After so many heart straining years away from the Lake my heart still yearns for it on days like these. On days when the mixture of lust and love is explosive and the sun plays games with the hearts and minds of mortals. I miss the Beltaine fires and the processions. The couplings. I miss being alive, able and willing to feel all the vibrations of the earth, to feel joy and pain in the clouds and longing in the wind.

Here everything is dead. Leaden skies ready to collapse on the unfaithful, and pompous feasts striving to fill the gap of the Ancient celebrations. They know it is not enough. I can sense the longing in their eyes at the preparations for bonfires on the distant hills, at the laughter and sunshine on the "simple folk's" dancing faces. Even Arthur knows that jousting is not enough. Even he can feel the Goddess contracting and aching for bliss. He can subconsciously sense his Mother's lines of power, longing for completion and observance. He cannot completely block it out, as much as he tries.

I can see the longing in his eyes as Lancelot walks into the ring, muscles taught with anticipation. I can see it in his slightly open mouth, the sharp intake of breath, as he watches his henchman begin the fluid dance of swordplay, body exposed and inviting.

But he is a good Christian King. Those feelings of beauty and love are hidden away under shame and revulsion. It is only when he relaxes into his childhood's wisdom for a moment that they come to the surface. It is on days like this, when the two religions meet under false pretences. Wasn't it this night that he first discovered this secret fire within?

And what of my own secret passion? Even as I claim self righteousness and the ability to love freely whom I will, I cannot. I cannot shame my Gwenefar. It would only distress her to learn of my heathen tendencies. It would only serve to hurt her more. I could not bear that. I could never deliberately put her through any more pain and betrayal than she has already lived through. Not when I love her so much it hurts. Not when I can pinpoint her exact location at every moment of everyday. I am her silent guardian. At least I have that much. I have learned to be content.

"Will you fetch me a glass of wine Morgaine?"

With one sentence I am forcefully tugged back into the reality of the sawdust, sweat, and shouts of a Christian Beltaine afternoon.

"Of course my lady" Why do I feel honour and happiness at fetching her small things, a glass of wine, her best comb? She has so much power over me, more than a queen should. My love is obsessive and pathetic. I am her slave, a slave to love.