Morgaine's
heart ached for him to come home. He was the one person who could
fill her heart with joy. Without him here, her thoughts turned
darker. Her seeing pool would not even reveal to her where he
was. All she sensed was that it was his guilt over Gwenhwyfar
that had sent him away. A nagging feeling ate away at her about
what happened between him and Gwenhwyfar as if an otherworldly
hand was somehow involved. And his disappearance reeked of magic,
but whose magic? Something did not feel true to her and her senses
roared with a terrible foreboding. The Goddess remained silent
leaving Morgaine to fend for herself. And without Myrddin's help,
her powers were weakened on the earthly realm.
One
thought was clear to her--treachery stirred the air on Avalon.
Something
dampened the sweet smells of honeysuckle and wild roses that filled
the summer air. The meadow took on a sinister nature, the apple
trees twisting and growing elongated thorns. Even the chirping
of the songbirds sitting on the outstretched tree branches seemed
to change, sounding more like dirges than cheerful birdsong. A
menacing shadow loomed over Avalon, casting it into gloom.
Morgaine's
senses tingled with apprehension. Someone was aiding Artorius.
With her powers waning, it was difficult for her to see who was
behind the faceless shadow that betrayed her.
She
watched her son, Mordred, chase a brown and white butterfly across
the meadow, his childish face filled with pure joy.
How
she wished to have the innocence of a child again. She had forgotten
what pure joy felt like. Her heart had to remain hardened to weak
emotions so she could do what needed to be done to save the reign
of the Goddess.
Frowning,
she thought of what lay ahead. Mordred would not remain an innocent
child for long. He had a destiny to fulfill. Soon he would be
training to be a warrior--a warrior of the Goddess, one who would
be ruthless against the Christian kings and against his own father.
Mordred
ran over to her, holding a white rose. "Mother, I picked this
for you." His innocent face smiled up at her.
She
took the rose he offered her, feeling a stab of pain as a thorn
pricked her finger. Staring at the white rose, one name entered
her mind--Gwenhwyfar. Gwenhwyfar was the one bright light in Artorius's
life. As long as she lived, he would prosper. And as long as she
lived, Lancelot would suffer. She was the one who stood in her
way, but Morgaine had been unable to find her. As a part of her
upbringing on Avalon, Gwenhwyfar had been trained in the magical
arts and she had her own powers she could wield against Morgaine.
"Mother,
you are bleeding."
His
sweet childlike voice brought her out of her dark thoughts for
a moment. There was only a small part of her heart that saw the
light. The rest was covered in blackness, as black as a raven's
feather and as unforgiving as a violent tempest.