I yawn, still half asleep as I stumble after my mother, legs much shorter and clumsier than her own.

It's a new moon so it's even darker than any other night and the number of times I've tripped on a root has already reached uncountable. Granted, I'm not counting in the first place, so..

Albeit snow continues to fall and the trees are weighed down by the clustered mounds, and that I'm still wearing my sleepwear beneath my cloak, there isn't even a hint of coolness. To the point that I'm pretty sure my mother has actually managed to overdose me with the warming potion.

I let loose another jaw breaking yawn.

"Mother, where are we going?" I whine, "I'm tired."

But you probably know that, don't you?

I try to crane back my neck to gauge her expression but except for the almost luminescent paleness contrasting the vivid red hair trailing behind her like a banner, the Duchess of Cornwall reveals nothing.

My lids gets heavier as time passes by.

At least an hour has already passed since we left into the cover of the eve, and combined with the pressure in the air there's absolutely no possible way I should've stayed in my groggy state this long.

There must've been more to the warming potions than she let on.

It is only when we emerge from the treelines, miles and miles from the castle where Elaine and Morgaine are likely safe and warm in their beds -and even more further away from the decades long war the King of Camelot has waged against us- that she stops by a lakeshore.

There, a lonely boat stays afloat on the edge, nothing to anchor it to its place but magic.

I blink lethargically, habitually popping a thumb in my mouth.

Igraine turns to me and identical blue eyes clashes with mine. She crouches to my level, dress already torn and weathered dipping into the mud. Her hands comes up to my shoulders, gently squeezing them and I discover her heat to be something I will miss. Her eyes traces my face, as if to keep it in her heart forever.

Then finally, she releases a ragged breath.

I blink.

"...Are you going to send me away?" I mumble, finding that I don't feel either way about the matter (maybe just that tiny bit hurt and dissatisfied).

I understand.

A lot more than she's probably expecting me to.

She smiles at me and it's nothing like her usual ones. It's stiff, false, and forced, "...Oh, sweetheart, why are you still awake?"

...well, I suppose there's no purpose to ask questions I already know the answers to.

I stare at her.

Say whatever you will about Igraine of Cornwall -even I don't yet know the truth about the true state of her relationship with Gorlois and Uther (And say what you will about me but refraining from Legilimency is the minimal amount of respect I owe this woman who'd raised me).

But as a mother, she's a pretty good one.

Or maybe that's just me. It's not like I ever had anyone to compare her with.

Perhaps, something like 'I love you' is more appropriate for the moment. But love has always been a... foreign element for me.

Trust is the highest form of affection I can give with full awareness of everything it might pertain.

"I had a dream..."

I have a feeling, that we won't be seeing each other for a long time. If ever again.

So I'd like to let her know. Just once.

It's getting harder to keep my eyes open, much less move my mouth.

Her smile softens. She always likes hearing about our dreams.

"...in my dream... my name's Tom Riddle... and he's..." I peer at her, "... he's always alone... and always lonely..."

The sight of her trembling lips and the wet sheen over her eyes are the last thing I will see of her in years.

"But then I woke up... and you're there..."
_

When I wake up, I'm in the middle of nowhere, boat swaying side to side, and there's a sealed envelope in my hand. It's freezing cold.

I look out at the never ending darkness and feel the chill settle in my soul. Whatever else may be out there with me are concealed behind the thick cover of mist.

The parchment is magically sealed, specifically keyed to a specific person. I don't read it.

I lay back down, curling by the sack of which I presume are filled with food and supplies. I don't have any appetite.

The cloak in my tight grip shifts into something bulkier, thicker, furrier, and an interior heating charm is applied as I pull in my toes inside my makeshift burrito.
_

The third time I wake up in a single night, I suck in a frigid inhale as I am blown away by the absolutely stunning sunrise. Imagine the sky painted in colours of the rainbow, the deceptively calm sea its mirror image and a peaceful stillness stretching as far as the eye can see. A seagull caws high above. I can feel the cold wind nipping at my cheeks and the sea breeze running through my hair.

I dig into the sack and find hard bread, cheese, and bottles of warming potions.

...Oh, well, that makes sense.

I down half of a bottle. I'm six and can't be too careful when it comes to personal health.

I fill myself with some food, carefully peering over the side of the boat. There are ripples as the thing steadfastly cuts through the surface towards an unknown destination.

It fades into the far distance.
_

"Mistake? Trust me, there was not a single mistake in your life."

"Not you, not Lord Voldemort. It was inevitable. A simple case of cause and effect."

"Think about it. Born from a twisted love, into a twisted world, raised in a twisted society, was it such a surprise that you became twisted yourself?"

"You were too smart, too brilliant, too powerful, too beautiful, too ambitious. By all rights, you should've flourished into a legend to pass through the centuries, not just a footnote to the accolades of Harry Potter. But you were too much. And that was your tragedy."

"So no, there was no mistake. You were doomed from the very beginning."
_

The fourth, the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh time fortunately goes pretty much the same with only the change of which heavenly body is on shift at the moment being the only telltale of the amount of time that passes by. Nothing amiss occurs.

Two days and three nights pass.

On the eight time I'm pulled from a nap, there are voices whispering to each other and it's dawn.

I stir.

"-waking up."

"Go get her out of there, the poor dear. Let me check her."

The boat bobs as someone boards it and a pair of hands scoop me up. My eyes flutter open. I stiffen.

I can feel the leather of the strap over his chest and my feet graze the cool metal of the handle of a sword.

The dark skinned man looking down at me grins softly, "Do not be scared. We are here to help you."

"Godric, give her to Helga. It's natural she will be scared if she wakes up to an unknown man."

I stare wide eyed as I'm gently set on the ground. I flinch when a blonde haired woman crouched next to me and she coos reassuringly, "Are you cold?"

Her voice is soft and lilting, most likely purposefully so to relax me. I shake my head.

Her eyes narrows at my face, on my lips. A gust of warm wind rakes the leftover salt from my hair and my dress coughs out the mud and dirt that it has collected.

"There's a letter here."

My head turns towards where the voice called from and I can bet that my eyes are as wide as saucers by now.

The red haired man that has the sword is crouching a distance away and only the blonde woman is close enough to be within arms reach. Another man in aristocrat robes has just alighted from my boat, showing the envelope to another woman with sharp blue eyes.

A touch on my shoulder steals my attention back to the blonde. She smiles, bright and nothing like my mother's.

"Hello, my name is Helga. That knight there is Godric. That's Salazar, and that one's Rowena. What's yours?"

A beat goes by silently.

Godric and Helga are all encouraging smiles, Rowena reads the letter stone faced with Salazar peering over her shoulder and occasionally shooting me concerned glances

"...Morrigan."

And perhaps it's the accent and the quiet way I mumble it, but then Godric beams.

"Morgan, then? Nice to meet you."