My Lady Morgaine

Author's note: I wrote this in a kind of high style, a bit different from my first few stories. If it seems a bit too mythical, or over the top, or out of character, or whatever, it's because I believe that characters like Morgaine Le Fay deserve a little more respect. After all, they've been around for hundreds of years. Hope you enjoy it.

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She stands, as always she does when the sun sleeps beyond the horizon, in the shadow of the huge oak tree that stands itself under the shadow of Glastonbury, the house of Christ that is said to stand on the borders of the isle of Avalon itself. Carved into the tree with a small knife that sits still in my Lady's belt, are three small words. "My Beloved Brother."

High King Arthur Pendragon lays buried beneath the earth, sheltered by the tree that grows as tall and proud as the High King himself. A part of me frowns at the horror of such incongruity, that the greatest king of man should lay in the earth in a grave unbefitting of the majesty that was King Arthur. A larger part of me weeps with the lady that mourns her brother, and the simple and pure love that they shared before it was twisted.

That part of me bows low to the simple truth that such a pure and simple love as was shared between my lady and King Arthur should be mourned in no other way than simply and privately. I have come to believe that legends and their makers are at heart simple stories, of a simple and pure love, until they grow into the legends we have come to know and cling to. Though the legends of King Arthur and his Knights, and of the travesty of their fate may reverberate through the annals of mankind for as long as man draws breath, still my lady mourns her brother.

A single fact which is unimportant and insignificant, for what sister does not mourn her brother if he passes before her? This, I think, is where the true fascination of legends may be born. At the heart of any legend is a normal soul, or souls, that are suddenly become much more. My own heart wrenches at seeing my lady in pain, as it does every night.

I have guarded Morgaine Le Fay for as long as I can remember. I am the son of the last of her royal guard, men sworn to live in service to her for as long as they drew breath. I was not yet old enough when I saw that last of these, my father. I was a child, but four years old, when Arthur demanded the last oath from a soldier. When my father's blood kissed Excalibur's blade, and the oath was sealed, Arthur mounted his horse and rode out the palace gates to face his son's armies.

I saw the High King once more after that, when my lady brought back his body to Glastonbury to lay to rest. Avalon had not been able to save the High King, it's power gone in the all-consuming might of Christianity. My smile comes when I hear whispered tales of the King rising in humanity's greatest hour of need to fight once more for the good of all mankind. My eyes see always the simple engraving carved into the flesh of the oak. "My Beloved Brother." I do not break the hopes in those whispers.

When I came of age, I left the halls of Glastonbury, raised in it's sanctuary, but not of it's fold, and sought the long roads of excitement and wanderlust. I found heartache and ruin, finding love only to know that such a thing is fleeting, and worthless when one is young. In the throes of passion, it was my lady's name I called, Morgaine. I was driven from the village in a hail of fire and stones.

I saw nothing but my lady's smile and her sadness in my daily thoughts and nightly dreams. Her beauty touched me in a way none other could. She was a woman such as would never again be in the world. Her love for her brother was twisted by rumour and jealously into something dark and sinister, a plotting witch intent on the High King's descent into destruction. She was an integral part of the greatest tale of all time. Her blood was the most pure and high, running through the veins of the greatest king of all time, and also through the veins of his destroyer.

I watch the tears fall now, as the golden sun kisses her cheeks, and I think back to the day I returned to Glastonbury, no longer a boy but a young man, how I fell to my knees unbidden and pledged myself to her. My feelings I buried in my homage to her, for what woman in all the world deserves devotion above my lady? Her sadness can never know an end. She shoulders the blame for the world of barbarians and chaos that moves around us. From her blood came the cause, Mordred, the kinslayer and kingslayer. From the dreams made reality that was Camelot, Arthur's dream, to Mordred's twisted imaginings of destiny, through it all, yet outside it all, was my lady.

My attention snapped to the trees beyond us, closer to the safety of Glastonbury, as I heard laughter, drunk and unruly. My hand gripped the comforting wood of my staff, it's tested timber ready in my hand. Eight of them, all covered in the furs and leathers that marked them as the barbarians from the north, the Saxons my king fought for his whole life to keep out of the land he loved so much. I watched them as they walked, or staggered more accurately. They were almost past us when one of them noticed my lady's cloaked form. There were muttered comments among the eight, and several calls in the Saxon tongue, a language I had learnt in passing on my journeys across my country.

One of them was jostled forwards, and he barked at her in our tongue. "Need to keep your face covered, eh? Never mind, lass, you need not look at us when we take you from behind, huh?" The eight laughed uproariously at this, and my lady turned. Her eyes were narrowed in the evening light, and they held the fury I held so dear. Her lip curled as the Saxons fell quiet, struck by the eternal beauty of my lady. I unfurled my stance from the shadow of the tree, and one of the Saxons noticed me and pointed. I crossed my arms over my chest, my staff nestled in the crook of my elbow.

My fingers closed on the slivers of steel strapped to my wrist, and slid them slowly into the palm of my hand, even as the Saxons slid their swords from their sheaths. "Slach-tung," murmured one of them, meaning forward and attack in their tongue. Lady Morgaine cried out as the eight rushed me, and my hand flicked outwards, sending the steel blades flashing through the dying sunlight. I charged into them before they could react, and my staff began to whirl around my body, even as I moved into the deadly dance I knew and loved so well.

I knew the dance of battle for what it was, a pure hunt unlike any other, and I relished it's simplicity. In the middle of the hunt, of the dance, there were no thoughts of emotion for my lady, a love that would never be returned. There were no thoughts of my father, passed recently into the embrace of the earth, and no thoughts of carrying honour for my king. There was just the dance, in the name of my lady, and her protection. True, I loved the dance for the sake of battle itself, like my lady's cousin, Lancelot.

My staff broke the fingers of the first Saxon as he raised his sword, yelling a battle cry. His sword tumbled from his grip even as the tip of my staff crushed his throat. The second stepped back to allow his companion to crumple to the earth, and my staff reached over his choking face to smash open the temple of the second. A third reached for me from the lake side, and my knee smashed into his thigh, and he fell away. I whirled my staff above my head, and swords and an axe raised to ward off my blows. My feet struck out and I felt one brute's nose crush under my heel.

I felt a burning pain explode under my raised arm, and twisted to avoid the full length of the axe as it bit into my side. I heard a soft groan to my right and my staff was slapped from my grip by a grinning Saxon. I flipped backwards, springing away on my hands before landing and drawing my two daggers. With two more blades I leapt back into the semi-circle. My snake strike blinded one, and sent him spinning away, his hands to his head as his gloves became coated in red.

Another spun away as I opened his throat, and then the axeman stepped forwards, punching into my wounded ribs and driving the breath from my chest. Another moan sounded from the side, temporarily taking his attention away. With a lurch I swung both arms up, even as he turned back to me, and my daggers slammed into his ears with a wet thud. I heard the steel blades scrape against each other deep inside his head, and a shiver ran down my spine.

Two huge arms wrapped around me from behind, and dragged me backwards, pressing my arms to my sides as I let go of the hilts of my daggers. The arms tightened, bear hugging me. My ribs screamed in agony, and my roar of pain focused me for a second more. My head slammed back, and I absently noted my hair was suddenly wet. The Saxon, whose nose now bore the imprint of my heel and my head, roared insanely and reached for my throat.

I ducked back under him and reached over my shoulder, ignoring the pain in my ribs as I gripped his neck and twisted. I felt the bones shift, and I dropped his lifeless body to the earth. My gaze shifted to the remaining two, who watched with interest how I leant to one side in pain. They were far more cautious than they first had been, and one of them reached down to try to wrench my daggers from the axeman's skull.

His hands twisted, slipping even on the sharkskin handle, and he worked them loose. His companion raised his sword, then his eyes bulged as the tip of Lady Morgaine's dagger slid out from his throat. He gagged and a red froth came up. The last Saxon stared goggle-eyed, and I leapt forwards. I twisted his wrist and slammed it up into his stomach when he doubled over, and ripped the dagger from his weakened grasp. He turned around, trying to run, when my dagger slid into his back, sliding down between his ribs and into his heart.

I looked around at the carnage and shook my head. "Ah, my king," I whispered. "Would that you were still here to guide us." Morgaine knelt beside me without comment, and I looked at her blood-stained robes. Her dagger had taken three, and I owed my life to her. I tried to stand, but my knees buckled under me. My lady ducked under my uninjured side and supported my weight. I heard calls of alarm from the monastery, and Lady Morgaine sighed.

"Come, Talon, you need your wounds tended." I did not argue, merely closed my eyes against the pain, lost in the fragrance of her, of the silken tresses of inky black hair. I breathed deeply, and felt myself growing heavy, too heavy to lift. I gritted my teeth against the pain and tried to concentrate on getting back to the monastery, and not on the heavenly scent of my lady. Sandalwood, I decided, and autumn leaves. I frowned and growled back into the pain, resolving it to be far easier to handle.

My lady, despite my protests, insisted on helping me into my chambers, next to hers. She stopped as she closed the door with her foot, and looked to my bed. I felt my lids dropping as I felt the softness of the furs beneath me, and smiled. I felt my body move, and Morgaine's voice murmured. I opened one eye to find my blood-soaked robes being hastily removed by two of the black and white robed women of Christ, my lady stoking up the fire.

I found I could hardly breathe, and reached weakly for the wooden shutter that blocked my sky. Morgaine was there in a moment, and her soft hands comforted me as I struggled to stay awake. My eyes moved past her to the small portrait that was my only material possession. It was of my lady, done only a few years ago. As in life, the years had touched its perfection but lightly. Her dark hair was curled against the softness of her cheek as ever, even as now. Her beauty is incomparable to be an insult to any woman alive. And her eyes are more entrancing than the greatest dusk or dawn.

Her eyes are forever my favourite feature, by far. I've heard it said that a whore's eyes are wise, and sad, and carry a look as though they've seen the outcome of a thousand years. What does it say then, of whores, that my lady's eyes carry that self-same look? Her eyes carry a wisdom beyond any comprehension, and have seen both the greatest of man, and the worst. Perhaps it says nothing, or perhaps it says that there is nothing that can be done to some people that can be worse than what they have endured, and that that strength carries with it a nobility far beyond anything those who would condemn can carry.

Morgaine leant across my vision and wiped a cool cloth across my forehead, and I found myself staring into her face. Her ageless beauty calmed me, and neither the dull fire of my ribs nor the perpetual ache of my longing mattered at that moment, as I stared at her. Her eyes were calm, and wise, appraising my wound. She glanced down at my own eyes and stops, as I stared. I knew I was staring, and I couldn't stop. I do not know if I even wanted to.

Morgaine lowered her eyes, breaking contact, and I closed mine, wishing to be somewhere else, and nowhere else. I heard a murmur of acknowledgement, and opened one eye as the door closed quietly. I was alone with my lady. She bound my wounds without comment, and I knew pure joy in the quiet competence of her hands as she tended to me. She smoothed a salve onto my side, and her eyes sought mine.

"You would die for me?" I stared at her for a fraction of a second, not sure where this was leading. I nodded wordlessly. Something flickered in her eyes, and I looked away. I thought it was disappointment, or indignity. "Why?" I took a deep breath and refused to look at her.

"Because without you, I'd be dead anyway. Maybe alive, but definitely dead." Morgaine did not stir from my bedside as she pondered that.

"You're my only friend, Talon. You and I are the last of Avalon's glory, here." I didn't answer, but I turned and faced her. I nodded once, and she reached over and traced the simple tribal design that she herself had scarred into my skin with the black inks born of the land itself. In times past, they had inked themselves to proclaim allegiances or origins. I had asked Morgaine to ink me so I would become one with the earth itself.

Her finger trailed across my flesh, and I felt the ache of her nearness against me again. Her hand came to rest on my neck, where the flesh joined with my shoulder. She stared at me, no more than a few years older than I, but so much more. The power of Avalon flowed through her veins. To me, she was a goddess, worthy of more devotion than Christ himself. I saw her eyes flicker again, and the emotions must have shown on my face, for her eyes dropped again.

"I once told my cousin to stay his feelings, as you do. He told me he loved the wife of his best friend, and I told him to stay his feelings. But for all his perfections, Lancelot was as human as you, and as I. He could not stay such feelings, nor should he have. What would have become of Arthur, and the Round Table, and the Knights, blessed all, would that Lancelot have been open with his feelings. Such undeniable passion..."

Her fingers rested against my neck, feeling my racing pulse. She leant in closer to me, and her lips parted to whisper. "If you have such feelings, do not stay them." I did not. I leant upwards and our lips met. I felt truly alive, as though the sensations flowing through me had awakened me after centuries of sleep. I felt Morgaine's robes part, and she pressed her body against me, sharing the passion I had for her.

It was as if her touch were an elixir of healing. The ache of longing at long last gone, the fire in my side was nothing more than a mere memory as I kissed her. I felt like I was born, such a release. My hunger for her rose, and her gentle caresses of my face enflamed like nothing else. She was truly my goddess, and I loved her truly.

There was no fumbling discoveries of ourselves, though my own experiences were not many, and no animalistic passions or lusts. It was an experience, but to speak of it thusly is to demean it further. There can be no expression of the feelings and emotions Morgaine awoke in me, for no such trivial thing as spoken words could ever describe it. We experienced each other, not merely had each other. I had existed before, but in her arms I truly lived.

Morgaine's softness and my reverence seemed suited to each other, as we began to explore each other fully. I could taste the sandalwood of her soap in her skin, and I relished it. Our kiss ended, but my lips did not stray from her skin. My mouth trailed down her chin to her neck, and across her sculpted shoulders. As I moved down her body, tasting every inch of skin bared to me, her hands held me tighter to her body, as if I were as dear to me as she to I.

Her gentle sadness moved me to show her how much she meant to me, in my eyes at least. I wondered for a moment if I would scare her with the depth of my emotion, but it mattered little, because I could not speak of it, even in her arms. I tried to let my love show through my eyes, and Morgaine's soft sighs as she looked into my eyes told me she saw at least some. Our arms tightened around us, and I moved still further down her body, tasting and touching as much as I could.

I moved atop her and suckled at her body in its perfect entirety, from her breasts, still firm and full, to the slim waist and birth-scarred hips. I kissed the scar on her thigh where she had taken a spear, and I felt her hands sliding over my own scars, badges of honour gained in my service to her. Tears came unbidden to her eyes, and I was moved once more to kiss her, to drive away whatever pains she felt with the love I had for her. As I kissed at her tears, her smile came, and my world moved.

I watched her smile at me, and I knew I was the cause of her happiness. My breath caught, and I felt light-headed. My lips worked, trying to put voice to what I was feeling. Morgaine shook her head and laid a finger against my lips. I nuzzled into her hand and she pressed her body against me once more. I was beginning to rise against the silk of her thigh, and my cock pressed up between us. Morgaine bit her lip and her eyes lowered once more.

"It has been long since I felt the touch of a man who wanted me so." I nodded as her hands moved down my body, eliciting groans as they altered pressure and texture against me, first a bare scrape against my shaft with her fingernails, then the heated pressure of her palm. My mouth hungrily joined with hers, and our tongues danced. I felt one hand move to my thigh and gently pull me closer, and I readily moved across her skin. I felt my cock shifting between her thighs, and suddenly I was inside her.

Her eyes closed as she nestled against my cheek, and to put to words the sensations that raged through my being would be to describe the touch of a goddess. We held that station for an eternity, and then my goddess moved around me, and her eyes opened, glinting at me amusedly. She well knew the intensity of the sensations that assaulted my senses when she twisted beneath me, and it seemed she remembered the feelings that that ability gave back to her.

I moved against her, feeling the both of us searching for a rhythm that pleased us both, and after a moment, we danced the oldest dance in history, moving together sinuously. The simple and absoluteness of her warmth as she surrounded me was enough to bring me to the edge of madness, and my speed increased. My hips began lifting the both of us further up the bed, and Morgaine threw back the sheets that encased our modesty.

The moon broke her light through the evening's clouds and blessed us in her cool light as we made love. Her hands roamed my back and body, her lips kissed at me, tasting me with a passionate intensity rivalled only by my own. My breathing quickened further as she twisted beneath me again, my goddess's perfect lips curling into a smile as I groaned against the sculpted perfection of her neck. I felt the rush of blood through my body as my moans deepened, and Morgaine's hips lifted and twisted against me, and I felt the electric shock run through my system as I began to climax. I shuddered against her, and I felt the sudden warmth as my goddess climaxed too.