It all started that day by the lake. The day, Galahad and I climbed the Torr and were almost lost in each other's arms. I thought I loved him then and would gladly have given myself to him that very afternoon had the Goddess not chosen me for a different path. As it was, I almost did. But I was young, and he was strong, dark, and handsome-- a male version of myself. When I looked into his eyes all I saw was me. But that's enough of Galahad.

That afternoon doesn't cling to me because of Galahad or my girlish fantasies of a knight in shining armor, it was the day I first met Gwenefar. I still remember it so clearly . . .

I was in my shift, wet and muddy from traipsing all afternoon by the shores of the Lake. She was shining and pure, golden, in the late afternoon sunlight. Galahad was mesmerized. I was jealous.

She was everything that I could never be: tall, slender, pale, delicate, and blond, like an angel. And I hated her for it. I felt like an ugly lump of clay walking behind a porcelain doll. Dark and light. Faerie and Woman.

We belonged to different worlds, Gwen and I, but our paths still crossed more than either of us could ever have known that first afternoon. She probably didn't even remember the dark tree-like girl quickly guiding her Highness back to safety, the convent. How was she to know that she would one day marry my brother? Rule my people? Raise my child? Think of me? But then again, I could never have guessed where we would be today, I could never have imagined the twists and turns in my once strait path. But who does?

* * * * * * *

"Hello Morgaine, how good of you to grace us with your presence"

Why do I always sound so cold when I speak to her?

She is a witch. Evil. No woman a good Christian queen like me should be indebted to.

Then that rye smile and my once iron resolve of annoyance and disdain is melted away. It can't survive that smile, my loathing never could.

"Happy Beltaine to you too, my Lady"

Her dark hair is pulled back into a web of tightly braided silk and hair. Her hair is what tells me when it is a festival day. Rain or shine, if there is no celebration, Morgaine's hair will be in one long rope of ebony down her strait back. And if there is something to celebrate, a web-- beautiful and complex-- just like her.

Now stop. I'm are a highborn lady, a queen. I am happily married to every maiden's fantasy, the Lord of the Round Table. Arthur. I love him, I really do, it's just . . .. He is my friend. My lover, but that spark, that flame, isn't ours to command anymore. Ever since last Beltaine when Lancelot, Arthur, and I shared his bed, he has only had eyes for his henchman. Lancelot. My first love.

I wonder what would have happened if things had gone differently. If I hadn't been the naïve and vulnerable girl I was when I married Arthur. If I had had the courage to marry Lancelot sooner. He loved me. They both did. But now they love each other. I don't begrudge them that, Christ no. I just wish I could read my heart then as truly as I can now.

"My Lady? It is time to prepare for the jousting match my Lady. Can you hear me?"

Drats. My reverie has gotten the best of me again. Snap out of it Gwen. Come alive.

"Ah, yes. It is time already? Well, I'm coming then. Morgaine, would you do me the honor of braiding my hair for the festivities?"

"But of course, Gwen"

We are so close I can smell her. She is the forest, wild and unknown, but strangely intriguing. She is behind me now, her breasts pressed into the middle of my back. Her nipples tantalizing in their proximity. Can she feel the racing of my heart? Why is she this close? Surely not just to braid my hair . . . No, just to reach her little arms around me to bring all of my hair in reach. I can breathe again. Her weight no longer rests against me, but as her fingers begin to weave my hair into something beautiful all my senses leap towards that place of contact. Where her fingers brush my scalp. Who would have thought that so much sense can be concentrated in on one scalp? But I treasure every tiny second of contact we share. I grasp it and hide it away in my heart where I can look back on it. I treasure each moment because it is always the last one.

"There, all done. Your hair is truly fit for the Queen that you are"

The braiding is over far too soon. I long to undo her recent work of art just so she will have to stay to re-do it. So she will be forced to stay near to me for one moment longer. Instead, I simply smile as she walks away.

Curses. I should be damned. These feelings are not healthy, unnatural. I should tell my confessor. But what will he say? That it is bad enough to lust after a pagan, but even worse for that pagan to be an evil woman, descendant of Eve, the source of original sin. I couldn't bear to hear him speak of her thus. I will not have the Lady of the Lake spoken of with contempt in my presence.