Author's notes: Okay, so Agravaine is Arthur's uncle. To be his uncle he's either Uther's brother, or Egraine's brother. If he's Uther's brother he has no reason that the show presents for him to hate Uther and Arthur and support Morgana. If he's Egraine's brother, a second one since we already had Tristan Dubois as the black knight, then why is he trying to bring down Camelot and Egraine's son in the process? So this is my little effort to plug this one of many gaping plot holes in series four.
Because I could not stop for Death...
"Because I could not stop for death, [she] kindly stopped for me." Emily Dickinson
Morgana checked the pot on the fire as it started to boil and added some herbs. The man in the cot nearby stirred. His face was black and blue, his right eye was swollen closed and a cut divided what was left of his right eyebrow. His good eye blinked, at the witch tending the fire.
"Who are you?" he asked his voice barely a whisper.
"I know who I am," said Morgana, "The question today, is who are you?"
"I…"he frowned stopping, "I'm dead," he said finally.
"No," said Morgana smiling, "you are not dead, you are reborn."
"I have nothing," said the man, "It was all taken."
"By whom?" asked Morgana.
"Uther Pendragon," said the man, "he stole my life."
"Then we shall give you a new one," said Morgana, "A new life so you can go out and take from the Pendragons all that they took from you. Would you like that?" she asked smiling.
The man thought about everything that he'd lost, his fortune his family, and thought of doing that to the man who'd left him penniless and alone wishing for death, and he smiled too.
"I would like that very much," said the man.
"You will need a new name," said Morgana, "Something more fitting to your new life." She paused thinking for a moment. "What about Agravaine?"
"Agravaine," the name rolled around on his tongue and he smiled, "I'm Agravaine."
"So you are," said Morgana, "and now we have work to do."
"Yes, my lady," said Agravaine, "I am at your service."
Two Weeks Earlier...
The Lamb's Slaughter Inn was never what would be known as a high-class establishment. Founded by a mercenary and continued by his wife after she killed him, the Slaughter wasn't what you'd call a friendly local tavern either. It was a place you went when you were looking for trouble, or when you had nowhere else to go.
Morgana sat in the corner nursing a drink as she had every night for the past week. Morgose lay in a nearby cabin healing magics cast to help her recover from her attack in Camelot weeks before. Neither sister was ready to admit that no amount of magic would heal her completely, but Morgose was coming to that conclusion faster than Morgana. It was on Morgose's order that Morgana came to this den of thieves and villains. She was on a quest, to find her new ally. They needed a spy in Camelot, and they needed someone they could trust, and most importantly they needed someone who was desperate enough to do it. Morgana had been waiting a week for the right candidate to walk through the door, and a few minutes before midnight on the eighth night he did.
The man walked through the door dripping wet from the rain pouring down outside. Morgana cast a critical eye over him; ragged black hair clung to his neck, and face which was sallow and sunk-in, his cloak had seen better days it was torn and patched in places, and though his shoes were scuffed they were of good quality. His eyes scanned the room like a trapped rat, but he still carried himself like a noble, even though he was clearly a regular in this disreputable inn.
The barmaid caught Morgana's gaze and nodded to her. The man sat at the bar, and nursed a tankard until a group of men arrived, big hard men who'd never seen the inside of a throne room except to kneel before it's owner. Morgana watched as her mark followed the others into the back room behind the bar. She flicked a glance at the bartender and nodded slightly to her. Mary was a good woman loyal to the followers of the old religion, and respectful of the power and legacy that Morgana represented she had done well to spot this one's potential.
The game was not going well, thought Armand DuClare; he'd already lost all the gold he'd brought and his horse as well, and now he was risking being in debt to Morcan, a plight he wouldn't wish on anyone. Armand checked his cards, his hand was not just good, it was very good, few other hands could beat him. He looked around the table at the other players, Clay, John and Lefty had already folded, so it was just him again Morcan.
"I'm in," said Armand. Morcan smirked and pushed his money into the middle of the table. Armand laid out his cards with a flourish.
"That's a very good hand," said Morcan. Armand smiled and reached for the money. "Hold on there," Armand stopped, and watched in horror as Morcan threw down his cards, "mine's better," he said grinning his teeth were rotted and yellow and somehow, for Armand the son of a Duke, that made it all the more humiliating. "Pay up," said Morcan, "You owe me another hundred weights."
"I'll bring it tomorrow," said Armand standing up to leave, mentally calculating how far he could get before they started chasing him. Not that far, as it turned out.
Armand limped barefoot and freezing out into the night. He had one eye swollen shut and the other struggling to see through the torrent of rain. He had nothing left his fortune gambled away, his father's lands seized, his mother dead from heartbreak, his hands shook with the unfair rage of it all.
His father had been a loyal noble, but the king had not paid his tithe to Camelot, so Uther took a few of the bordering villages as payment and of course appointed his own duke to the Manor.
His father died when the knights came to evict them leaving his mother with nowhere to go and she too passed soon after. It had been years, but the bitterness and hatred still seethed in Armand's heart, pulsing stronger and deeper with every step he took away from the life he should have had.
Armand knew he was headed to his death, he could feel it creeping up his spine. He knew and he didn't fear it, he welcomed the relief from the agony of existence, he continued on trudging down the middle of the road in the downpour and opened his arms to the sky, asking for death to take him. It at that moment death rode up in a carriage and took Armand DuClare, and she wouldn't let him go for long long time.
The Beginning.
All notes are welcome. This is just how I imagine it happened in order for the stories to make sense to me.
cynic