Vague references to Merlin, Arthur and Guinevere. Let me know if things need changing.
Morgan has lived a thousand lives it seems. In one she is fairy. She is as fickle as wind, and as cruel as cold ice. She is power, and the steady flow of water. Nourishing, life giving, but deadly and raging. She is derived from sacred goddess, mother of the Three Blessed Womb-Burdens of the Island of Britain. She is wise, and she is powerful. She is a goddess, and lives as such. There the later husband is just consort. Father to the three who are blessed and burdens at the same time. She rules on Avallach, and life is good.
She is the leader of a sacred order of nine, and an old man with a broken warrior come to her and ask her to help them. Then she is healer, wise woman, the one they come to for aid and potions. She becomes sister, and suddenly more human then anything else before. She is savior and balm. She is neither cruel nor kind. She simply is.
As world crumble, she is a younger, mortal daughter. Shackles are placed on her wrists in the form of a black dress and the Damocles's sword of an eternal vow to a God she isn't sure exists hangs over her head. Her magic, so a part of her and a thing she so needs, is suddenly taken away and she is forced to learn it. Whispers say the never consummated pure brides of the martyr teach her, later the whispers say the magic is gifted to her by a man who plays with puppet strings. It isn't long until they replace the shackles with a new chain called marriage. She loathes this human and how he smells and breathes and thinks to own her. Morgens-Mordon-Morgan remembers, and this is beneath her.
She strays from him. She is water and Sidhe and goddess, and she is owned by no man. A spoiled girl with a crown finds her and the pot calls the kettle black. It is here she meets the puppet man, who teaches her the tricks that she remembers were always hers. She learns to hate the pretty girl with the crown, and learns a deadly secret. She sets about revealing it, but her trick fails.
The brother that wasn't always a brother becomes her opposite and she becomes his doom. Every thought is laced around him, every action sees the crown he took shattered in her hands. She whispers soft nothing into her lovers ears, until he tries to steal the sword of kings. He returns with nothing and she takes the scabbard and gives it back to the lake. She tests his knights, with cruelty and joy and smiles as the pretty girl quakes in fear.
The not always brother becomes a lover and she has a child. But the child is her sisters too and so she does not know. But she uses him none the less. Blood and power are everything now and she proves to the world how not her little sometimes brother is. She delights in this.
The world tilts and shifted, and less the woman who should not be trusted (for this church does not look kindly upon those of her kind with power), she mellows and shifts. Her healing returns, and some of her kindness does as well. The new God seeks to overthrow the old, and she fights not knowing why. But still, still the golden haired forever King dominates her thoughts and mind. The circle continues, the game never ends.
Lastly, she is now Uther's child and ward. This she sneers at and fights to not remember. She refuses. She has given up so much and she will never be the bastard usurpers child, for he has killed the father she never knew she had. And Gorlois may have made her wear black and shove towards an empty marriage, but he is her father. She will not let anyone take that from her.
She is all these things, and ever more.
Morgan has lived a thousand lives, with a thousand regrets and guilt. She will live a thousand more.
She was Mari-Morgans. She was Mordon. She was Fata Morgana. She is Morgan Le Fay. She is all this, layers and layers of thoughts and desires. And still a bright haired child she held and called her own sits in her thoughts and in her veins. This is always. This is now. The pasts have made her, and there is no going back.
She turns to the window and watches the sun rise. Morgan will play her game. Because she must. Because she is the game, and the game is her. Because she is a catalyst, and without it, she is nothing. She smiles and hums a tune under her breath she heard a long time ago, "Double, double toil and trouble. Fire burn and Cauldron bubble." She smiles, then grins as she greets the new dawn rising. She shall begin her game. She may have lived a thousand lives, and may yet still live a thousand more, but this now is the life she has and she never strays from the path she walks.
The Wicked Witch has plans to set out, and lives to burn.