Morgana had always loved the colour green.
It was a good colour, natural, the colour of grass and moss and leaves. It was the colour of her father, nothing more than a vague memory but always inimitably dressed in green. That was the worst thing about Camelot. It was cloaked in red, dripping with it as if with blood. It had taken her months to stop flinching every time she rounded a corner and met a red-cloaked knight, or glimpsed a banner swaying from the corner of her eye.
She had gotten used to it over time, but never once stopped loving green. The velvet dress given to her by Uther for her twentieth birthday became a source of comfort in the cold and still slightly unfamiliar castle. She had been there for almost fifteen years by then, but still in the back of her mind it didn't quite click. It felt just the slightest bit off, a brick forced into a space not cut specially for it. Morgana shoved all these worries to the back of her mind, and focused on the beautiful green of her dress.
()()()()()()()()
Three years later, when she met her half-sister and was swept away with Merlin's poison still in her veins, even the green she loved had lost its ability to comfort her. She was too lost and alone, frightened of every little thing and terrified of the man who called himself her guardian. Morgause became the new source of peace, bringing her comfort and clarity even in her darkest moments.
There in Tintagel Morgana learned. She learned history, mathematics, philosophy – she learned everything she could get her hands on. It was as if she was feeding a great hunger, one that had been growing deeper and deeper her entire life but she had not known how to assuage. The most insatiable of her appetites was for her magic, though. She spent hours practicing, attempting enchantments and experimenting with charms. At times Morgause would watch her, leaning quietly against the wall in the courtyard where Morgana worked. It was hard and demanding, but oh so worth it, for there were rare times when Morgana would get a spell just right and Morgause would smile. It was like a sun lit up behind her face, lighting her with a radiance and warmth unknown to most. Morgana could feel the pride behind that smile, though, and that meant more to her than her sister's staggering beauty.
At dinner each night she told her sister the things she had learned that day, and Morgause would listen attentively before starting a discussion about some finer point to something. She seemed to favor philosophy, guiding their discussions to places Morgana had never imagined and forcing the younger girl to think beyond her previous limits. Morgana loved it, every second she spent in her sister's presence. It was all so new to her, having someone she knew would love her completely and utterly, never having to hide any part of her for fear of the consequences. She bathed in the warmth of her sister's unconditional love and for the first time in her life, she felt complete.
By night, Morgana would retire to the sumptuous chambers Morgause had put her in. A serving girl would help her undress, and by the fourth week Morgana had stopped feeling the twinge of pain whenever she thought of Gwen. By the seventh week she had stopped thinking of Gwen altogether, too intent on what lay before her. After the girl had left, Morgana would cross to the bookcase on the wall and choose something, anything she felt like. The books in her personal library weren't all for learning. There were some uncommon ones that held tales of adventure, magic, and, Morgana's personal favorite, love. She would read for a while, not keeping track of time, until the door opened once again and her sister entered. Morgana always looked forward to that, the first glimpse of Morgause without armour or weapon. Her sister came to her, kissed her sweetly, and lay down with her, arms wrapped around the other, shielding her from the world. Strangely, Morgana had never felt any compunction about the fact that they were sisters, and from the lack of protest on Morgause's part, neither did her sister. Sometimes they fell asleep in each other's arms, sometimes they talked for hours into the night, and sometimes there was no talking, just the heat of two bodies moving and the slick sounds of pleasure soaking into the air.
()()()()()()()()
Fifty-three weeks after Morgana arrived in Tintagel, she left behind the only place she had ever felt loved, and returned to the one where she knew was only pain. She left behind her sister, her family, her love.
Morgause hugged her fiercely, and gave her a green ribbon to remind the girl of her, passed down from woman to woman in their family through generations. Morgana cried, and would only part from the other after extracting a promise that she would see her again. They kissed, slow and sweet, and them Morgana turned and fled, riding her horse at a gallop until it could run no more. She refused to look back, turning her face forward and counting the seconds until she could see her sister again.
The ribbon dangled from her wrist.
()()()()()()()()()
Morgana was numb inside, and she knew it would be obvious to anyone who saw her. Her bright, beautiful, loving sister was dead, slain by her hand. The sorceress shuddered, revulsion washing through her as she remembered the feel of the blade slicing through her lover's flesh, the slick sound it had made reminiscent of others they had made, wrapped up together in Morgause's bed. Holding up her arms, hands still stained red to the wrist with her sister's blood, she choked and dashed for the nearest stream.
Ten minutes of washing produced only raw skin and a soggy dress. Morgana felt no better than she had before. She clambered shakily to her feet, spinning on her heel to continue her mindless quest to anywhere but where she was. She stopped, though, when a little cottage – well, shack, really – caught her eye. It was rundown and decrepit, but she would be willing to bet that no one knew it was here. Looking up, she saw the tip of the North Tower of Camelot, towering over the castle and the town. Morgana allowed a tiny grin to climb her face, feeling a spark inside her. She would avenge her sister's death; she would make sure it was used the way Morgause had asked. Lifting her wrist, she gazed at the flutter of green still trapped there, before freeing it and weaving it into her hair with short, decisive motions. That done, she let her hands fall outward as she concentrated and felt the icy cold power inside her. Words of power fell from her tongue, and in the blink of an eye she was surrounded by legions of the dead. She smirked and ordered them away, away to plague Camelot and bring it to its knees before her.
All that remained was the forest's calm green.
()()()()()()()()
Standing amidst the smoking ruins of what had been Albion's proudest city, Morgana felt a flash of what might have been satisfaction, or perhaps only pride. After ten long years of training, running, and fighting she had succeeded where all others had failed. She had destroyed Camelot, smashing it utterly and leaving it a shell of what it had once been. She almost felt bad for that, for having deprived the world of a center of civilization, but then she looked out over the horizon and saw her people there, singing triumphant at their victory over the Pendragons. They were the reason she had done this, the reason she had taken up their standard and given them a common cause. For them, she had become their priestess, their leader, their war-chief. She had united them, raising a mighty army and waging war on her brother and his knights. She had given them their lives back, and had brought the Old Religion back into the world. She had finally grown into the woman her sister had always seen. She was Morgana le Fay, High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, Witch-Queen.
Above her a green banner fluttered, proud in the dawn of a new world.
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