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One night, when Morgana was young, she said to Uther, "Did you know my mother?"
"Not well," said Uther. "She was beautiful, but she did not speak to men."
When Morgana was a bit older and wiser in the ways of the world, she did what she should have done in the first place, and went to Gaius. "Tell me about my mother," she said.
"She was beautiful, my lady."
Morgana sighed, and slammed her book down with much more force than it deserved, being rewarded with a small puff of dust. "I could guess that she was beautiful, Gaius. I have a mirror." By dint of more self-control than Gwen would have believed possible, she did not roll her eyes. "Was she kind? Was she clever? Did she make beautiful tapestries?"
"I…do not know, my lady. She was very quiet. Or, that is to say, she did not speak enough of our language to be very loud."
"Why?"
Gaius raised an eyebrow in surprise. "She was from Carcassone, a distant relation of the Trencavels. Do you not know your ancestry, milady?"
She shook her head and looked away. "Geoffrey only speaks of my father's lines."
Gaius's eyebrow rose higher, but he said nothing more than, "Please continue the passage on rue, Lady Morgana."
When she was nearly the age she is now, Morgana dreamed of a woman, pale with very dark hair and very red lips, who sang in a language she didn't understand, and painted a green-blue something around Morgana that she couldn't see. She was terrified when Arthur described Nimueh to her, but not for the reason he thought.
Yesterday, Morgana woke screaming from a nightmare. Gwen wiped her brow, changed her gown, and climbed into bed with her. She whispered sweetly in Morgana's ear, soft liquid syllables that she wouldn't explain in daylight.
Morgana reached up, put a finger on Gwen's lips. "Where did you learn to do this? Did your mother do this for you?"
"Of course," said Gwen. "I'm sure yours did for you."