There are few windows in Avalon. Our books are much too dear to risk the spoils of sunlight, or Goddess forbid, mercurial mists. Yet I find myself pressing nose into oculus, seeking the turrets beyond the forest, where blood-red banners wave, decked with dragons. My brother has always adored the ancient creatures. Not so long ago, he dared to pet one’s golden scales; that wasn’t the first time I saved Arthur’s life, but it was my first kill.
I wonder, do the dragonkin still loathe me for it?
With one last glance at home, dawn yawing over chiseled stone, I turn for the stacks. It is this work, the assemblage of centuries of wisdom, which maps my life’s constellations in defiance of destiny. Perhaps I am not the defender of this realm, King of Camelot—but Avalon is my charge, and I have ancient knowledge to attend to. To this path, I must stay true.
“Goddess forgive me.”
“And why do you seek her mercy?”
I whirl at the unfamiliar voice, books spilling to the floor.
“Heavens!” The stranger laughs, rushing to help.
Though the arches of Avalon are open to all, it is rare to hear the Christian tongue. Her pallium is fastened as if she just escaped the chill, and while the plaits framing her pointed chin are simple, the gold on her finger betrays her wealth. For what knowledge has this traveler come?
“It was not my intention to frighten you.” Her gaze weighs heavy. When she passes me the books, magic spirals within me, shoulder blades stretching out like wings. “Oh my.”
I sigh at her parted lips. “Have I grown wings?”
“Yes.”
“Well, pay them no notice.”
“Why would I do such a thing?” Her smile widens, perhaps reflecting the wingspan she admires. “They are almost as beautiful as you.”
I raise a brow at her flattery, then at the cross around her neck.
“You are Morgan.” She dips her head. “And King Arthur is your brother.”
Again, my magic reacts first, straightening auburn curls into a blunt, black trim. “Half-brother.”
“You must miss him. Camelot too.”
I hesitate at her tone; though it was not posed as a question, she appears hungry for an answer. In truth, my yearning belongs not to the King, nor his Round Table of Knights—the playfellows of my childhood. It is, rather, illusion that seeds my nostalgia, the very dreams that reared me in the absence of my mother, in the charge of the Pendragons. What a portrait I would make, crowned upon the throne that is my birthright. But they would never paint my likeness.
That is the bitter truth that holds me to this sanctuary: the library of Avalon. Nevertheless, a worn voice taunts my thoughts:
You betray your fate, Modron.
“How may I help you?” I move on.
“You haven’t answered my first query.” At my silence, the stranger continues, “What sin have you committed to solicit the Goddess’ forgiveness?”
“Sin?” My voice dips with mockery.
“Guilt, transgression, wickedness, you gather my meaning.”
“What could a simple scholar like me have to repent for?”
She tsks. “Only a fool would think you simple.”
“And are you a fool?”
Her laugh blossoms, and I echo the sound against my good sense. “You’re the scholar, my lady, how would you define foolish?”
“Foolish would be to call me your lady.”
She steps forward. “Because you are not a lady or because you are not mine?”
People, particularly Christians, all too often vex me, but there is no mistaking the joyful canter of my breath. Altogether breathless. A memory surges within me—the first time magic morphed at my will, two horns sprouting from a child’s brow. The same delight rattles me now. How swiftly this stranger elicits my emotion.
“If not my lady,” she breaks the silence. “What shall I call you?”
“Morgaine,” someone speaks for me.
Her expression wilts as wings shrivel into shoulders, and I need not look to find the hair upon me Pendragon gold. With a sigh, I turn to my brother.
“How Camelot has missed you, sister!” Arthur dashes to embrace me, pressing a kiss someplace proper. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
Bewildered, I return my attention to her smile, which sharpens with something I can’t quite name. Hubris, perhaps. From the moment she startled wings from me, she veiled her betrothal. Such duplicity disquiets me; I am the deceiver, never the deceived.
I do not bow, but I allot her the title she has married into: “My Queen.” Her eyelashes flutter when I ask, “What is your name?”
“Genevieve.”
The cross had been a distraction, but now I recognize the crest upon her ring—she is not merely a disciple of Christ, but rather, chosen to lead in his name. Or at least, by Arthur’s side.
“Isn’t she lovely!” Arthur’s arms flail as if calming a wild horse. “I dropped to my knees at first glance to beg for her hand.”
“He does not exaggerate.”
I inhale the smells of Avalon—parchment and aging leather. “How romantic.”
“Your absence was a tender wound at the wedding, but I could not compel you away from Avalon,” Arthur assures me.
“You know I would never leave.” Not even at his command.
Arthur’s blue eyes narrow as if he heard my thoughts. Or perhaps it is another of my illusions, the memory of our father’s indifference casting shadows across Arthur’s splendor. He props an arm on the stacks and books tumble to the floor.
“Arthur!” Genevieve scolds but she does not move to help as she had before.
“Why have you come to Avalon, my King?”
The title rouses Arthur from his leisure, and he straightens. “The time has come for my quest.”
“A quest?” I kneel to collect the fallen books, and their bindings become my anchor. “Pray tell, did a priest advise you of this occasion?”
Arthur’s hesitation lasts but a moment, but I spot the falsehood of his smile lines. “Priestesses are also, of course, welcome in Camelot.”
As children, Arthur and I learned from the same tutors, parting only at dusk when he trained in the politics of swords and I in sorcery. Is it that pedagogical divergence, I wonder, that entitled Arthur to this diplomacy?
“You would spite the Goddess to appease the Christian heretics of your court?”
Arthur is no stranger to the Goddess’ ways—he has borne witness to many an enchantment, not to speak of the magic which has morphed me from birth. It is not skepticism which makes my brother hesitate, nor faith in the Christian god. It is appearance.
Perhaps that is why his betrothed appears so pious: “They are no longer heretics,” Genevieve says. “We all follow the faith.”
“We’ve come for Excalibur,” Arthur turns the topic.
“Hm. The blade which the Goddess herself forged?”
My brother does not so much as blink. “Precisely.”
“We also seek your counsel.”
“You will join Arthur?” It is a task to return my attention to Genevieve, and as if to mock my efforts, a tail sprouts from me. If the Queen notices, she does not openly admire it as she did the wings.
“Of course. As well as the other chosen Knights of the Round Table.”
“Sir Lancelot,” I guess. “Sir Gawain. And…Sir Percival?”
“You know your brother well.”
“Half,” I correct again.
At last, surprise shines in Genevieve’s beauty. Perhaps she did not expect such boldness in front of the King himself. But Arthur studies only the sword hanging from the wall, candlelight flickering in across its edges as if sprouting flames.
“What is it you seek on this quest?” I ask though I anticipate the answer.
When he turns to me, I recognize the pride of our father. “The Holy Grail.”
“They say Christ himself drank from it,” Genevieve whispers.
“It is called the Cauldron,” I correct them both, but Arthur does not heed my words. He steps up to the altar, inspecting the blade as if under enchantment. For both our sakes, I step between him and Excalibur.
“You would risk your realm’s peace for this?” The very realm I ensure he rules.
“Please, sister.” Arthur grasps me, long fingers squeezing small. “I must make this journey. I must prove myself.”
I wither at the tenderness in his eyes. For he and I share another affinity—one born not from Pendragon blood or royal tutelage, but rather, our genesis. Both our mothers died in childbirth, gripping Uther’s hand. And both of us have been cursed with the guilt of survivors ever since.
“You need no quest to justify your breath.”
“Perhaps not.” Arthur frowns, gripping me tighter. “But I must defend my title.”
Because, I think to myself, it was to be mine. Does my privilege in age and sorcery trouble him? Is it on behalf of my superiority that Arthur seeks this fool’s errand?
While we share Pendragon blood, only Arthur’s expression reflects our father’s. But in the glint of Excalibur’s steel, we seem united—if not as siblings, then as rulers. One of Camelot, the other of Avalon.
“Take care,” I surrender, reaching for Excalibur, “not to get yourself slain.”
Arthur accepts the swords with awe. “I will return.”
“You must.”
*****
Arthur and Genevieve make a perfect portrait, I conclude, tracking their exodus. I do not envy the path that lies ahead of them, and yet, skin becomes scales at the sight of Arthur lacing his fingers with Genevieve’s. Theirs is a heroic love. One the bards will worship with song, lyrics so sentimental the past warps in dreams.
If either dies on this quest, the tale will become that much sweeter. But I taste only bitterness when I pull myself away from the oculus and blow the horn of Avalon.
“Morgana,” Merlin’s voice emerges first, followed by his tapered cloak and pointed boots. His appearance warps, the horn calling his soul from wherever he finds himself. I do not ask, for I know every question I pose emboldens his own.
“Do you bring good tidings?” he drawls, hip cocking coyly.
“Arthur has embarked upon a quest for the Cauldron. You must protect him.”
“You are perfectly capable of protecting the prince.”
“King,” I breathe. “He is King.”
“Thanks to your cowardice.”
I laugh despite myself. Merlin doesn’t know the terrible truth in that jest.
“Why you disavow destiny appalls us all. If you only accepted fate you could protect Arthur for the rest of his mortal life. Goddess save us, you could make him immortal if you so wished.” Merlin smirks. “As evidently, you think him weak.”
Time and time again, Arthur has proven himself. His knights are equipped too, though I know little of Genevieve’s battle prowess—only her slyness. But Arthur could rally the strongest in all the realms, and I would still hesitate.
For there are some obstacles no man may overcome.
“I only ask you to guide his way.”
“Because the Goddess would not permit you to do so. She has every reason to be disappointed. I certainly am.”
Though Merlin’s jibes aim to pierce skin, I don something impenetrable. “I understand I will be in your debt.”
“Then you can anticipate my price.”
“Anything but that.”
Merlin groans. “You would be Queen, Morgana.”
“No. I would be Modron—mother of King.”
“It is not so different.”
My entire life Merlin has raised me to this ceaseless tune—a prophecy that demands I bear the once and future King, the one who will spread the Goddess’ gospel, as Mary of Nazareth’s son did God’s. But it has been long since I stopped listening.
I turn to the mirror propped on the wall. “Show me Arthur.”
On my command, my brother’s grin claims the reflection.
“Relying on magical relics?” Merlin scoffs. “You’ve truly reduced yourself to a scholar when you were meant to be the realm’s most powerful witch—”
“Do not mistake seclusion for weakness.”
The reflection expands, showing Genevive and Lancelot bowed together while Percival and Gawain admire Excalibur. A forest encircles them, branches reaching to swallow them whole.
“Your arrogance rivals Arthur,” Merlin sneers. “You can no longer spell enchantment—”
I blink and Merlin’s ears inflate into something elephantic, his nose curling up as if a trunk. “You forget yourself, Merlin.”
When his features return human, my former mentor swallows. “So this is a threat, not an exchange of favors.”
“If that is what we have come to.”
Arthur’s expression turns stern as he slices a path through tangled ivy. Already his impatience endangers him; the fairies will not take kindly to such disrespect.
“The Cauldron will allow only the worthiest to capture its majesty.”
Teeth pierce lips, and I run a finger over the pointed canines.
“But I will keep the King alive,” Merlin obliges, sensing the threat.
“The Queen too.”
“Why would she matter?”
I recall the tender look Genevieve wore upon her departure.
“I apologize if I’ve offended. I only wanted to meet you before you knew me as his.”
“I do not think you his,” I told her simply. “I think you Camelot’s.”
“Does that make you Avalon’s?”
“It makes me different from you, my Queen.”
She laughed. “As long as I’m still yours.”
Perhaps Genevieve matters little concerning prophecy, but I cannot stand the thought of her perishing at the hand of Arthur’s ambitions. “Protect them both,” I order Merlin.
His eyes flick across me, searching for truth amidst ephemeral features. As always, he is unsatisfied with the dubieties I pose.
“As you wish.”
******
I wince as talons draw blood from me; rust, salt, and a touch of magic—spiced ambiguously—souring my heavy breaths. In the mirror, Arthur grips his stomach and staggers for the chimera. Excalibur clatters to the ground when he trips. If his knights weren’t bewitched by the banshee’s scream they would surely save him, but it is not their lives I bid Merlin protect. Only Arthur and Genevieve’s ears are warded with charms of silence—only they may assail the beast of lion, goat, and serpent.
“For the Goddess’ sake,” I hiss at the pain of my own morphing. This time, when I dispel another breath, the talons recede with it.
My own incapacity turns my magic against me. It is Arthur’s reservations that compelled him to this quest, but it is my distance that prevents me from saving him—from dispelling fate. For my cowardice is matched only by obligation.
If Arthur were to die, I must accept the throne and all the sacrifice that comes with it.
Yet when I return to the reflection, I find only Genevieve’s bright eyes, specks of ichor across her pinched lips. She plunges Excalibur into the chimera and runs to attend to her husband. As Genevieve hoists Arthur upright, he staggers.
“Go,” he grunts. “Bring me the Holy Grail.”
The Queen does not so much as hesitate when she leaves the King of Camelot behind, leaping over the chimera’s corpse and up the stone steps to the altar. Even I am unsure of the Goddess’ will when Genevieve grips the Cauldron’s stem, and gently plucks it from its resting place.
When she turns around, smile victorious, the mirror shatters.
******
Dusk dips beneath Avalon’s ash-gray arches, casting gold across the exhausted company. I rush to help carry Arthur inside and place him on a cot.
“I’ve done what you asked,” the wind carries the words to me. “Now he is yours.” Merlin’s voice fades from whence it came, abandoning me to Arthur’s wounds.
I press into the gaping cut, blood staining skin I do not dare morph. I could all too easily do more harm than good if I attempted to change Arthur’s shape. With the aid of yarrow and witch hazel, I slow the bleed, threading a needle with hands that do not shake, with eyes that do not waver. Only once the wound has been sewn do I look to Genevieve.
“Will he live?”
It is my intention to step away, but I find myself pulling toward the warmth of her concern. “That is up to the Goddess.”
“And do you think Arthur has her favor?”
“Not in the slightest.”
******
In the confusion of Arthur’s arrival, I paid no mind to the other knights, nor the Cauldron I knew Genevieve possessed. Only once Arthur’s rasps soften with sleep, and his stomach carefully bandaged, do I seek them in the dining hall. As strange as Camelot’s court is to the ways of the Goddess, I can not temper the smile that grows at the sight of my old companions.
“Morgaine!” They crowd me, kisses falling across cheeks and hands over shoulders.
“I’m pleased to see you all in one piece.”
“Barely,” Gawain scoffs. “If it weren’t for our Queen that wailing woman would have had her way with all of us.”
“If not that horrible beast,” Percival adds with a shudder.
“We’ve never seen such a thing, Morgaine. It had the head of a—”
“I’ve encountered the chimera before,” I interrupt.
“You have?”
Percival and Gawain step apart, revealing a familiar face beside Genevieve’s across the room. Her hand rests over his.
“I’ve seen many things, Sir Lancelot.”
His smirk softens as he leaps to smother me in a hug hardly appropriate for either Camelot or Avalon. But I return his touch, overwhelmed with the years between us. Was it truly so long ago that we slingshot berries from tangled tree branches? I recall the court’s dances and feasts with humor because Lancelot, my first true friend, was there to make it so.
“Arthur will be fine,” Lancelot whispers in my ear. “Do not undervalue your talents.”
“Not even I can defy the Goddess’ will.”
He presses our brows together. “Oh, but you already have, Morganne le Fay.”
The clips of heels pull us apart, and I turn to find Genevieve studying us. “I do not wish to break up the reunion but we all should rest.” Her gaze fastens to mine. “You, especially. I’m certain that was no small task, healing your brother.”
“Half brother,” Lancelot corrects.
I try not to appear too pleased.
With their queen’s command, the knights retire. Lancelot, of course, is the last to leave, but where he squeezes my hand assuringly, he places a kiss on the corner of Genevieve’s lips. One she does not return—not, at least, in front of me.
“Shall I explain myself?” she asks when he leaves. For a moment, I’m not certain whether it is Lancelot or the Cauldron she references.
“My burden has never been curiosity. It is knowledge which plagues me.”
“And which is a heavier burden to bear?”
Only then do I notice the smooth chalice in her hands. I almost reach for it. “You fought well today,” I say instead. “The Goddess agrees.”
“Or she merely knew who I was fetching it for.”
“You can’t mean…” For the second time, Genevieve has stunned me.
“Avalon is a sanctuary for sacred relics and knowledge,” she says to my incredulity. “Whether this be the Holy Grail or the Cauldron, it deserves a respectful guardian. Besides, the quest was about much more than this.”
“What was it for then?” I ask, sensing that her answer differs from Arthur's.
“If knowledge were your burden, you ought to already know.”
To distract from my startled laugh, I accept the Cauldron, fingers swiping its smooth rim. “It was always your intention to give it to me?”
“Mine and your brother’s. Half, that is,” she adds, smirking. “Why are you so particular about your heritage? I’m sure it pains Arthur—”
“To call us half-siblings forces the realm to remember the mothers who died giving us life.”
Genevieve bows her head. “My apologies.”
“I like you better bold. Do not bother with regret.”
Her eyes crinkle, and once more, I itch to touch sanctity. In the end, it is not her vows to Arthur, nor her affections for Lancelot, which hold me back—it is the cross over her heart.
“Your ears…” she trails off.
“Ah.”
“Will you bid me to ignore them again?”
“I’ll leave that choice with you since the Goddess deems you so worthy.”
Emboldened, Genevieve brushes a finger over the newly pointed tips. “Can you control it?”
“As much as it controls me.”
“And you can morph into anything—anyone?”
I indulge her questions, even though this knowledge not even Merlin possesses. Desire lilts Genevieve’s whispers—not with lust, but with a longing that thaws mystery. “I can become whatever I wish.”
She leans even closer. “Prove it.”
“What would you like to see, my Queen?”
Genevieve cocks her head—whether at the title or the offer, I do not care to distinguish. She giggles and concludes: “I want to see me.”
Hips widen as hair curls bronze, and I pout a plump bottom lip.
When she doesn’t speak, I worry. “Do I frighten you? Many Christians call it devilry.”
“No,” she breathes. “You are a wonder.”
******
As the days unfold, I divide my attention between scholarship and healing—Avalon and Arthur. Genevieve accompanies me, offering her assistance whenever useful. Tolerance is rare in a Christian, and yet, Camelot’s Queen devours every insight I choose to share—some of it lore, but much of it regarding me.
“So with these enchantments, you call upon the Goddess?”
“That is the way of sorcery.”
Genevieve pauses, the book in her hand just out of reach. “But you do not call upon the Goddess when you morph.”
Her words give me pause—not because of their meaning but due to their delivery. She is not posing a question. “This is true.”
“Then why did you ask the Goddess’ forgiveness?” she repeats the question for the third time. Perhaps it is that sacred number that compels me to confess. Or perhaps it is merely Genevieve’s attention, relentlessly unjudging, that strums secrets from me.
“There is a prophecy,” I whisper. “One that would have me in Camelot.”
Genevieve sees through the mists of my vagueness: “Is it out of love for Arthur that you refuse the throne?”
“Love has nothing to do with my cowardice.”
She sets the books down to touch me—from cheek to chin. “You would make a magnificent queen.”
“Yet it is my destiny to be nothing but a mother.”
All at once, her warmth disappears. She steps away. “Perhaps that is my destiny too. But my life is not so regrettable; it is a game of masks, much like your morphing. You would learn, with time, how to pull the strings.”
“I would not.”
Genevieve’s gaze returns to me, and I am so eager for her understanding, that I divulge the bitter truth: “If I were to become a mother, I would not live to see the child wail.” I laugh lowly. “It is the Pendragon curse.”
“Your life for the King’s.”
“The Goddess would call it a fair bargain.”
“It is not,” Genevieve says resolutely.
The room brightens as if the Goddess slithered her way through Avalon’s stone—I look down to find sunshine pouring from me, remaking skin luminescent. When Genevieve grins, I helplessly, reverently return it.
******
At last, Arthur awakes, and purple pupils betray my frustration. It is lucky my brother never learned the language of my magic.
“Thank you for healing me, sister.”
I sigh. “Camelot needs you.”
Arthur smiles weakly and Genevieve squeezes his hand. I have to turn away from the pair—the vision carries such majesty I would think it another prophecy if the Goddess did not blind me so. When I turn back, resolved to bid them both goodbye, I find Genevieve holding Excalibur over Arthur’s chest.
“I had hoped he would die on his own.”
The blade plunges before Arthur can speak—but it does not stop my own scream.
“No! What have you—” I push Genevieve away, clambering to him.
“The Goddess wants a life in exchange for the once and future King,” Genenevive speaks evenly. “And you can be whatever you wish.”
Arthur’s blood spills over me as I search for some whisper of life. But silence reigns; my brother’s heart has ceased beating.
Genevieve only smiles when I face her, and shock garbles my words. “I can’t—How dare you—you—”
“Go on,” she urges, stepping closer. “Claim your throne. Take his likeness. Become Arthur and you will never bear children, you can rule in the Goddess' name and rid the realm of Christianity. And I will be beside you—”
“Pulling the strings?” I spit.
“I did this for you.”
She means it—I scry only sincerity in her eyes, and I am horrified for it. Has it truly come to this? My brother is dead, the Goddess has already carried his soul away. Must I now lead Camelot as King in his stead?
“They will accept you as Morgann, but only as a mother,” she guesses my hesitations. “If you wish to rule you must become Arthur.”
“Your husband.”
“The once and future King,” she says, dipping into a curtsy.
Curved walls covered in silver tapestry watch over us, the shade of the Goddess’ eyes judging. But there is truth in the Queen’s claims. If I am to lead, I must take the right form.
Voices in the corridors reach for us, Lancelot’s laugh echoing. I spare one moment to press a kiss over Arthur’s brow. Then—with hair short and blonde, shoulders broad, and body both filled and stretched—I grip Excalibur’s hilt and draw the blade from him.
It feels as if pulling sword from stone.
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