Right. My disclaimer. I do not own Marion Zimmer Bradley or her books, nor
do I own Arthur or Guinevere or Morgaine or Lancelot or whoever. I'm just
fascinated by Arthur's tale and decide to add my own little twist to it.
Woo-ha.
Enjoy!
* * * * * * * * * * *
Each day that I have known in all these long years I have served the Goddess, the Holy Mother, with my heart, my body, and my soul. She has given me what my birthmother Igraine could not; the comfort a daughter needs receive. I will always be one with Her and She will accept me as I come, however that may be. But today, today I truly wonder. Why have I chosen a life such as this? I could so easily have been Arthur's queen, if we had not learned who we were that night. No, that is not what I wanted. I never desired to be High Queen of England, watched by all those eyes. That was a duty left for my lady Guinevere.
Guinevere. My brother's wife. I have always said we are so different from one another, but at that I too wonder. Are we really so dissimilar? It is not her fault she cannot bear; as it is not mine I bore Arthur's son, the son that brings her such pain. She loves the boy, I know. He is hard not to love. But I see it when she looks at him. She only wanted Arthur to have the heir she could never give him, to make him happy. She will illustrate these feelings to none, but I know by simply watching. His existence troubles her, but in her heart she cannot find it to despise him-- it is a war of anguish and torment for her. The boy, it was said, would be her king's demise. Guinevere is an undoubtedly faithful Christian, on that much we agree. I have given myself over to the will of the Goddess, be that what it may. Through all our similarities, we are two different people, and those differences make us more alike. Who are we, I ask? We are simply two women, bound by fate.
Now I question what will become of us all. The era of Arthur and of the Pendragon blood must come to and end sometime, and I felt it coming. The prophecies seen by Viviane, Niniane, Merlin even, they all proved true. Along with the death of a King he will be everlasting, remembered for all eternity. He will be recalled in stories and legends of the future, tales and myths of the past. He is, and always will be, King Arthur.
I am called Morgaine. I shared a mother with Arthur, a strong-hearted woman by the name of Igraine. We do not, however, share fathers. His is the blood of Uther Pendragon where mine is that of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. I had never been fond of Uther, particularly when he bound my mother to him. Perhaps I felt that he was trying to take the place of Gorlois, I do not remember. But I have since forgiven him, for I have witnessed the power of love myself, and I would do no good if I hated a man for reasons not important enough to recollect. But revelations of my childhood will give little help here. My story is a long and complicated one. I have been written about, sung about, reminisced over. But have I ever been understood? Perhaps not, but I do not want to alter the stories that have been told, for I want to be remembered as others remember me. Here I am, flesh and blood, spirit and reflection, to shed light on Camelot after Arthur.
Camelot will one day be but fragments of memories, shattered visions and broken dreams. All we have left will be the stories lingering behind, refusing to be suppressed. Our time is finished. Arthur's Age will vanish into nothing. Or perhaps there I am wrong-perhaps we will vanish bodily, but our spirits will wander the world for years to come. Perhaps we will teach future generations who we were, what we accomplished. We will live through their reminiscence.
Arthur and Morded. Father and son. They looked so very much like one another, with the same dark hair and eyes, even the same temperament. It was not long before the court began suspecting the true paternity of this young prince from Orkney. No one suspected that they would be their own deaths. It was a sad fate, that both would be lost to the other's hand. But it was a wonder to see how destiny is designed; rather like the web of a spider, with the twisted edges and a center not always visible. My brother was brought to me in Avalon, where he died in my arms on the bank of the river. Oh, how I wept then.
Mordred the Traitor, some called him. Some time before Arthur's definite end it was rumored he had been slain, and the boy took up the throne as King of England. Arthur, of course, returned to find it so, and all bonds between them were broken. It was also whispered that Mordred's heart called for the queen, Guinevere, but whether that is true or false, I could not tell you. The crown was passed to Sir Constantine, a bold member of Arthur's Round Table. But I could, again, not tell you of him. After he took kingship I retired to Avalon and learned little more than that. Guinevere withdrew to a convent. All her life, all the time she was married to my brother, she had loved his dearest friend, the valiant knight called Lancelot. It was a long story of toil between them that I will not utter now. It is said he went to her once and wanted her beside him, but deep in their weathered hearts they both knew that even after so many years, even with Arthur gone, their age was over. They could not succumb to each other. Lancelot ventured out on quests, and went home to Lanascol to rule upon occasion. His eldest son by his late wife, Elaine, also Guinevere's fiercest nemesis, came to Camelot and at fourteen was known for his renowned blade. I suppose Lancelot died there years later..
And I? What happened to the priestess Morgaine? I am still here. I am old now, weary of this life, but still I wish to remain a little longer before I become part of the Goddess. Uriens is dead, North Wales is under my hand, but I will give it to Accolon when I pass. I was never meant to be a queen, maybe not even a wife. I am many things to many people, but only one identity seems to me as true.
I am Morgaine, servant of Avalon.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Each day that I have known in all these long years I have served the Goddess, the Holy Mother, with my heart, my body, and my soul. She has given me what my birthmother Igraine could not; the comfort a daughter needs receive. I will always be one with Her and She will accept me as I come, however that may be. But today, today I truly wonder. Why have I chosen a life such as this? I could so easily have been Arthur's queen, if we had not learned who we were that night. No, that is not what I wanted. I never desired to be High Queen of England, watched by all those eyes. That was a duty left for my lady Guinevere.
Guinevere. My brother's wife. I have always said we are so different from one another, but at that I too wonder. Are we really so dissimilar? It is not her fault she cannot bear; as it is not mine I bore Arthur's son, the son that brings her such pain. She loves the boy, I know. He is hard not to love. But I see it when she looks at him. She only wanted Arthur to have the heir she could never give him, to make him happy. She will illustrate these feelings to none, but I know by simply watching. His existence troubles her, but in her heart she cannot find it to despise him-- it is a war of anguish and torment for her. The boy, it was said, would be her king's demise. Guinevere is an undoubtedly faithful Christian, on that much we agree. I have given myself over to the will of the Goddess, be that what it may. Through all our similarities, we are two different people, and those differences make us more alike. Who are we, I ask? We are simply two women, bound by fate.
Now I question what will become of us all. The era of Arthur and of the Pendragon blood must come to and end sometime, and I felt it coming. The prophecies seen by Viviane, Niniane, Merlin even, they all proved true. Along with the death of a King he will be everlasting, remembered for all eternity. He will be recalled in stories and legends of the future, tales and myths of the past. He is, and always will be, King Arthur.
I am called Morgaine. I shared a mother with Arthur, a strong-hearted woman by the name of Igraine. We do not, however, share fathers. His is the blood of Uther Pendragon where mine is that of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. I had never been fond of Uther, particularly when he bound my mother to him. Perhaps I felt that he was trying to take the place of Gorlois, I do not remember. But I have since forgiven him, for I have witnessed the power of love myself, and I would do no good if I hated a man for reasons not important enough to recollect. But revelations of my childhood will give little help here. My story is a long and complicated one. I have been written about, sung about, reminisced over. But have I ever been understood? Perhaps not, but I do not want to alter the stories that have been told, for I want to be remembered as others remember me. Here I am, flesh and blood, spirit and reflection, to shed light on Camelot after Arthur.
Camelot will one day be but fragments of memories, shattered visions and broken dreams. All we have left will be the stories lingering behind, refusing to be suppressed. Our time is finished. Arthur's Age will vanish into nothing. Or perhaps there I am wrong-perhaps we will vanish bodily, but our spirits will wander the world for years to come. Perhaps we will teach future generations who we were, what we accomplished. We will live through their reminiscence.
Arthur and Morded. Father and son. They looked so very much like one another, with the same dark hair and eyes, even the same temperament. It was not long before the court began suspecting the true paternity of this young prince from Orkney. No one suspected that they would be their own deaths. It was a sad fate, that both would be lost to the other's hand. But it was a wonder to see how destiny is designed; rather like the web of a spider, with the twisted edges and a center not always visible. My brother was brought to me in Avalon, where he died in my arms on the bank of the river. Oh, how I wept then.
Mordred the Traitor, some called him. Some time before Arthur's definite end it was rumored he had been slain, and the boy took up the throne as King of England. Arthur, of course, returned to find it so, and all bonds between them were broken. It was also whispered that Mordred's heart called for the queen, Guinevere, but whether that is true or false, I could not tell you. The crown was passed to Sir Constantine, a bold member of Arthur's Round Table. But I could, again, not tell you of him. After he took kingship I retired to Avalon and learned little more than that. Guinevere withdrew to a convent. All her life, all the time she was married to my brother, she had loved his dearest friend, the valiant knight called Lancelot. It was a long story of toil between them that I will not utter now. It is said he went to her once and wanted her beside him, but deep in their weathered hearts they both knew that even after so many years, even with Arthur gone, their age was over. They could not succumb to each other. Lancelot ventured out on quests, and went home to Lanascol to rule upon occasion. His eldest son by his late wife, Elaine, also Guinevere's fiercest nemesis, came to Camelot and at fourteen was known for his renowned blade. I suppose Lancelot died there years later..
And I? What happened to the priestess Morgaine? I am still here. I am old now, weary of this life, but still I wish to remain a little longer before I become part of the Goddess. Uriens is dead, North Wales is under my hand, but I will give it to Accolon when I pass. I was never meant to be a queen, maybe not even a wife. I am many things to many people, but only one identity seems to me as true.
I am Morgaine, servant of Avalon.