Choosing a name

Morgana set down her brush and took a step back, admiring her work so far. She had propped up her easel on the hill above the lake glimmering in the noon sun, a veritable vantage point for an artist. Beyond the sapphire expense, sprawled the Capital of Camelot, a maze of rust-red and bark-brown roofs. At her back stood the Royal Castle itself, a stately giant of stone watching over its dominion with a multitude of glass eyes - reaching in every direction, ever open, ever observing, much like the Royal Sorcerer hiding in his Tower.

Morgana peered closer, focusing on the brushstrokes. The canvas mirrored the view unraveling before her eyes, with the lake - nature's own impressive artwork - as its crown jewel. It was not the first time she was painting the scenery, though she'd always tried to capture it differently: muted and gray on a foggy morning, blazing and bleeding in the sunset light.

"It looks beautiful," Accolon said, peering over her shoulder. It was plain to hear in his marveling voice that the words were no empty flattery. Little Gareth, cradled in his arms, joined in too with a crooning, enthusiastic: “Mama!” which was one of the few words he’d learned so far – and his favorite.

"It's not even half done." Yet she smiled, allowing herself to bask in the warmth he poured on her.

Morgana wiped her hands on her apron, blotched and splattered with paint, built up over months of painting - a work of art all on its own, she liked to think. "It's time for a break. Tell me, what goodness have you brought along?"

She looked at him expectantly, a playful smile tugging at her lips. Accolon jumped to the occasion, eagerly producing the most-anticipated treats from his wicket basket, laying them across the picnic blanket. Morgana settled down with Gareth, considering her options with a watering mouth.

"Berry tarts with lemon cream and an assortment of peeled oranges and clementines," Accolon presented/introduced the meal as if it were a royal feast. "And sweetened tea, of course."

Morgana plucked up two tarts – one for Gareth, the other for herself. They were perfectly round and fitted in the palm of her hand, crisp, buttery crust filled with pale yellow cream and a generous handful of ripe, fresh fruit. She bit into it. The berries coated her tongue in sugary sweetness, well complimented by the tangy tones of the lemon. And above it all, they tasted of Avalon and a lost home.

She thought of the Island and Junia; of all those days spent with her, breathing in the briny air, treading over heated sand, splashing through the shallows of the sea; of countless times they'd stuffed themselves with Marcellus' fruit tarts and washed them down with iced tea.

Sharp claws dug at her chest, keeping her wounds perpetually open, always bleeding. Ever since she was ripped away from her home a second time - another family that Uther so cruelly tore her from - she'd been falling into these bouts of emotion at the merest detail that set off a memory. They ranged from the shallow, bitter waters of melancholy to the deepest darkest torment, where she lay paralyzed at the bottom of that terrible sea, pressed down by impotent rage. Impotent, but not harmless – for when Morgana suffered, nature listened. Listened and replied, hurting in concert.

Morgana teetered close to slipping into such a disposition, but with Accolon by her side it felt easier to brave the current – like an anchor she could cling to. So she licked the crumbs off her lips, breathed in, and smiled that sweet, genuine smile she reserved for so few.

“I’ve settled on a name. Mordred.” She stroked her bump, which had become noticeable even in her most flowing, gauzy of dresses. The sight stirred so much in her: a fiery sense of retribution, for which she feared she might have lost all hope a few months ago. A tender, acute fondness for the child she’d yet to meet, who she already loved so. And underneath it all, buried deep, a tangled mess of murky and dark thoughts that she had no desire nor urgency to disentangle. There was no use for it – she did what needed to be done and that was the end of it.

“Mordred,” Accolon tried out the name. Even the hard consonants sounded gentle rolling off his tongue. “I like it.”

Morgana’s smile pulled wider, sharper. “It’s a fierce, intimidating name.” A powerful name for a powerful child.

“You mean, dred-full?” Accolon teased, and for that she flicked his shoulder. The man merely laughed, bright and full, till she couldn’t help but give a chuckle of her own.

Morgana turned to Gareth, who was busy picking up berries from the tarts and munching on them. “What about you, darling? Can you say Mordred? Mor-dred?”

The child, barely two of age, looked up at her with round, brown eyes. They were threatening to turn out so alike Lot’s – Gareth on the whole was threatening to take so much after his father in appearance – yet Morgana loved him nonetheless, and resolved she’d do what she could to keep him from becoming anything like that man in temperament.

“Mow-dwed,” the child crooned, and Morgana laughed softly.

Accolon’s warm smile lingered on the boy before turning to Morgana. “Have you told anyone else?”

“I wrote to Junia.” She had yet to reply though; Morgana had only just sent the letter, after all.

“What about Duke Lot?”

Morgana picked up a raspberry that had fallen off a tart. “I’ll tell him when he visits,” she said disdainfully. “Which will be soon, I gather. Unfortunately, might I add.”

Accolon was the only one at Court she’d dare utter those words to, in such derisive a tone no less. To the rest of Camelot, she was the loving, gentle wife of Lot. With an ambition for magic and streak for fun, and sometimes with a tongue not so blunt as they expected but still harmless. Morgana did try her best to keep it well sheathed. Not with Merlin, though. There was no pretense with that man. They both played their roles and wore their masks, but they couldn’t fool each other.

Had she not fooled him this time, though? He, like everyone else, thought the child in her womb to be Lot’s. She always indulged in a private, smug smile as she thought of the sorcerer, clueless to the child that would spell his undoing – a union of two powerful bloodlines that Uther so dearly craved to find in Arthur and failed to meet its full potential. She could only imagine – and relish – the thought of Mordred becoming that ideal, only to destroy everything these men ever worked for.

Accolon’s fingers brushed against hers, feather-light. She had slipped off for a moment and as she honed in back to the moment, she offered him a smile. He replied with his own radiant one, beaming like the sun, warming Morgana, reaching even the coldest crevices of her heart.

They ate some more and drank the sugary, refreshing tea. When all that was left was crumbs and an empty pitcher, Morgana stretched like a cat after a hearty meal. And if she were a cat, Gareth was a kitten, curled up fast asleep next to her.  As she stretched, a twinge of pain shot from her waist up her back all the way to her shoulders, screwing up her face.

“My back,” she said, rubbing at it. It’d been hurting more and more as the pregnancy advanced; she was well accustomed to the pains now after going through it once, and less easily scared as she’d been with Gareth.

Accolon’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “Would a massage help?”

“It always does,” Morgana readily replied with a flutter of anticipation.

Accolon’s hands were calloused from years of training as a squire, yet his touch was gentle and light as he expertly pressed at the knots of tension along her shoulders. She let out a small sigh of relief, eyes fluttering close as she focused on nothing but his hands on her and the sun caressing her face.

The freshly-knighted man had stayed behind with her in Camelot for security – a role he earnestly embraced, yet it barely begin to cover what he meant to her. It was Accolon that Morgana was closest to at Court. He was the only one who saw beneath the mask – the only one who cared to look – and did not back away from the fire that raged there, that flame she had to smother for the sake of this sickly sweet façade she had to put on, that twisted her stomach and made her teeth hurt. She could address Accolon without dressing up her words, so it was only natural she could talk to him for hours; he stayed by her side even as all pretense was down, so of course she craved to be by his side; and his eyes watched her with so much sweet affection, she couldn’t help but let her own gaze linger. They shared something Morgana couldn’t quite begin to unravel; she feared that if she did, she’d come utterly undone.

So for now she let that entanglement of feelings be, and let herself melt against the hands teasing the tension out of her back.