She runs her fingers along her skin, weathered and dry from cruel weather and hard work (or is it hard weather and cruel work?). There are no potions, no ointments to restore it to what it once was - soft, smooth, healthy.
Her only mirror is the water in the bucket, but she still sees what she has become - tangled hair, jittery twitches, fierce eyes. She is far from what Uther had made her, that pampered, spoiled girl-woman.
She is Morgana, increasingly called le Fey. There is little hint of who she was left on her skin.
She stands alone against the wind.