Prompt 1/31/10, #10 (for sunday_reveries)
Morgan le Fay
The Guenevere Trilogy
1775 words
Morgause, Queen of Lothian and the Orkney Islands, carried herself with a quiet splendor. The widow stood proud beneath the dark banners of her husband's tyranny. Her red-gold hair shone with recaptured youth, and her full figure wore dark blue. Garments of mournful black had long since been discarded. Her cheeks carried a lover's hue, and her red lips parted in an almost sad smile. She held out her hands to the woman who waited for her in the grand reception hall of the castle.
“Morgan, welcome.”
Morgan le Fay dropped into a slight curtsy. She gazed at her sister with a child's love. Her black hair framed her sharp face, and a simple black dress covered her frail form. Morgan knew she lacked her sister's grace. Though both ripped from their mother too young, Morgause had found a second family with her sons. Even wed to a brute, she'd had her children to love her. Locked in her convent jail by Uther's orders, Morgan had known no love in her youth. The child she had finally birthed their half-brother Arthur had been spirited about to save him from his father's wrath until, at last, Mordred could join the High King's court.
“Morgause, my sister,” Morgan said. “I come to you to beg a favor.”
“Rise. You are a queen as I am, there is no cause for you to bow.”
“I am a queen with no country, a wife with no husband, and a mother with no child.” Morgan saw the pity in her sister's eyes but forced her anger away. Let Morgause pity her, she thought. She would prove herself. “The favor I ask of you is great.”
“If it is mine to grant, it shall be yours.”
Morgan stared at her. Her plum-colored lips parted to release a slight breath. “Do you plan to give your eldest son Cornwall? His father's lands are his by birth. But what of our mother's lands, where the Mother-right still stands?”
“I have no daughter to give Cornwall to,” Morgause said. Her shoulders drooped slightly at that one thought, her only disappointment.
Morgan hesitated. “What if I bore a daughter?” She pressed on, allowing herself no time to reconsider now. “What if I had a daughter with Pendragon blood in her veins? Would you embrace her, bless her with Cornwall?”
“Are you with child?” Morgause's eyes grew wide, and a smile betrayed her.
“Not yet, sister.” Morgan smiled as well. “Tonight is the second night of Beltain. While Guenevere takes Arthur's most beloved knight to her bed, I shall take her place in Arthur's bed.” A sudden temper seized her. “It should be my place! The Old Ones destined him for me!”
“Peace,” Morgause cried as she embraced her trembling sister. As quickly as it had come, the spirit left Morgan.
“I shall lie with him, using every gift of magic I possess, and the Fair Ones have promised me a child from this coupling, a daughter to carry the line of Cornwall queens if you will bless her.” Morgan stared into her sister's eyes and waited.
“What does our royal mother say?”
“That your word is law, and her love cannot change, no matter how you answer me.” Morgan paused. “My love, too, will not alter. You are my one friend.”
“She will suffer greatly, this daughter of yours. She will stand alone against the Christians when Guenevere falls.”
“Mordred will stand for her! He will drive the cruel worshipers of Christ, with their sin and suffering and need for penance, from our shores, drive them back to their Rome. Those who will not flee, he will put to their own flame!” A laugh like sleet left her barely parted lips. Her sister's hand on her cheek brought her from her vengeful thoughts. “Or she will stand by a fair queen.” Her voice softened as she was overtake by an Otherwordly sight. “A beautiful queen, dressed in silver battle regalia, standing alongside her on top of a hill, the pair directing grand battles. Sisters of the heard if not of blood.”
She fell forward into her sister's arms, and Morgause kissed her forehead. As if Morgan were but a child, she cradled her.
“The Old Ones have spoken through you. Bear this daughter, and my birthright shall be hers. May the Goddess aid you in preserving her worship.”
The embrace lasted a moment more before Morgan, composed again, kissed her sister's cheek and took her leave.
The white towers of Camelot glistened in the light of a hundred Beltain bonfires. Couples moaned together in tents while others danced to the music of the bards. They honored their Goddess by imitating her rejuvenation. As the fresh god Bel returned to her after his winter sleep, men obeyed the summons of women to their beds. Some painted their faces, others did not. Some took their spouses, other sough new lovers for the night.
In her chambers, Guenevere spread herself beneath Lancelot, Arthur's dearest friend. Morgan felt sure she heard her brother's wife groan as her lover took her.
The dark woman laughed in the empty hall. Were Guenevere to announce her favor, declare Lancelot her champion and chosen one, all would bow to her will. It was the right of Queens of the Summer Country, as Guenevere was and as her foremothers had been before her, to show thigh-friendship to any man she chose. Arthur had sworn himself to his queen and her Goddess, and he would have to accept her choice. Had he not failed her? Mordred was proof enough of that.
Mordred, dear Mordred. Morgan's heart sand its dark song at the thought. He slunk along the edges of the bonfires, she knew, seeking a beautiful woman of his mother's faith to couple with tonight. He would be High King, Morgan vowed, even if she had no choice but to kill the man her soul cried out for herself. Mordred would sit as High King, and his sister would command Cornwall.
With the image of a dark child in her mind, a girl with eyes the color of dawn who saw the shapes of the Fair Ones and heard their whispers, Morgan admitted herself into the king's unguarded chambers. She took in the rich surroundings of scarlet and gold before she pushed back the draperies of the bed. There, the great form of Arthur lay asleep. Like his father before him, he was large and built like a bear. His fair hair framed his face, which wore a kind of innocence as he slept, and his eyes were closed. Morgan knew their very shade of blue, could picture it even now.
“Arthur,” she whispered.
He stirred only slightly.
“My love,” she said.
His pale eyes opened. For a moment, he did not know her. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he looked surprised then furious. “Morgan.”
“Arthur.” She seated herself on his bed.
“Your life is forfeit here.” He grabbed her arm as if to hold her still for a knife's blow. She allowed it. “I shall call me knights, have you thrown to the fire.”
She cackled. “Yes, Arthur. Summon your knights. Come, brother! Call Lancelot!” A dog outside howled as she laughed.
“Silence!” Arthur seized her with both hands. “You have no place here, except to burn as a witch.”
“You would kill your son's mother?” She leaned her head to the side to allow him a glimpse at her pale, long neck. Her voice lowered and kept time with the beating of his heart. “You would put your lover to death? Burn her in the Christian way?”
“You know nothing of love.” Even as he said it, Arthur's grip loosened. He stared into Morgan's dark eyes.
“I know what you have taught me.” Her fingers tormented his flesh, drawing a groan of delighted agony from him. “I know how you ache,” she whispered as she touched him. He made no protest as she stripped him of his bedclothes, whether by her magic or his own weakness for her. “I know how my soul cries out for you.”
She removed her simple gown and came upon him. The sound of Guenevere came in her ear, joyous in the love she was given freely. Mordred's breath echoed in her other ear, strained but eager as some maid or shadow pulled him near, begged his embrace. By the time Morgan rose and left the spent Arthur sleeping, tears streaked her solemn face.
Morgan woke to the feeling of a hand in her hair. Her dark eyes met her mother's.
“Sleep,” Igraine of Cornwall whispered. “Only my ladies know of your presence. You may rest here, my little Morgan. Here, you are safe.”
The younger woman felt years melt away as she moved to lay her head in her mother's lap. Like a child, she settled against the queen before her and felt soothed.
“Morgause has given her blessing,” she said.
Her mother stroked her hair with a mournful smile. “And Arthur?”
“Has given me what I need.”
“My poor daughter. How you would have flourished on Avalon, in the care of the Lady of the Lake.”
Morgan closed her eyes and did not answer.
“How you would have laughed and danced and sang.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Darkness claimed your heart long ago,” Igraine said. “Uther bred hate and pain into your soul, and you will never be free of it until you are free of this world.”
Morgan saw the little girl with dawn-colored eyes rise before her again. “She will bear your name. She shall be Igraine of Cornwall.”
“The path before you is twisted and will bring you pain, but it ends in peace.”
“She will wage war on the Christians, defend the Mother of us all with words and sword.”
“Brace yourself, my child. The storm in your heart will torment you further before it released you.”
“May the Fair Ones aid her and the Goddess guide her.”
Morgan wept again as the vision faded, and her mother kissed her head. Igraine laid her hand over Morgan's womb, as if to feel the child her daughter claimed to have conceived. She said nothing, but Morgan felt the warmth of her love.
The Old Ones had decided fate long ago, written it in the skies. They would give her Igraine, Morgan was sure, bless her even as war ravaged the country. Cornwall would shelter this child of her soul. For all she had done, little Igraine would be blameless. With her father's strength and her mother's spirit, she would defend the old ways.
These thoughts allowed Morgan some solace and a dreamless sleep.
The Guenevere Trilogy
1775 words
Morgause, Queen of Lothian and the Orkney Islands, carried herself with a quiet splendor. The widow stood proud beneath the dark banners of her husband's tyranny. Her red-gold hair shone with recaptured youth, and her full figure wore dark blue. Garments of mournful black had long since been discarded. Her cheeks carried a lover's hue, and her red lips parted in an almost sad smile. She held out her hands to the woman who waited for her in the grand reception hall of the castle.
“Morgan, welcome.”
Morgan le Fay dropped into a slight curtsy. She gazed at her sister with a child's love. Her black hair framed her sharp face, and a simple black dress covered her frail form. Morgan knew she lacked her sister's grace. Though both ripped from their mother too young, Morgause had found a second family with her sons. Even wed to a brute, she'd had her children to love her. Locked in her convent jail by Uther's orders, Morgan had known no love in her youth. The child she had finally birthed their half-brother Arthur had been spirited about to save him from his father's wrath until, at last, Mordred could join the High King's court.
“Morgause, my sister,” Morgan said. “I come to you to beg a favor.”
“Rise. You are a queen as I am, there is no cause for you to bow.”
“I am a queen with no country, a wife with no husband, and a mother with no child.” Morgan saw the pity in her sister's eyes but forced her anger away. Let Morgause pity her, she thought. She would prove herself. “The favor I ask of you is great.”
“If it is mine to grant, it shall be yours.”
Morgan stared at her. Her plum-colored lips parted to release a slight breath. “Do you plan to give your eldest son Cornwall? His father's lands are his by birth. But what of our mother's lands, where the Mother-right still stands?”
“I have no daughter to give Cornwall to,” Morgause said. Her shoulders drooped slightly at that one thought, her only disappointment.
Morgan hesitated. “What if I bore a daughter?” She pressed on, allowing herself no time to reconsider now. “What if I had a daughter with Pendragon blood in her veins? Would you embrace her, bless her with Cornwall?”
“Are you with child?” Morgause's eyes grew wide, and a smile betrayed her.
“Not yet, sister.” Morgan smiled as well. “Tonight is the second night of Beltain. While Guenevere takes Arthur's most beloved knight to her bed, I shall take her place in Arthur's bed.” A sudden temper seized her. “It should be my place! The Old Ones destined him for me!”
“Peace,” Morgause cried as she embraced her trembling sister. As quickly as it had come, the spirit left Morgan.
“I shall lie with him, using every gift of magic I possess, and the Fair Ones have promised me a child from this coupling, a daughter to carry the line of Cornwall queens if you will bless her.” Morgan stared into her sister's eyes and waited.
“What does our royal mother say?”
“That your word is law, and her love cannot change, no matter how you answer me.” Morgan paused. “My love, too, will not alter. You are my one friend.”
“She will suffer greatly, this daughter of yours. She will stand alone against the Christians when Guenevere falls.”
“Mordred will stand for her! He will drive the cruel worshipers of Christ, with their sin and suffering and need for penance, from our shores, drive them back to their Rome. Those who will not flee, he will put to their own flame!” A laugh like sleet left her barely parted lips. Her sister's hand on her cheek brought her from her vengeful thoughts. “Or she will stand by a fair queen.” Her voice softened as she was overtake by an Otherwordly sight. “A beautiful queen, dressed in silver battle regalia, standing alongside her on top of a hill, the pair directing grand battles. Sisters of the heard if not of blood.”
She fell forward into her sister's arms, and Morgause kissed her forehead. As if Morgan were but a child, she cradled her.
“The Old Ones have spoken through you. Bear this daughter, and my birthright shall be hers. May the Goddess aid you in preserving her worship.”
The embrace lasted a moment more before Morgan, composed again, kissed her sister's cheek and took her leave.
The white towers of Camelot glistened in the light of a hundred Beltain bonfires. Couples moaned together in tents while others danced to the music of the bards. They honored their Goddess by imitating her rejuvenation. As the fresh god Bel returned to her after his winter sleep, men obeyed the summons of women to their beds. Some painted their faces, others did not. Some took their spouses, other sough new lovers for the night.
In her chambers, Guenevere spread herself beneath Lancelot, Arthur's dearest friend. Morgan felt sure she heard her brother's wife groan as her lover took her.
The dark woman laughed in the empty hall. Were Guenevere to announce her favor, declare Lancelot her champion and chosen one, all would bow to her will. It was the right of Queens of the Summer Country, as Guenevere was and as her foremothers had been before her, to show thigh-friendship to any man she chose. Arthur had sworn himself to his queen and her Goddess, and he would have to accept her choice. Had he not failed her? Mordred was proof enough of that.
Mordred, dear Mordred. Morgan's heart sand its dark song at the thought. He slunk along the edges of the bonfires, she knew, seeking a beautiful woman of his mother's faith to couple with tonight. He would be High King, Morgan vowed, even if she had no choice but to kill the man her soul cried out for herself. Mordred would sit as High King, and his sister would command Cornwall.
With the image of a dark child in her mind, a girl with eyes the color of dawn who saw the shapes of the Fair Ones and heard their whispers, Morgan admitted herself into the king's unguarded chambers. She took in the rich surroundings of scarlet and gold before she pushed back the draperies of the bed. There, the great form of Arthur lay asleep. Like his father before him, he was large and built like a bear. His fair hair framed his face, which wore a kind of innocence as he slept, and his eyes were closed. Morgan knew their very shade of blue, could picture it even now.
“Arthur,” she whispered.
He stirred only slightly.
“My love,” she said.
His pale eyes opened. For a moment, he did not know her. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he looked surprised then furious. “Morgan.”
“Arthur.” She seated herself on his bed.
“Your life is forfeit here.” He grabbed her arm as if to hold her still for a knife's blow. She allowed it. “I shall call me knights, have you thrown to the fire.”
She cackled. “Yes, Arthur. Summon your knights. Come, brother! Call Lancelot!” A dog outside howled as she laughed.
“Silence!” Arthur seized her with both hands. “You have no place here, except to burn as a witch.”
“You would kill your son's mother?” She leaned her head to the side to allow him a glimpse at her pale, long neck. Her voice lowered and kept time with the beating of his heart. “You would put your lover to death? Burn her in the Christian way?”
“You know nothing of love.” Even as he said it, Arthur's grip loosened. He stared into Morgan's dark eyes.
“I know what you have taught me.” Her fingers tormented his flesh, drawing a groan of delighted agony from him. “I know how you ache,” she whispered as she touched him. He made no protest as she stripped him of his bedclothes, whether by her magic or his own weakness for her. “I know how my soul cries out for you.”
She removed her simple gown and came upon him. The sound of Guenevere came in her ear, joyous in the love she was given freely. Mordred's breath echoed in her other ear, strained but eager as some maid or shadow pulled him near, begged his embrace. By the time Morgan rose and left the spent Arthur sleeping, tears streaked her solemn face.
Morgan woke to the feeling of a hand in her hair. Her dark eyes met her mother's.
“Sleep,” Igraine of Cornwall whispered. “Only my ladies know of your presence. You may rest here, my little Morgan. Here, you are safe.”
The younger woman felt years melt away as she moved to lay her head in her mother's lap. Like a child, she settled against the queen before her and felt soothed.
“Morgause has given her blessing,” she said.
Her mother stroked her hair with a mournful smile. “And Arthur?”
“Has given me what I need.”
“My poor daughter. How you would have flourished on Avalon, in the care of the Lady of the Lake.”
Morgan closed her eyes and did not answer.
“How you would have laughed and danced and sang.”
“Do you hate me?”
“Darkness claimed your heart long ago,” Igraine said. “Uther bred hate and pain into your soul, and you will never be free of it until you are free of this world.”
Morgan saw the little girl with dawn-colored eyes rise before her again. “She will bear your name. She shall be Igraine of Cornwall.”
“The path before you is twisted and will bring you pain, but it ends in peace.”
“She will wage war on the Christians, defend the Mother of us all with words and sword.”
“Brace yourself, my child. The storm in your heart will torment you further before it released you.”
“May the Fair Ones aid her and the Goddess guide her.”
Morgan wept again as the vision faded, and her mother kissed her head. Igraine laid her hand over Morgan's womb, as if to feel the child her daughter claimed to have conceived. She said nothing, but Morgan felt the warmth of her love.
The Old Ones had decided fate long ago, written it in the skies. They would give her Igraine, Morgan was sure, bless her even as war ravaged the country. Cornwall would shelter this child of her soul. For all she had done, little Igraine would be blameless. With her father's strength and her mother's spirit, she would defend the old ways.
These thoughts allowed Morgan some solace and a dreamless sleep.