the five lines that meant the most to her.
The druids told her stories of witches and wizards who transformed themselves into animals and ran through the forests disguised in packs of their adopted brethren. It was the tales of those who flew with the birds that Morgana loved the most; she spent long hours gazing at the sky and imagining the prickling of feathers upon her arms.
As she grew, as her understanding and her power grew, so too did Mordred's. Morgana watched over him as he began to learn the depths of his self and saw with her own eyes the increasing deference with which he was treated. It did not frighten her, nothing about him frightened her. When he stormed in anger and the sky grew black above them, they would send for her, and she would settle him with soft words when he needed to be understood and sharp ones when he needed to be challenged.
It was only when he began to leave, for days and weeks at a time, that she began to worry. He would not tell her where he had gone and when she tried to follow, she found her way blocked by trees that she knew could not have grown there.
"How's Camelot these days?" she asked, after the sixth time Mordred had disappeared from the camp. He had arrived back with bruises on his face and arms that could only have come from sparring with the blunted weapons of the royal training grounds. The boy - young man - did not meet her eyes when he responded, and she could feel the deceit rolling off him in waves.
"Why would I go there?" Mordred demanded, "and risk my life?"
Morgana looked at him with cool eyes, as she sat sharpening her own old sword. "Don't think because I don't know why things are that I don't know what they are," she told him. "Don't lie to me, Mordred."
He left and she watched him go, not at all surprised when thunder rolled above them.
***
When Herefydd died, the month after Mordred came of age, the the power balance of the camp shifted almost overnight. Morgana could feel it humming in her veins. She organised the funeral, welcomed the travellers who came to pay their respects and found that she was consulted on every matter that concerned the maintenance of the wellbeing of the circle. Olwen still sat down with her every day, though her hands were growing ever more stiff, finding the preparation of poultices and potions wearing on her aging fingers. Morgana went to the lake alone now, creating images of the future from symbols that were as lifelike as any dream.
Mordred found her there one evening, idly scratching in the dust, her feet dangled in the water.
"You've been away a while," she said, not looking up at him. The sunset lent the water a brilliant colour, Morgana was staring at it like it was the first sunset she had ever seen.
"I'm back now," he replied, "I had to-"
"Don't," Morgana said, her voice tired. "I neither need nor want to hear it."
She turned to him and beckoned him to sit down beside her.
"I don't mean to keep secrets, Morgana," Mordred began. Morgana raised an eyebrow.
"If you didn't mean to, you wouldn't try to," she said firmly. "I am tired of lies and surely you know by now that I do not want to be protected?"
Mordred nodded slowly. "Perhaps," he said, "it is not you that I am protecting."
The seer looked at him, her eyes glittering gold with the last of the sun's rays falling upon them.
"I went to the court of King Arthur," Mordred confessed, "Uther is dead and Arthur is king. It was supposed to be better now and it is not. I have to-"
Morgana lifted a hand and stroked his face, a sad smile forming on her lips. "I know," she said quietly, interrupting, "I think I have known it since the nightmares began, when I was still a king's ward."
"There's going to be a battle," Mordred whispered and she could feel hot tears spilling down his cheeks; she kissed his eyes and let her own tears mingle with his. "I don't want to hurt him."
"We won't," she promised. "It's going to be all right. We are going to change the future, you and I."
His lips met hers then, and Morgana pulled him down towards her on the edge of the lake. Strong hands made short work of her dress and Mordred's hands traced over her body almost reverentially.
"I knew you would be beautiful," he said and Morgana laughed, pulling him into another kiss.
"I don't want to be worshipped either," she said as they broke apart. His hand traced circles over her breasts, over the ancient marks inscribed there, and she shivered. Lips followed fingers and Morgana closed her eyes, letting the sensations of Mordred's movements and his power wash over her. She shifted slightly, his voice whispering in her ear, and knew that he could feel it too.
Limbs entwined, they fell asleep only as the dawn broke over the forest.
***
Three bedraggled figures stumble down a path not built for human feet, every step causing fresh winces and exclamations of pain. The third of the figures is all but carried between the other two, his blood flowing freely from a number of wounds bandaged not quite enough to stop the flow. Their armour is bent, scratched and their faces all bear the marks of those who have just seen their lives ripped apart, even though their bodies are whole. Valiantly, they continue their journey, not knowing why they are going, but only that they must get there.
The most severely wounded of the three stops them, before they reach the bank of the great lake, one hand raised in a feeble imitation of a royal signal. He is staring at a woman who stands beside a boat, a face familiar to him as his own, though he has not seen it in many years.
"You have come to take me away," he calls to her, his voice harsh with fatigue and pain, but softened with years of buried history. The woman steps from the lake then, walks directly to the three men.
"I have come to take him home," she says to his companions, "your journey has finished."
Any protest from the wounded knight's companions is silenced with a look. The wounded knight steps forward on his own, shaking legs and lets the woman catch him.
"Where are we going?" he asks, as she leads him gently towards the golden boat.
"Into the future," comes her reply. "It is all we have left."
The men left behind can do nothing but watch the boat move away, no wind filling its sails, no oar propelling it onwards. One crosses himself as he watches, the other merely wipes the back of his hand across his eyes.
"It is done," says one, gruffly.
Together, they begin the long walk back up the hill towards the battlefield.
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: miakun
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Mordred/Morgana
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Up until the trailer for 2x11.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,100
Summary: Morgana leaves to join the druid camps once more.
Author's Note: Beta'd by the lovely 'I', but all remaining mistakes are my own entirely. This is most likely going to be entirely jossed by this week's episode, so we're going to have to call it a pre-emptive what-if AU.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
The woman stands motionless at the edge of a great lake. Waves lap around her feet, but she does not look down. Beside her, a golden boat bobs, tugged in all directions by the wind, though the woman's dress and hair are still, as if around her the very air dare not move.
About her waist is fastened a rusted scabbard, empty of the sword that is meant to fill it. Her hand rests lightly upon the sheath, fingers tapping out a rhythm to some faraway tune. It will not be empty for long.
In the distance, she can see figures approaching and only then does something like doubt cross her face. She watches with full eyes as a weary funeral procession winds its way to her, staggering over the rocky path.
It is not over, she thinks to herself, whatever it is that has ended now.
***
Summer in the castle had never been the easiest, each room growing stuffy in the day, even the shade seeming as warm as standing in the centre of the courtyard outside. It was a wonder that anyone could sleep in the intense heat, and for Morgana, who had not slept for more than a few nights at a time for months, it had grown more unbearable by the day.
Morgana's toes curled in the sheets, her head resting listlessly against the wooden bedframe. Knees tucked against her chest, she stared with shadowed eyes at the sunrise and tried not to listen to the whispering in her head.
Stretching, she slid back beneath the light bedcovers and closed her eyes, counting silently until Gwen's familiar footsteps sounded outside her door.
***
Morgana twisted, tangled in her nightdress, her head filled with fire, the smell of scorched flesh curling, choking around her. She opened her mouth to scream, but could not hear herself over the crackling flames. Hands reached for her and she scrambled towards them, towards pleading, dying voices.
Help us, they called to her, and she tried to call back. Sparks licked at her fingers, but she ignored them, trying to catch hold of the outstretched arms.
"I'm trying," she told them, desperately, "I'm trying."
Fingers met fingers, but she could not hold them. She could feel her flesh burning and she screamed, in pain, in frustration. "I'm trying."
"It's all right, Morgana," said a voice close behind her. Her head whipped round to meet bright blue eyes.
"They're-" she began, but a small hand pressed against her face.
"They're nothing to worry about," said Mordred. Morgana's breath sounded loud in her ears and she realised that the flames had disappeared.
"I can still smell burning," she said.
"It's gone," Mordred told her.
"But it will come back."
The young boy is silent for a moment. "Yes, Morgana," he said at last, "it will have to sometime."
Morgana rocked back on her heels and pushed her hair from her forehead. Distantly, she noticed that her arm was still black with soot.
"Are you really here?" she asked after a moment. "I suppose you're not. It's only a dream, isn't it?"
She didn't look up to meet his eyes again, knowing the answers were to be found there. "I don't want to know, not yet," she whispered.
"Why didn't you stay?" Mordred asked. Morgana could feel him now, the coolness of his body soothing the afterimage of fire from her face.
"I couldn't," she said, "Merlin... I mean, I had to-"
"Come back," said Mordred, taking her face in his hands. Morgana smiled at him sadly.
"I will," she promised, and knew that it wasn't a lie. "Sometime."
"My lady?"
Morgana started as the world disappeared, taking the druid child with it. She found herself wrapped in familiar arms, and with a shaking sob flung her own around Gwen.
"I have to go, Gwen," she whispered into her hair. With every tear that fell, the embrace grew tighter around her. And even when Morgana began to feel sleep returning to claim her once more, she could feel Gwen's face pressed against her neck as the world darkened around her.
***
The night was warm, but Morgana pulled her cloak closer around herself as she hurried out of the castle. A long sword swung heavy against her legs and she cursed herself for choosing it over any number of smaller weapons. Darting into shadow, she crouched, willing herself to be as still as possible as the heavy footsteps of a patrolling knight passed by. She did not have long, she knew that, but she forced herself to be patient.
It seemed like minutes passed before the knight had disappeared around the corner, but rationally, it could only have been seconds. Morgana sprang silently from her hiding place and padded as quickly as she could down the alley, following Camelot's walls towards the outside. Her path glowed silver in her mind, with every footstep she made, she could feel something that felt like purpose spurring her on. Only the breath of a pause when she reached the boundary and Morgana continued, heedless of the jagged stones catching at her clothing, or the smell arising from the sodden ground.
She could barely see where she was going, but she hurried on regardless. Reaching the forest, she halted a second, heart racing. Her mind filled with images, memories of monsters and she cast a look over her shoulder, back in the direction she had come. She could make out the faint image of Camelot, her imagination filling in the details lost to her. For one moment, it seemed as if the walls glowed with a brilliant, pale light, as if the moon had entered the heart of the castle itself. Morgana bit her lip and closed her eyes.
She did not open them again until she had turned back to the forest and taken her first step beyond the treeline.
Behind her, Camelot slept.
The forest shadows frightened Morgana, curling around her heart, invading her lungs with icy, brittle fingers. She stepped carefully, conscious of every noise her feet made, but did not know how to make them stop doing so. Leaves and branches brushed against her face, but she barely noticed them.
She tried not to imagine the look on Gwen's face when she found her room empty in the morning, tried not to hear Uther's roar of despair.
Of Arthur, she could not bring herself to think at all.
A fallen tree trunk and a moss-covered boulder sheltered the king's ward when her aching body finally insisted on rest, sometime soon after the dawn broke, turning the forest into a grey, ethereal place. Every limb burning, Morgana sank into the shadows, scrambling bloodied fingers into her bag to scrape whatever little sustenance she had left behind. She stared at her hands with awe, taking in the deep bramble scratches and her sore, torn fingernails; trepidation fluttered at the edges of her mind. With a shake of her head, Morgana tipped a little water over them, scrubbed them against her skirts, cleaning them as best she could with none of Gaius' ointments to ward off infection. She would find the druids soon, she was sure of that, and then she would worry about her ills.
Her skirts tangled in the muddy ground, water seeping up her legs, but Morgana did not notice. Her eyes were closed, and with her smooth, dirty cheek pressed against cold stone, she fell into sleep.
It was not long before she became aware of presences around her, of gentle whispering voices and harsh scratchings of what could not possibly be human speech. She darted upright in an instant, wide awake and clutching at her sword. Her makeshift shelter was empty, and she peered out around her, breath ragged in her throat.
"Who's there?" she called, with every morsel of royal self-righteousness she could muster. "I demand you show yourself."
Easy, Morgana came a voice in her head, and she twisted, searching the grey woods. Nothing. The whispers faded to the whistles of the wind in the leaves, but Morgana knew that she was not alone.
Slowly, watchfully, she got to her feet, her dress heavy with mud, swinging against her legs. Clutching the sword with both hands, she edged her way around the tree trunk, her back pressed against the rock. "Show yourself!"
Somehow, she thought, as a familiar shape stepped from between nowhere she could see, I knew it would be you.
Mordred smiled at her and held out his pale hand.
"Come with me," he said gently. This time, Morgana did not hesitate to let him lead her away. It did not disconcert her that she did not know where she was or where she was going, only her lack of care sent a brief chill through her spirit.
"How did you find me?" she asked, as they made their way through denser and denser foliage. If the sun was up, they were barely able to know it and Morgana marvelled at the way her guide navigated, surefooted like the deer, around outstretched branches and ancient roots that sent her own feet flying and bruised her shoulders as she brushed by. Mordred's hand was icy in her grip, but soft, and he smiled her when she spoke.
"I can always find you," he told her, "I know how to look."
"I suppose that's all I'm getting, is it?"
Mordred laughed then, and Morgana could not help but let a small answering grin cross her face. She tightened her hold on the young boy's hand. "It is all I need for now," she promised.
***
A small part of her mind had thought that once she was ensconced in the druids' camp that the nightmares would no longer come. They had not come for a week now, for she had not dreamed at all. Her life had been a whirlwind of faces and names, tall fires that swirled long into the night and the melodious rise and fall of stories that she had not heard since she had been a child. When she slept on those first nights, she slept in a blissful dreamless state and awakened each morning renewed. Mordred came to her when she woke, brought her food, tea and stories of the people who drifted in and out of the camp, giving each face a history, teaching her the hearts of people whose names she could not yet remember. They passed their mornings in quiet conversation, as the camp unfolded around them.
At precisely noon, the camp would gather together, its numbers swelling and shrinking daily. Lunch would be served by fresh hands each day, and afterwards cleaned away by another set. Morgana's turn fell four days into her stay and, though she had never done a day's work before, she fell on it with gusto, and took the teasing of the men and women around her in her stride. They corrected her mistakes with gentle gibes and did not seem to mind that her cleaning made more mess than there was to begin with.
Slowly, she began to learn their names, Eluned, Hefeydd, Olwen, Culhwch, Niniane...; every time they sat together, she'd recite the names to Mordred under her breath and he hinted and cajoled her until she could pick each one out herself. The first time she managed, she cheered her own small victory and went to bed with a smile on her lips.
It was on the seventh day that she woke again, screaming.
Flashes of images dancing behind flame, swords, ships, a thousand soldiers streaming blood upon battlements almost too tumbled for her to recognise. A woman, back turned, running her hands over a battered shield, her own silks torn and filthy. A cave of moving shadow and ancient screams. A king, kneeling in the mud of a riverbank, alone. And Mordred, in bright armour, his face twisted into a terrible scream, holding a sword high above his head.
"Will it happen?" Morgana demanded, pictures still vivid in her mind, when one of the women drew back the curtains and reached her. Hands went to stroke her head, but she knocked them away. "Will it happen?"
"I cannot tell," said the woman. "I am no seer, my lady."
The colours were fading in her head, and Morgana could not quite recall the details that had been there. She stared at the woman with piercing eyes. "But you did see."
"Only because you did, Morgana," she told her, "You must learn to close your mind, or who knows what person might take control of your dreams?"
She reached her hands to Morgana's head once more, smoothing down her tangled hair and, softly, began to sing. Morgana fancied that she could hear the trees creaking closer in to hear her voice. The curtains twitched again, but Morgana was only dimly aware of the movement, or the warm presence that curled at her side, as she slipped once more into a dreamless sleep.
Only when she was sure that Morgana was asleep, did Olwen cease her song. She pulled a blanket over the young woman and laid a worn hand on the face of the boy who had stolen in to sleep beside her.
"You cannot protect her, Mordred," she whispered, "you are neither of you yet prepared for what is to come."
The boy's eyes opened and Olwen shuddered, cold suddenly in the warm summer night. "The future does not control us," Mordred said quietly, "it is for us to take."
He settled once more, Olwen stepped gently from Morgana's tents. The wind picked up, whipping her hair about her face.
"We shall see," she whispered to nobody in particular and made her way back to her own bed.
***
It was the morning after the nightmare that Hefeydd came to her. The eldest of the druids, or so he looked, his hair white with age, his skin lined and sagging. It was his smile that warmed Morgana to him in an instant, a wide, honest smile of a man who had lived too long to bear ill will towards the world.
"What do you know of us, Morgana?" he asked her, when Mordred, her constant shadow, left them alone for a moment. "You have lived here a week with us, tell me what you have learned."
Morgana's mouth was dry, but his kind face soothed her. "I have heard a hundred stories," she confided, "and I do not have the time to tell you them all. I do not even know if all of them are true."
"Mordred does not always care for the truth," Hefeydd agreed, conspiratorially. He leaned in, beckoning for Morgana to do the same. "He would much rather the story."
"I can't say as I blame him," Morgana said, wistfully. "The truth is rarely easier to hear."
"Or to see, Morgana?"
"That is the hardest thing of all," she admitted. Herefydd covered her hand with his own, patting his large, weathered palm against her skin. "If it is the truth," she said.
"You know it is," Mordred had reentered and was gazing on the scene with interest sparking in his eyes.
"It is a truth," Herefydd allowed; his brows had knitted into a frown and he waved Mordred to sit next to Morgana. "You do not know yet the difference."
"There is no difference," Mordred insisted sharply. Herefydd shook his head.
"The acorn does not know what kind of oak will grow, just because it knows it will grow into an oak. It cannot tell what ravages man, animal or even the weather will have upon its branches. So it is with prophecy."
Mordred snorted.
"Aglain began your path," Herefydd said, rocking back on his heels, "now I can help him to finish it." He stood and held out his hands to his young wards, "it is time for your lessons."
***
Seasons passed and years passed and the skin on Morgana's hands grew rough with steady work. Every so often, news would drift from Camelot that an army was coming to them, and the camp would move, but after a year, two, three, these reports grew fewer and further between, until the time came that they stopped coming altogether. Morgana sometimes wondered if she had been forgotten, but in her heart she knew that it was not true. She missed great feasts and tourneys when the wind howled through the trees and she imagined falling asleep wrapped in silk and soft linen when the rains came. On the coldest nights, she would conjure the image of Gwen into her mind, sometimes Arthur, even Uther from time to time, and wondered what fates had befallen them. She tried not to think about the possibility that she already knew.
Every day, she took instruction from Herefydd, or Olwen, or any one of the dozen elder druids who passed their way. They talked of the land and told tales of the spirits who danced in the trees, who lived in the lakes and sang to those who passed by. They taught her how to tell what was good to eat and what would cure a headache or a heartache; how to hunt and how to heal. Though she still woke with nightmares, they helped her to remember and interpret what she saw, to record it all and sift through for what the ancient powers were trying to tell her. Every month, one of the nomadic druids took her to the lake, and there they would sit from sunrise to sunset, scratching runes and sigils in the dust and ask each other questions of what would be and what had always been. It was he that took her deep into the forest one day, tracing lines upon her arms, legs, breasts, and watched as she marked herself with the five lines that meant the most to her.
The druids told her stories of witches and wizards who transformed themselves into animals and ran through the forests disguised in packs of their adopted brethren. It was the tales of those who flew with the birds that Morgana loved the most; she spent long hours gazing at the sky and imagining the prickling of feathers upon her arms.
As she grew, as her understanding and her power grew, so too did Mordred's. Morgana watched over him as he began to learn the depths of his self and saw with her own eyes the increasing deference with which he was treated. It did not frighten her, nothing about him frightened her. When he stormed in anger and the sky grew black above them, they would send for her, and she would settle him with soft words when he needed to be understood and sharp ones when he needed to be challenged.
It was only when he began to leave, for days and weeks at a time, that she began to worry. He would not tell her where he had gone and when she tried to follow, she found her way blocked by trees that she knew could not have grown there.
"How's Camelot these days?" she asked, after the sixth time Mordred had disappeared from the camp. He had arrived back with bruises on his face and arms that could only have come from sparring with the blunted weapons of the royal training grounds. The boy - young man - did not meet her eyes when he responded, and she could feel the deceit rolling off him in waves.
"Why would I go there?" Mordred demanded, "and risk my life?"
Morgana looked at him with cool eyes, as she sat sharpening her own old sword. "Don't think because I don't know why things are that I don't know what they are," she told him. "Don't lie to me, Mordred."
He left and she watched him go, not at all surprised when thunder rolled above them.
***
When Herefydd died, the month after Mordred came of age, the the power balance of the camp shifted almost overnight. Morgana could feel it humming in her veins. She organised the funeral, welcomed the travellers who came to pay their respects and found that she was consulted on every matter that concerned the maintenance of the wellbeing of the circle. Olwen still sat down with her every day, though her hands were growing ever more stiff, finding the preparation of poultices and potions wearing on her aging fingers. Morgana went to the lake alone now, creating images of the future from symbols that were as lifelike as any dream.
Mordred found her there one evening, idly scratching in the dust, her feet dangled in the water.
"You've been away a while," she said, not looking up at him. The sunset lent the water a brilliant colour, Morgana was staring at it like it was the first sunset she had ever seen.
"I'm back now," he replied, "I had to-"
"Don't," Morgana said, her voice tired. "I neither need nor want to hear it."
She turned to him and beckoned him to sit down beside her.
"I don't mean to keep secrets, Morgana," Mordred began. Morgana raised an eyebrow.
"If you didn't mean to, you wouldn't try to," she said firmly. "I am tired of lies and surely you know by now that I do not want to be protected?"
Mordred nodded slowly. "Perhaps," he said, "it is not you that I am protecting."
The seer looked at him, her eyes glittering gold with the last of the sun's rays falling upon them.
"I went to the court of King Arthur," Mordred confessed, "Uther is dead and Arthur is king. It was supposed to be better now and it is not. I have to-"
Morgana lifted a hand and stroked his face, a sad smile forming on her lips. "I know," she said quietly, interrupting, "I think I have known it since the nightmares began, when I was still a king's ward."
"There's going to be a battle," Mordred whispered and she could feel hot tears spilling down his cheeks; she kissed his eyes and let her own tears mingle with his. "I don't want to hurt him."
"We won't," she promised. "It's going to be all right. We are going to change the future, you and I."
His lips met hers then, and Morgana pulled him down towards her on the edge of the lake. Strong hands made short work of her dress and Mordred's hands traced over her body almost reverentially.
"I knew you would be beautiful," he said and Morgana laughed, pulling him into another kiss.
"I don't want to be worshipped either," she said as they broke apart. His hand traced circles over her breasts, over the ancient marks inscribed there, and she shivered. Lips followed fingers and Morgana closed her eyes, letting the sensations of Mordred's movements and his power wash over her. She shifted slightly, his voice whispering in her ear, and knew that he could feel it too.
Limbs entwined, they fell asleep only as the dawn broke over the forest.
***
Three bedraggled figures stumble down a path not built for human feet, every step causing fresh winces and exclamations of pain. The third of the figures is all but carried between the other two, his blood flowing freely from a number of wounds bandaged not quite enough to stop the flow. Their armour is bent, scratched and their faces all bear the marks of those who have just seen their lives ripped apart, even though their bodies are whole. Valiantly, they continue their journey, not knowing why they are going, but only that they must get there.
The most severely wounded of the three stops them, before they reach the bank of the great lake, one hand raised in a feeble imitation of a royal signal. He is staring at a woman who stands beside a boat, a face familiar to him as his own, though he has not seen it in many years.
"You have come to take me away," he calls to her, his voice harsh with fatigue and pain, but softened with years of buried history. The woman steps from the lake then, walks directly to the three men.
"I have come to take him home," she says to his companions, "your journey has finished."
Any protest from the wounded knight's companions is silenced with a look. The wounded knight steps forward on his own, shaking legs and lets the woman catch him.
"Where are we going?" he asks, as she leads him gently towards the golden boat.
"Into the future," comes her reply. "It is all we have left."
The men left behind can do nothing but watch the boat move away, no wind filling its sails, no oar propelling it onwards. One crosses himself as he watches, the other merely wipes the back of his hand across his eyes.
"It is done," says one, gruffly.
Together, they begin the long walk back up the hill towards the battlefield.