The Pendragon Queen of Logres
I was born Princess Morgana Pendragon of Camelot, daughter to the illustrious King Uther and the late Queen Igraine. But that's not who I am. I was never that girl. Whatever the old king would have had you believe, "Princess" Morgana never existed. She was just a lie. A lie that I, in all my innocence, lived for 16 years. My entire life was a lie.
For all that, I had a happy childhood. Prince Arthur and I bickered and squabbled merrily, as all siblings do; everyone adored me. Or if they did not, they at least pretended to, for I was the old King's favourite. In his eyes I could do no wrong.
He showered me in gifts and dresses, pampered me endlessly. By the time I was six, I was the most spoiled child in all of Camelot.
But I had a strong sense of Justice too. Countless times, I flung myself at King Uther's feet, weeping piteously as I begged him to spare some poor convict who had been sentenced to a punishment that I, child that I was, deemed too harsh for his or her misdemeanour. He always gave in to me. Always.
My efforts earned me the nickname of "Merciful Princess Morgana" among the people and once or twice, I heard people whisper "What a child the Princess is! I almost wish we could see her on the throne one day, rather than her brother!"
But that wasn't the way things worked. Arthur was a year older than me and a boy. He would be King one day and I wouldn't be Queen. Though jealous at times, for the most part I accepted it. After all, Arthur was my brother and I loved him. Or so I thought. Like so much else in my life, that turned out to be a lie too.
Only two things ever blighted my childhood. One, that Uther, no matter how much I pleaded, how much I stormed and wept, how many tantrums I threw, would never tell me of my mother.
All he would ever say was that she was fair and beautiful and that she had loved Arthur and I so much that she was willing to give up her life for us, as indeed she had when I was born.
That satisfied me as a child, but as I grew older, I grew restless. I wanted more. I wanted to know my full history. I wanted to know where my dreams came from.
My dreams. Or should I call them nightmares? For they were always realistic enough to terrify me as nightmares would. What they were, I realise now, was visions; visions of the future. Warnings of what could come to pass.
When I was younger, though, they were just bad dreams; dreams that no sleeping potion that Gaius concocted could ever block out. I was terrified, of them, of myself, of what they might mean. Even as a little girl, I knew the King hated magic; that he blamed it for the death of his wife Igraine; for the death of the woman that he called my mother. On the rare occasions that I considered that my dreams might be more than dreams, which thankfully, were few and far between, I fretted about how Uther, who, deny it though I did, I loved and respected above all others, might react if he knew that magic had manifested itself in me, his most beloved daughter.
Everything changed, however, the summer I turned sixteen. That was the summer Morgause came to Camelot.
She came with an envoy from the King of Mercia, came bearing gifts and speaking honeyed words.
There were goblets for Uther and a jewelled scabbard for my brother Arthur.
Then she turned to me, presenting me with a delicate gold and silver bracelet as she said "Princess Morgana, I hear you suffer from nightmares. Let me assure you that this bracelet has been steeped in a particular essence that every healer in Mercia swears by. Wear this and you will have no more broken nights. I promise you that."
Sceptical, after all the times Gaius had promised me something similar only to be proved wrong, I thanked her graciously, though with an edge in my voice.
However, this time, it was the truth. I had not a single dream throughout Morgause's stay and I was so relieved that I ignored the certain informality that Morgause sometimes treated me with; an informality that sometimes caught me off guard.
Nevertheless, she crossed the line when she started to call me "Sister", for, despite our remarkable similarity in terms of features, we weren't related. It was a breach of etiquette I wasn't willing to overlook and the night we held a farewell banquet in her party's honour, I confronted her about it.
"Why do you call me sister, Lady Morgause? We are not related! I am the Princess Morgana of Camelot!"
"Are you sure about that, Morgana? Has His Majesty ever told you of your mother? Ever offered you an explanation for why you're so dark when your brother's so fair? Ever told you about his ancestors, like he has Arthur? Offered you an answer as to the source of your dreams?"
Faced with those questions, I found I couldn't actually refute her, only shake my head mutely. Morgause came up behind me and turned me to face the looking glass.
"I know you're an intelligent girl, Morgana. I know that, in your heart of hearts, you've wondered about this all your life. Take a look in the mirror and realise how similar we are. Realise whose daughter you truly are."
As I gazed into the mirror, a vision flashed before my eyes. Uther, lying with another woman apart from his Queen. A dark woman. A woman that I knew, without being told, was the spitting image of me.
"The Lady Vivane." Morgause murmured, her voice strained with the effort of showing me. "My mother. Our mother, Morgana."
Pulling away sharply, I broke the connection. But everything had changed. Uther's lie had come crashing down.
I never regarded Uther the same way again. I ceased to respect him or to love him as my father. Nor was Arthur any longer my beloved brother. He was an obstacle in my way, for he wasn't magical and, as Morgause pointed out, a realm as great as Camelot deserved a magical heir to help it realise its full potential.
I wanted to challenge Arthur then and there, but Morgause, so much older and wiser, counselled patience.
Guessing rightly that I wasn't strong enough to wield the power I needed, she trained me in secret for two years. Honed my skills clandestinely until I was as strong as anyone could ever have imagined my being. And then our chance came.
Arthur fell ill, a fever brought on by his training in the damp Western Marshes. Coached in my role of the anxious sister by Morgause, I nursed him devotedly.
No one ever suspected the grief-stricken Princess Morgana of administering the deadly potion of hemlock and yew that was later found in Arthur's. One of the kitchen boys, Perkin, lost his life for treason a week later.
Even if I hadn't stayed by Uther's side, comforting him, he would have had no choice. He would have had to invest me as heiress to the throne of Camelot, as he did the Christmas after I had turned eighteen. After all, he had lost his son and I was his daughter. Who else could have had the throne.
No one. There was no one else and Uther knew it.
He spent a year preparing me for my future role and then, helped along by a few prayers in the Old Religion, went to his rest. Went to join his wife and son in the Spirit World.
Now it is my turn, my turn to rule. And this much I, Queen Morgana Pendragon of Camelot, swear to you. From today, the lies and deceit are over. From today, everything begins anew. From today, magic returns to Camelot.