Morgause is back in her room again, wrapped in her silky red robe, her hair braided for the night; but she's not in bed. She sits by the window, her head resting against the glass, not really looking at anything in particular.

There's a late snow on the ground outside, but mostly it's grey weather. Sagramore has gone, wherever he's off to, and it's quiet in the household, except for the baby.

All of which is entirely too familiar.

So Morgause is pacing the hallways. At least the Mansion, unlike her husband's house, has a plenty of those.

It's begun to snow, light but steady. Morgause has ensconced herself in one of the theoretically innumerable small sitting rooms, where a good fire is burning. She has sewing by her; clothes for Hero's son, who is going on a year now, out of a gown she wore once and rejected, back when the closets as well as the cupboards were bottomless.

She is, as always, composed. Only those who know her very well are likely to notice that she is in fact seething.

Morgause is in her room again today, sewing, of all innocuous things; Hero's baby is growing out of his clothes, and it's something to do, something to keep her hands and eyes busy. It is not, however, terrifically interesting.

ooc: A little birdie told me that Arthur wants to meet his long-lost sister. >:) So he can post here, along with any obnoxious old gits he cares to bring along. Also anyone else who feels like bothering her.

The summer evening is well on toward dark. Morgause is in the bedchamber in her nightgown, her hair already done in its single bedtime braid. She is talking softly to her eight-year-old eldest, standing soberly at her knee.

This has not been Morgause's week, and the end of it finds her lying on her bed in her thin summer nightdress, with her unbound hair scattered around her and her face buried in her arms.

Morgause sits on the broad edge of the fountain in the midst of the gardens, her dark head bowed and her shoulders heaving. Despite the heat, her hands are clammy white. She pays no attention to the darting fish in the water behind her.

She's recovered from Jaenelle's latest gaffe, and found her way back to her room in a state of strange melancholy. She throws her windows open to the setting sun, and stands there awhile; then falls to pacing.

Morgause has dismissed Hero for the night, and is sitting on her bed in her nightrobe, with her hair in plaits. The room is dark, except for a faint glimmer from the fireplace.

Morgause is in her room, the dark red robe tied loosely over her nightdress, her hair still in its nightly plaits; she is sitting by the window, with coffee. All Sagramore's fault, that.

Anyone brave enough to knock is welcome to bother her.

She has been out, in the spring sunshine, and gathered sprays of new leaves from one plant and another. Back in her room, as the light fades, she stands at her table and strips them from their stems, her movements quick, neat, savage. Halfway through she throws them down again and turns away.

She picks up a book, drops it again. Crosses the room to stand at the window, staring out for a minute or two at the pale lawn, and then jerks the curtains closed and stands rigidly, hands pressed to the back of her neck.

Morgause is sitting in one of the Mansion's ornate bay windows, with a book open in her lap. She's neglecting it, in favor of frowning out at the muddy gardens with their traces of trodden snow.

Anna drifts from sleep into darkness. She can feel a draught against her face, and at her back her lover's slim, wiry body, his arm snug about her waist. A rush of warmth fills her, and she shuts her eyes again, leaning back against him. She knows this place, this moment.

But the dark is not complete, the air has the chill of coming dawn, and she knows the moment must end.

"You should go," she whispers.

No response but a sigh. Reluctantly she stirs, reaching for his hand. "My lord, you should go. They will be looking for you..." His servants, his keepers, most of them her stepfather's men. She hates them all, childishly, and knows better than to say so. "My lord."

But he draws her to him, heedless, and nothing in her can refuse him. He kisses her, warm and gentle with sleep, running a hand down her bare arm -- oh, he's knowledgeable; she is not the first, no more than he is to her. Only the sweetest, the best, her beloved, her true lover-- She arches against him, aching.

He leans closer. A gasp escapes her, and then a moan, as his body presses down on hers. She reaches up to bury her fingers in his curls; he kisses her harder and more insistently, his teeth grazing her lip, and that, finally, wakes her. It's not Arthur in her bed, not her brother but Sagramore, lean dark-haired Sagramore, young lover for an old woman. She kisses him once more, and sinks back against the pillow, too sick at heart even to pretend.

"Lady?"

Pretend, she thinks. This is all she will ever have, the best she can hope for; sometimes, when Arthur is farther from her mind, it even contents her. Better to keep him happy. So she stirs herself, answers his kisses, trying to call up some echo of passion. Sagramore pulls her close again, his hands warming her skin.

And then he breaks off, breathless, and smooths her hair back, and says softly, "Do you know me?"

Her stomach knots.

"Ay," she says, as if in bewilderment, "ay, of course," thinking Damn him, damn him! How can he, how dare he know? She wants to push him from her, claw his face, spurn him. Instead she presses against him, kisses his mouth smiling, and whispers his name. You see, it makes no difference to me.

Sagramore caresses her idly. "You've never told me your name."

For the second, fatal time she stiffens. Then she catches her breath, trying to speak lightly. "Whatever is this?"

"Morgause is a title," he says. His voice, like his touch, is tender.

I will kill him, Anna thinks, and kisses him this time with force enough to pass for desire; but if he sees through that as well, he gives no sign.

words: 474

So, when Gareth has gone on his way, she gathers herself up and makes her preparation. Then she goes down the hall to Lamorak's room, and taps on the door.

She's in her room this afternoon, sitting by the window -- sewing, as it happens; Morgause has never been the sort of woman who resents needlework as such -- but she's losing interest, and the light is already fading.

She has her own ways of summoning Lamorak. Having done so, after a lapse of some weeks, she waits for him in her room, wrapped warmly against the cold draft.

Another late night, long past midnight. Morgause is leaning on the kitchen counter with her head in her hands. She's wrapped in a dark-green dressing gown, her hair is down in two long dark braids; the kitchen furnishings, designed to modern standards, make her look small and worn.

They brought us down to the great hall of Tintagil, my sisters and I, to see our father's body. I was six years old, Morgan was four, and fair-haired Elaine only three.

He lay there, covered over, looking just like himself: dark-haired still; not a tall man but grave and handsome always. I could see the little line at the corner of his mouth, that had drawn in when he smiled. Our mother knelt beside him, beautiful Ygraine, not weeping but breathing in little shuddering gasps, her eyes shut tight. I heard in my mind a snatch of song, never no more. For the first time I understood.

Elaine was too young to understand. She reached out her arms and called to him. My mother did weep then, and Morgan tore her hand from mine and ran to her, crying too, while the nurse hushed Elaine.

I stood and watched, with my heart tight as a fist inside me. What I felt most was anger: with Elaine for making my mother cry, with Morgan for her tears and her clinging, with my father for dying, even with myself because I had been happy the day before when already he lay dead in Terrabil, and part of me wished to be happy still, not to know the truth.

But even in that moment I knew where the real blame lay, where my anger must come to rest in the end. The King had done this to us; Uther Pendragon.

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