When indulging in this piece of literature, I would appreciate three things: 1an open mind; 2, the notion that, in the original legends, Morgana was not even human; 3, I do not own Merlin or the Arthurian Legends or the song quote, and am making no money off of this.
[Because Morgana had a great case for a tragic anti-hero, instead of the Acme-era villain the writers made her into].
{And, well, Uther must have had some GREAT public relations guys to have avoided a revolt as long as he did}
How can they hear the truth above the roar? (Roar, roar, roar).
Morgana wondered precisely how the people could stand through Uther's decrees. Not only where they full of bigotry, egomania and violence, they were also boring. Still, the eyes of those in the courtyard below remained riveted on their kings own. Peasants from the outlying villages even made something of a pilgrimage to listen to the kings' commemorative speech on the anniversary of... well, anything.
Of course, any other time the people lived in fear, hiding themselves, their heritages and their religions from anyone, trusting no one and dwelling within the castle walls or even the county boundaries with the consistent threat of horror hanging about their heads.
Because, honestly, magic had no bloodline, it was far too ingrained into the population as it was. Uther was simply too blind to see it; or, alternatively too hypocritical to admit it.
Morgana knew better. She always had. When she first arrived in Camelot, she had been disgusted. Instead of the joy and merriment that floated in the air from the villages around her estate, the very feel of the place was sombre and dark. It was horrid.
But she was young, naive and still mouldable and so slowly, her eyes had clouded to the very hell she was dwelling in, had clouded to the devil she dined with.
She wouldn't say it was Morgause who woke her from her stupor (she had already been gently toeing down that pathway before even the rescue of Mordred or the almost condemnation of Gwen) however she would admit the gentle hand sliding in to hug hers securely had given her the push she needed.
He must be stopped. Uther must be stopped. The oppression of Camelot, the dark cloud hanging over Albion must be vanquished for the good of the people. She could stand by and watch the torture of their souls as their blood stained the earth no longer.
There was no poisoning, no sneaking around plotting underhanded deeds of villainy, because she was not of that nature. In the end, it had been just her and the man who had bequeathed perhaps his one endeavour of kindness, to her. Uther had been given a noble death. Of that she had ensured. She looked in him the eyes, told him that, though she felt love for him, her purpose was of greater importance and that she had allowed his suffering to go on long enough, that it had blackened his world and soon, she feared, if she did not intervene, his soul.
Still looking into his eyes, she thrust the blade home through his heart. His eyes had closed and a ghost of a smile spread across his mouth. He was at peace.
If there was one wild-card within the hand, she mused as she sat firmly upon her throne, it was Arthur Pendragon. His mind was poisoned so thoroughly to Uthers view that she oft feared him unrepentable.
Still, where he now dwelled within the quarters maintained for visiting royalty –within the west tower and its accompanying gardens, stables and routes into the forest- isolated from occurrences of importance but in no way imprisoned, she could hear him pace.
She knew he felt betrayed, believed that she had stolen his birth right, but as he was, he could not be Camelots king. The lands needed a softened, caring hand to nurture back the blackened stump of its once great peoples and Arthur Pendragon was still such a child. Older then she in years, certainly, but lifetimes? Never.
And so, she pretended to miss Merlin's devious gaze and Gwen's conflicted one. She pretended she did not notice the rallying knights she had pretended not to notice loosing the fidelity of and pretended she did not resent that it had to be she to play this role within the life of the once and future king. Had he asked, she would have enabled the teachings, maintained his heir status and slowly slipped from the co-regency. Instead he played the moody child once more- Morgana felt certain Arthur's personal crest would read "it takes mistakes to grow." He very well made enough of them.
If congregating a rebellion was what it took, well she would play along.
It was time Arthur grew up.
They felt the shock when Gwen, rounded with child and standing much too close to Lacelot- Arthur with gilded crown atop his still angel-fair head and Merlin- tall, equine and graceful, somehow- stumbled into a congregation of living spaces.
Feeling like a fae realm, the cherished homes woven from still living plant life they had no name for, braced within the living branches of tree's and grotto's while their dwellers (Morgause amongst them, dressed in blue and eyes feverent)danced with merriment in the afternoons light, their clothing flowing through their own movement and their hair woven with blossoming buds, the quartet (once much lighter with maiden fair, rather than darkened by knighthood and not-so-secret betrayals) observed with thinly veiled shock the goddess within the rings of exalting dancing.
As her people moved around her (with her, inside her very soul) their illusion of humanity fell to reveal the more fantastical nature of this land and Morgana, eyes alight with silver and hair streaming rivers of luminescence smiled and moved towards them, twirling so close but just out of grasp.
The feeling of wholeness, completion and contentment faded with the image- Morgana's echoing laughter taking root within their very souls (one with a larger gap she herself could have filled in another lifetime) as their misery mourned what they turned away from.
That last glimpse of Morgana –patron of the eternal Isle- fortified some and ate away at those who allowed it.
At the end (the beginning) only one found their way back to that haunting memory. Only one found their way home.
Razzle Dazzle is from Chicago- It sorta gave me the mental image of Uther's shiny crown being the only bearable thing about him and from it, this was born. :) I hope it was enjoyed. Also, the "one" who found their way to Avalon is up to you, the reader. Personally, i'm voting Arthur ;)