Sequel: The Foundlings ›
Lady of the Lake
Twins?
That sunny day my mother had came, that had been ripped apart by the birthing of a child, had not been the first time. I had guessed, in dreams that carried blind fear in them…the many turnings of the moon that had passed that I had no memory of…I had thought the dark-haired child, with my face but not Uther’s, had been only a dream, and a sad one, her small hands reaching towards me with a pulling bond that was deeper than the lake, and indeed, than anything I had felt between myself and my son, or his father…
Soon after arriving at the lake, parting from my son, I had stared in contemplation at the place where my stomach had once carried him inside. It seemed like it had been too large for just one child, my mother had told me once…and I began to wonder, absently pulling my hands through the lakewater, forgetting not to be seen. Had there been another cycle of the moon, or of the sun, even, long enough for the land to become cold, then warm, then cold again—had the time passed while I lay, unknowing, for so long that I could have forgotten another child?
I remembered that one day, while teaching Arthur the sounds of the forest, the birds’ calls and the silent sounds of the trees, that I thought for a moment that I was not with him, but with another child so alike to him that they had the same eyes, but this one female, like myself…I had shaken the thought away, troubled, murmuring to my infant son that dreams could be confusing.
But I had paused near the cave, soon afterwards, hearing another small, wailing noise, feeling a pulling towards it, then reminding myself there had only been one…hadn’t there? But the connection I had felt, the knowing, when my son was still inside me, seemed tied to these dreams and shadows of memories, the remembrance of a child so similar, and so different…
Morgaine. The daughter. The one I had seen, almost seen, then lost....Morgaine. Now I knew.
Soon after arriving at the lake, parting from my son, I had stared in contemplation at the place where my stomach had once carried him inside. It seemed like it had been too large for just one child, my mother had told me once…and I began to wonder, absently pulling my hands through the lakewater, forgetting not to be seen. Had there been another cycle of the moon, or of the sun, even, long enough for the land to become cold, then warm, then cold again—had the time passed while I lay, unknowing, for so long that I could have forgotten another child?
I remembered that one day, while teaching Arthur the sounds of the forest, the birds’ calls and the silent sounds of the trees, that I thought for a moment that I was not with him, but with another child so alike to him that they had the same eyes, but this one female, like myself…I had shaken the thought away, troubled, murmuring to my infant son that dreams could be confusing.
But I had paused near the cave, soon afterwards, hearing another small, wailing noise, feeling a pulling towards it, then reminding myself there had only been one…hadn’t there? But the connection I had felt, the knowing, when my son was still inside me, seemed tied to these dreams and shadows of memories, the remembrance of a child so similar, and so different…
Morgaine. The daughter. The one I had seen, almost seen, then lost....Morgaine. Now I knew.