Years had passed and seasons had flowed since that terrible day in May. The spring of my sixteenth year on this earth arrived, and already I looked like my mother in many ways. The pale, thin toddler had become a pale, slender girl, shoulders adorned by the thick, black hair of her mother, face enlightened by a pair of big, dark blue eyes.

A beauty I certainly was not, in that world where blonde hair was the number one trademark of prettiness, but my mist-eyed mother had always "had something", and that was one of the many traits of hers that I had inherited.

I would not have known of it if Mordred hadn't told me, though- for since that terrible day thirteen years before, my only mirror had consisted of the glassy surface of the lake behind the small house mother and I shared.

Mordred, my cousin and a wandering knight, had visited us many times since we had left the castle. He was the only son of my mother's sister, Morgause, of whose existence only vague stories had reached my ears.

Stories were the material my life was weaved from- stories were the food I ate, the water I drank. I lived in considerable wealth, and yet every day was much like the other in many aspects.

My mother was just a ghost, haunting our small house, her everything except dull grey eyes sparkling with a mixture of anger and joy all the time. She was an enchanting figure, my mother. Even the knights and ladies of the castle watched her, so I knew, during her long morning walks, when she would sing old, Celtic songs in that low, melodious voice of hers, when she would hum to herself and sometimes, too, fall into a complete silence. I never accompanied her on those walks.

She never forbade me to do so, though. It was a kind of natural behaviour of mine- mother's walks were something almost holy, a sacred, mystical something which I could not touch.

So I sat there, before the window of our house, and watched her as all those ladies and lords did. Perhaps- that I don't know- some of those young Ladies, my age or perhaps a bit older, envied me, because I lived with her, because I knew her.

There was nothing to envy me for, though.

I never knew my mother- I have never known her.

She always loved me above everything, that I know. She loved me with the fierce, illogical love of someone who knows that what she does is right, despite the world around her.

Mother and I always lived in our own world.

We were generally avoided by "the castle people"- ladies who in small groups wandered the gardens, even in broad daylight, ran off as if they'd seen a ghost at the mere sight of my mother- at the mere sight of me. I didn't know whether they ran off because they were frightened of me too or whether they thought I was my mother. It didn't matter anyway.

They just ran, and my apathy towards them, towards those strange inhabitants of that peculiar world called "Camelot", grew and grew, till in the end their unnatural fear amused me.

In the end I grew bitter, despite my young age.

Moira, the Bitter One, my mother had named me.

And they, those people of Camelot who lived so near, yet so far away, named my mother too.

They named her Morgan le Fay.