Dark Age of Camelot (IC)

(OOC thread here)


"This will be a good year."

Artorius Ambrosianus stood at the center of the amphitheater of Caerleon, clad in his scarlet cloak of office and the leather and mail armor of his cavalryman's uniform. He had been born in the cold and wet seaside fortress of Trevena on the rocky edge of Cornovia, back in the year the Saxons had betrayed Vertigernus in the Night of Long Knives, but had spent nearly a third of his life here, in the central civitas of his adopted people, the Silures. The fortress symbolized his two most cherished values; back when it had been Isca Silurum and had held an actual legion, it had been the center of two martyrdoms, and was as such a holy and sanctified center of the True Church, while its very nature made it a symbol of what he hoped to maintain, and restore: the glory and stability of the Roman civilization that was father to them all. That the fortress had begun to be called merely Caer Legionis, the City of the Legion, and even that having decayed to Caerleon, was a testament to how much they had lost, and how far he had to go.

But now, for the first time since his birth, it seemed that it could be an actual possibility.

For decades now, the Saxons had slowly encroached upon the land of the Romans, the citizens, the Christians. When he had been a boy, over half of the former Roman province on the island had been overrun. When he had just become a man, the final Emperor in Rome had been deposed by the barbarians. Even as he had assumed his office as Dux Bellorum and begun to resume the counterattack begun by his uncle Ambrosius, Syagrius, the final Roman holdout in Gaul, had been overthrown and murdered by the barbarians. Britannia had held out alone. The Saxon tribes had been stronger than ever, buoyed by their successes on the island and their brethrens' victories across the German Sea, and united under the South Saxon warlord Aelle, who had had the tenacity to declare himself Bretwalda, Lord of Britannia. For years they had played cat-and-mouse, striking along the dangerously fluid border, feinting as each had marshaled their forces, made plans, raced to the finish.

Aelle had made it to the end first, throwing his combined warhost deep into Roman territory, all the way to Aquae Sulis on the coast of the Hibernian Sea, hoping to bisect the Brythonic kingdoms to be conquered piecemeal. At least, so it had seemed to him - while in reality, he had fallen into Artorius' trap. For three days and three nights, with the sign of the Cross of the Lord Iesu Christus on their armor, the Romano-British army besieged the Saxons at Mons Badonicus, with victory coming with the death of Aelle, his thegns, thousands of warriors - and the possibility of a Saxon offensive for the next generation, the current level of pagan warriors having been literally bled white. The surviving tribes along the Saxon Shore had been forced to accept a humiliating peace treaty, with even by now most of them having fled or killed themselves in petty internecine squabbles.

It had been victory - the final, unforeseen, long-dreamed of victory. Britannia was safe for Romani and Brython, Christianity, the civilization of the elders. For the first time, the barbarians had been driven off, had failed to seize the one final relic of the Empire. A golden age, a time of prosperity and renewal had been ushered in. And it was all thanks to him. It was not that Artorius was an especially vain man, but he appreciated the value that that recognition would give him - his office was technically a military one only, but in reality it was the highest political office of the land, and his experiences in diplomacy and debate had given him an appreciation of how to best use any advantage he had.

And he would need every advantage he had - so scarce after pulling all of his previous favors in assembling the army and supported he had needed to defeat Aelle - to pull off his dream. This last bastion of Roman civilization had been maintained. The next step was to expand it - to reclaim the territory of Rome, to reform the Empire. And empire without an emperor could not exist. But first things first.

The amphitheater was ringed with a number of flags, all carrying the same image: the standard of the red dragon, an image which had dated from the legions based in this very fortress and which had been associated with the Romano-British nation since at least the days of Germanus. It was the same standard carried by his Artoriani, the same red as the scarlet cloaks he and his predecessors had worn - and not far off from his own ruddy hair. Red hair had been seen as a bad sign in the old Empire; for him, however, he had seen it as a sign that he was destined for great things. In this case, Artorius had been rather glad the Romans had been wrong. The theater had for decades fallen into disuse, but under his father's reign at Caerleon had been refurbished, and Artorius had found it - a vast, wide, flat, round table for assembly - as an excellent place to assemble and speak to his officers. Or, as in this case, visiting dignitaries.

In his grandfather's time, the better part of eight decades ago, when the island had first been granted independence, political authority had been held by a council of notables in the provincial capitol of Londinium. It had been assembled ad-hoc after the governors and representatives of the usurper Constantinus had been evicted, but the edict of Honorius granting self-government had forced it into a permanent position. It had done a decent enough job for the first few decades, until the war with the Saxons had begun, causing besides its direct disruptions the authority of local leaders to increase and the value of the old Roman institutions to decrease. The council's authority had declined even further when they had been forced to evacuate Londinium with its capture in 457, and three years later its surviving members were slaughtered by the Saxons in the Night of the Long Knives.

Since that time, the Dux Bellorum, formerly the first among equals of the council, had been the highest office in the island, with it becoming a de facto monarchy now that the council no longer existed to appoint a successor. Artorius certainly had no wish to change that; a strong monarchy was key to a strong state, every history he had read - and lived through - had proved that. He was still childless, with his own wife little more than a child herself, truthfully, but they had been wed less than a year; there was still plenty of time for an heir to continue his work of rebuilding the Empire. However, if his gains were to last long enough for a son of his to carry on his legacy, the current political situation could not - and without the unifying threat of the Saxons, likely would not - last much longer. Squabbling and increasingly insular chieftains held together only by the fear of each other and fear of the unknown was not a recipe for a stable situation, one conducive to rebuilding and regrowth. So, in the wake of his victory and ostensibly to celebrate it, he had invited all of the Romano-British chieftains to attend to an assembly here, at Caerleon, to discuss the new world order, to forge a new and lasting comity between them - a true brotherhood of citizens and princes alike.

Leo, his father in law, had been the first to be notified, although more due to the fact that he would be one of the hardest to convince. He had sent his wife back to speak with him at his capitol of Isca Dumnoniorum; he would have thought that Guanhumara would have enjoyed a chance to go across the countryside, get away from Caerleon and a marriage that was growing somewhat more, not less, awkward with each day; but she had seemed terrified at the prospect, and it was only with rather patient tending on Artorius' behalf that he had prevented another tearful breakdown on her part. Leo was a stern, aggressive man even with his subjects; Artorius could only imagine what he would have been like as a father. Guanhumara was still almost a stranger to him, yet even that thought provoked an amount of compassion in him. In any case, she had been successful, returning back with her father in tow.

Marcus Cunomorus, the Dux of the Cornovii, had been next; the nephew and successor of his mother's first husband, any familiar dislike there was counterbalanced by the fact that his own nephew and successor, Drustanus, was one of the chief officers of the Artoriani. Then there was Melwas of Glastening, who if rumors were true was the bastard son of Leo; Vortiporius of the Demetae; Urien of Rheged; and even Leudonus, king of the distant island chain of the Orcades; and dozen of others besides. He had met Leudonus only once, staying in his caer in the winter season following his battle of Coit Celidon. It had been a major victory for Artorius, yet the recollection of what had happened that winter in the Orcades had forever soured his memory - perhaps unjustly - of Leudonus. In actuality, the fact that both Leudonus and Urien had agreed to come had set him slightly on edge, knowing all too well who had been spending time in their realms.

"Dux?" Artorius was jolted out of his thoughts by the voice of his chancellor, Gaius, who despite the fact that they had been close friends ever since he had stayed at the town of his father, Hector, as a child, insisted on addressing him formally - and that professionalism was why he did so well at his duties. "She has arrived, and is asking to see you. Lady Guanhumara is attending to her now."

Artorius nodded his head. He had received word some time ago that she would come. There was no reason for her not to be here, after all, and no good reason he could refuse to either invite or allow her to come. He had thought he would have steeled himself by now. He had known her since childhood, even loved her in a way, even after her...personal views, on himself and the society he was attempting to uphold, became known. But after what she had done to him that winter in the Orcades...

"Thank you, Gaius." Artorius patted him on the back. "Have Bedwyr continue the practices. No reason not to dazzle our guests with the Artoriani once they're all here. Give them a taste of what they're paying taxes for, as if keeping their estates and little fiefdoms from the Saxons aren't good enough evidence."

"Of course, Dux," Gaius answered, nodding, starting to move off on a limp leg, a gift from a Saxon axe during their failed attempt to take Caerleon in the runup to the final showdown between Aelle and Artorius. "She and her attendant are in the Great Hall." Gaius walked off towards Bedwyr and the rest of the heavy cavalry commanders, and after another shake of his head, walked towards the caer's central building. He had just defeated the combined armies of the Saxons. He had never been afraid of a battle in his life. And now...he was reluctant to see his sister, face to face.

Well, to be fair, Morgana was only his half-sister, and an older one at that; but still, she was his last surviving relative, at least that he knew of, with any others probably just bastards or offspring of bastards. She had taken - if the rumors were to be held as true - a rather strong interest in the ways of the pre-Christian, and even pre-Roman, beliefs of the island's inhabitants. Artorius had been more than willing to overlook that, even with old Bishop Patricius and his zealous wife and his own notions of a society based upon Roman law and Christian morals. Pagan oppression of Christians had never been strong in Britannia and Artorius would not let the opposite occur under his watch. He could even appreciate that she did not like the fact that her father had been personally slain by his father; it had been a political rebellion by Gwrlais against Uthyr, but too many, Morgana included, saw it as Uthyr's attempt to take Gwrlais' wife Ygerna for himself. Artorius could forgive that, too.

What he could not forgive was her having seduced him.

In the Great Hall, he first saw the slight, tiny frame of his wife, Guanhumara's long blonde hair almost reaching the floor. She was wringing her hands before her, obviously nervous as she attempted to maintain her proper duties as not just any wife, but wife of the Dux Bellorum, in entertaining their guests. Several spaces away from the child's frame of Guanhumara was another woman, somewhat older but still young, slender and tall, her pale frame a contrast with her long, dark hair and her gray eyes a middle ground between them. Just as, standing in the middle ground between those two women, was...

"Morgana, my sister." Artorius' smile came easily, after years of political and public life. "How pleasant to see you here at my little assembly." He leaned in to kiss her cheek, uncomfortable emotions bubbling up at even that slight contact. "I believe this is your first time visiting Caerleon, is it not? Welcome to my capitol - our capitol, the capitol of Britannia, that is," a small level of pride entering his voice. "Tell me...do you plan on staying long?" Artorius' eyes moved over to Morgana's attractive companion as he stepped back from his sister, standing near Guanhumara and laying a hand on her shoulder, giving her a small reassuring squeeze.

"And...do you plan on introducing her to us?"

Morgana

"Pay attention little one."

Morgana glanced over her shoulder to rest her gray eyes on the young woman who walked a pace or so behind her, "You will have to learn to use your eyes little one." Morgana smiled quizzically as she beckoned the younger woman to approach. her. It was all part of Nimue's education, and even though Morgana suspected that her disciple would rather have spent the night in the warm confines of her chambers than be joining her on the nocturnal foraging for herbs and plants. "Look here Nimue." Morgana used the younger woman's name to catch her attention as she kneeled down and unhooked the sickle that hung from her belt. Nimue was moving closer and knelt beside her as she examined the plant that had caught Morgana's interest.

"This is what the followers of the Christ call Devil's snare little one. Their priests scorn the use of it and brandishing it a tool of evil." Morgana smiled mirthlessly as she gently began to dislodge the earth that surrounded the plant, gently digging until she had located the furthest extension of its roots. "The followers of the Christ wants to eradicate the knowledge of our ancestors, jealously guarding it to further push our people into slavery little one." Morgana delicately picked up the plant and placed it in the basket which Nimue carried. "We owe it to our mothers to preserve the knowledge, and while our fathers and brothers fight the oppressors with sword and shield, we preserve our people by making sure that the sacred knowledge does not die with us. By rights it ought to have been your mother telling you all this but seeing as..."

Morgana didn't finish the sentence, knowing that even the mention of Nimue's mother would be likely to send the younger woman into another bout of silence. Morgana had mourned the death of her aunt, she still did, and having taken on her cousin as her apprentice had been an attempt to try and bring the girl back from the darkness she was wandering in. It wasn't merely due to kinship or pity that had been the reasons, Nimue had a gift and Morgana did not doubt that in time and under the supervision of the right teacher, Nimue's knowledge would one day surpass her own.

She stood up, and in a rare display of affection, caressed Nimue's cheek feeling the wetness on the soft skin from where a tear had fallen. It was unfair that the girl had to be subjected to it, but then again the world was everything but fair. Step by step the old ways were being pushed back until Morgana's and Nimue's people found themselves being little more than refugees in their own lands. Reverence for the old ways had been outlawed and the followers of the Christ had put the sword to good employ in their attempts to further banish the traditions of Morgana's people. Not that war or occupation had been unheard of before. The Romans with their multitude of gods and goddesses had come from across the sea and wrought war onto the Britons, trying to subject her people to the ways of Rome with their God-Kings. Then came the Saxons, the fierce warriors from the endless forests of Germany, murdering and pillaging the lands of her island. And between them both stood her brother.

Arthur.

He of coursed did not use that name, clinging instead to the customs of the Romans, seeing in himself the successor of the God-Kings of the Mediterranean Sea. He wanted power, his thirst for it had been insatiable, his appetite for conquest defying even that of the Romans and Saxons. By rights she should hate him, but Morgana knew that hatred was folly and would only serve to drive the lands further into the dark spiral of war and suffering. There was no point in hating Arthur, the path he walked would surely lead him to Death's door before his time.

It pained her up to a point, not because she held any love nor affection for her brother. After all, his father had murdered hers, and forced himself upon her mother. Arthur was the union of that, and as certain as day would follow night, the crimes of his father would be his to pay for.

No it was not for his sake that Morgana lamented, but for their son. Mordred. It was strange a thing, and a forbidden one at that, but the Goddess moves in ways that no mortal can claim to comprehend. She had placed Arthur in Morgana's bed, and while Morgana couldn't know the full extent of the Goddess' plan she thought that it was part of the divine retribution that would befall Arthur for the crimes of his father.

And now she had been summoned to attend his court. For all the flowery words Morgana and those who had been privy to the summons knew it was nothing less than an order. Morgana did not fear death, not even death at the hand of the father of her son, her own life mattered little or would have if not the Goddess had put Nimue in her charge. There were still so many things that the young woman needed to learn, and she would could not allow that she left the little one without having taught her the full extent of her own knowledge. There was also the question of Mordred. In a year's time he would become a man, and by then be ready to counter whatever plans his father would have concocted for him. Morgana's stern features lit up in a smile as she recalled the progress her son had made. Already he was considered a warrior, skilled in all the arts that by rights belonged to the high-born. Still her pride in her son came more from the tales of how he effortlessly gathered men around him. Already the nobles had sworn their allegiance to him, and more than once had she heard tales of his wisdom. Still there was a year before he would be considered a man, and until then his welfare was Morgana's responsibility.

She felt Nimue's hand on her shoulder, and focused on the present as she hefted the sickle again. "Did you bring the bowl little one?" The question was asked flatly, she knew that Nimue would rather lose her right arm than disappoint her. The girl nodded, patting the pouch that hung from her belt and was rewarded with another smile of Morgana's. "We have more to do tonight, there are so much left for you to learn." She set of again, walking nimbly on the rocky path that led them down to the clearing with the spring.

"No man is allowed here little one, it is sanctified by the Goddess herself." She did not look at Nimue as she unclasped her cloak and her belt. "It is said that when the world was made, the Goddess chose this place to be born." She pulled the tunica over her head, revealing her nakedness beneath. She could feel Nimue's embarrassment, for all her talents, the girl still showed a reluctance to some of the aspects of the lore. Then again she had been subjected to the teachings of the Christ and his followers took a dim view of anything that did not speak of punishment and fear. Morgana sighed, not so much in response to her apprentice's shyness but rather at the constraints laid upon the people by the new god. She allowed Nimue a few more moments to make up her mind. Morgana had never coerced or forced her cousin to learn, on the contrary she had made it clear that the girl was free to leave at any moment, and it had only made her cousin more adamant that she'd follow Morgana's every instruction. There was a sigh and then the rustle of cloth as she undressed and sat down opposite from Morgana.

"You will fill the bowl with the waters of the spring little one." Morgana nodded for her apprentice to do so, as she found the root of the herb she had gathered earlier. Wiping the earth from it and saying the words to the Goddess as she began to chew it. It was crude a way to go about it, but at this moment it had to be done according to the old ways. She ground the bitter root into a pulp, spitting the contents into the bowl of water that Nimue handed her and used her finger to mix it until it took on a pale white colour.

Taking Nimue by the hand and leading her to the side of the spring, holding her hand as she beckoned for her to enter the cold waters, "Do not hesitate little one." The brilliant moon was reflected in the dark water, and the reflection shattered as Nimue sank down to her shoulders in the pool. Morgana joined her in the water, sitting opposite from her, holding the bowl in her left hand as she felt her body go numb from the coldness of the water. She whispered the incantation to the Goddess before she drank from the bowl, holding the bitter mixture in her mouth as she leaned closer and pushed her lips to Nimue's, sharing the liquid with her apprentice.

It would be painful for Nimue, the opening of one's mind to the influence of the Goddess always was, even for someone as skilled as Morgana. Her own initiation had left her numb for days, thinking that she had lost her mind. Morgana would have preferred to have had more time to properly prepare Nimue for the initiation, but with her brother's summons, there was no time to be had.

She watched as Nimue shuddered and then grabbed her hands in a vice-like grip. Her nails digging into the flesh of her palms until she was drawing blood. Only the whites of her eyes were visible in the dim light from the moon. The vision were coming into focus and while Morgana knew how to handle them, Nimue would not and thus she needed to have Morgana walk beside her as she opened her mind.

Nimue's breathing became more laboured until the silence was broken by a scream, the girl's eyes pooling with tears as he body spasmed. Holding her tight, Morgana was able to share in the vision. A lake, its surface like a mirror then the perfect ripples as a naked woman rose from the depths holding a sword in her hand.

**************

Morgana was standing in the Great Hall of her brother's keep, attended by Nimue. She wore a simple dress made from wool and coloured green. Her black hair cascaded freely down her back and contrasted her pale shoulders that she had left bare. She had barely said a word to the blonde woman who was apparently Arthur's wife. Like Father like son, Morgana mused as she stared at the girl. They coveted women like herself and her mother but settled for the timid subservient ones like Guinevere. There was a commotion as her brother entered. much to the relief of the poor creature who had been sent to greet Morgana and Nimue.

She gracefully accepted the kiss he bestowed on her, not moving to return the affection and quickly stepping back as soon as he was done.

"Staying long? I intend to go back to our people as soon as I can Arthur" She used the native form of his name rather than the Roman that she knew he preferred. "I shall listen to what you have to say and then take my leave as we both know suit us best." She inclined her head "And this is my cousin Nimue. Nimue this is my brother Arthur allegedly the King of the Britons."

Mordred

For one so young and for one on the brink of what was certain to be a powerful and eventful life, Mordred couldn’t help feeling unusually world-weary. His keen eyes rose to the heavens above, idly watching smoke from the fire before him as it wound it’s silent, graceful path towards the stars. His modest camp for the night consisted of a fire and a blanket, his horse tethered nearby and sword close to hand in it’s scabbard, just in case. It was a lonely way to spend an evening but he preferred it. Away from all the flattering sycophants who surrounded him wherever he went.

He knew he needed their friendship and their influences if his future was to be all it could be, but he could only put up with so much before the idea of running them through became far too tempting. It wasn’t that he’d never killed another man, he had, but kill the wrong person and he could doom himself before he’d even really begun along his life’s path and that simply was not an option.

Almost from birth he had been preparing. Studying, travelling, learning all he could from the best minds his mother could find. He had been an apt pupil. Devouring knowledge, desperate to please, to become all his mother promised he would be. He was rapid to learn new skills and thanks to the slice of his persona that seemed to be the only gift from his father, facts and stories clung to his memory like morning dew to the silken thread of the spider’s webs. Well, his mind and broad shoulders might be partly his father’s, but the rest of him was definitely his mother’s.

A noise in the bushes behind him stopped his musings dead, his hand flying instinctively to his sword’s handle. He stayed motionless for a moment or two, waiting, almost sensing rather than listening for what it was that approaching. Then he struck, spinning around on his knees and plunging his weapon forwards with lethal accuracy, eyes narrowed showing nothing but hostility, lips curled in a wicked looking grimace.

There was a brief, almost pathetic, yelp as his blade found its target.
Mordred drew back his sword, the now lifeless body of a young hare suspended from its tip.

Mordred smirked, dropping the animal to the ground, cleaning his sword in the long grass before re-sheathing it and then about preparing the hare for cooking. After all, waste not, want not. His dagger working precisely to remove skin and sinew before spearing the flesh on the blade and beginning to turn it slowly over the flames. He knew it was unlikely most other young leaders would be in this position, catching, killing and preparing their own meals but it was only a matter of time before he would be able to take his rightful place.

His mother had been a little less than precise when predicting his future role in the history, but her zeal and assurance that he would one day have the power that was rightly his, easily convinced him.

Mordred would continue his journey towards Caerleon with the dawn. He was on his way to visit Artorius and, alongside him, his mother, Morgana. How he would be received he couldn’t say but the idea intrigued him as much as it perplexed him. He was, after all, the rightful heir to Artorius’ position. At least according to his mother.

Removing the meat from the fire, Mordred’s teeth sank into the slightly smoking flesh, chewing thoughtfully as his eyes returned to the firmament above and that same knowing smile returned to his lips.
Oh yes, his time was coming.

Aeldredd sat in the copse and looked at the castle. The military man in him couldn't help but instinctively draw together a rudimentary plan for an attack. First, surrounding the moat, taking care to invest the high hills there, and there. Then, infill the moat with fagots - plenty of wood nearby to take care of that - and storm the gatehouse at the weak point where the wall had been improperly repaired. He looked around to make sure no Britons were watching - the only one nearby was a herdsman tending some cows who was far too absorbed, and also several fields away - and heaved a sigh. Although he bore the Britons no ill will as a people, he had never known the glory of seeing an enemy fortress fall. And now, unless he returned to Aelle and participated in the pathetic inter-Saxon wars that absorbed all his Lord's time, he never would. And it would not be the same even if he did.

But it seemed that his people's time in the sun was over. He was born in these islands and he knew no other home, but he did not feel at home among the Britons. Some days he revelled in it, days when he seemed to unearth some new, fascinating custom or some turn of phrase that his wife hadn't seen fit to teach him. Some days he felt oppressed and imprisoned within invisible walls of alienation. Most days, he simply got by.

He rubbed his leg subconsciously, feeling the deep, insistent burn that had never left him since that British spearman had split his leg like a craftsman whittling a greenwood flute. Noticing the reflex, and annoyed by it, he drew out his dagger, turning the hilt in his hand several times to get a grip, and drew out a small nobbin of wood he had picked up on his earlier walk through the forest. Feeling the smooth flow of the wood, he nodded to himself. Yes, there was something within this little piece of the forest - perhaps a woadling waiting to come out. Carefully placing the dagger's point against the wood, he began to slowly, methodically carve away the outer layers, exposing the shape that lay within. It calmed him - it let his mind go to sleep. Once he had done it will on sentry duty outside his hold, or while camping on the night before a battle. Now he did it so that he didn't dwell on his strange position. He glanced around once more, and then shrugged. As a sometimes despised alien, he had been stood up before, on more formal occassions than this. If the one he had been asked to meet here was to come, they would come. If not, he would at least have something to show for it. Tiny shavings of wood fell on his heavy dun boots like snowflakes on sod.

Nimue

Steel grey eyes surveyed the room before her. Its opulence and its overcrowdedness made her feel quite out of place. She much preferred the less gaudy beauty that nature posessed, not the man-made ornamentation that decorated these halls. Nimue sighed and followed Morgana. She knew that her cousin's presence was necessary and she was honored that she was allowed to attend her. She had been mildly curious as to what went on within the stone walls of the castle. It was not a greater curiousity than she had for learning about anything else.

Her pale hands stroked the material of her gown absently, her thoughts returning to the night before. In the time since Nimue's mother had passed, Morgana had filled her life with happiness, knowledge, and fulfillment. She had taught her about their history and their need to preserve their heritage against those that would choose to obliterate it. Nimue was no stranger to tales and believers in the Christ but her distaste for their ideas grew as she realized how they were trying so hard to make their beliefs the only ones that existed.

As long as she lived and breathed she would never forsake the beliefs and traditions of her ancestors.

Nimue was a bit anxious to see Arthur. She was curious as to his person, as besides being the brother of her beloved cousin she had also bore a child by him. There was much she had to learn about Morgana and perhaps it would be an accurate statement to say that Nimue's curiousity about Morgana was insatiable. She admired and respected her and longed to know all she could about her. Surely there was nothing wrong with that. Much better to be a bit obsessive about something like that than something silly and destructive like the Christ.

Nimue closed her eyes. She was tired. The journey to the castle had been exciting, thick with anticipation. Yet now that it was over and she was finally there her thoughts were haunted by the last thing she had seen before they had made their journey. Her vision.

There was no mistaking that the nude woman she had seen rising from the lake was herself. It frightened and intrigued her both at the same time. She longed to know what it meant, why she had been holding a sword; even why it had been her image that Nimue had seen. She had pressed Morgana to tell her but her cousin had resisted. Not one to pry, Nimue had let it go, yet deep in her her gut she knew that there was more information that Morgana could have shared with her. Perhaps it was just not the right time yet. She would need to trust her cousin's judgment in such matters. It tried the patience of an enthusiastic student but that was the way it would have to be.

She wondered about the root, the mixture, the spring. As soon as they were back home she would return to it. There were many mysteries there left to explore and learn. Nimue wouldn't be content to only experience such a thing once. She would go as far as Morgana would lead her and then further if needed. She noticed Morgana's steps become more purposeful and she followed quickly, knowing that they would be meeting someone very soon. She stood quietly as a pretty blond haired woman greeted them. A short time later a man approached them. She could tell by the expressions on the woman's faces and the commotion that erupted that the man was Arthur.

Her grey eyes moved over him slowly, trying to get an idea of his character from what she saw. It was not the best way to judge a person but at this point it was all Nimue had to go on. He seemed large, proud, and yet she sensed some degree of discomfort at being near his half-sister, Morgana. She nodded politely at her cousin's introduction, not knowing the proper way to greet a king. Well, according to Morgana, the alleged King.

Nimue gave a small, kind smile to the blond woman. Guienevere was even younger than herself. It must be a strange thing to be so young, already married to a man, already a queen yet barely a woman. She thanked the Goddess that her life had taken a different course.

Guanhumara

Amber rays of the evening sun illuminated the great hall with an ethereal glow that held Lady Guanhumara spellbound, her green eyes sparkling in the light. On evenings such as this she would have much preferred to be outside, walking beneath the trees in the grove, breathing in the fresh air. The quiet of the evening was much more preferable than the crowded banquet hall in which she now stood. Looking out over the gathering once more, she fidgeted nervously for the millionth time, thinking to herself how much she longed to be a child again, since children were not welcome at gatherings such as these. A to be a girl again, the ever constant wish of her heart. Sadly it had been quite some time since she had been seen as such, indeed she was a different creature altogether. She was a woman. A woman now made a wife. Wife to no ordinary man, but Tribune of the Silures and Dux Bellorum of Britannia, himself. Little more than a year had passed since she had been wed to Artorius - or more accurately since she had been given to him a a sign of her father's allegiance - and still she had not grown accustomed to her new found place in life.

Married life was as foreign to her as life at court here in Caerleon. Despite being born daughter of a king and as such accustomed to standing on ceremony, nothing could have prepared her for the role as Artorius' wife. She wanted nothing more than to please him. But at nineteen years of age she was no more a woman than she was a child. Instead she was trapped in some bizarre nexus between the two, alone, unsure and afraid. In the months since their union, she and Artorius had had little interaction, it seemed that she was incapable of pleasing him. When he suggested that she return to Isca Dumnoniorum, she had tried her hardest to keep from bursting into tears. Partly because she feared he had tired of her - for why else would he ask that she return to her fathers dominion without him at her side - and also because she dreaded having to face her father again.

Life as her father's child had not been the easiest of things to endure. King Leo of the Dumnonii was a harsh man, feared by many and it had been no different with his sole heir. He had been strict and sparing in his praise with his only daughter. Guanhumara had learned early to keep clear of his path, seeing as caused him nothing but displeasure despite her best efforts. If nothing else she had hoped that in marrying Artorius, she would be able to bring her father some small sense of pride. Despite her initial protests she had done her husband's bidding, traveling to the place she once called home and returning with her father at her side. But her uneasiness had increased with the knowledge that her fathers ever watchful eye was now upon her at all times. She knew that the smallest step in the wrong direction would incur his wrath, and that was something she would give the world to avoid. Wife of the Dux Bellorum or no, she was his daughter first and she knew he would not hesitate to remind her of that fact.

Forcing herself from her thoughts, Guanhumara gave a quick smile as Gaius her husband's cancellarius approached. The smile quickly turned to one of nervousness, as she saw that he approached with a guest. She had no need of Gaius's introduction, for Mara knew the woman instantly. Standing now but a few feet in front of her was the Lady Morgana, half-sister to her husband. She considered it a great honor to stand in her presence, despite the fact that her husband never spoke of his sister - something Mara found quite odd yet did not question. Tales of the older woman's beauty and character were well known across the isle, reaching even the far Dumnoniorum. Many of those tales had reached Mara's ears by way of her priests, and they whispered of Morgana being nothing more than a pagan whore serving as a tool of the devil. Others however, painted her as a woman strong in her faith and convictions who was loved, cherished and respected by her people. Mara chose to believe the latter. And while Mara could not and probably would not ever understand lady Morgana's beliefs in the old ways - for how anyone could deny the power of the Lord was beyond her - she longed for the poise and confidence the woman before her exuded and for her strength. A strength she knew she would need in order to guide her and her husbands people in their faith and in the times that lay ahead.

After exchanging brief pleasantries with her sister-in-law and the quiet beauty beside her, regarding their journey and the beauty of the evening, Mara fidgeted nervously having run out of thoughts for conversation. When Artorius appeared at her side, she gave a small smile, inclining her blond head to him respectfully. Skillfully suppressing the sigh of relief that had risen within her upon his arrival, grateful that she had not had to wait any longer for his arrival. She could not however help but jump as his hand slid about her shoulder in reassurance still made uncomfortable by the intimacy of his touch.

Artorius

For all his unease at seeing his sister again, especially in such close proximity, he was somewhat...not disappointed, no, but somewhat put off by Morgana's lack of any type of response to his kissing her. Was this really the same woman who had taken him in her arms...But no. No, best not to go down that road, especially when his wife was right next to him and the Heavenly Father could see all. He covered it up by moving back to place his arm around Guanhumara's shoulder, which of course caused her to jump. It would have been enough to make him sigh had they been in private. How long was she going to keep acting like every husbandly touch upon her was like the blow of a fist?

He had never wanted her as a wife; it might sound harsh, but it was the truth. Leo had forced him into a hard spot, damn him - as if he would have enjoyed living under the Saxon heel otherwise - and Artorius had had no choice but to accept her, an act - notwithstanding the girl - he thought cowardly and bordering on treasonous, something with Leo still needed to be called to terms for. She had been young, almost totally sheltered, obviously left oblivious and terrified as to the world of men by her father's upbringing. But still, he had accepted her, and whatever his feelings about their marriage, he had behaved honorable and kindly to her, as proper and loving as any husband ought to. And still, she behaved like a frightened child. True, she was still very young, and still rather sheltered; but he had been kind to her, and it had been over a year since the marriage. Over a year, and still her only response to his exercising his husbandly rights was for her to roll over and cry when he had finished. Artorius was not a monster; he was a decent man, patient and pious to the same faith that she so strongly professed. Yet even his patience could wear thin after a while.

Over a year of marriage, and his little wife Guanhumara still had not shown any sign whatsoever of having achieved an heir for him.

"Our people?" Artorius turned his attention back to Morgana, resting his arm on the pommel of his spatha. "Morgana, we share the same people, just as we share the same blood. We have the same mother, just as we were raised by the same father, given the same education. Our people are the same, and this is their epicenter. Civilized, a beacon of stability and civilization and the True Faith in the sea of the Germanic hordes." He raised his arms, taking in the Roman finery restored by Britannic artisans, of the Great Hall. "I know we have had...differences of opinion in the past as to state policy, Morgana. But you cannot deny that my victory, my forging together the civitates and tribes of the province, has truly returned us to being a single people. A single people under a single law and a single rule."

He gave her a thin smile, belying his continued annoyance at the familiar charade. "And please, my dear sister...Call me Artorius. There is now not any doubt remaining that the province is Roman once more. You have been on the fringes, out beyond the Wall fall too long. You should come back into the fold, my dear. Perhaps you could speak with some of our priests, or even my dear Guanhumara. She is most pious and has been helping the conversions of some of the...our former enemies." The charade had gone on long enough; she might be older, but he was still the family man, the Dux Bellorum. He would not let her intimidate him any longer; nor would he let her, the last and closest family member of the Dux Bellorum, frustrate his efforts to re-Romanize Britannia by eschewing the Imperial traditions. "We shall speak more on this later, no doubt."

He turned to the woman standing next to her, smiling as he greeted her graciously. "And Nimue? Welcome to Caerleon. Cousin, you say? No doubt on your father's side?" he asked Morgana. "Well, welcome indeed. If you are a cousin of my sister then I embrace you as a relative as well." Artorius proceeded to do just that, enjoying the feel of the younger woman's body, clad only in her light shift, even against his own leather and mail armor and despite what he gathered was some unease of her own. Well, why not; it wasn't as if he herself did not feel the same. The fact that she joined his summoned sister was not it; it was clear that a lady such as Morgana needed a proper attendant. What was at issue was that she was clearly no attendant.

It was bad enough that she was somehow related to Morgana, especially through the blood of Gwrlais, the Dux Cornovii that his other father had killed. If that alone hadn't been enough to turn her against him, then the sweet words of Morgana's own anger over it certainly would have, for the two appeared to be close. They even shared the same style of garment, that of the peoples who had lived beyond the Wall and never known Rome, and who were the core of Morgana's little pagan revivalism. Artorius had always looked the other way to his sister's views with more tolerance than some - Guanhumara included - thought right, but he now wondered about her bringing an unannounced guest who was possibly one of her pagan priestesses. There were no doubt political connotations there; it was bad enough having Morgana's line be set to inherit his Roman and Christian government with the lack of a son of his own, but with her bringing a pagan follower of Gwrlais' blood...

He hadn't lived so long without being a little paranoid, learning to distrust his shadow. And of course most of those supposed plots failed to materialize. But they all merited watching. This was no different. But of course, that did not mean he had to jump to conclusions...especially when this was his sister, after all. He had saved civilization; he would not act uncivilized.

"Tell me, Morgana, Nimue, are you hungry from your journey? Or would you like to rest now? I will have Gaius or one of his men fetch you rooms, the finest in the caer of course for my dear relatives. However, whatever you decide, I will be having a dinner tonight with the chieftains I have...whose presence I have requested from across the province. I would quite hope that you will both attend, sitting at our table, of course." He squeezed Guanhumara's hand, giving Morgana a smile that left no doubt that his dinner invitations were no request.

"Now, how about...ah." For a moment, Artorius' carefully-controlled features faltered, as a new individual made his way into the Great Hall. Then, Artorius the Dux Bellorum was back in control, and he smiled warmly.

"Aeldredd, welcome. This is my sister, Morgana, and cousin, Nimue." He indicated the women in sequence. "Morgana, Nimue, this is Aeldredd the Blue. A South Saxon, yes, but do not worry, he will not harm you. Aeldredd was one of the ones who fought against us at Mons Badonicus, one of Aelle's men, and afterwards was appointed by some thegn or another to serve as an emissary to me. His wife is one of us, and he is very open about embracing the True Faith. My dear wife has spoken with him on it many times, haven't you, my love?" He gave Guanhumara another squeeze on the shoulder, his voice convincingly carrying his words of love. "Despite his origins, Aeldredd has never given me any pause or cause to doubt him, and his knowledge of his people and skill with words has helped me immensely, and also, I might add, helped diffuse a few terse border situations following the peace not a few times."

Aeldredd and the women passed a few terse words of welcome, as Artorius watched. His words had not been false; Aeldredd had been useful, hadn't given any cause for disloyalty, had been open about embracing Christianity and Roman customs, had given him actual hope that someday even the Saxons might be tamed and taught to live side by side with the citizens of the province. However...however, Artorius had been raised from birth to fight the Saxons. They had been at war for years before then. His predecessors had all fallen to the Saxon blade. His entire life, his entire rule, had been predicated upon rallying his people against the Saxon threat.

And now that threat was gone, and he had a Saxon - a Saxon diplomat, no less! - as an advisor. It took some getting used to. But get used to it he would. Artorius grit his teeth. That was the whole point of this assembly. The war was over; a new order had to be imposed, one not basing itself off of the need to fight either the Saxons or one another. And he would succeed. He had no other choice. All his gains, sanctifying all the losses of Uthyr and Ambrosius, rested upon it.

One of Gaius' stewards entered the Great Hall now, speaking to Morgana and Nimue about taking them to their rooms. Artorius turned to Guanhumara. "Perhaps you could run along with Aeldredd now, my dear? I wish to speak with my sister for a moment." Walking over, Artorius interrupted the steward.

"I would like to speak with my sister for a moment. You may take Nimue to the room, I shall not detain her cousin for long."

When at last they were alone, in the corner of the Great Hall, Artorius returned his gaze to Morgana's green eyes. "Well, now," he spoke finally, feeling slightly odd. It was the first time they had been alone since...that night. "You know, Morgana...I don't hate you, I really don't. I can understand why you hate me, at least when we were children. But that was a long time ago, and we have both grown since then. Neither one of us is responsible for our parents' sins. We are all the family we have left. Never mind Guanhumara or your cousin, we are siblings, the last of our blood family. We have no more ties. And I don't want the blood between us to be bad. We...were so close once, after all..."

Artorius almost leaned in, laid a hand on her, made some form of close physical gesture, but at the look she gave him, pulled away.

"What I mean to say is," he said, making up for his flub, "is that this truly is a new age for Britannia. It can also be a new dawn for us, as well. The...sins of the past forgotten. A fresh state." He tried a smile. "After all, some siblings actually manage to get along well. There is no reason it can't be the same for us, too, is there?"

Morgana

Morgana kept her face impassive as she listened to her brother's explanations as to the reasons behind his actions. He had his agenda and his beliefs, just as she had hers. What could he say to change that the rift between them had grown wider over the years, and would probably have done so even if he had not been so zealous when it came to eradicating the very essence of her people. Morgana knew what the priests of the Christ said, that everything that did not conform to their beliefs was to be put to the sword, the knowledge and lore of countless generations of her foremothers scattered like ashes in the wind. Was the yearning for power really that strong in him, that he would forsake the very soul of his own heritage?

The only thing which caused Morgana to briefly offer another expression was when he insisted that she'd address him by the Romanized form. From that, as well as his assurances that Britain was once more a Roman province it was easy to tell that behind the show of self-confidence lay something else, something that would potentially add another piece to the construction of his downfall.

A shadowy smile caressed Morgana's full lips as she trained her emerald stare over his face noticing the tiny flicker in his eyes. He might call himself King or Dux or whatever term that his Roman ideals proclaimed the most suitable, but when all was said and done, Arthur was still a Briton, and more to the point, his mother's son. Morgana had sworn an oath never to let him forget that even if he himself seemed eager enough to do so.

She let her eyes rest on Guinevere for a moment, seeing the child's unease of being put to her scrutiny. Like the decorations that adorned the Great Hall, Guinevere was a trophy, something that would be used to lend further splendour to Arthur's achievements. Morgana wondered for a moment what had been the underlying reasons to the union. The woman seemed to be frightened of her own shadow, never mind the close presense of her King and husband. Still the followers of the Christ did not value a free spirit in their women, the ability to breed sons seemed the main qualification for the position of Lady of the land. Still by the look of her she had yet to produce an heir.

Morgana found herself feeling the merest flicker of sympathy for the girl. She was a commodity to be bartered, scarcely more than a slave. Yet the emotion was fleeting, Guinevere may have nothing to do with Arthur's plans and designs, but her very existence, especially if she were to produce an heir would spell the end of Morgana's people. Thus she would not allow irrelevant thoughts cloud her judgement now. She cleared her throat, the sound halfway between a cough and a sarcastic laugh, before she addressed her brother.

"Our people Arthur" Morgana pointedly used the Brythonic form or his name, "never did belive that putting the followers of our gods and beliefs to the sword would win their loyalty. Nor that making proud and free-born men and women bend their knees in forced homage to a foreign god would make them love their conquerer. Not even the Romans whom you seem so eager to mimic did that." She paused watching how Arthur clenched his teeth and the little child-queen put her hand over her mouth to surpress a gasp. Her words had been intended to cause some degree of offence yet she had spoken them softly not betraying the furnace of emotions that resided within her chest. "You will do well to remember that what is created by the sword will ultimately be destroyed by the sword." Morgana met her brother's icy stare with one of her own, holding it until he looked away, and only then offering more conciliatory words. "But on the whole I think you have done quite well for yourself. Your name is spoken with reverence and fear throughout the land Arthur and I'm sure that your father would have been proud of you had he lived to see what you have made for yourself."

Morgana inclined her head in response to his last words. "We shall indeed Arthur and I hope that the Goddess will grace our conversation." She stood still as her brother approached Nimue, and before she could explain their relation, he had embraced her. "Nimue is the daughter of our mother's sister Vivianne, and a dear friend. She belongs to our own court, and although lacking the grandeur of yours she will be treated as her station requires." Morgana did not expound their relation any further nor did she raise her voice when stating the obvious demands. Arthur would not allow her a chance to snub him on a technicality and thus he would bestow all honours on their cousin. More to the point was of course the notion that Arthur would have understand that their cousin was indeed Morgana's apprentice and that the reason for bringing her to Caerlon was to send a message in force - the old religion was not dead and that he in Nimue would see her successor as High Priestess.

"I think we are quite content for the moment Arthur." She glanced at the tapestry that lined the wall, absentmindedly almost, answering her brother's question. "Although I would like a bath if that's not against the teachings of the Christ. Would it be possible to arrange?" Morgana ran her hand along the weave, taking in the many hours of labour that had brought forth the image on it. It was exquisite, yet the representation of the dying Christ was disheartening. A man died on a cross, brought to an end by a society not unlike the one that her brother was in the process of creating. Nothing good would come out of that. Althugh she rejected the idea of bowing down to the strange god from Rome, Morgana was not ignorant of the teachings, and the scene of the dying man on the cross brought one such to mind. "Tell me Arthur, is it true that the wife of the Roman who ordered the Christ's death prayed that he'd be spared?"

She turned to look at her brother, but he was now locked in a conversation with another man, and either he did not hear her question, or else he simply chose not to acknowledge it. Guinevere on the other hand gave Morgana a long stare, her face once more a grimace of shock at what must surely be blatant heresy. The girl would have to learn how to handle such things if she aspired to be regarded as the Lady of the land. No one, especially no one of Morgana's people would take a frightend little girl seriously. Though it was possible that Guinevere was scared of her, she seemed to have taken a liking, or at least, less of a frightened attitude towards Nimue. The Goddess bless the girl, her natural kindness working it's way to wear down the defences of the child-queen.

Her brother's short audience with the crippled man soon drew to a close and he dismissed the people that had been present in the room without even pretending to uphold the image of civility. It was of course the prerogative of a lord to do so, but assuming that Nimue was a subject of his and as such could be ordered away irked Morgana. He moved over to where she was standing, delivering his speech that to her ears sounded rehearsed, except for the point where his hand touched hers. The gesture brought yet another smile to her lips, he showed the same insecurities now as he had then, yet the difference was that back then he had been scarce more than a boy, pretending to be an adult. Now he was a man who could, if not destroy, then at least inflict serious destruction on Morgana's people and lands.

She withdrew her hand, doing so slowly as to not rouse neither his anger nor shame. "No we are not responsible for the sins of our fathers, but as far as absolution, isn't that what you call it goes, one must make sure not to repeat their mistakes." Morgana held his gaze as she continued. "One people you say, but one people does not kill one and other as is done now. Nor do they force their beliefs on their sisters. If you want peace then you will grant my people the freedom to continue as they have done. Do not impose the Christ on them, do not force them to forsake the tongue of our mother." She inhaled as she contemplated whether to tell him or not and finally decided to do so. "And as for family. You do know that I have a son. He is by our mother's blood and that means that as we speak, in this very moment, he is next after you in line for your throne." Morgana reached out, placing her slender hand on his. "I have sent for him, and he will join me here. You understand the reasons I'm sure." Her voice which had been carefully modulated suddenly took on an edge. "And I warn you Arthur son of Uther, that if you bear him any ill will or try to harm him it will be the last thing you do in this world."

Artorius

Artorius held his breath, letting it out slowly, in a manner modulated carefully to prevent a slight hiss as Morgana let her hand glide over his, inch by inch rubbing along it as she withdrew it. To his shame, it put him in mind of other types of rubbing. He was a pious man, but not enough to feel any shame at his natural man's urges; he had too much of his father in him for that. Even though he was married, he saw no harm in just thinking of other women in such a way, especially when they wanted it and his wife was not present; it was a tool, a method to test his own fidelity against all temptations. No, what bothered him about this was that this was his sister - and, after all he had vowed, he was once more thinking of the night she had taken him into her bed.

Artorius smiled slightly as she began to speak, losing it almost immediately. "Repeating their mistakes? Is this about mother again? Your father was attempting to usurp Uthyr the same time the Saxons were advancing. It was treason, treason that would have seen Roman and Brythonic civilization alike destroyed by German pagans. And yet everyone continues to blame Uthyr, a great man who saved our island, as if he, he of all people, would kill a loyal vassal just to take his wife! If this is about that, my dear sister, and if I was, as you suggest, repeating your favorite story-sin about my father, then Guanhumara's father would be lying in a pit-grave for attempting to withhold his horses from me during the leadup to Mons Badonicus."

Artorius' frown deepened as his sister continued. Apparently this was far beyond her usual petty squabbles about her traitor father's death. No, this was certainly new terrain for his sister, at least to his ears. He had willingly turned a blind eye and attempted to avoid hearing the rumors about her messianic zealotry in the rural areas beyond the crumbling Roman towns and rocky caers. But now, she was imposing it upon him.

"Your people? Your people, Morgana? You would do well to remember that I am the Dux Bellorum, as much as it must vex you, and that as far as I am aware, you do not even have a petty minor tribe or village to rule over. Perhaps the heather people and woad-stained midgets beyond the Wall see you as their savior, but among the civilized peoples of this island, there can be only one rule, one government. The killing and strife between us cannot continue, that is true enough; but that is also the reason of this assembly, to create a new method of rule. An assembly, I might add, in which you will certainly be willing to offer your opinions. It would only be right for my sister to have that honor." A subtle stab at the fact that, whatever she posited herself as among her heathen adherents, here her status was derived from her relation to a man - to him.

"As to your other worries..." Artorius raised an eyebrow. "Language? Religion? This island has been Roman for four and a half centuries. It has been Christian for almost two. None now living had even grandparents who were alive before Christianity was the accepted religion and Latin the accepted tongue. None now living had cause to complain about such, either, until you started whipping them up."

His gaze softened, and he once more made a half-attempted to move towards her, before pulling himself away. "I don't mind letting your people on the fringe of the province speaking their own language and worshiping whatever relics of the ancient days you like. But the cities, the traders, the leadership classes and those who matter - those must return to the ways of true civilization, and when you attempt to impose your outlandish, heretical views upon those who I am most adamant about maintaining a modicum of civilization for..." He spread his arms, as if helplessly. "I can't help but see it as more than a threat, as a direct and deliberate insult."

Her next words, however, drained the color from his face. He was still for several moments after she stopped speaking, not even reacting to her hand on his own or her ridiculously self-aggrandizing threat.

"A...son, you say? How interesting. How very interesting." He was quiet several seconds more. "And what might his name be?"

Morgana, looking at him with an indeterminate look, finally told him.

"Mordred." He sounded the name on his tongue. "In your language, of course. Medraut, here. If...he is to reign, he will need to get used to that. But, Mordred for now." He raised his gaze to Morgana's again, sounding more chipper than he felt. "And you say he is coming here, then? Well, that is good. It's good to have the family all together for once. For me to meet him. I do hope we will get along well. I will need to organize some tutors for him...Well, that can wait." Nonchalantly, he tried to add in a sly request. "Tell me, how old is he? And the father?"

To this, Morgana was rather less kind, telling him only that the boy was just old enough to be entering into manhood, and that the high priestess - it made him almost blanch when she described herself as such, with all the connotations with it - did not take a husband, and that the conception of this child was part of a ritual which was not to be spoken of. Bad enough to think of his sister as a pagan priestess; even worse to imagine her whoring herself out to her devotees in such a fashion that was as far from civilization as could be; but worst of all was to think of his sole heir being produced in such a manner. Not only because of the indignities, but also because it guaranteed that he would already have been indoctrinated in her nonsense.

And he was now the heir to his rebuilt civilization.

"You must forgive me, Morgana," Artorius finally said. "I seem to have suddenly come down with some flux. Perhaps you will excuse me?" He called to the staff, and Gaius approached. "Gaius will take you to your quarters, Morgana. He will also make sure you get that bath you wanted. Gaius, it seems we are expecting another visitor. The Lady Morgana's son, a young lad named Mordred. I'm sure she will fill you in on his appearance. When he arrives, to be sure to notify both myself and my sister. He is to be given every courtesy."

"Very good, Dux," Gaius nodded, turning to Morgana. "Milady, if you'll follow me?"

The two began to walk away, and Artorius called out one more time. "And Gaius? I shall be in my quarters. Please ensure that I am not bothered."

"Certainly, milord," the cancellarius replied, speaking to another staff member, before continuing to lead Morgana to the room that Nimue would already be waiting in. Artorius watched the two of them leave, and then a moment later headed for his room. Hopefully, Guanhumara would not be there. He enjoyed her company, on occasion; when she was not crying or trembling, she could be comforting, like a favored pet. But at the moment, he wished to be alone. Things at Caerleon had suddenly taken a larger swerve, and whether it was for the better or worse, he wasn't yet sure.

*Aeldredd nodded coolly as he was introduced to the Dux's relatives, offering a stern but not unrespectful bow* "Lady Morgana, it is a pleasure to meet you" *The bow to Nimue was a little less stiff and formal, but still well within the realms of etiquette* "And you also, Madame Nimue. Anybody who shares blood with Artorius needs no further testament to their formidable nature, but even if it was required, I have heard many good things of you, particularly your admirable concern for the spiritual needs of the people of Angeland. I would be quite interested to discuss such matters with you, as I myself greatly enjoy discussing matters of faith and religion, although I confess it is more of a hobby than a great study of mine" *He shifted, the furs on his shoulders rustling softly as he dragged his stiff leg into a more comfortable position for standing rather than bowing* "But I will not seek to keep you from conferring with the Dux. I hope my humble welcome to Caerleon is somewhat memorable among all the other welcomes you have recieved" *The Saxon's British language was perfect in tense and grammar, but his accent was harsh and not at all muted, particularly when pronouncing so sacred a name as Caerleon - it almost seemed like a small blasphemy"

*Aeldredd then retreated into the background with a somewhat intrusive thumping as he dragged his club-like leg across the rough stones. His gaze flitted about the court, his narrow brown eyes surprisingly agile in his otherwise somewhat oafish face, which suddenly became animated when Guanhumara was directed towards him. Stepping curtly forward he proferred an arm* "My Lady, if you would be so kind, I have been thinking about what you told me about the nature of Christ, and I have some questions that I would be very interested to hear your thoughts on, if you would be so kind?"

Morgana

It was clear that the news about her son had upset Arthur, his excuses not able to hide the fact that he was visibly shaken by the revelation. Morgana could not help but smile at his retreating form. How easy it was to unsettle the carefully laid plans of his. The dreams of a dynasty of his own already beginning to shatter. After all it was possible that the child-queen Guinevere would not be able to bear him the son that he needed to secure the hold of the land. The fact that Mordred was already a man and commanding the loyalty of Morgana's people would further strengthen his position as Arthur's successor. And by the time the little child-queen had managed to produce an heir to her brother's throne, Mordred would have secured the loyalty of the nobility and would easily outmanoeuvre any attempts to challenge his claim.

Morgana rose from the seat in the alcove, her face impassive as she watched her brother retreat. She was surprised how easy it had been to unsettle Arthur, and if the Goddess favoured her, she would make sure that he was put in a position where he would be forced to yield to her demands. It was not for the sake of power, Morgana assured herself, but for the sake of her people. She did not desire to rule but she would do what was necessary in order to protect her people and, she added with a faint smile, to further the ambitions of her son.

She was interrupted in he reveries by a servant who offered her a curtsy and informing her that her bath was ready. His grace the Dux had ordered it to be taken to her chambers to ensure the Lady Morgana's privacy, a statement that made her laugh. Surely it had more to do with the shame inherent in the religion of which her brother was a follower, or perhaps it had been an express wish of Guinevere? Probably so, given how the child-queen had reacted in her presence. She let her mind wander as she followed the servant to her quarters, finding a number of girls filling a wooden tub with hot water, under the stern eyes of Nimue. Her apprentice smiled as she entered, telling the servants to leave, making Morgana smile. There was iron in the girl, and woe to the errant person who dared to cross her. For all her demure appearance, Nimue was a daughter of the Picts.

Morgana nodded regally as the harassed servants left the chamber, offering her cousin a smile as she pulled the simple tunica over her head and let it fall to the floor. "Do tell me little one, what did you make of your cousin?" She moved to the tub, dipping her fingers in the water, sensing the heat that made her skin tingle. "I daresay he took an instant liking to you, as did that child he's made his queen." Morgana picked up a small wicker basket, the interior of which was divided into partitions, each holding a vial or a package of herbs. Most of the power Morgana wielded stemmed from her knowledge of such things, and she never travelled without it. She selected a small box made from birch bark and poured some of its contents into the water, causing a pleasant fragrance to fill the room.

She listened as Nimue's words, her honest face speaking volumes as to what she had made of the situation, even if her words were guarded. The deeply ingrained respect that the girl had held Morgana's mother in seemed to have been transferred to her now, and it sometimes prevented Nimue from speaking her mind. Not that it mattered, Morgana considered herself to know her cousin's mind by now and if the child did not feel comfortable revealing her inner thoughts so be it. The important thing was her loyalty to their people, and as long as it was honoured, Morgana would gladly put up with Nimue's quirks. In the end the girl would become more skilled than her.

Morgana sighed as she let herself slip into the water, closing her eyes as the warmth enveloped her. She could feel Niume's hands massaging her shoulders, working the knots out of her muscles. She closed her eyes as she recounted the events that had taken place earlier, the way her brother had seemed almost too eager to gain her approval which was quite strange given that he was intent on destroying her way of life. There was also the issue of Guinevere. She seemed out of place in her brother's court. Lacking the strength to march that of Arthur's.

Morgana smiled, and then there was the issue of her inability to produce a child. While it was a tragedy for the child-queen, it only served to strengthen Mordred's position. Morgana considered the possibility of enforcing this status. There were enough ways to keep a woman from bearing children, and if needs be she would not hesitate to use them. Yet it was the final resort, she reminded herself and only to be used should Mordred's position come under threat from a son of Arthur's.

She was shaken from her reveries by a timid-looking servant, telling her that the Lord Mordred had arrived and that the Lord Mordred wished to speak to the Lady Morgana. She nodded, dismissing the girl who stared in disbelief that she would receive him there. The followers of the Christ never ceased to amaze Morgana. She wondered what they would think if they were to know that their pious king had shared the bed of his own sister? And that the Lord Mordred was in fact the result of that union. Morgana gave a pearly laugh. They both knew the implications although Arthur had yet to know the truth about his nephew.

There was another knock and the door swung open to reveal her son. It seemed that he resembled Morgana in almost every part of his appearance. The black hair and the pale complexion as well as the stature. She smiled as he blushed, averting his gaze from her. "What my dear do I offend you?" He had some quirks about him, the way that he could find himself embarrassed in her presence being one of them. She shook her head as she gracefully rose from the water, stepping nimbly out of the tub and approaching him, trailing droplets of water on the flagstones of the floor.

"Do not tell me that your tutors have instilled in you the shame that the followers of the Christ take such perverse pleasure in?" She leaned closer, allowing him to kiss her cheek before stepping back to look at him. He stood proud, aware of his social stature as a Prince among their people. His features were hard, although Morgana guessed that it was a mask he wore to hide his true self. Like most young men he wished for nothing more than to be respected and feared, and the scowl that he dressed himself in was as much a part of his armour as the chain mail and gauntlets. "The water's still warm and you look like you could do with a bath before we attend the banquet." Morgana had spoken softly yet they both knew that it was not a suggestion but a subtle command. For all his authority, Mordred was still reliant on her council, and while Morgana strived to make him independent, he had still much to learn.

She watched as he began undressing, putting the armour on the floor beside his sword, and stepping into the tub and sinking down to his shoulders. Morgana offered him a smile as she poured two cups of mead, handing one to him and taking the other for herself as she sat down opposite from him.

"I shall say this only once so you'd better pay attention." She took a deep draught from her cup as she sat back on the chair, the water dripping from her naked frame and forming small puddles on the floor. "You will put on your best behaviour to impress your uncle. Charm him with that agile mind of yours, astound him with your proficiency with the sword and the bow. Flatter him by recounting his deeds and fool him by telling him about your desire to follow the Christ. You will become ruler one day but I will not stand idly by and watch you squander what I have spent years to build. You will not act rashly, nor will you act without consulting me is that understood my love?" She trailed piercing stare across his face, watching him take in her words and nodding his assent.

"The Goddess favours you Mordred, and you will not let her or me down."

]

Mordred

There was something about the castle of Caerleon that comforted Mordred as much as it unsettled him. The sensation of ice dancing over his skin as he passed through the gates into the city beyond the walls and then turning towards the castle itself, the castle at the heart of it. At the heart of Britain some would have it. That was an opinion Mordred wasn’t sure he agree with yet but one he would not rule out. After all, when the castle and kingdom were his, as his mother foretold, he would ensure that its importance and influence were maintained.

He announced himself the guard on duty and found himself swiftly directly inside the castle, towards the series of halls and chambers within it. Corridor after corridor and stairwell after stairwell were traversed before he found himself at a solid oak door.
He knocked briskly and, upon hearing a familiar voice, pushed it open.

As he opened the door Mordred found himself faced with the image of his mother bathing, instinctively and instantly, he lowered his gaze to his boots.
“Greetings Mother…” He bowed slightly, moving inside and closing the door, keeping his gaze markedly off of her exposed frame.
“What my dear do I offend you?"
“Not offend, Mother, of course not…I merely hoped my intrusion would not interrupt your relaxation…” He replied smoothly, raising his eyes to hers and holding them as she rose up out of the water and glided gracefully towards him across the floor.
"Do not tell me that your tutors have instilled in you the shame that the followers of the Christ take such perverse pleasure in?"

Mordred allowed the slightest ghost of a smile to curve his lips before he pressed them to his mother’s offered cheek.
“Mother…as if such a thing were possible…” His eyes twinkled as he pulled away, the only sign of his amusement at his mother’s teasing, and then the expression of seriousness returned.
"The water's still warm and you look like you could do with a bath before we attend the banquet."
Without a word, Mordred’s hands moved to his scabbard and its belt. While he believed himself to be more than strong enough to rule Britain and all who attempted to lay claim to her, even he was not stupid enough to try and argue with one of his mother’s unspoken commands. Modesty was something he had long since learnt to do without. Modesty belied strength and was something to be mistrusted in others.

Soon enough he was naked and could not help but sigh as the warm water enveloped his aching flesh. He stretched his arms and tensed his legs once or twice before taking the mead he found held out towards him.
“I shall say this only once so you'd better pay attention."
Mordred sipped the mead, leaning over the side of the tub slightly to place the goblet before looking across at his mother. Resisting the unnatural urge to glance the curving flesh beneath her face, Mordred looked to her face and held her gaze squarely as she continued.

"You will put on your best behaviour to impress your uncle. Charm him with that agile mind of your’s, astound him with your proficiency with the sword and the bow. Flatter him by recounting his deeds and fool him by telling him about your desire to follow the Christ. You will become ruler one day but I will not stand idly by and watch you squander what I have spent years to build. You will not act rashly, nor will you act without consulting me is that understood my love?"
Mordred nodded, his mind already planning phrases and compliments he could apply to his Uncle upon meeting him.

"The Goddess favours you Mordred, and you will not let her or me down."
“Mother, have I ever let you down?” He asked, feigning hurt as he reached to retrieve his goblet now that her speech was clearly over. “I will do all that you ask and nothing without your counsel…” He drained the mead and spent a few brief moments splashing water across his chest and under his arms before ducking his head beneath the water for an instant before rising instantly to his feet and leaving the rub. Leaving more water on the floor than perhaps remained in it, he padded over to his mother, leaning down to kiss her cheek once more.

“This is a world you have prepared me for but one of which I am wary, I know you will protect me Mother and I will do my best not to put myself in harms way…”
He added before snatching a towel up from beside her, swiftly wrapping it around his waist and beginning to vigorously rub his skin dry.
“So, when do we eat in this place…and when will I meet my Uncle?” He grinned wolfishly.

Mordred tossed the now damp towel aside and began to redress quickly, tendrils of dripping black hair hanging into his eyes as he did so. Omitting his armour but, after a moment’s thought, re-attaching his sword around his waist.
“I admit, I am curious to see if the almost legend like tales do the ‘great’ Artorius justice…I doubt that they could…and anyway, I am sure finding his flaws will be far more fun than hearing stories of his successes...!” Mordred finished darkly, his almost wicked smile matching that of his mother.