Chapter Text
The light of the Great Hall is strained. There are no candles lit, only weak sunlight filtering in through smeared glass windows and cracks in stone bricks worn and dull from years of weatherly abuse. Its beams create faint shadows that stretch from throne to hall doors. The guards surrounding the perimeter, stationed under each vaulted window, don deep black robes with a crimson symbol engraved on their front, a color scheme recreated in the ebony banners draped heavily from the ceiling and the thick dark carpet spreading along the crumbling stone floor. In the center of the Hall, at the end of the carpet, sits an impressive throne. Where the floor and ceiling, windows and walls are unremarkable, dilapidated and shattering, the throne is pristine. Every inch of the solid gold structure glimmers; the legs are polished with militant care and attention, as if the tears of Cenred’s people could up and revolt against the scum clogging his throne.
Cenred himself follows the scheme of the room more than that of his throne. The real strength in his lineage, the power behind the throne, was his mother. She ruled the kingdom with ferocious strength, flawlessly balancing fear of the people and the despair in their hearts with a delicate, razor-edged touch. It is her kingdom that he rules.
Cenred is her anathema, Morgause notes as she strides in the room – sprawled lazily across the seat, noisily chewing on an apple as she approaches, chicken bones littering the foot of the throne. With something approaching nostalgia, Morgause remembers her meetings with Esme: her impeccable posture, the cunning fire in her eyes, the executions ordered with a deceptively simple flourish of her palm.
But there is no time for nostalgia. It has no place in these halls. Now, she deals with Cenred.
On the surface, this seems a worthless trade. But perhaps, in its own way, this is a boon. While Morgause could never manipulate Esme, her equal in mental prowess, her son is far weaker. Morgause estimates she’ll need two weeks in his castle before he’s solidly under her thrall.
For now, however, he does not even know her name.
“Who are you?” he snaps, picking an apple seed about from between his front teeth.
Again, Morgause longs for the blinding illumination of Esme’s hall, the plush dark carpet free of mold, dirt and animal bones. Then, with a rueful shake of her head, she rids herself of these memories. She deals now with a lesser opponent, and her conquest begins.
“I have a proposition that I believe to be mutually beneficial,” Morgause states coolly, unafraid of the guards that press closer to her with every step she takes toward their King. “One that would turn Camelot helpless.”
He judges her quickly, and finds her lacking. “I have no time to deal with you.”
Oh, well. So much the worse for him.
Morgause battles the urge to sigh, and with a few muttered words, she erects a steel-repellant bubble around herself, then pins Cenred to his ceiling. Nose, meet stone. His face finds itself making exquisite contact with the rough surface, and Morgause finds herself maliciously pleased at his squeak of pain.
Esme kept the ceiling clean, uncaring of the dangers assumed by those who would polish it. Appearances were important, Esme knew.
Her son is ignorant.
As Morgause expected, the guards leap forward at once, brandishing their weapons at her. All are ineffective, of course, and even the combined strength of ten cannot break her wards; with an easy flick of her hands, she sends them flying backward. The lucky ones find their backs thudding against solid wall. The unlucky ones meet the dirt outside with glass embedded in their spine.
Morgause allows Cenred a couple of seconds to reconsider, watching as his own apathy digs dirt up his nostrils, then slams him back down in the throne.
He stares at her with wide eyes. Just as he’s about to say something – demand who she is, probably, how predictable – she says, voice low and icy, “That was not a request.”
Maybe the boy’s got some brains after all, Morgause sneers wonderingly, because he shuts up and listens.
Fourteen days later, Morgause meets a man named Agravaine. At first glance, he appears easily dismissible. A mistake; though an easy one to make, Morgause wasted a precious week before discovering his heritage.
The only quality more oily than Agravaine’s hair is his personality, and Morgause cares for men without spines even less than she does those with prejudice, because at least men like Uther have opinions and maybe, dare she say it, brains. Agravaine’s merit to Morgause manifests itself not in his redeeming qualities – of which Morgause has found astoundingly little – but in his bloodline.
A shame that she cannot recognize her half-uncle on first sight, but then again, she hardly knew either of her parents. She had no opportunity to meet either before Uther killed them both.
Once she makes the connection, however, manipulating him is a matter of extraordinary simplicity. He’s weaker, somehow, than even Cenred. He must have porridge between his ears. Or something more easily moldable, like clay.
She picks and chooses tales of Uther’s cruelty at her leisure, selecting horrifying stories like she plucks the plumpest of grapes, feeding them deliciously to Agravaine and inflaming his hatred of his brother-in-law. All the while, she covers her apathy toward him with sugary words, flattering lies, pretending to sympathize with his plight.
After she gains Cenred’s army, Agravaine follows quickly. Convincing him to make amends with Uther, to install himself on Camelot’s Council, is child’s play.