Quest for Avalon:
By Heather Curry
Morgan Le Fay stood stiffly straight, like a priestess of Avalon held herself. Queen or no, image was important in the Arthurian-mortals world. Especially, Morgan mused, now that there was no Arthur in the world.
The mists parted silently for her and her barge, that moved without a rower. Morgan looked into the water, which looked seemingly normal. She, of coarse, knew the Lady of the lake guided her boat with a smooth hand. Sending a silent thanks, she turned her attention back to the shore. The hills of Britain, green with the tears of the Goddess, burst clear out of the mists, as did the procession of people making their way down to the water.
When the sharp edge of the barge nudged against the land of mortals, Morgan drew up her black cloak of aging magic from the fairy world before stepping off. The magic would keep her youth in image, if not her ageless stare. Smiling, she waited for the mortals, some once friend or enemy.
She recognized them instantly, and her experiences with them. The round-table knights (Arthur's lap dogs), Guinivere, and her maids. Elaine was with her still, no longer the priestess Morgan once knew her sister to be. Morgan recognized with disgust the black veil of mourning and the Christian silver cross hanging in Guinivere's pale hands.
Guinivere, Dejected Queen to the end, pulled up short when she saw Morgan waiting by the barge. Her mouth widened in surprise, her eyes blazing. "Morgan!" she gasped. "What mean you in coming here, to Arthur's funeral!"
Morgan's smile, and expression, did not waver. "Funeral? Why, I'm afraid I haven't come to watch you…waste my brother's worth by burning his body on your cremating barge. I've come to take him to Avalon, where he will find the rest his spirit deserves."
Guinivere was speechless only a moment. "How dare you! You and your, your son Mordrid murdered him! And you call him your brother! Witch! Filth of Satan! He's not going to any island of myth, he'll have a Christian burial, as a Christian king!"
Morgan eyed her dispassionately, before stepping around her. "I'm afraid, Guinivere, that you have no say over Arthur's fate or faith ever again." Ignoring the wall of knights with death in their eyes, she stopped next to the cherry wood barge they had hauled over the land with them, or the stacks of fresh wood for burning stacked inside. It was the body of King Arthur, laid out inside, that she gazed upon.
Even in death, he looked serene and calm, ready to defend his country with the sword or words of ruling passion. No one would believe she felt love for her brother; she often wondered just what sort of love it was. Despite being her brother, he had once been her lover. Back when they'd run in Avalon with the fawns on the solstice, when gender and relation hadn't mattered. Ordering his death had not been easy, or un-painful. Sighing, she brushed a light finger over his cheek.
Magic hummed in the air as his body lifted into the air by invisible hands. Crooking her finger, Morgan led the hovering body through the mass of people to her own waiting barge. She watched him laid gently inside, before stepping into the barge herself. Guinivere, tears of outrage struggling in her beautiful blue eyes, leapt near the bank of the lake.
"Morgan! He is my husband, my follower in God!" she cried one last time. Morgan, safe in the barge, drew her hood back, so her dark, raven head of hair out shone Guinivere's thin mass of white curls.
"He stopped being your husband the day you took Lancelot, Guinivere."
Knowing her words were an efficient slap of guilt, she turned back to the mists. If Guinivere did dare cry anything else, Morgan turned a tolerant ear, and did not hear. Settling comfortably against the side of the barge, Morgan let her thoughts drift to the approaching land of Avalon.
