Merlyn's Final Truth

His Father's Son P2

Morgana had never stepped foot in Caerleon, the region far too brutal, barbaric even, for her taste. She had to admire the simplicity in which most of their people lived, their kindness, welcoming her into their homes without a second thought. It reminded her a little of Ealdor, the warmth of the fire, finding comfort in the shelter from the howling wind. She supposed that she didn't look like much, cloaked in mud, her straggly hair pinned away from her face. She was a shadow of the woman she had once been, but she didn't envy her past self. It wasn't worth the ignorance. One day, she would find who she was meant to become.

A kindly woman had offered to wash her clothes in the last village she'd visited, asking no questions as Morgana did her best to look innocent, fragile with wide, lost eyes, shivering in a coldness she didn't feel on her skin. Her hand often grazed the knife she still hid in her boot, Merlyn's tricks playing on her mind. At least, she supposed as her eyes burned gold, unlocking a door into an ancient, stone castle, she could meet the queen with some semblance of power.

Torches lit the tunnels through the haunted, grey walls, amber light flickering through her vision. She listened for footsteps, but when none came, she ascended the steps, pulling her cloak tightly around her.

"Hault!" a cry came up from behind her, a knight pointing his blade into her back. Morgana was impressed: she'd never particularly met any entirely competent guards, especially in Camelot. Another man came up in front of her, his beady eyes glinting maliciously. Morgana doubted that there was a single brain cell between the two of them, but she put on her kindest smile, glancing between the strong men.

"Please, I mean you no harm." she turned to the taller one, guessing he had a little more authority. "I wish only to speak with your queen."

They brought her to the throne room, neither sheathing their swords. Perhaps here, within the castle, there were more rumours of her magic. One roughly pulled her hood from her face, allowing her to properly survey the room. It was hardly ornate, circular shields lining the walls, drapes embroidered with Caerleon's symbol hanging behind two, golden thrones. Queen Annis sat in one, her red hair clashing horribly with her purple clothes. She wore a golden circlet, her stormy eyes staring at her in repulsion.

"Morgana Pendragon." she spat. "Stealing into my castle in the dead of night. You must have a death wish."

Morgana held her head high, meeting Annis' gaze with utter defiance. "Sorry for the interruption, Your Majesty, but I've come on urgent business."

"What business could you possibly have with me, witch?" the queen asked, her lip curling up into a feral snarl. Morgana resisted the urge to curse her for such an insult, keeping her expression emotionless.

"I come in the name of my father." she said, watching Annis' hands clutch tightly to the arms of her throne.

Her face, however, did not betray her fear.

"Is that so?" she hissed. "When I last heard, you and he were -"

"I speak not of Uther, but of Gorlois." Morgana couldn't dare to think of Uther as her father. He was nothing to her. A pestilence upon her people.

"Gorlois?" Annis seemed calmer now, staring at her in confusion.

"Uther is my father by blood alone. Gorlois raised me as a child. He made me who I am." Morgana smiled genuinely for the first time in... She didn't want to think about that, the ghost of her memories touching her mind.

Annis nodded slowly, a touch of her own smile upon her lips." I remember him well. He was a good man, an honourable one."

"He was, Your Highness, and his sole reward was death, betrayed by his king." Morgana spoke softly, wishing for a world where she could still speak to her father, could ask him what he thought of her decisions.