Like Morgaine, Morgause had lost everything she worked for in her life, lost everyone she loved. Yet she had no spiritual refuge to turn to. One bard's version of the sad fate of Morgause after the events in Mists of Avalon.
Morgause, Queen of Orkney and Lothian, sat at a spinning wheel, her slender fingers turning it absently. The fragments of the Sight that she used to employ were slowly splintering away . Perhaps it was her eyesight, but the hall she sat in seemed dark. It was empty, save a servant girl cleaning the hearth of soot. The girl was excessively pretty, reminding her of a younger Igraine. Or even herself. That beauty that always cut at her heart, making her ache in jealousy, until she had realised one day that she was more than Igraine ever could be, and it was only envy that prevented her from seeing that.
Igraine. She had been loved by all. Her beauty was tremendous at its prime. She had been mother to the greatest ruler Britain had ever known.
And she was dead. As was Viviane. As were their sons and their men. There was no spite or envy between them anymore. There was nothing to be envious of. Of her sisters, she was the last living.
This had once been a great Hall – Lot's fortress. This castle where her five sons had been born, Gawaine, Agravaine, Gaheris, Gareth and Gwydion - though not of her own flesh, he was hers in soul. At least, for a time. This Hall was where she and Lot had reigned supreme, together striving towards the higher goals, the higher thrones. Where, after Lot's passing, the other half of her heart had belonged to Lamorak, the only other lover who had ever possessed it, and they had lain together through seemingly endless summers, and she had felt so young.
"Madam, is there aught else you would me to do?" the girl asked Morgause. She was a pretty thing, and Morgause was stunned for a moment by the way the girl looked up to her as if… motherly. She had once been ten times as beautiful as that thing. The pages all revelled in the maiden's graces, yet with Morgause, were all bows and distance. They did not know her at her prime.
"No, all is fine here." Morgause said hurriedly, painfully aware of her own harsh croak compared to the girl's youthful tones. "You may leave--ah…" She could never remember names.
"Anna, your highness." The girl said and curtsied. Morgause nodded and went back to pretending to work at her cloths and never-finished embroideries. In truth she cared naught for the maintenance of the castle. She lived completely alone: no sons, no family, no visitors.
Does Morgaine feel thus? To have lost everyone she loved in her life? Brother, lovers, son. But her loss was small compared to mine. My sons! Gwydion! You were never Morgaine's, and she mourned you not – but you were my son in heart and soul, and the grief that followed cannot be told of in words…
She would die here, perhaps.
Because, now, she could not prevent the withering of the white skin on her face that had been glorious, and no longer bought henna from the markets to colour her once-luscious copper hair. Her fingers, never skilled at spinning, felt stiff. Her head often hurt after too much reading and what few queenly tasks she still performed. Like Igraine, she had given up: now a defeated Queen.
When the servant girl left, Morgause bent her head forward against the spinning wheel and closed her eyes, stifling a sob of anguish. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone. Here, back in her own lands and her own fortress, she would be safe from the struggles that warred in Arthur's Kingdom. But here she was trapped, trapped at the mercy of her own old age and impending death.
She had heard message of his death, Arthur's, and of Gwydion's, but no other news had come to her at this corner of the world. Outside in the ruins of Arthur's life-work there was chaos and anarchy -- the dissolution under Sir Mordred had plundered the land as if a Saxon invasion they had so feared a generation ago.
Yet it had stilled, partly from the vigilance of the Old Kingdoms who had risen to defend themselves – her son Agravaine had himself been slain when defending his land from the raiders, and she had heard of Sir Uwaine, stepson of her niece, who had survived the battle of Camlann to defend his new realm of North Wales. His father would have been proud; his stepmother no less.
Morgaine. With an ache that shook her to the core, Morgause realised how much she missed her niece, who had been as her own daughter when younger. She knew not the fate of Morgaine, yet with a certainty lying in the ashes of the Sight, was sure she was safe, and in Avalon. She knew Morgaine was old now – Morgaine, who she had cared for as her own; that girl who, like herself had been taken by Viviane to nurse, she had in turn taken into her home. She had helped in Gwydion's birth, and fostered the child as her own son. And she had been his mother, not Morgaine.
Yet who could call herself a mother, when all her sons were dead?
At least Morgaine had her Goddess doctrine to turn to – always, it was the will of the Goddess. All that I worked my life to do crumbled to dust. Was that the will of the Goddess? The King Stag was fallen, but at what cost?
Always, she had been slave to her own ambitions. With them she had fed Gwydion, but he had rejected her. She had nourished him from her own heartblood and desires, loved him, but that night, when he pushed her away… it had charred her over the years. He had been undeniably her favourite of her children, she held him above all, and he had shaken her hold off. The Young Stag was grown. The Young Stag was dead.
So now she lay, Queen of a ravaged land, where there were none left to prevent the onset of darkness. She could not stay here, amidst the debris of her own failures. It was only a matter of time before someone more worthy claimed this land from her. She was old, and a woman. She could not maintain this realm long, and there would be no heroes anymore, no companions of Arthur to come to her rescue – and I am no damsel maiden in any case.
Lancelot of the Lake had died, not the fall of a legendary hero, but the funeral of a simple priest. But she cared not for him. It was because of him that Gawaine and Gareth lay dead; because of his escape with Gwenhwyfar that Arthur turned against Mordred. She had not the strength to hate him. He had, after all, been Viviane's son.
Yet for a long while, she had thought about joining Gwenhwyfar in her convent, Gwenhwyfar who had borne the love of the two greatest heroes of all time, who had been symbol to the kingship of Camelot. But no; She had never much affection for the Queen, and was certain herself of Gwenhwyfar's dislike, which would have been detestation had she known who was to blame for her barrenness. Gwenhwyfar may have been pleased to convert her from her harlotries, but Morgause could not retire in the embrace of a God like the daughter of Leodegranz. That was the one male she had no interest in.
So where could she go? She had no other home, no other friends.
Where have we gone, we who were young together?
The only other home she had known was Tintagel, and that was brief and barely happy. When she was a young girl though, she and Igraine had lived together in another place, in a tranquil place where the apples were fresh and sweeter than anywhere else she had ever known.
We used to play together in the House of Maidens.
Morgause's head jerked up, as she mulled over the thought that had struck her. Could she go to Avalon? Would she be able to? How could she find it, when even priestesses who failed the test of raising the mists would be condemned to leave forever and stay in the outside world?
But it had been her her home, her first home, where she had loved Igraine dearly in their childhood. It was that love that moved Igraine to take her sister with her into her care at Tintagel. That, and Viviane's increasing irritation at her incompetence for the Mysteries.
Could Morgaine accept me the way Viviane would not?
Too old, far too old. No longer a mother, but a crone.
Morgause stood. She was old, but she was not yet dead. She was well beyond childbearing, but she was still a healthy fit woman. It would involve a long, hard, even dangerous journey south, but she was strong and capable and could still ride a horse.
"Cormac!" She yelled for her horseman, he who was the first to spurn her. It was from him that she learned to call herself old, and no matter how much she hated him for it, she still treated him well, like the grandmotherly matriarch he saw her as.
The blustery man came at her call, "My lady, you called?"
"Saddle my horse. We will ride for Avalon."
"Avalon?" Cormac's worrisome frown annoyed Morgause, "That God-forsaken land?"
"Quiet your tongue!" She blazed at him, "That land has no God, but a Goddess that reigns still with my cousin Morgaine. I go to visit her."
"Are you sure your lady wishes to ride out at this season? The roads are prey to highwaymen and foul folk. It is not safe to travel far from home."
Another look from her rendered him silent, as she spoke calmly, "Do not presume to be advisor over me, Cormac. I am ruler of this land. I trust you shall find guards suitable for this journey and act as guarantor for my safety. Do not scorn me for being but a bereaved Queen. In days of old, the Queen ruled eternal – her sons and consorts were fleeting. Or are you such a Christian that you would think me heathen for such ideas?" she did not show her shock at hearing herself sound like Viviane. It was almost eerie to her ears.
"No ma'am."
"Then we shall prepare ourselves to ride."
Ah… these hands, spotted and withered like an old apple, fallen from the tree. The Goddess had forsaken me long before I cared for her. These hands… these hands have caused so much death.
"My lady?" Cormac enquired tentatively.
"What is it?" Morgause tore her gaze away from her fingers, white with holding her horses rein taut. She refused to sit in a carriage. It was two days since they had set forth from Lothian, and they had seen few happy sights in Arthur's Britain. The common folk shied away from their train, and of the Old People, Morgause thought sadly, there was no space for them in this world. She doubted that any of their number still lived, but they had had to keep on at that road, and Morgause could not see any sign of the old cultures in the fiefdoms they passed. They had got food and board at a few taverns who risked their open doors in lieu for her gold, and no one had been robbed yet, which was promising.
Yet always, in her mind when she slept on alien beds, there entered the nagging doubt of what would happen when she got to the borders of the Isle. She knew where Avalon was, but had no idea how to enter. The way for her was barred.
Still, she would worry about getting there first.
"We… are near Camelot, are we not?" her manservant enquired again, as they rode along at their steady pace.
"We are taking the road that will lead to it, yes." She replied tersely.
Cormac hesitated, and then said, "What road, lady?"
Morgause opened her mouth to answer and instead, looked down at the earth from her horse. The path they walked on was unpaved as if before the Roman era: the flagstones were stolen and missing, some broken here and there; and, squinting into the mists that lay before them, she could make out--
"Nothing." She said flatly, staring into the hilly land where the tall and regal castle Camelot stood, but: "There is nothing there."
None of her men answered.
"This is uncanny indeed." She said, trying to make her voice jovial, but said no more. Can it be that Camelot, like Avalon has finally disappeared into Mists? Has all of Arthur's life and fruit come to naught, and his kingdom gone to damnation in Faery? Or is it that the fortress lies now demolished, and I am too nearsighted to see the ruins? The Golden days of his reign are truly over. There will be no more heroes and legends in this coming dark age.
"Onward!" she yelled, her voice more shrill than was necessary on this chilly day. They had had an uneventful journey. She had seen a few thieves and bandits eyeing her train, but she had not lost all her power; she knew how to get rid of them with no more than a glance and a flick of the fingers, a priestess trick that Viviane would never have thought possible of her.
Her men knew something of her powers, and never commented, perhaps secretly understanding that they came not so much from true 'magic' as from the sheer iron force of her will. She spoke rarely to them, except to chide them, and they did not mind her overmuch. The serving woman she had taken along for the journey was mute, and provided little conversation or amusement. Sometimes the stifling silence of the journey was such that Morgause would yell out "Are we a funeral procession!" to break the doleful silence; to which one of the men would begin an apathetic song to rouse the riders. Today, one of the footmen sang a lament of Tristan and Isolde, the two lovers unrequited, second in fame only to Gwenhwyfar and her Lancelot.
It brought tears to Morgause's eyes, for her made her think of her Lamorak, who had loved her and left her, and the two visitors she had met in Arthur's court, whom the song was written of.
She had not paid attention to them at the time, but she remembered Drustan's music.
Did he feel as I do when he sang? To be alone and without hope, to realise well your only desire, forbidden to you?
The waters of the summer sea lapped gently at her horse's legs. Morgause sat, her back upright, facing the horizon with a look that almost resembled defiance.
She could see nothing.
"The mists are thick Madam. Perhaps you could send a message to the Abbey? I can barely see the tor from here."
She ignored the man, and continued waiting. The barge must come! Here was a daughter of Avalon standing at her shore. I may have renounced the Goddess in my life, but in my veins flows the royal blood of Avalon, the High Priestesses!
Try as she might, she saw no barge. There was no sound of oars, nor the comforting thuds of the wooden vessel grinding against the shore.
Did you expect more? It is faded so far into the mists than there is no longer a route through it.
"Madam, it is starting to rain," the manservant pressed at her side, his whining voice grating her nerves, "We should leave and find shelter. There is no ferry to the abbey – we may have to set up a camp."
She looked at him, this servant, looked into his pleading eyes.
"You may leave." She said.
"What?"
"Go back home."
"What?" he repeated, the puzzled look of a puppy about his face.
"All of you. Turn back for Lothian. I shall continue alone."
The footman was speechless. He turned around for help from his fellows, who joined him.
"Madam, will you not return there with us? It is dangerous out here, without protection!" Cormac pleaded with her desperately, "There is no way to the Isle of Glass at this time, it is true, but I beg you to let us wait with you until a ferry comes, or return home with us!" he implored her so fervently that she was almost moved, but Morgause was resolute.
"Send a message to Lionors." She said, her voice still and bland, "Gareth's eldest will inherit the throne of Lothian. I am sure that he, or she, if fate has her will again, will reign well."
By the look of utter horror on their faces, Morgause realised with a pang how devastated her subjects must be.
She had never been civil or kind to them -- she had never learned to pay respects to those below her, but she was all they had, and she had been a good ruler -- that she knew perfectly well. Many of them had been born and raised with her and Lot on the throne. She was their mother. She represented the Goddess to them: the fertility of the land, the stability of the land. She was all they had ever known.
She was a harsh mistress, a harsh mother, but in their own way, they had loved her. She understood.
I am the last reminder of Arthur's Golden Age. After me, darkness follows.
But the world would move, and she had to move with it. If she stayed, she could do nothing to help her people. Lothian would have a new leader, and Morgause would be forgotten.
"If Gaheris ever returns, he will be given his due, and the throne, if he wishes."
"Ma'am, your son Gaheris… he has not returned since—"
"I know." Her voice was low, less it crack with emotion. Gaheris had not gone on the quest for the Grail, yet his travels had led him far and wide, everywhere except his home. "But until I am told he is dead, I still have one child and heir at least. Let him know his mother loved him." Loved him enough to cause his brothers' deaths.
Morgause turned her head away.
"Go." She said, "I did not come here to retire."
They had gone. Not without argument, but they had gone. She could see them, their eyes full of sorrow, turning around regularly to gaze at their shrivelled Queen upon her horse, proud and broken, by the waters of the summer sea.
And now she lay alone. Stranded, with only a horse, by the shores of the lake where proud Excalibur had dived to water rest, though she knew that not. Still no barge came, nor was there any movement from the lands of Glastonbury or Avalon. Morgause sighed, but did not lose hope.
After all, there was always the other way. The priestesses went that way sometimes, and thought it a secret, but Morgause knew it too.
Avalon's back door, she called it inside her head.
With effort, she mounted her horse and rode, galloping around the lake to where the veils between worlds thinned. If the barge of Avalon would no longer receive her, then she must find her own way in.
Morgaine, she cried in her mind, please let me find you. On this ground I call the Goddess, that she might bring me to the last of my kin!
The ground was soft here, and she slowed her horse, lest it stumble. In the distance, almost on the horizon, she recognised the small specks of her entourage leaving north for Lothian. It was hard not to miss their company. But it was too far to catch up to them, apologise, and return with them to her home and country. They knew well there was no benefit in forcing her to return. Morgause plodded on, her horse sniffing the yellow ground almost tentatively. She dug her heels into its side, trying to make it speed up. The afternoon was darkening steadily as the minutes drew on – Samhain had come and gone, and the days were short – oh, it is foolish to stay out of doors so late for an aging matron like me!
The land was misty here – ah, have I arrived? – and the colour of the sky seemed softer than before. Perhaps the day was overcast, but she could not see where the sun was in the sky. Around her, the land was bare, rural, and for a moment, she felt vulnerable.
Turning, she could see her small troupe plodding along slowly northward, their figures getting smaller and smaller in the distance. They would go back, shoulders heavy, with the sorrowful news that their wilful Queen who had lived through Arthur's Years, always so strong in times of struggle, had finally abandoned them to darkness.
Morgause wondered for a moment if she had done the right thing – to leave them thus; it was essentially a selfish decision. There would be riots, mayhem, chaos in the departure of royal bloodline and no declared legitimate heir. Yet to stay meant to witness her own slow death and the degradation and decline of her state.
The honeybees will need to find a new Queen for their hive, she thought, and suddenly, it seemed the Sight came upon her once more; the broken pieces still symbol of that power flared once more, flashing an image in her mind. She saw her maid, the one called Anna, arrayed in her robes, sitting on her chair, her back straighter than she had ever sat before, wearing Morgause's crown – Ah, I always thought she looked like Igraine, and one Queen is alike to another; as long as the people know a woman still sits upon the throne, they will be satisfied... And she will share my name in time, and I hers, we two confused together as Anna of the Orkneys, though short her reign may be: it is with my name that she will die.
Morgause shook her head to free herself of that spontaneous thought, though she doubted not what the Sight had told her. So, a mummer queen shall be propped on my throne… yet the fate of her kingdom remained elusive to her, and she did not understand all that she had seen.
It seemed she had ridden miles, yet there was no destination to be seen. The sky was darkening, but still she could see no sun. Her horse stirred fretfully, as Morgause saw, to her mild surprise, a patch of wood in front.
Yet this surprise was slight, nor was there further shock to see a small sprightly man running out of the copse towards her horse.
"Anna Morgause, as you shall be called, welcome to our realm!" he bowed low, taking the reins, and she returned the bow, though she did not remember dismounting her horse. It seemed rude to question such courtesy.
The man was kind, and held her arm to lead her into the wood. His touch was hot, stirring her heartbeat as he touched the skin of her arm, and Morgause felt thirsty. But he seemed to anticipate her need – still leading her, he walked her towards a small spring, bubbling into a forest pool. Morgause saw her horse bend down its head to drink, and like the beast, she kneeled on the ground and did the same, swallowing the clear, sweetly flavoured water with relish. It felt like wine, and she tried not to be intoxicated by the rich freshness of it.
Turning back to the strange man – is he clothed or naked? I cannot tell if his body is clad in deerskins or leaves – she spoke.
"I seek my kinswoman. Does she reside near here?" she asked, aware of the dreamlike, tranquil quality of her voice.
"Morgaine of the Fae dwells not with us." He said almost sadly, "But still we hold her as our Queen."
Morgause nodded carelessly, turning back to the pool to drink. She bent her head to the glassy surface of the water, rippling it when she touched her lips to it like a kiss.
And suddenly Morgause saw her cousin: stately, lonely, old and grey in the house of the Lady of Avalon. She looked much like Viviane, sitting idly beside a window, the sun upon her dark face. Yet it seemed a ghost danced upon her hair, and Morgause could see upon her head, now and then, a crown of wicker-withes.
"Morgaine," she whispered, and was startled to see the vision of her niece and react and rise, stiffly, from her chair. The aged priestess' hand extended as if from the water towards Morgause, but Morgause did not take it.
"Morgause! Aunt! Where are you?"
She watched Morgaine mouthe her name, staring at her wildly, unseeing, her hands searching the air as if blind. And Morgause understood: the Sight had left Morgaine. No longer could she penetrate the veil that separated Avalon from dream or reality.
My kinswoman, doomed to be last of her kind, doomed to die alone. All that she wrought in this life… sunken like the towers of Atlantis. No more priestesses -- the Goddess ends with you. I was so close to finding my daughter.
But she could not dwell on Morgaine – fair maidens skipped gracefully towards her, some of them looking like former priestesses of Avalon. They crowned her with a garland of holly, the berries red and fecund, and she knew with a slow warmth in her heart that she was far from dead.
They took her hands, and she let herself be led into the glorious warmth of this reality, this dream, and let her horse be taken away, and her hair and her dress undone, to delve and sink into this eternal land free of pain. She was vaguely aware that she was trying to find a woman, trying to find a place in her heart that was not here, but the caressing hands upon her skin did not let go, and nothing mattered, not here. Names skipped gaily in her mind – Gwydion, Arthur, Morgaine – but she had no association with them, and forgot what they meant, as she was immersed into the dancing movement of bodies and embraces, the glad and merry people that closed around her, and the heat of life that welled up from within.
This was not her destination, not the one she had in mind…
but it will do… it will do…