Backdated: Britain
Far past time, Morgan thinks.
She is nearly sixty, for all the glamours she casts to hide it: a slender black-haired woman, framed in the window though there's no one to see her, her dark silken gown elaborate and immaculate. It's time and past time, and she begins to think she may have missed her chance altogether.
Uriens is long gone, and good riddance to him; so are Guiomar and Hemison and poor devoted Accolon. Her own son is dead; Mordred, contrary to the last, is doing exactly what she always encouraged him to do in all the least sensible ways, courting his own destruction. According to half the rumors he's bedding the penitent Guenever, of all the poor taste; the other half claim he lives like a monk, sleeping on stone. When she looks in the glass to see for herself, all it shows her is storms.
Arthur, being Arthur, will no doubt graciously forgive his presumption, as he forgave all the others. Arthur is still more wilful than his son, as wilful as his father, though perhaps (she grants, caustically) less given to rape. Sometimes she would swear he was more stupid than either of them -- except that he still, still eludes her. If he were a fool he must have fallen by now, and he never has. Morgan showed him his own damnation, painted clear on the walls of this very castle, and all his answer was to smile.
So Arthur will forgive his own son of rank treason, and they'll all die of mere age before ever Morgan gains a hold on him; or he will not, and he will fall, as it was foretold, but not by any deed of hers. Mordred, if possible, pays even less heed to her than Arthur does. And what then?
An old woman, alone in her tower, without even the satisfaction of having won.
It's full night before Morgan rises from her seat, and goes down the winding stairs to the little walled garden, and dips her hands into the fountain there.
She is nearly sixty, for all the glamours she casts to hide it: a slender black-haired woman, framed in the window though there's no one to see her, her dark silken gown elaborate and immaculate. It's time and past time, and she begins to think she may have missed her chance altogether.
Uriens is long gone, and good riddance to him; so are Guiomar and Hemison and poor devoted Accolon. Her own son is dead; Mordred, contrary to the last, is doing exactly what she always encouraged him to do in all the least sensible ways, courting his own destruction. According to half the rumors he's bedding the penitent Guenever, of all the poor taste; the other half claim he lives like a monk, sleeping on stone. When she looks in the glass to see for herself, all it shows her is storms.
Arthur, being Arthur, will no doubt graciously forgive his presumption, as he forgave all the others. Arthur is still more wilful than his son, as wilful as his father, though perhaps (she grants, caustically) less given to rape. Sometimes she would swear he was more stupid than either of them -- except that he still, still eludes her. If he were a fool he must have fallen by now, and he never has. Morgan showed him his own damnation, painted clear on the walls of this very castle, and all his answer was to smile.
So Arthur will forgive his own son of rank treason, and they'll all die of mere age before ever Morgan gains a hold on him; or he will not, and he will fall, as it was foretold, but not by any deed of hers. Mordred, if possible, pays even less heed to her than Arthur does. And what then?
An old woman, alone in her tower, without even the satisfaction of having won.
It's full night before Morgan rises from her seat, and goes down the winding stairs to the little walled garden, and dips her hands into the fountain there.