Disclaimer: Merlin and its characters are not mine. No money is made from this.

A/N: This is the first in a series of stories beginning just after the ending of S3, and continuing on from there. I plan to post a new chapter each week. This is an AU Revealfic, with some whump in later stories. While I won't be following the storyline of the TV series, there will be bits of dialogue from the show here and there, though it may be said by different speakers, to different characters, and in very different situations from the way it was used in the show. Also, my Old English is rather terrible. I'm working on fixing that.

A fair amount of darkness lies down this ongoing road. Reader, be warned.

Lady Morgana Pendragon sat alone in the ruins of her father's hall. Not the father who had been the vessel of the seed that gave her life, but the father whose memory she kept close to her heart. The father who had been betrayed, murdered, and forgotten. There, in storm-tossed Tintagel, Morgana's memories brought Lord Gorlois to life again. She saw the man, tall and strong, walking across the threshold with eyes flashing like lightning. A man worthy of the praises his men heaped upon him; a good man and a loving father. If she could cast away her Pendragon blood, she would, but in doing so she would rescind her claim to the throne of Camelot, the throne that was hers by right of blood. The throne her blood-father had denied her because he did not want to acknowledge his weakness, would never acknowledge that he could sire a sorceress. He would have sent her to the flames if he had known, and for all his high talk of justice and equality, Morgana knew his son, Arthur, was no better.

She drew in a deep breath and rose to her feet, catching a flash of scarlet at the edge of her vision. The color of Camelot. She looked down at the red velvet gown she still wore, finding it suddenly revolting. 'Never again,' she vowed 'I will never wear this color again until I re-take my rightful place.' She tore at the laces, ripping the fine cloth where it would not willingly loosen until it lay in a puddle on the stone floor at her feet. She stepped out of it and the fine shoes, pulled the earrings free and tossed them into the pile as well, shedding the trappings of her old life until she was left with nothing but a simple white shift. Then, with a word, she set it alight and watched the flames devour the finery. She felt . . . free. For the first time in her life, the path she walked was her own, of her own making. There was only one thing left to do.

Morgana walked out into the gathering storm, picking her way through the broken stones and debris of the old castle. The stone was cold under her feet and it was more memory than not that guided her through winding hallways, under soaring archways, and up narrow staircases until she reached the highest tower. The Goddess waited for her there, the Morrigan in all her fury, wrapped in driven rain and darkness. Open-eyed, Morgana walked into it, a lonely figure woven of moonlight and the velvet night, arms spread wide to embrace her Goddess until the deluge washed her clean again. The wind strengthened and drove her to her knees. For a moment she tried to rise again until an echoing voice whispered into her mind, ringing in her head like a bell 'A good servant kneels to her Goddess. Would you serve me, Morgana Pendragon?'

She gasped, eyes wide and darting about as she searched for the source of the Voice. A great raven perched on the crenellation before her, as still as if it had been a carved out of the dark stone. Laughter sprang to her lips, "Yes! I would be yours until the end of my days!" she called out.

The raven cocked its head. 'Would you swear by the salt in your blood and the air in your lungs?'

"I swear it!"

'Would you swear by the vengeance in your heart and the power in your soul?'

"I swear it!" The wind howled like a thousand wolves, twisting into a vortex around Morgana.

'Would you swear by your first breath and your last?'

"I swear it!" A flash of lightning burst around her. Thunder shook the tower.

'Thrice sworn and thrice blessed, Morgana Pendragon. Be thou a servant unto me through your living and your dying. Surrender thy will unto mine in all thy works, and the wrath of the storm and the fires of heaven shall be at thy command.'

"I am yours, my Queen,"

'Then be so blessed, my Priestess,' The raven took flight, flying straight for her and turning to a wisp of shadow as it reached her. The shade passed through her, sending a rush of power racing through her in an ecstatic thrill. A blast of wind sent a wave of seawater over her, purifying her with salt and rain and untainted air, fusing the woman and the Will into a single force. A warrior queen to sound the call to war against the Pendragon and his kind.

She raised her face to the sky, laughing with abandon. Gone was the Lady Morgana, the proper woman of Camelot. In her place stood a High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, wild-haired and free, alive with the courage to face the storm and the night. "Hear me, Lady! I am Morgana Pendragon, your High Priestess!" she shouted to the lightning-sundered skies, "Here I am in the land Uther Pendragon abandoned. So I lay claim to it and devote it to you! Here I will remain until I attain my throne. Once again the land will be pure and strong with the force of magic flowing through it! The Five Kingdoms will learn to fear you once more!"

Satisfied, the storm eased. Morgana shivered as new strength coursed through her blood. The power of the Goddess now within her. She felt as though she could fly to Camelot right now and sunder the city walls herself. Her laughter rang through the broken towers at the thought. She would need an army first, and right now she had only her own powers, a single neglected castle, and her own wounded sister, sleeping in their mother's old chambers below.

Morgana ghosted back into the citadel, following the wending hallways deep into the citadel until she reached the familiar chambers where Morgause slept, perhaps never to awaken. Whatever that bastard Merlin had done to her had left half of Morgause's beautiful face swollen, bruised, and bleeding. She tucked a lock of wayward hair behind Morgause's ear and smoothed the blankets down before turning to the remnants of Vivienne's wardrobe. The finest garments had long since disappeared- the silks and velvets were too tempting for the Saxon marauders to pass up. They had left little behind, but Morgana found a gown that suited her perfectly. Black as a raven's wing, the fine linen had been overlooked in the shadows. She stripped out of the salt-encrusted shift and pressed the gown against herself, marveling at the patterning like spider webs and the exactness with which it fit. Had she dragged a seamstress with her from Camelot, it could not fit better once she tightened the lacings and settled the fabric over her curves. She caught a glimpse of herself in a tarnished silver mirror and smiled. Already, she looked like a queen. She had only to reclaim her kingdom and with the help of the Triple Goddess, she could not fail.

She ascended to the great hall once more, lighting the long dormant torches with a gesture and sweeping the draping cobwebs away with a thought. She allowed herself to bathe in memories for a time, thinking back to the great celebrations that had once taken place in this very hall, when Gorlois and Vivienne held court in splendor only slightly less regal than the court of Camelot. They were happy days, and they had ended too soon. After Uther refused to send troops to aid Gorlois against the depredations of the neighboring kingdom of Rheged, Vivienne could not hold the castle for long. It fell prey to Rheged, and Vivienne fell victim to the Sweating Sickness. Two years later, Rheged abandoned Tintagel to the Saxon hordes. So much had been lost.

With a sigh, Morgana banished her reveries and took her place on the ducal chair again. She sat tall, as proud and straight as she had when the crown of Camelot was placed on her head, but without the court to praise her. 'I must summon my people. They must come to me here, and then we can begin this great work.'

Midnight was approaching when she rose to her feet and padded through the castle, collecting this item and that one that she would need for her ritual before settling in her mother's solar with a battered silver bowl, a slender knife, and a raven's feather in her hand. Dropping to her knees, she set the bowl down and put the feather within it. She drew the knife across her palm until blood flowed. Morgana added it to the bowl as well, whispering words of power to call the remnants of the Morrigan's followers to her, a call that would sweep across the Five Kingdoms and into their dreams. With a finale breath of power, Morgana set the bloodied feather alight. The flame wound itself into an expanding spiral before it burst away in all directions sending out her call.

She sat back on her heels then, her gaze rising out the window to the storm outside. The Goddess's storm. 'Patience, Morgana,' she counseled herself, 'All things will go your way in time. You only need patience.'