MORGANA – OCTOBER 480 AD
The strong wind blew Morgana’s hair to the side, flowing in front of her eyes. Her cloak and skirt-hem also flapped in the wind. The smell of salt lingered in the air. Long blades of grass sparsely coated the sand, still damp from the morn’s rainfall. A great Currach lay on the shore.
It was now time for Uther and Egyr to say goodbye to their second child, reflected Morgana. Soon they’d be all alone.
A woman with tawny hair stepped out of the ship, shouldered by two guardsmen. She greeted Egyr warmly, and Morgana understood that this must be her aunt Egyr.
“And you must be Morgana!” she said turning towards her, as Morgana stepped nearer to them. She looked her up and down. “You’re a pretty girl.”
“Soon a woman,” said Egyr. “In a year’s time.”
Indeed, Morgana was eleven. She had not bled yet, as her mother said she would once she became a woman. But she felt proud her mother had compared her to an adult.
Uther put a hand on her shoulder and kissed her forehead. Egyr embraced her and did the same.
“We’ll miss you a lot. Come back soon. Write often, eh?”
She felt her mother’s hand stroke her cheek for what would be the last time in a long time. As to letters, Morgana had not mastered writing very well, having to rely on Uther’s help, who had been illiterate for a long time. The most literate man was Bress, but he had only military texts to offer that bored her to death. Her father wasn’t much better, all he had was old letters, but at least they were sometimes amusing, not dreary and bureaucratic.
After they said goodbye and greeted her aunt, Morgana climbed on to the ship with Gwywyan. The men who had climbed off pushed it out into the water, leaving a large dent in the wet sand, peppered with cockle shells and algae. Uther walked forward and waved at Morgana, while Egyr stared onward at the ship, her arms crossed. Finally, she relented and gave a small wave.
The boat started drifting off, leaving trails in the water. As Morgana looked at the beach and waved, the shoreline got smaller and smaller, and soon her parents disappeared from view. She said nothing, preferring silence. She was sad, but did not-- would not show it.
“It’s normal if you feel sad, Morgana,” said her aunt. “It serves no purpose to hide it. Instead, embrace your emotions. They’re what make us human.”
Morgana turned to her aunt, who continued:
“There are no wrong feelings. To force your feelings towards something they aren’t is at best useless, and at worst dishonest.”
Morgana nodded. “I won’t see them for several years.”
“It’s for the best. You understand, don’t you?”
She nodded again.
“Good. I almost believe you,” she muttered.

ARTHUR – OCTOBER 480 AD
The town of Cayr Segönt lay in front of them. It was very small compared to Tin Edyn, a hundred people at most, the houses more homogenously spread out. That said, it just about met Arthur’s expectations, and he was pleased they’d finally arrived. There was a feasting hall billowing smoke at the top of the hill, which Arthur recognised as the king’s residence by comparing it to his hometown’s. The gate seemed more ornate than Gododdin’s, the design admittedly not visible from this distance, yet the whole structure looked shabbier somehow. Nearby was the warrior-stone, a large rock on which warriors made a mark with their sword to prove its worth and durability. Merlin took a second to nip in front of it, draw his sword and whack it across the surface, leaving a small mark.
They trodded up to the stablemaster and handed in their horses. Then, making their way up the hill to the big roundhouse, they started to attract attention. Some of the king’s close friends knew about their arrival, but the common folk did not, and came out of their roundhouses to watch.
Mörddin greeted a few who said hello to him. Arthur did the same, watching the old man attentively and dogging his steps, occasionally getting thrashed by his windy cloak. He had to take care to pick up the hem of his own cloak, which trailed in the mud if he didn’t.
Finally, they got to the top after about a minute of walking. The king came out of the doorway, bending his head down. He was one of the tallest people Arthur had ever seen, and he wondered how tall he’d been as a child. At any rate he now stood well over Mörddin at eighty onche or more. Unsurprisingly he absolutely towered over his wife, who joined him a few seconds after.
“Welcome, Mörddin. It’s been too long. And you must be Arthur!” he said. He crouched down to be eye level with him, extending a hand out in greeting. His colourfully-patterned sleeves were cuffed and unfastened, not yet pinned, and he seemed a bit flustered. Arthur wondered what they’d interrupted.
“You look like your father,” the king remarked, recomposing himself. “My name is Cadwallon, though some people call me Lawhir .”
He turned to his wife, who stepped forward and greeted both Mörddin and Arthur. “My name is Meddyf,” said the queen. She allowed Arthur to kiss her on the cheek as a sign of his rank, and accepted a small bow from Mörddin, responding likewise. From Egyr’s briefing on etiquette that had bored even her, he knew that in any case a man should never kiss another woman on the lips as greeting.
“Nice to meet you,” said Mörddin and then Arthur.
“Now, Mörddin,” said Cadwallon. “I insist you stay at least a few days while Arthur gets settled.”
“Oh, well, if it’s no trouble...” said Mörddin, lifting his hands in modesty.
“Not at all, not at all. I recall as a boy I enjoyed your stories, any chance you can share a few?”
“Yeah. And a few new ones too.”
A cry came from inside the roundhouse. Meddyf excused herself and rushed back in. She came out with a baby suckling at her breast.
“Our son, Maylgun,” she explained.
Mörddin took a look at him. “He’ll make a fine warrior like his father, I’m sure.”
“And his brother”, he added in a whisper only heard by Arthur, who he winked at.
“We’ll see. I’d have had him train with Arthur when he was old enough, but the age gap is quite high. More than I’d realised,” said Cadwallon. “You may be the one training him one day!” he added to Arthur with a smile. “I’ve had my men erect five new roundhouses behind my house. Feel free to take two of them for yourselves. I see you’ve brought a bag?”
“Yes, it has Arthur’s things in it,” said Mörddin.
“Excellent. If you need anything, you need only ask. I’ll see you again at dinner.”
Cadwallon and his wife went back into the house. The king almost bumped his head on the way in. “Damn it... Happens all the time,” he muttered.
Mörddin turned to Arthur. “Come along, then.”

MORGANA
Morgana was asleep when they arrived. Gwywyan shook her gently, and she woke up. As she had been laying down underneath the ship’s tent, she could not immediately see the sky, but by turning her head lightly she saw the pale blue morning sky.
“Are we there?”
“Yes,” replied her aunt.
In the distance, she could see the long and pale rocky shore. This must be Ireland.
The sky was clearer than when they’d left three days ago. Though the boat was covered in a thick linen roof, the sun still bothered Morgana, and she shielded her eyes.
The ship arrived near the beach, and the Captain yelled something that sounded to Morgana like “Reel her in!”. The Irish soldiers her mother had brought lept off first, plunging into the knee-deep water to reel the carrach in. It was early morning, and the sky was pink. It was very cold, and Morgana clung tightly to the cloak wrapped around her.
“Your uncle is the king of this small patch of earth. They’re called tuaths, there are about two hundred of them.”
“What’s this one called?” asked Morgana.
“Osraige,” replied Gwywyan.
Morgana looked out in the distance. Behind the rolling green hills and lush grass she saw a few wisps of smoke floating towards the sky. Gwywyan followed her gaze. “That’s where the main town is,” she said.
It was merely a five-minute walk to get there. It was a very small town of about one or two hundred people. One of Gwywyan’s servants, a Roman slave, met them at the entrance, which was a narrow passage between two hills. He was accompanied by a young boy, only about one or two years Arthur’s senior.
“This is our second-born son, Llenllug,” said Gwywyan. Llenllug politely said hello. “We call him Len for short. Our older son Bard is out ploughing the fields.”
The boy had messy light brown hair, and a small smirk that dimpled his cheeks. He greeted her briefly before running off.
Finally, Gwywyan’s husband Conall mac Cairbre Caomh emerged from the royal hall. He was a short man, with long and straight ashen blonde hair down to his shoulder blades. His chiseled face was partly concealed by a giant and untamed beard that extended to his midriff. Around his head he wore a gold circlet.
“You must be my niece! I’m Conall,” he said in British, with a thick accent.
“Pleased to meet you,” replied Morgana, trying to remember her mother’s lessons on courtesy.
	He said something to Gwywyan in Irish, and her aunt nodded before signalling Morgana to follow her. She was led by her aunt past a great oak tree, and down to a roundhouse.
“You will sleep here,” she said. “A servant will bring you clothes and some food. Here in Ireland we usually eat alone amongst families, feasts are far and few between.”
“I see.”
“I know you must feel strange at everything being very different. It was the same when I first came here. It was so different from Ercing...” she trailed off as she looked behind her, through the doors, at the sun. It had finally risen and cast its rays over the whole village. “If you ever have any questions, however stupid they may seem, please ask. Never hesitate to ask, for questions lead to knowledge. And Gods know we need more of that.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Morgana. She appreciated her aunt’s gestures and kindness but was not sure how to express it properly. “Th... Thank you for everything.”
“It’s no problem,” replied Gwywyan. “We’ll have lunch in a few hours. Feel free to do whatever you want, though I recommend that you bathe and change out of those clothes. We’ll start working on your religious studies as of next week.
 Her chest felt lighter knowing her aunt knew how grateful she was. After all, she had taken her under her wing willingly and would be devoting time and effort to her upbringing, putting her education on par with her sons’, treating Morgan as her own. As she pondered this the servant arrived carrying the clothes.
“See you later, then,” said Gwywyan, and took her leave. The servant followed after her, having laid down the clothes on Morgana’s bed.
Just as she was taking her tunic off, a head emerged from the doorway. Morgana covered herself up again, though the boy had seen nothing.
“Oh, sorry. Father wanted to ask if you needed anything,” said Llenllug.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Sorry again for interrupting you.”
“It’s fine. Actually... I wouldn’t mind to be shown around the village. I’ve no idea where to go.”
“I’ll tell him that,” said Llenllug, and ran off.
After having undressed, the cold air biting at her budding nipples as she removed her linen shift, she realised for the first time in a while how old she was getting, also checking the thin wispy hairs on her mound. Morgana put on the clothes they’d given her. First was a white undertunic that went down to her knees, followed by a thick wool tunic of red and black plaid. That went down to her ankles, but the sleeves stopped at an angle just after her elbows. She found that odd, compared to her normal british clothes. Above all this she put a daffodil-yellow cloak and similarily coloured leather belt. The cloak was clasped together by a simple gold circle, and two snake bracelets coiled around her wrists. For her it was nothing but an awkward in-between stage, both wishing her body would be woman-sized but also almost wishing she could go back to being a small girl. She didn’t feel ready to start her path to adulthood, and especially not without her parents. As nice as her aunty was, she could not give her the same motherly love as Egyr had always shown, and her guidance was helpful and sometimes even heartfelt but never as warm, underlining how they shared less blood. If only she had come a few years after… She blamed her father, unreasonably so, but even racked with guilt he came back into her thoughts as the instigator of this mess, putting her into such an embarrassing and difficult situation. And as petty as it was, since she was still old enough to understand his decision, she wished. But wishing hadn’t gotten her anywhere, she sighed, laying down her clothes. It was high time to go and have dinner.
She joined her cousin, who was waiting for her a few paces away. They started walking around the village together at a slow place as she took it all in, especially enjoying the many intriguing sounds.
He had quite a pugnacious face, and kept his hair cropped short in an undercut, his fringe falling in thick waves on the side of his face. That said he wasn’t ugly per se, she’d have described him as plain, seemingly leading a plain life. He strolled with ease around the town, with an excited but slightly detached gait and look, slowing down each time he had something interesting to say. She looked around at the things he pointed to. After a while they reached the end of the town, but continued walking, and Bard remained silent until finally he gestured to a large structure.
“That’s the ringfort. Not unlike the Roman castle, and its purpose is like your feast hall’s.”
“It’s amazing,” she said, holding her breath.
The ringfort was surrounded by a small circular stone wall, no higher than six-and-a-half coveda tall, and the bricks of a sleek grey rock mottled with the patterns of ancient shells. They ventured inside, cutting off the surrounding nature. Inside were a few small roundhouses and a much larger one, juxting several pens of livestock with various animals resting in them. A small lamb brayed and started running around Morgana’s legs. She crouched to stroke its soft tufts of wool. Once she was satisfied with the examination, they continued even further out of field and arrive near a small lake where there were several roundhouses that stood proudly on stilts, with ladders leading up to them. A briny smell of lakewater and wet wood drifted into her nostrils.
“What are those?”
“Crannogs. They’re built near rivers, lakes or even the sea.”
They then passed huge fields of barley and oats. The golden barley happily danced, while the stoic green oats stayed rigid. The wind was not as strong here, and the sun beat on Morgana’s back, which started to pearl with cold sweat rivuleting down her spine and soaking through her gown. Finally, they passed a large enclosure full of cattle. A man keeping guard stood in front of it, his spear and shield leaning on the fence behind him. Bard handed him a pouch of light ale.
“Need some water?”
“Yes, thank you, Bard.” He took a swig of the ale and handed it back.
“Why is he guarding cows?” asked Morgana as they walked off. Bard laughed.
“We often get raids. At sunfall the cows are brought in where they’re safe. During the day, when they’re grazing, they’re always in presence of an armed guard if the family can afford it.”
“I see. How often are these raids?”
“Monthly, I guess. There are holes and underground passages where people hide, while the soldiers defend the village. I’ll show you one of them later on.”
Their circuit came to a close as they arrived back in front of Morgana’s house, and Bard took his leave stoicly and marched off to whatever other business he had to attend to. Her room was a welcome comfort to escape from the heat outside, and the coolness felt good as she got down to her shift and relaxed on her bed, absent-mindedly reading an old letter of her fathers with her head cupped in her other free hand.

ARTHUR – 481 AD
Arthur woke up and got out of his roundhouse, stretching his legs. Arthur felt more at ease after all these months here, and had started to know people despite the lack of children save Maylgun and a few others. He had even started to grow accustomed to the different feel of Segönt compared to old Edyn, and he took it all in as idled and drank some morning beer outside his house, whistling an old tune of Pledd’s. He leaned on the daub wall and closed his eyes, waiting for the instructor to come. Today was the first day of his fight-training, and he felt apprehensive but also excited and quite proud. Bress would have been proud of this moment, and probably a bit jealous of not training him himself! He was confident that he was ready to sink his teeth into the art of combat.
After a while, a voice said: “Arthur?”
Arthur opened his eyes and was greeted by a man who stood before him. He had his hair spiked back into a mane and dyed white as was popular among Celtic soldiers, and was holding a metal helmet filled with padding under his arm. He gave it to Arthur, who tested its weight gingerly and put it on. It wasn’t a perfect fit by any means, and the cheek plates kept banging onto his teeth as he swerved his neck.
“It’ll protect you from any accidental blows to you head,” said the man. “I’m Vailagnas, here to teach you how to fight.”
Arthur nodded. He recognised the name as Irish.
“Know anything about fighting?”
“Not really,” admitted Arthur.
“That’s fine. We’ll start with the basics, then. We’ll have to walk up to my house for the rest of the equipment, though. It’s just this way.”
In Vailagnas’ house, a fire was burning. He lived alone, visibly, and had equipment laying everywhere, his bed strewn with war-darts. He handed Arthur a wooden sword which was lying in a basket near the back. He also took a length of rope and tied it around one of the pillars supporting the roundhouse, before attaching a salted leg of ham to it. It was a bit longer than the one his father had given him, which was in reality more of a large dagger, and yet felt much lighter. The wood felt brittle, as if it would snap, and he rapped the air around him a bit with the point. The sword was heavy - and he realised just how heavy blades were, not having had the chance to actually use the sword his father had given him yet. After only a few swings his wrist hurt and he tired of it, letting it point towards the ground to soothe the strain on his forearm.
“Why pork?” asked Arthur, focusing his attention on the hanging target.
“Its flesh is the closest thing to a human’s. It’ll be good to simulate attacking a real person,” explained Vailagnas. “Try taking a few swings at it.”
Arthur did so. With each hit, the wooden sword vibrated slightly, and Arthur felt it in his hand, in his wrist, in his entire arm.
“A real sword is much heavier, but will give less recoil,” said Vailagnas. Arthur practiced this way for about an hour, with Vailagnas giving tips or showing him different moves, such as overhead and underarm swings or stabs.
He started feeling each blow in his upper shoulder, and sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped from his arms through his overly large tunic as he kept hitting it, checking if Vailagnas’ was still watching and egging him on. Eventually the weight and pain made him stop for a second.
“Do we fight now?”
“Heh, not yet,” replied Vailagnas. “Unlike our friend the pig here, I hit back. Do me a thousand more.”
A thousand? thought Arthur indignantly. From the tales he had heard told of Uther and from his father’s own mouth, he knew that he was already on the field when he was barely older than Arthur. He wondered if he had had to belabouredly train like this too, or if he had whet his sword on his enemies. He made the hits diligently, though Vailagnas teasingly stopped him at about fifty strikes as the boy panted and keeled over.
“Now, let’s see you put that to practice. Let’s spar.”
Vailagnas handed Arthur a shield, and took a wooden sword and shield for himself, relaxing his wrists and bending his legs a bit.
Arthur hesitated for a second, and an indulgent smile from his instructor goaded him. He walked forward and swung his sword. Vailagnas just lifted his shield and blocked it. Arthur tried an overhead swing, but he blocked it again. Seeing his strategy, he then tried to go around the shield by attacking his legs. Vailagnas just jumped out of the way, then passed on to the offensive. Vailagnas lunged. Arthur tried to dodge, but the wooden sword grazed his hip.
“That’s your artery cut,” said Vailagnas. Arthur cried out “Ouch!” playfully.
“It’ll be more than ‘Ouch!’ if you get that cut, lad,” said Vailagnas, grinning despite himself. “You’ll bleed out and die in less than a minute. Always keep your shield up, and towards me.”
The two of them raised their shields again and went back at it. This spar lasted about a minute, until Arthur managed to hit Vailagnas in the stomach.
“That’s me dead,” said Vailagnas. “Nice hit! On your second spar, too.”
He gently swiped Arthur’s sword from him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Good work lad. But a sword is expensive, and a valuable weapon more than an effective one. So I’ll also be training you with other weapons. A spear, probably, but also an ax and a bow-and-arrow. We’re done for today, though,” said Vailagnas. “It’s about noon now. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, ok?”
“Sure,” said Arthur.
“Oh, but next time, you should make your way up here now you know where we train.”
Arthur saluted, memorised where Vailagnas lived and headed back to his own roundhouse. On the way there he passed Cadwallon deep in thought, who passed by him without noticing before turning around.
“Oh, hello there Arthur! How was your first training?”
“Great! Vailagnas is a good teacher, too.”
“We’ll make a warrior of you yet, it seems. Don’t sacrifice your other lessons though, of course.”
He patted Arthur on the shoulder and walked off to whatever business he had to attend to. With the afternoon free, he decided to go see Meddyf at the royal palace.
“Ah, Arthur,” she said as he came in through the open door. “Want to help again?”
Arthur nodded. She smiled, and brought him to Maylgun’s crib in their room. “I need to go and meet a friend in the village. Could you look after Maylgun for a few minutes?”
Arthur accepted, and Meddyf left the house. He sat down and looked at the baby, wondering where they came from and when he’d grow up, like he’d seen puppies and kittens in Gododdin do after a few weeks.