It was the last day of July, just the cusp of high summer. When Morgana was a little girl, she'd had a nurse maid who had told her stories of Gwl Awst, the August Feast, which those who dwelt to the west called Lughnasa. The first of August would mark the beginning of the harvest season. It was a time of celebration; but it had the taint of magic -- so there was no celebration in Uther's kingdom.
Damp tendrils of Morgana's hair lay against her skin as she tried to adjust the coverlet which stuck to her sweat drenched body. The pains were ceasing; the catnip tea was having an effect, at last. She had felt as though she were being rent inside out. She was lying curled up on her side, the plum-russet stain of dark blood that many considered unclean colouring the sheets. Still, others claimed the blood to be powerful because of its source; intimately, intricately knotted with pain and birth, pleasure and death. There was far less cramping now, Morgana could feel the viscous flow surge out when she turned to lie on her back .
It was at times like this, when she was alone, that she wondered and worried about the things she dreamed. Everyone dreamt, but sometimes Morgana's dreams were different. She knew, now, that what she dreamt were visions of future happenings, or at least possible future events. She didn't know why Gaius had strived so hard to assure her that her dreams were merely that, of the sort everyone had from time to time. She didn't believe him. She had dreamt that Arthur would be seriously wounded by the Questing Beast - and he had been. That was when she started believing that some of her dreams were portents of the future. Morgana didn't know precisely why she thought this. There seemed to be something deep within her, suffusing deeply into very being that she was an heiress to something, an ancient and mysterious magic.
It was getting worse too, she now sometimes saw visions on the surface of water, in smoke, a cup of wine, or her own mirror. It had happened to her a few days ago. She'd been brushing her hair and regarding a suspected blemish on her cheek when the her image faded in the mirror. When the surface cleared she was looking at a the aftermath of a battle; with a blood-spattered Arthur -- yet not Arthur -- striding across it. It was Arthur, but he was older, harder, more tempered by life. He carried a fine sword and the angle of the sun made him appear to be engulfed in a nimbus of red-gold light.
She hated the dreams. No, it was worse than that -- she feared them. These were the gifts of a Seer. Though to Morgana's thinking, it was a curse, not a gift. She hated what she was becoming; more than that, she dreaded the curse of "the Sight" rooting inside her. She curled back into a ball and, as was becoming a habit, fretted as to what to do.
* * * * *
She had flown very far on absolutely silent wings. This time that was neither of the day, nor night, seemingly no time. She was a creature that dwelt in the spaces between worlds.
The great owl could feel the magic emanating from this place. In spite of Uther, Camelot fairly bristled with power. She knew of the fledgling falcon and the golden bear cub, of the dazzling partnership that would make the name of Camelot resonate across time and worlds. They were not her concern . . . well, not directly.
Her concern, presently, was a maiden who lay curled up on the frontier of sleep -- and the Great Dragon who lay curled up like a cat with his head resting on his tail. The owl knew of his confinement -- barely a blink of eye, in the life of a dragon. She also knew of the opening in the earth which led through passages that led to his prison cave. She was an owl, so what was flying in the dark to her?
* * * * *
The Great Dragon felt the flutter of soft wings against his consciousness. He stirred to wakefulness, seeing a large owl, fragrant with the scent of flowers regarding him. He knew her. Like he, she was a creation of magic. But she was much older -- and vastly more powerful.
Still, he was irritated that she'd disturbed his slumber. The dragon yawned, "Why do you honour me with your visit, night-huntress?"
The owl's voice was beautiful, seductive, even beckoning. "Such a facetious wyrm. I was old before the spells that brought you into being were cast."
The Great Dragon pulled to the end of his tether, and spewed flame at the owl. Her rippling, sensuous laughter echoed through the cavern. For an instant, where the owl had perched, the dragon saw a woman. Her face was flawless as a flower, and her beauty was like a hand squeezing the Great Dragon's heart. She was more beautiful than any woman born of mortals could be. She wasn't mortal -- nor had she been born. The brilliant colors of her dazzling aspect quickly faded and then she sat, her poignant, painful beauty in the stark contrast of black and white. This was how she appeared in this world, because she was beyond life and death.
The owl-woman chided the dragon, "You are too much concerned with your falcon and your young bear. Yes, they will soar to greatness, but you refuse to consider the power of women in your future Camelot. You, who dwell in this egg of rock, in this womb of earth. You, who are of the old magic and the earth."
"What do you know of earth, of the sunlit promise of Arthur and the young warlock Merlin?" the dragon coughed. "You, creature of air and darkness. Have you come to collect the souls of the dead, and wrap them in your soft, silent wings? I have no time for your games. Say what you mean."
"The girl with the eyes as changeable as the sea -- she carries the germ of power within her. She has the Sight. She will be powerful; so powerful for a mortal that she will be called one of the Faerie. Morgan le Fay. Do not discount her," she warned.
"Morgana will be what she will without my intervention. Go back to your place between worlds, Flowerface."
"I know other things, you tiresome beast," the woman spat. "You do not regard the gwenhwyfar at all. The fair phantom that will rend the dream of Camelot asunder as certainly as the Druid child, Mordred, shall. The gwenhwyfar will betray Arthur just as I betrayed my husband. You know this," she stated.
The Great Dragon lowered his head and couldn't hold her gaze. He gave a great rumbling sigh.
She faded back into a great owl and said, "The bear cub will be like the sun; in the season which he seems the strongest, he will begin to fade and decline. Neither you nor I can stop these things. Arthur must die while still virile. And Camelot must fade into memory."
A mist enveloped the Great Dragon and drifted him into the realm of sleep, to dream the dream of dragons. She whispered, "Sleep well, child," as she flew into the air and darkness, then beyond life and death in the space between the worlds.
* * * * *
Morgana slipped into a fitful sleep. She dreamt that she was on a boat, gradually approaching a devastated shore. The sun was a blood red disc in a haze-filled, sullen sky. A young warrior stood at the water's edge, holding Arthur's great sword. It should've been nicked and dull, but it what light there was danced along the surface like the dazzle of sunlight on water. The sword seemed to be drawing whatever light it could into itself.
Her gaze shifted to the young man's face. He was quite handsome, almost beautiful, with dark hair and eyes, if you looked past the blood and mire that stained his face and mail. He had some small injuries, but he had yet to feel the pain from them. That would come. Now, he was not much more than a boy, really, waiting for her arrival.
As Morgana's boat approached to shore she heard Arthur rasp, "I knew that she would come, Bedivere. She is here. Raise me up, so I might see Morgana."
Bedivere turned to his king. "You know well that I should not raise you up, sire, because of the bleeding. I will bring her to you."
As the youth turned the king admonished, "You will attend to the sword as I told you."
Bedivere nodded. "I gave my word, my king, how could I do otherwise?"
As Morgana's boat was pulled ashore, the young man said, "My lady Morgana, I am Bedivere and will take you to the king."
She regarded his face; it was tear-stained, and purplish shadows were smudged under his eyes. He was enveloped in the vestiges of death, due to the men he had killed and those he'd seen die that day.
He had little of the look of his father, the Bedivere Morgana remembered from years past, yet she could see much of Bedivere's wife in him. She knew the son of Bedivere to be a baby... Why did she not think this strange? She gazed toward the king. Why did she not think is was also strange that Arthur was a man in his prime, not the young prince she knew?
Morgana asked, "You are the son of Bedivere?"
"Yes. The king . . ." he stammered. "I have seen men with wounds like his before. None of them have lived. I don't say this to distress you, lady."
She laid a hand on his arm. "You speak honestly to me. I thank you for this. Does Mordred still live?"
"He's dead, just as many men, better than that abomination, are," Bedivere spat. "The king himself killed him. Would that he dispatched him before the wretch landed the blow upon . . ." Bedivere stopped to regain his composure.
"There are endings and there are beginnings, Bedivere," Morgana said gently.
"Yes, they say such things in holy places, I suppose, and other things as well. But you would know that better than I, my lady. The other things you cannot tell me. My mother says that women are barred from the important things. The only things which concern them are birth and death. We pass through women in our births and women wash and prepare us in death."
"I know you love Arthur and his dream. I have loved him too, much better and more than many would give credit."
She found Arthur laying upon war cloaks on the ground. He was unconscious from blood loss, although she thought he was past the pain. Bloody cloths were pressed in and against his wound. Morgana examined him as best she could. The edge's were stiff with blood dried black, the wound still bled bright red.
Arthur stirred. "How gentle your hands are, Morgana. Time changes much. When we were children your were the devil's own shrew." He smiled weakly. "I knew you would come, little witch. The others have all been lost to me. Lancelot, Guinevere, and even Merlin. Yet I knew that you would find me somehow."
She bent near to him. "Be still, Arthur. Don't speak, I'm with you."
"Morgana," Arthur breathed against her cheek.
* * * * *
Her eyes flew open. Where was she? Morgana wasn't sure when or where she was-- she couldn't move; it seemed as though a force was pressing against her, preventing her from sitting up. She tried scream but no sound would come. She finally pushed herself bolt-upright. Her breathing was ragged and she knew she'd been dreaming. She was safe in her bedchamber at Camelot. But the dream... Was it one of those dreams she feared, that she hid from everyone? Why did she have to be tortured with them? Why was this one different from the others? What did this glimpse of a years-distant future mean? Was it only a possible future that might be thwarted?
Morgana threw a loose wrap about herself and went to the open casement to let the night air cool her.