Chapter 2 – Memories from the past

So this is what death looks like?

Old theories about life in the hereafter were mistaken after all. Not that I had ever believed in any of them. It always seemed to me an unfortunate way to convince the more gullible about the opportunity to return to life once your time in this world is finished. Some sort of consolation price. Despite it, today this idea wouldn't seem so absurd. It would undoubtedly be better than staying wherever I am right now.

Starting again ... a new beginning…sounds good to me. At any rate, I've always been too sceptical to believe in what I can't see. Perhaps that is why I have been granted the gift of prophecy, to make me see beyond what is real. I wonder if this gift suits me now that I'm lost in the confines of limbo, oblivious of time and space. Has it been a day, a month, a year? I cannot answer. Time doesn't make much sense around here. I think of them, of Gwen...Merlin…Uther...Arthur. Do they feel my absence?

An unexpected wave of fog surrounds me ...the mists of time dissipate and then…I see myself again.

Before this ethereal form I am now, stands a pale girl with no more than 10 years, dressed in black, with long, wavy hair the colour of the wing of a crow and emerald eyes brimming with tears. I remember well that day and I can almost feel the same loneliness crushing my chest. I had learned that week of the death of my father, Gorlois, although I have known it even before they told me, partly by the way everyone behaved around me, shaking, stroking my hair with tenderness or containing tears whenever they crossed me by. Except it was not just that. I have seen his cold face and lifeless black eyes in my dreams. For years I felt responsible for my father's death. I loved him so much, he was everything to me, my whole family. Filled with sorrow, I blamed myself for having foreseen his fate but having not trust my instincts enough to make him listen to me and give up from going warring that morning. The scene would repeat sadistically years later when I could not prevent Arthur from facing the questing beast and almost getting himself killed.

I remember my state of distress that dawn. Running down the stairs towards him still dressed in my nightgown with my curls wildly waving in the wind. I still recall the knights´ shocked faces at seeing me like that, but at the moment I couldn't care less. Only after everything was over I was allowed to feel ashamed and let a blush arise to my cheeks for presenting them with such a scandalous behaviour from the always proud lady of Camelot. Right then, I was blind to everything and everyone such was my despair. I tried to hold on to Arthur, make him see what I've seen, make him realize the danger. I now recognize I must've looked a madwoman speaking of dreams, with sobs making my voice sound like barely audible whispers begging him to stay. He wouldn't listen, he never does. Arrogant prat!

Even so, the following hours after his arrival were a torture, I felt as if I was going mad from the pain and guilt. I didn't even visit him like everyone else did. Not once. I couldn't bear to see him hurt, to stay there and wait for his breathing to come to an end, to see my vision coming true, slowly, but surely. And it would all have been my fault. Fortunately, Arthur survived from the bite of the beast because I don't know what I'd have done otherwise, but I wouldn't have been able to live with myself knowing that I've let him die.

Despite the years, I was still the same frightened little girl cursed with nightmares I had been by the time my father died. For that lovely man with honey coloured eyes and the brightest smile, my dreams were fruit of my fertile imagination, something normal to every child. And that's what he thought when he kissed my forehead and assured me that he would be back in less than a week. That was a promise he was never able to fulfil.

Reliving that moment now, perhaps I should have tried more firmly, but I had so much fear. I was so afraid of myself and my own powers. It had been the first time I've dreamed of a vision, and though my father was the more understanding man on earth, I believe that neither he would have accepted the fact of having a daughter predicting the future, especially given his extreme loyalty to the king. And even if he had believed me, I know now he would have not deserted his king. He was a man of honour, with the soul of a warrior, and wouldn't run away like a coward from his duty. This kind of inner nobility, courage beyond measure, was also something that I learned from Arthur. I can't believe I'm admitting it. Death really does miracles to the pride of a person. Anyone who hears my thoughts could even believe that Arthur is the most perfect man, an example for everyone to follow. And he is not. Not at all. Arthur is an insufferable spoiled boy…man…and what not. But an unbearably brave one, that much I can confess.

I'm going inside the great walls of Camelot, where I shall live under the protection of Uther Pendragon, the king and my father's best friend. The vision before my eyes is magnificent. The large stone walls, the majestic battlements and wonderful castle at the centre of the city look like an image coming out of a fairytale book. I wonderingly remember how my father used to sit me on his lap after a lengthy trip and tell me fascinating stories about Camelot and its mythological creatures. The fame of this city has always been legendary, long even before Uther has taken over the power of Camelot. I believe there is some kind of magic in the land, a magic deeper and even older than the one that can be found in books withered by time. A magic made before men touched this very ground. My entire life I've dreamed of seeing the castle with my own eyes, although I've never imagined the circumstances would've been so cruel.

As soon as my horse had reached the castle gates and the servants hurried off to help me descend, I saw Uther outbreak from the entry door and come to me. He was a man of proud bearing, around the age of my father, with dark and authoritarian aspect, I would dare say intimidating, although not frightening. Well, at least not to me. When he reached me, I felt his cold mask fall apart as he looked me upside down and hugged me tenderly, deeply moved. His attitude betrayed how much he esteemed my father and that he'd do everything in his power to make sure that I would be happy. Knowing it comforted me, filled me with hope of being loved by someone else other than my father. My weakness did not allow me, however, to release the emotions of sadness in which I was imprisoned, or to vanquish the demons inside my head, so I only allowed the shadow of a smile to cross my features.

It was all so strange, confusing, and above all, so new after having said goodbye to Cornwall, to my friends and my past life, only to be accommodated in a new home, a new family. I lacked meeting the boy who would become my foster "brother", Arthur. At that moment, the doors of the great room were open and my wait was over. I confess I was curious to know what he looked like, although every trace of curiosity has faded as soon as I laid my eyes on the proud figure of the principe and I felt an urge of rage growing within me when I saw the horrified expression with which Arthur graced me. His feelings were a mix of anger and deep disappointment with a certain degree of jealousy for seeing me standing too close to his father. I'll never forget his face that day, the same presumptuous air he still holds now matched with the perfect features which, according to him, make him so appealing before the ladies. God have mercy! Those women must be all blind.The bright blue eyes and golden hair, in a fine representation of the gods preserved in the paintings, should help to unbalance his ego, I suppose.

In fact, Arthur was charming as a child. Unfortunately, the charm has been lost over the years, or so I convince myself with a mocking smile. Anyway, apart from the pleasantries, I believe he would have expected to welcome a fellow soldier with whom he'd share adventures and, instead, he's confronted with a girl. Had it been today, I would have told him a few things about the girls being as much fun as the boys. But given the situation, his attitude caused me some grief. I hoped to receive comfort and affection, and yet, I felt like an intruder in their lives, a burden they would bear motivated by pity.I wasn't the only one to realize the horror mirrored on Arthur's face for, soon after, Uther approached his son.

In the vicinity of the father, the boy immediately adopted a rigid posture, stressing the enormous respect for the paternal figure and responsibility of being the prince. When he heard the whispered words from the king, about the reason of my coming, I believe, Arthur's eyes fixed on me and then deviated to the marble floor, in what I would later distinguish as embarrassment and shame. With his focus back on me, he advanced some tentative steps, moving one arm behind his back, like an adult gentleman. The other hand moved to take mine and kissed it courteously. The formality of the gesture didn't reach his eyes. In them was reflected curiosity, yes, but above all compassion. After all, he had also lost his mother, Ygraine. The unfortunate trait in common settled an indescribable cumplicity on both and I believe that was reason for the bond formed between us from that moment forward.

"Be welcome to Camelot, Lady Morgana." Arthur said, and for the for the first time in weeks, I smiled, thinking that maybe my new life in Camelot wouldn´t be so horrible.

I feel my lips shape a smile from the sight that now disfigures in a gentle mist to give rise to a new memory.

Next chapter: Childhood

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