"And the third sister Morgan le Fay was put to school in a nunnery, and there she learned so much that she was a great clerk of necromancy."
- Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d'Arthur
"Mary's body has acquired something great... From being mortal it has been made immortal… though it was made from the earth it has passed through the gates of heaven."
- St Athanasius of Alexandria, Ad Epictetum Episcopam
"I am a High Priestess. No mortal blade can kill me… I hold the power of the heavens in my hand… "
- Morgana, Merlin (2012), The Diamond of the Day/Arthur's Bane.
"O Hecate! grave three-faced queen of these charms of enchanters, and enchanters' arts! O fruitful Earth, giver of potent herbs! O gentle Breezes and destructive Winds! You Mountains, Rivers, Lakes and sacred Groves, and every dreaded god of silent Night! Attend upon me!—When my power commands, the rivers turn from their accustomed ways and roll far backward to their secret springs! I speak-and the wild, troubled sea is calm, and I command the waters to arise! The clouds I scatter—and I bring the clouds; I smooth the winds and ruffle up their rage; I weave my spells and I recite my charms… I blast the forests. Mountains at my word tremble and quake… "
- Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book 7. Translated by Brookes More.
The lady in black stood atop the promontory, gazing out to sea, like a widow mourning a lost sailor. The wind dragged at her sable cloak and played with her dark tresses, fanning them like ravens' feathers.
Behind her, spreading out along the rocky coast of the Lothian, a crowd of knights and nobles were massed under the banners of Kings Lot and Urien of Gore.
When patterned sails appeared out to sea, cries of alarm resounded through the throng of people.
"How can this be?" said King Lot, turning to look at his lords. "We paid the Danegeld! Ragnar has ever kept his word before."
"It is as the Priestess foretold," said King Urien loudly. "I warned you, brother! She said the Vykings would not keep faith with you! You did not heed her then. Attend her now."
The longships came on, ploughing the waters, gliding more swiftly than any vessel made by shipwrights among the Brythons. Their prows were carved in the likeness of fierce dragonheads, and their striped sails fluttered behind them like wings, so that it appeared a flock of monsters were churning the sea in fury as they advanced.
Truth be told, the people of the Lothian would have feared real dragons less. The wounds left by the first Vyking raiders in the souls of the Brythons had still not healed.
The Lady Morgana alone, of all the observers, was not afraid as she watched the sea. The Danelords loved the water, and they believed it their own element. Their ships were invincible in war, their longboats swift in plunder. Though supposedly converted to the Nazarin rite, many of them called upon the Thunderer in raids, and he filled their sails with wind, transporting them back and forth over the waves, as though they were mounted on Neptune's chariots. They thought themselves masters of the sea.
But they would soon learn the waters of Brython were under the sway of a greater power. Their Thunderer was a stripling, a mere green boy, before the Mother of the Gods. She permitted him to bang his hammers, to stir up the ocean's waves like a child in play. She would not permit him to have power over a High Priestess of the Old Ways.
I am the guardian of these seas, thought Morgana. The last one. Since Emrys' malice has taken both Nimueh and my sister Morgause from me.
She had always felt a kinship with the ocean. Hadn't she spent her childhood by the waters, in the convent of Notre Dame des Douleurs? The Sisters of Our Lady of Sorrows had been Morgana's first family, the only one she'd known, until Uther had repented and returned for her. That convent, Morgana's home, had housed the Lady whom the Nazarins called Stella Maris, the Star of the Sea.
The most sombre place within the convent had been the central shrine, erected to the Mother of the Saviour. This place had been the warm heart of the nunnery, the focus of the Sisters' songs and services. And yet, despite the joy it inspired, the shrine had been a morbid thing, a source of both fear and fascination to the young Morgana. For the Lady in the sanctum had been depicted not smiling and benevolent, but weeping and alone, with seven longswords plunging deep into her heart, transfixing her body in agony.
Before this altar, kind Sister Nuala, the closest thing to a mother Morgana remembered, had spent hours kneeling in prayer, her face turned towards the wounded Lady.
"Holy Mother, hail to thee," she would murmur. "Thou who caused the Angel's mouth to proclaim: 'Ave! Blessed art thou among women!', hail to thee. Through thee the curse of Eve has been made a blessing. Eve, the Mother of Man, has been justified by her daughter, the Mother of God. Hail to thee! The fall of Man was caused by woman's weakness, but Man's salvation is borne through a woman's grace. Blessed Mother, Ever-Virgin, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death."
One fateful day, Morgana had asked Sister Nuala why the Lady of Galilee was in such torment, if she had the blessing of the Risen God. A strange look had come over the older woman's face.
"Suffering is a double-edged blade, Morgana," she'd said reverently. "It is only when we are wounded, cut to the quick, that our hearts are truly opened. Suffering is the gravest experience at the heart of Creation, and the gateway to the most profound joy. All those who were touched by divine grace have shared in some part of the suffering the Saviour bore on the cross. It is because the Holy Maiden suffered so much in life that she is so attuned to the cries of the souls who fly to her now. Like her Son, she is ever ready to take on the pain of others. That is why she welcomed the burdens the Lord placed on her, even as they pierced her to the very core of her being."
Inspired by Sister Nuala's passion, a sudden fervour had come upon the child Morgana then. "I want to be just like Our Lady," she had declared. "I want to take away all the pains of others. Let me take on their burdens, let me experience the mystery of suffering, so I can know God as Our Lady did."
As they had made to leave the shrine, Morgana had been approached by Mother Priscilla, a stooped old crone with an evil reputation. The girls whispered that Mother Priscilla had been trained in the Old Religion as a lass, and that her conversion to the Nazarin faith had not been entirely sincere, for she had come to the nuns to escape the stake, rather than out of genuine faith.
"'Tis done, my child," Mother Priscilla had said with a cackle, her gnarled fingers taking hold of Morgana. "Ye've wished for it, and so it'll come to pass. Ye'll know sorrow as great as Our Lady did, aye, and then some. Ye'll be driven, friendless and alone, from the kingdom of yer people, just as Our Lady fled with her boy. Seven times ye'll be wounded, and the seventh blow will pierce you to your heart of hearts, and it'll come from a sweet friend. The poison and the blade, my lady! The poison and the blade. Ye'll know the mysteries of suffering right enough, never ye mind!"
Morgana had not understood those words then. She wondered now if Mother Priscilla had been a prophetess of the Triple Goddess. The Old Religion found ways to survive, even in the heart of the New Religion's temples.
On the day before Morgana had departed the convent, Mother Superior had summoned her to her chambers.
"You are about to leave us, girl," she'd said. "You were brought up to be a handmaid of the Lord, but now you shall be a lady of the court. Man's World is a corrupt place, filled with danger at every turn, especially for a woman. You must be on your guard, Morgana. After the Fall, a war began between Spirit and Flesh, and though Man was tempted second, he fell further than Woman. Men have hearts like wild beasts, and in Man's World they shall have total power over you. In that court, you shall have no guardian but King Uther and God Himself.
"I have two pieces of advice for you. You have a compassionate heart, and it will not easily bear the brutalities of the court. I know you cannot stand to see others in pain, but you must not rush to take up the crosses of the afflicted so quickly. Life will have plenty of suffering in store for you without you having to seek out more. Further, learn obedience. I have punished you often for rebellion here. If you found our discipline harsh, you will tremble at what a king may do to you."
And so Morgana had left the convent for Camelot with nothing but a rosary of amber, and an icon of the Blessed Virgin, which Sister Ethelgifa had kept in Morgana's room at nights to stop her visions and fits of sleepwalking.
In the convent, life had been organised around the Lady of Sorrows. But for a rare visit from a priest, the only people Morgana had known had been women. Women held power, made decisions and issued commands, and it had seemed natural to Morgana that women should be the ones in authority.
In court, life revolved around men, who were suddenly everywhere. The central figure was King Uther, and a close second was his son, Prince Arthur, followed by the lords and knights. The palace had all the rituals, ceremonies and devotions of the convent, but instead of honouring the Lady of Galilee, all the services glorified the king and his nobles. Even the Archbishop seemed subservient to the king, and when Morgana went to the cathedral for solace, in place of the kindly Sisters she had been expecting, all she had seen were warrior-saints and imperious bishops with croziers instead of longswords.
It had been difficult for Morgana to adjust to this new reality. She saw many things that appalled her at court, most prominently the brutality of Uther's war against magic. At first, in her naivete, she had openly confronted the king, but it soon became clear that she had no power to gainsay him. Then, much as it offended her pride, she began to learn from the ladies of the court, women who had no influence except through steering the men around them. She taught herself cunning, studying men so she could see what their strengths and weaknesses were, what words would move them, how to nudge them into one choice over another.
She found an ally in Arthur, who had a gentle heart, but lacked the willpower to oppose his father directly. She was frustrated by how little Arthur used the great rank he had, even when he saw his father's laws were wrong. What a waste of his birthright, she thought. If only I were Arthur's blood sister. The Pendragon men have power, but they have little interest in using it to make the world a better place. If only I had authority in my own right, instead of having to nag Arthur into using his conscience now and again.
As the years went by, and she saw the Church giving its blessing to the king's bloody wars, however unjust, Morgana lost the urge to pray. The Blessed Virgin is like any other woman at court, she thought. She has no power here, in man's world. Truly, she never had power in her own right. She only has influence through her Son and the Heavenly Father, power that she borrows from men, power that men allow her to have. She is as helpless as I am. She cannot grant me the strength to change anything. Morgana eventually gave the icon of Our Lady of Sorrows away to her maidservant, Guinevere. Afterwards, her strange dreams began to return, visions of fire and darkness, and of winged cherubim blazing in the heavens. She saw the Lady crowned with twelve stars, but consumed with grief, weeping, with a fresh sword plunged into her heart. Morgana felt guilty, for she felt she had driven the sword into the Lady's breast herself, but soon even these shadowy images had faded.
And then, much later, Morgause had come.
Morgana remembered kneeling in the salt waves off the Blessed Isle, Morgause sprinkling her head with droplets of water.
"Morgana," Morgause had said. "Do you know what Lady Ygraine named you, sister? Do you know what your name means in the Old Tongue of Brython? Mor Gan. Sea-born. Now be baptised in the waters of the Goddess, be born again from the waves. Arise, Morgana Sea-Born."
That day Morgana had made her choice - or perhaps it had been made for her. The will of the Goddess was like the currents of the ocean, deep, unknowable and irresistible. Perhaps Morgana's course had been set long before her birth. She felt like a ship adrift, tossed hither and thither by swells she could barely comprehend.
Some part of her regretted casting away the Lady of Sorrows, but Morgana could not be a servant of two mistresses. And the Lady she served now was the queen of sorceresses. To the followers of the Old Religion, women and men alike, she brought true power. Power to make the world a better place. Power to make the unrighteous tremble.
Power which the Vykings would witness today.
Father Marcas, a priest of the Nazarin rite, dressed all in black like Morgana, now turned to King Lot.
"Sire," he said, "we lack the strength to repel such a fleet! We must send messengers to your people! Let their families take refuge in the churches and pray for God's mercy. Even barbarians may fear to despoil the sanctuaries of the Lord. St Augustine of Hippo tells us that when the Visigoths sacked Roma, the pagan gods were powerless to defend the Imperial City, but those who took refuge in churches of the true Lord were spared. These Vykings believe in the Saviour, so we must pray they are virtuous barbarians after the Visigoths, and that they will not slaughter innocents in the houses of religion as their heathen ancestors did."
"Hold, Father," called Morgana. "There will be no need for the people to fly to your houses of worship. They are already under the protection of a greater power, though they know it not."
Two of King Urien's pages brought forth a milk-white bull. The beast seemed dazed, as though drugged, but it still thrust its hooves into the ground, resisting its captors. The attendants overpowered it, dragging it forward by its golden halter. A golden knife appeared in Morgana's hand.
Father Marcas looked to the kings in appeal. "My lords, surely you cannot mean to put your trust in this sorceress' charms? Will you allow your kingdom to follow her into damnation?"
King Urien replied, "This kingdom has already been ravaged. Your people have been beggared year after year, paying off the Vyking fleets. And all your hymns, Father, have been powerless to safeguard your flock. Why not allow the High Priestess to wield her power if it will spare them?"
"Because," said Father Marcas, "such power as she wields comes with a terrible price. You may curse the Danes, sire, but the coin they plundered from us was only silver. This sorceress' crafts are purchased with something far dearer, for she places her own soul in the scales, and her Master's fee will grow without limit. The Fiend is the prince of contracts, and his interest is charged so steeply that the Avramite financiers look charitable by comparison."
"This is mere superstition, Father," retorted King Urien. "Our forefathers respected the Old Religion, though we have forgotten its ways. Its rituals are foreign to you, and therefore you label it devilry out of misapprehension."
"Do our eyes not apprehend correctly? Do you not see the beast whose blood she means to spill? What power can she mean to dedicate it to?"
King Urien scoffed. "Sacrifice alone cannot be proof of the Fiend's involvement. Father, have you not read the Old Book, with its description of the Mosaical Law? Did God not demand sacrifices from His chosen people? Were they not instructed to make burnt offerings, to slaughter the firstborn calf and the fatted lamb? Was Abraham not prepared to offer up his own son?"
"Those were the terms of the Old Covenant!" exclaimed Father Marcas. "Under the New Covenant, sacrifice is ended. God has already performed the perfect sacrifice, by giving the life of His own Firstborn Son, pure and without stain. Next to this, no offering of beast or man can compare, and nothing further will be asked, for God has paid the blood-debt in our lieu.
"Therefore, if this sorceress makes offerings, it cannot be to the True God. She sacrifices to the Old Powers, the angels who rule over this world, and grant dominion over the Earth to their worshippers. After the war in Heaven, the followers of the Deceiver were cast out and driven into the Abyss. These evil spirits put on attractive forms, style themselves gods and goddesses, and tempt the ignorant into worshipping them, for they would have all men follow them into damnation.
"Sire, you must not allow this priestess to lead you astray, for a king who breaks God's commandments jeopardises his entire kingdom. Recall how King Ahab allowed Jezebel to tempt him away from God, and how he defiled the high places and temples by setting up shrines to that hateful Goddess Astarte. Would you be such an unfaithful king, to turn your people away from righteousness, and have the sword of the Lord be unsheathed against them?"
As if stirred by the priest's words, the lady in black turned and moved towards Father Marcas.
"Pax vobis, Pater," she greeted him, with a gravity that belied her years. Had the priest been expecting the lascivious conduct of a wanton witch, he must have been disappointed with the woman's attitude.
"Do you mock me?" he asked her.
"Indeed I do not," she replied. "Fear me not, Father. What I seek is the safety of this kingdom, by the offering of prayers for her subjects."
"And what unholy prayers are these?"
"Prayers for protection. Perhaps even some known to you." The woman's eyes blazed, and a rich timbre entered her voice. "Surge, Domine, et dissipentur inimici tui! Et fugiant qui oderunt te a facia tua!"
Father Marcas started, and crossed himself. "How marvellous is the power of the Deceiver, that he places Holy Scripture in the mouths of his servants, as if putting the bleating of lambs in the jaws of wolves! But Holy Writ is perverted when invoked by an evil witness, just as honey becomes poison when touched by a serpent's tooth. How came you by the Lord's prayers?"
"I was schooled in them from infancy," replied the priestess. "Know you the convent of Our Lady By the Sea? That was my first home. I have studied your religion, Father, but your zealotry forbids you from knowledge of mine."
"My daughter," said Father Marcas passionately, "zealotry comes in many forms. And you have gravely erred in your judgement. For were you an ignorant pagan, raised without knowledge of the True Faith, God would not have held you responsible for your condition. But as you were brought up to study of the scriptures, to turn your back on them in favour of sorcery was an act of deliberate blasphemy. This has certainly condemned you. Repent, before it is too late!"
"I have done nothing that I should repent," said Morgana. "It is the people of the Old Religion who have suffered at the hands of your followers. It is your priesthood who should beg for mercy."
"I will not do so," said Father Marcas. "Not from a servant of the Enemy of Mankind."
"The Goddess is not your enemy," said Morgana. "You believe the world to be the work of your Creator, and yet you refuse to read the Book of Nature, for the signs of the Lady are everywhere. Her three forms are reflected in all things. Even St Padraig witnessed this, when he plucked the three-leaved shamrock and beheld Her three faces, but he denied Her, and could only proclaim the Trinity of your Nazarin God. For there are none so blind as those who will not see."
"We see very well," returned Father Marcas, "with the scales of delusion fallen from our eyes. Your Triple Lady is a false Trinity. She is none other than the three fallen angels, Lucifer, Beelzebub and Moloch, masquerading as an unholy triplet to mock God's Triune nature, and cause the destruction of His children's souls."
"Enough!" said Morgana. "Diana is indeed called Lucifera, for she is a bearer of light. As the Moon she illuminates the night sky, for the benefit of Man, and as the font of Wisdom, she illuminates the darkness of man's mind, bringing him gnosis. But you pervert her title and call her Lucifer, a prince of demons, for it pleases you to misunderstand. Words will not solve our differences, Father, and I will not debate while the Vykings draw near. Let others bear witness to the power of the Goddess by Her actions."
In the meantime, the ships of the raiders had come alarmingly near, so close that the watchers could make out the individual warriors massing on the decks, see their iron helmets and mail armour, hear the sound of their grim war-drums beating across the water like a passing-knell for the imminently dead.
The knights on the shore had grown increasingly nervous, their hands straying to their hilts. Waiting for a command from either of the kings present, they had been stayed from forming up by the imprecations of Father Marcas, but it was clear they must make a choice soon: to make a stand on the shore or flee to the defence of their walled cities. King Lot himself seemed paralysed by indecision, torn between the warnings of his priest, and the urgings of his brother King Urien to stay and trust the sorceress.
"Pax vobiscum," said Morgana to the nobles, before turning and going to the sacrificial beast. She took the golden halter from the pages, and whispered something into the ear of the milk-white bull, which forgot its massive bulk and suddenly became docile as a lamb. Then the priestess led the creature to the very edge of the promontory, so that they stood right above the ocean. Down below, waves rushed to dash themselves against the jagged rocks which stuck out of the surging white foam.
"Great Queen!" called Morgana. "You have withdrawn your protection from this land! The people have forgotten you! They have cut down your sacred groves, despoiled your sanctuaries, and allowed your sacred fires to go cold! They have not observed your rites, nor do they mark the changing of Earth's seasons! They have slaughtered your followers and driven your priestesses into exile! But today I, a High Priestess, speak for the Old Ways, and I invite you back, O Three-Formed Goddess!
"These outlanders would slaughter our people, and offer our blood as a sacrifice to their war-gods. But I turn their sacrifice back upon them, and offer their lives to you, Queen of Land, Sky and Sea! Now let our covenant be sanctified with the blood of the innocent! Take back the soul of this innocent beast, this child of your womb, and let it fly to your breast!"
The priestess spoke some words in a harsh, alien tongue, and the sea-breeze picked up, whispering to the gathered knights and nobles as if in reply. Then Morgana brought the gold knife around, and drew it across the animal's throat in one smooth motion. With superhuman strength, she pushed the creature over the crest, and it fell, streamers of red blood gushing from its neck, and was lost in the waves below.
"Lord have mercy," breathed Father Marcas, making the sign of the cross.
The wind began to howl, beating against their backs so strongly that people stumbled and horses whinnied in alarm. The sky darkened, black clouds appearing from nowhere and skidding across the heavens with such velocity it was as though a veil was drawn across the sun. Sheets of lightning flashed, and thunderclaps broke out in a rhythmic pattern, overpowering the drumming of the Vykings.
The sea, now as black as the sky, swelled unnaturally, the surface undulating as though the coils of a gigantic serpent flexed beneath it, tossing the longships as if they were pleasure-boats.
The Vykings, consummate sailors, had been taken aback by the storm's sudden appearance, but they reacted swiftly. Their ships had been the first vessels designed to switch between sail and oar at speed, and now, seeing that the wind had become their enemy, they raced across the decks to pull down the large squares of cloth. It was too late for some of them, however. As the onlookers looked on in shock, gales skidded across the surface of the sea and snapped the masts of the longboats, as if the hardened ashwood was no more than twig. Forks of lightning stabbed down with eerie precision, setting pitch aflame, and sending men screaming and scurrying for cover.
The Lady Morgana now lifted a hand, and directed it against the oncoming fleet, as if incensing her Goddess to still greater fury. If anyone had doubts about the action of a supernatural hand in the phenomenon, they were now silenced. For at the priestess' gesture, the wind folded around her enemies like a vice and the sea itself rose up to destroy them. Waves as big as mountains formed, larger than any had seen in living memory, demolishing entire ships. Trapped between sea and sky, the wind grinding down on them like a press, and the waves opening to swallow them, the longboats were shattered into oblivion.
Some on the shore, witnessing the devastation through the wind battering their faces, even felt pity for the raiders. The sailors ran across the decks, called upon their Thunderer for aid, even flung themselves overboard in desperation, but all to no avail.
The storm was ended as quickly as it had begun. A gap opened in the heavens, and a shaft of sunlight poured down, illuminating the High Priestess as if in a sign of approval from her Mistress.
Not one longboat of a fleet of forty had survived. All that remained were scattered bits of wooden debris floating in the ocean, and the pale outlines of bloated corpses, which would wash up on shore for days. It was a victory so complete, so relentless, that not even in the days of Alfred the Great or William of Normandy, had a king of Brython's royal navy managed to so annihilate a fleet of invading Vykings.
In the awful silence that followed, King Urien of Gore went to the High Priestess, removed his crown, and went down on one knee.
"Lady," he said, "you are everything you had promised us, and more. Such power as you possess is beyond even the grasp of emperors. I pledge to follow you, that your blessing may magnify my kingdom. Lady, say the word, and you shall be queen of Gore itself, and sit at my right hand on a throne of silver. I offer you myself and my kingdom, a royal dower as rich as any lord's in this land."
Morgana turned, a curiously cold look in her eyes as she regarded the king, as though heedless of how great an honour he paid her.
"I have no need of your kingdom, King Urien," she said at last. "Nor of your throne, nor your inheritance. For I have one of my own. What I lack is support in the great war to come. What I lack is the loyalty of this island's rulers. What I require is the means to achieve my victory and defend my rightful claims. Will you support me in this?"
"Lady, only say the word, and you shall have whatever your heart desires."
Morgana looked around, taking in the awestruck nobles, King Lot, his knights, and the trembling Father Marcas.
"What I desire is my right. Déesse et mon droit! I want the throne of Camelot."
A/N:
Thanks for the kind comments on the last chapter, everyone! It's much appreciated.
After I finished my first watch of Merlin, I was so intrigued and emotionally involved in the characters and story, but also frustrated by what I felt was inconsistent character development. So when I started this story, I almost started with a blank slate, and sort of just shoved the characters into this world to see how it would form around them.
However, I've slowly started going over the episodes again, and trying to pull out threads of the characters that I really enjoyed. I hope I can weave a bit more of their original personality into this story, though obviously there will be significant changes and inconsistencies, because this world is different.
I did enjoy putting a bit of Detective Gwen into the last chapter. When I watched the first two seasons I was also struck by how much of a moral compass she is in the show. She is really quite lippy for a serving girl, and fortunately Arthur takes it well. It would have been interesting to see how real political power could have combined with her strong moral convictions and her willingness to challenge others - an extremely opinionated queen who wants to change the world would have been a lot more threatening to the social order than a sassy serving girl, but sadly we didn't really get to see that.
I didn't get to put much of Morgana's character in this chapter. I actually was planning to write a much longer chapter, beginning with her childhood in the convent, but I couldn't really justify it because she's not a main character in this story. Even this chapter is a diversion. I don't know if Morgana will show up again. I just had to put her here because the preceding chapter was about Gwen, and the next chapters will be about Arthur and Merlin's childhoods, and I just felt that some reference to her as part of the original young four belonged here.
Guest: thank you very much for your kind words. I won't get into my whole biography here, but I will say that I'm not religious and have a complicated relationship with organised religion. However, religion has played an important role in my family's history. My extremely religious grandparents came from a small Hindu community, whose identity was defined by resisting Muslim and Christian attempts to convert them.
However, despite this, I was encouraged to learn about and respect all faiths, and my parents sent me to a Catholic school for a couple of years. I have been drawn to many different religious cultures, and Catholicism has a special place in my heart. Something about the architecture, music, artwork, prayers and devotions just overcomes me with a sense of beauty and transcendence. I find the Catholic liturgy soothing, and I often listen to chants like Salve Regina because they give me a sense of peace.
I love mediaeval and Victorian settings, and I think it's hard to write a story like this without respecting the enormous influence Christianity, and the Roman Church in particular, have had, whether positive or negative, on every aspect of people's lives. (Of course BBC Merlin managed this - they mentioned the Old Religion while avoiding any reference to the New Religion, so it can be done. And I respect their reasons for doing it, because the show was about fantasy, not about paganism vs. Christianity. But I think referencing the historical context can bring a sense of richness, and I hope my respect for and genuine interest in the source material comes through when I write).
I think offering to pray for a stranger, especially one whom you only know through fanfiction, is such a generous gesture. I do genuinely appreciate the intention and am actually touched and humbled by it, especially because I know how special the act is to believers. Thank you!