In reality, the culprit was long gone.
The Lady Morgana had ridden hard, leaving Camelot far behind her in her journey, the Lord Agravaine's horse being not the only sacrifice she was preparing to make on this trip. As she stared at the stone castle in front of her, it took all of her will not to break down where she stood, sobbing on the grass like a peasant, and instead to stride through the empty gateway, as she'd done so many times before. Morgause's castle. Her only home.
It was not until she approached the chamber room that she felt the first tear slide down her cheek. The memories were so clear they could almost be happening in front of her. She watched helplessly as the images flashed before her eyes, carrying Morgause's limp figure up the stone tower, placing her on the bed, the relief when she awoke and then the utter despair when she realised she would never recover. She sat down on Morgause's old bed, the sheets unchanged since the last time she was there, and as she lay down, she could still smell her sister, the conflicting mix of perfume and sweat. Just like Morgause's own conflicting personality; her caring, reassuring side, shown only to Morgana, clashing with the determined, seductive, wicked witch that everyone else seemed to see. And nestled in this clash, memories racing through her mind and tears flowing freely, she slept.
She lay in the bed, unmoving for almost two days, drifting in and out of sleep, restless all the time with memories that seemed to be half alive. She woke, completely, on the third with a grim, almost demented, determination. She crossed to her old chamber, connected via an empty archway to Morgause's chamber, created to ease Morgana's nursing of her sister last time they were there, and, with an exasperated gasp, she flung everything from the dusty wardrobe into the fireplace. Then, muttering darkly under her breath, she watched as her old gowns burnt, the emeralds and the scarlets all mingled in the burning heat, becoming a midnight black, and with them went Morgana's past. Her times spent with Arthur as children, her fascination of the jousting, her awe of the King, her father, leaving her with just herself and her sister's memory. She felt the hint of a tear but stood determined, her jaw clenched, she could not regret the loss of those memories, they were false. She wasn't Morgana then, just the royal ward. Only Morgause had made her who she truly was.
She left the castle days later. She'd burnt all her old clothing and belongings, anything that connected her to Camelot, anything that distanced her from Morgause and their life together. She wore Morgause's silver cloak, it was too big for her frame but she no longer cared. In her bag, she'd thrown all Morgause's old clothes, as well as the sheets from her bed. She was beginning to think she was going crazy, but she'd lost all caring for herself. And she needed comforting, now, more than ever.
The boatman smiled knowingly as he watched the woman approach him. Draped in an overflowing, silver cloak, her ebony hair a mess around her pale face, he nodded as she passed him his fare, the gold shimmering slightly in the moonlight. Motioning to the rocking boat, she climbed in gingerly, her sister not here to assist her this time. He knew her, despite their lack of communication, he knew all about her. And he knew she would return; they all do, in the end.
Morgana could hear her heart pounding, the heavy beating turning her stomach as she climbed onto the Isle of the Blessed, dismissing the boatman with a half hearted wave. She had more important things to contemplate. The night was still, but the cold stung her face as she crossed the empty courtyard, her destination only steps before her. She felt the cold stone under her fingertips as she finally circled the altar, tears trickling under her closed eyelids as she remembered the metallic clash of silver on the surface, Morgause's sacrifice for her. But now it was her turn.
She climbed on carefully, stone freezing her skin even through the heavy cloak. She was breathing rapidly, a light sweat on her forehead as she pulled her knife from inside the material. It was the same silver blade, dried blood still a glittering contrast to the pale weapon in her shaking palm. With her free hand, she grabbed the trembling wrist, forcing it still. Head spinning, she lay back, resting her head gently against the icy slab. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes, attempting to clear her head, render her fully concentrated. Within minutes, she was ready. Her eyes opened suddenly.
She spoke in a low whisper, her eyes flashing , and she plunged the knife deep into her stomach with a loud groan, her last sight the moonlight glinting off the stained blade.