The true foundation of the tale of the kingdom I watched rise to glory and fall in the fire of betrayal and war began in the days of the Goddess and the conquering Romans.  Might was not for right but for lust, submission, and ultimate supremacy.  While the Romans clung to their Gods and the Druids battled to maintain the belief in their Goddess a new assembly began to steal into the wilds of the moors of Britain, Eire, and heathen Scotland.  The Christians soon were firmly entrenched and when no one found cause to quarrel with them the shift and the final days of Avalon grew nearer.

Those that I speak of in this tale were all victims of their own fate, how they chose to accept and construct that fate.  My brother, my mother, my father, my lover, and our son were all hapless and naïve followers of my priestess the Lady of the Lake and her Isle’s Merlin.  Though in fairness we did not know that we were treading the paths that we were so carelessly.                      Were I taken into the circle of stones and given a gift allowing me to once again live my life over, I cannot say for certain if my choices would be different.  For when it is all concluded truly the end does justify the means.  Life is not a simple amusement easily comprehended nor are the reasons surrounding your place in the life of another.  Still our positions were set in the stars and on this earth long before the first humans set foot upon the shores of Avalon.

So we lived and touched lives and places and burnt ourselves into the memories of those to come centuries after us.  It somehow makes the sacrifices and the pain worthwhile.  To know that you are remembered, even if the accounts are obscured by time and weavings of fiction, gives your soul some peace in the nights when the past is haunting and the future uncertain.

Thus I will start at my beginning, or how I can best recall it.  The years have passed so swiftly and those days were so long ago.  Forgive me if I too obscure certain facts to accommodate the events that are no longer clear to my mind.  As age claims your beauty and your strength, so does it snatch events from your past until they are as shadowy and overcast as the view of Avalon from the shores of Britain.

Her appearance alone would have signified her as a veritable goddess, with long white flowing hair, and dark distinctive features that were the product of her mother’s lover.  He was from the fabled lands of the crescent, with skin dark as the night sky.  Her eyes were as stormy as the seas surrounding their isle and it was whispered that she herself could control the rain and the mist that shrouded their home from the unwanted visitors in search of Avalon.

She had lived her entire existence on Avalon in the service of the Goddess, and her designs for the girl’s future and that of her brother’s were certain.  They would lead Britain from the Roman rule into the new world of Christian and Goddess believers united and living in peace.  It was their destiny she would tell her at night as she bent over her to wish her farewell into the world of dreams.  They were the chosen one’s born to lead Britain out of the Roman’s dark rule and defend it against the barbaric Saxons.

“To do this you will be forced to relinquish many things.  I once was known as Ororo, however that name is from the Latin spoken by the Romans. It was not for me to travel through my life’s journey carrying the name of Britain’s conquerors.  My mother chose my name, Viviane, when I was welcomed into the service of the Goddess, as you will cast aside the childish name Marie.  Your father was foolish to allow himself to be influenced by a Gaul in that regard. It does not suit you.  You are not bitter as your name’s meaning implies.  No, my little one you will carry a name worthy of you,” the regal woman would whisper staring out into the stone chamber.

“But I do not wish to give up my name.  My father named me in good faith in the memory of the wife of a friend.  I have always been called Marie, Lady,” she asked in confusion still only aged ten summers, but far more advanced in the studies of the Latin, the Goddess, and her many veins in life.

The lady smiled comfortingly and brushed a dark lock from the child’s snowy forehead.  She was truly from the Druid tribes.  Her bones were finely made and her eyes were a deep earth color glowing with imagination, excitement, curiosity, and knowledge beyond her years. She would have to guide her carefully and watch her closely.  The child was also impulsive and such a trait could prove to bring more pain than her fate truly decreed for her.  “We will not speak of this now.  Sleep and dream of your future my little one.  It is bright I assure you.  Ease your thoughts and find peace in your dreams.”

Now as the girl, Marie stood before her peers, those she had studied with, cried with, grown with, and discovered life with, the time had come for her next tier of life.  All had gathered this day to witness her passage into the service of the Goddess.  She had prepared for this day since the moment she had placed her first step upon Avalon.  Now that it had come at last she was uncertain.  As she knew there would be many things that she must lose in order to gain the title priestess.  Now as a young woman of ten and nine she wondered if the sacrifice truly justified the station.

Her name would be forgotten and from the moment the crescent moon was imprinted on her forehead and she wore the beads proclaiming her to the Goddess she would be dedicated to the well being of only Britain and the good of its people.  In another cycle of the moon she would give her Powers of the Virgin to a man chosen by Merlin in hopes it would produce a child to begin the cycle of training again.

However it would be the only child she would be allowed.  After giving herself she would be forever marked.  Only that man could touch her without coming to harm.  It was a part of the power given to her by the Sight.  Her skin would become deadly but it would also be a tool used to further her knowledge.  By simple skin to skin contact she would be able to draw the life and thoughts of any individual into her own body.

The man who owned her body with his own would never see her again nor she him.  Their night would be forgotten and the duty to the Goddess and his own lustful needs would be the only sufficient ends.  For this reason she prayed fervently for a child.

Despite her clear head her heart still yearned for a love like her mother had known with her brother’s father.  It had been untamed and daunting, but it endured even up till his death nearly two winters past.  Yet as her mother’s sister, Ororo, known to her apprentices as Viviane, informed her, such love was only for the souls who were weak and needed something to cling to in the maelstrom of being.  True love was born of the earth and blood.  It was a flame that never flickered or fought against the wind.

Shaking her head and clearing her mind of uncertain thoughts Marie began to walk forward when the Lady of the Lake beckoned her.  Smiling at the pride she saw in her lady’s eyes Marie lowered herself before her and the ceremony began.

When she felt the tugging on her shoulders she lifted her face now adorned with the mark of the priestesses, a blue crescent moon at the peak of her forehead.  “I willing accept my destiny and give my oath to the Goddess and Her Britain,” Marie whispered evenly taking her induction seriously.

“Rise then Morganna the Great and Bright,” the lady intoned.  “Marie ceased this day to exist and Morganna, Priestess of the Goddess now resides in Avalon.  Welcome to the service of the Goddess.”

Placing kisses upon each other’s cheeks Marie became the next in line to guard the lake and in the wilds of Eire on the emerald isle a man arrived at his homeland from Gaul. Known to the men he denounced as Lancelot and as Logan by the Celt tribes that reigned the isle, he paused to study his family’s once majestic castle. The stone was torn at the center revealing the gutted, deserted, grand hall.  The stairway had a gapping hole nearly at the top of the steps making reaching the higher levels impossible.  Moss had overgrown the entire massive structure and a pack of wolves fought over a recent kill just feet from where he stood at the entrance.

The animals did not mind his presence; rather they welcome it as though a lost tribesman had graced them again. One wolf even came toward the man and in its golden eyes sorrow shone brightly.  “Saxons?” he asked the beast quietly trying desperately to control the animalistic urge to tear through the lost dwelling howling and dismantling what was left of the architecture.

The wolf just stared at him, but there seemed to be a confirmation that he comprehended.  Very well, the time to fight had come again.  The Saxons had not been a true threat to him while he had resided in Gaul, or so he had thought.  Many things had been concealed from him during his time away.  Now revenge would be his.

There was a rumor that south in Britain there was a movement to find a king worthy to lead in the end of the Roman times.  He would then seek to destroy the Saxons and end their raids and rampages.  Though there were many names mentioned none were mentioned more than Arthur Pendragon of Camelot.  However, it was said that he was also a child of the Goddess.  If he were to truly unite Britain against the Saxons then he must also cater to the Christians.

Though not a man of religion himself he became deep in thought as he stroked the ear of the wolf standing at his side idly. He could not believe that there was a Goddess that was all-powerful decreeing the fate of men and their lineage.  A man made his own way in life; he made his by the sword and his ability to fight endlessly without injury.  However, if this Arthur were loyal to a goddess the war against the Saxons would not progress at all. There would be unrest within his own kingdom.  The threats of the Goddesses priestesses and those of the Christian priest would eventually travel full circle and the young king would lose all he had built before he had began to enjoy his reign.

All knew that the Goddess was being perceived as more pagan while the Christian priests could command power and even warlords would do their bidding.  They were the future of Britain. Those who found solace in the Goddess would find only pain and rejection.  If the Saxons were truly to be defeated then Arthur Pendragon of Camelot must keep the favor of the priests.  Mere woman and humbled men who followed the Goddess would be too weak to stop Arthur and he would defeat the Saxons.  In turn Logan would have his recompense.  Truly it was justice spurred on by revenge. Many times the two would meet intertwined.

Dropping his hand away from the wolf he turned around and walked to his horse, not looking back.  The urge to strike out and destroy still raged through him.  To look back would only sever the tiny bond of control he had managed to acquire.  Climbing atop his horse and digging his heels roughly into the animals sides Logan of Eire rode away from his now forgotten life and onto a new future.  He would find this Arthur of Camelot, loosen the hold the priestesses who praised their Goddess had upon him, and then destroy the Saxons.  He did not think about anything farther than reaching Camelot, he didn’t allow for distraction, or the disaster sure to ensue.

She thought of Ororo at this moment.  It would not be until the Beltane moon rose in the sky that she would see her again. Truly she loved her mother’s sister whole-heartedly, but Ororo’s loyalty often blinded her to life’s simple treasures.  Sadly Marie realized that even her name was lost to her now.  Ororo claimed that she Morganna would lead the priestesses of Avalon one day after she passed on to her future life.  The circle would begin again and she, Morganna, would be at its center guiding those who revolved around it.

Sighing in resignation Marie lifted her head to the scenery displayed before her.  A smile crept into her delicate features.  The sounds of the sea and its smell widened her smile.  She could simply lose herself in the dark foamy waters.  The salt drifted from below the crags touching her lips with the whipping winds. Home, the first glimpse of the moors she had seen for such a long while .The years of her childhood here were still vivid in her mind even now, but imparted much anguish.

After her father, Gorlois, defeat and death Marie’s light in her mother’s eyes had instantly dimmed.  She had seemingly ceased to exist. Uther the Pendragon, whom she secretly suspected had assisted her father to his grave, was the only beacon that could pull her mother out of her hazy reverie. Even after the birth of her brother her mother had immediately relinquished his care to Marie as soon as he had been weaned from his mother’s breast.

Igraine, had been weak without Uther when he was away defending his holdings and despite Marie’s attempts to draw her from her desperate memories Igraine wanted no part of her daughter.  Though Marie yearned for a deep enduring love that the pair shared she would never let it weaken her. Thinking back at times she found some truth in her aunt’s definition of her mother’s love for Uther. However to be that consumed with passion for another being must be wondrous for many people fell deeply into the supposed trap.

At first she had resented her young brother but as the child came to depend upon her she could do nothing but love him.  He had been given the name Scot at birth. Uther had said that the babe had reminded him of the savage Picts in the north that would at times become enraged and attack.  Scot had their coloring he said, sun-toned skin, and the hint of the sun’s red rays in his hair, and Uther knew that he would mature into a broad enormous warrior.  Yet the red had faded into a medium earth brown as he grew into boyhood and it was apparent that he would have the frame of a lithe and tall man.

Had it not been for the little boy who looked back at her with wonder and love in his sparkling blue eyes she would have felt useless and unwanted.  The only adult that paid her the scantest of attention in those days before her training on Avalon was her mother’s youngest sister, Raven.  Also a child of the goddess she considered herself a great Mystique for she too harbored the gift of the Sight, but the power was not as strong in her as it was in her sisters.  Nor was she given the responsibilities that her sisters carried.  She felt that she lived in the shadow of the enchantress Igraine and the wise and dynamic Ororo.  Both were given such vibrant destinies.  Ororo became Viviane, the Lady of the Lake while Igraine had carried the future king of Britain in her womb and brought him into existence.  Also there was the envy Raven felt at Igraine’s possessions of such a virile and handsome husband.  Had she, Raven, not begged Merlin to allow her to carry the future king and give herself to Uther when Igraine initially balked at fate’s decree?  Igraine was pathetic in many venues where she was relentless and brought substance to life.

Marie knew that it was those thoughts that had clouded Raven’s mind of any cheerful thoughts or blissful

interludes.  Her moods changed as swiftly as the flapping wings of the dragonfly.  One moment she would be sitting contentedly on the hearth of her sister’s home with Marie upon her lap while she braided the child’s hair. She would hum softly and Marie’s eyes drifted closed and sweet dreams of youth would flit through her mind.  Then an injustice would occur to Raven and she would roughly push Marie from her.  “It was you was it not?” she accused vehemently standing with dark intent over her niece.

“You with your bewitching dark eyes and delicate little body you truly do belong to the faeries.  I often wonder if my fate-shifting sister Ororo found you on some faerie hill and stole away your mother’s true babe so that you might replace the infant.  You already know of the old ways do you not?” she spat hatefully tugging on the freshly spun braid until Marie had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in her pain.

“I do not know what you speak of lady,” Marie whispered demurely wanting desperately to defend herself, but knowing that deference to elders was of the utmost importance.

“Liar.  The untruths spill from your lips like tainted wine.  You are of the faeries.  Even Uther does not lay a hand on you for fear of inciting the wrath of your faerie folk.  He despises you child.  Aye. You are the fruit of another man’s seed.  You are filth to him, yet he will do nothing to you.  Perhaps you do belong on that wretched isle with the lady of the lake and her strident followers.  Not having you and that mewling brattling brother of yours to peck at me and hang about my skirts will be a relief.”

Marie’s young ears had perked at that and her eyes had widened brightly.   “What do you mean lady?  What isle?”

Raven had cackled harshly.  “That forsaken piece of dirt in the middle of the lake, your mother’s and my birthplace.  It is host to those who seek the service of the Goddess and the will to control their gifts.  Your mother was not blessed with any gift so only her beautiful face and fertile body were her assets.  Ororo can control the earth’s elements through communication with the Goddess and I am the most blessed.   Watch carefully child.”

With a sly bitter smile Raven’s body began to stretch and mold into another form.  Marie had been too hypnotized by the sight to scream in her fright.  Before her very eyes her Aunt Raven suddenly took the form of her mother Igraine.  “See child, I can be anyone I wish to be.  I have such advantages.  I wonder what power you will possess?” Raven mused thoughtfully placing Igraine’s long slender finger to her lips.

“How, how did you do that?” Marie asked warily starting to back away.

In matter of moments Raven reclaimed her true form and rushed after Marie. Her anger was forgotten and she gathered the child close.  “It is my gift poppet.  It is not something to be feared but embraced.  Now come back to the fire.  I think we have spent our afternoon most unpleasantly.”  Regaining her position in front of the fire Raven took to brushing the child’s hair again and sought to refashion the braid into two strands falling down her back.  “We must hurry and get you ready for our approaching guests.  You must look presentable when your mother’s husband welcomes his newfound ally into his hall.”

Sitting as still as possible unless she wished to welcome her aunt’s wrath Marie endured the hair brushing silently.  Still her curiosity won out in the end.  “Who is my lord welcoming?”

“My future husband poppet, Victor of Orkney.  He will release me from this hellish incarceration with your mother and Uther.  I will be allowed to put my talents to greater use.  The possibilities presented to me are endless,” Raven murmured her hands stilling in Marie’s hair.

While she continued to ride in silence toward Camelot Marie relived that day in her mind.  Victor had been a large muscular man and quite a bit hairier than was certainly seemly. His hand appeared to be overly large and he kept them covered in bulky gloves never removing them, yet those from the north were different in their ways.  The marriage had been set for three days after this meeting and though she was sad to see her aunt go and leave her without any other confident part of her had rejoiced that her flighty tormentor would be seeking other climes.  Then she would have Scot to herself and the days would be filled with his laughter and questions.

However the day of Raven’s wedding to Victor Ororo had arrived with Merlin in her entourage. She had spoken with Uther long into the night and when morning came Marie had been awoken abruptly. “Come child, we must make haste lest the beast, Uther, changes his sotted mind,” came a serene yet hurried whisper.

Opening her eyes and rubbing them frantically to relieve the sleep from them Marie had sat up to come face to face with the lake’s lady.  “Aunt?  What is happening?”

“You are to come away with me little one.  You are to reside at Avalon.  There you will be safe and learn of your destiny as your mother and her mother has done before you.  It is a sacred circle of learning that must not be broken,” Ororo had calmly explained while hoisting Marie into her arms.  She then carried her through the halls of Tintagel castle silently until they had reached their horses.

Still unawares from being abruptly woken from her dreams Marie nearly missed the soft cry that reached her ears. Turning slowly toward it she saw her young brother Scot straining in the arms of Merlin while the powerful wizard subdued him patiently and deposited him on the horse before him.  “Scot!” she had cried out desperately her maternal instincts alive and readying for a conflict.

“He will be cared for little one,” Ororo had stated soothingly as she sat Marie against her in the saddle.

“No. You cannot take him. No please!” she reduced herself to begging as she thrashed in the arms of the priestess.

Merlin rode up next to Ororo his eyes were soft and kind. “I give you my oath that your brother shall have the finest care offered to him, but he must learn to accept his destiny as do you.  Your brother is bound for a greater fate than he can prepare for under the tutelage of Pendgragon as are you.  Separation is not welcome here and were there any other method I would gladly seek it.  I’m sorry but what we are doing now is for the better of you both and Britain.  Someday you will understand young Marie,” Merlin had whispered running a finger down her cheek and brushing away a stray tear.

Scot held his arms out to his sister once more crying. “Mawhee, don’t wheave!” he cried fearfully. Merlin kicked his horse into motion and began to fade into the distance he was placing between the two siblings.  “Scot,” she called back desperately fighting the priestess who held her so effortlessly.

“This will be one of the most difficult days of your life Marie, but show strength and courage now.  It will prepare you for other instances,” Ororo instructed softly setting a pace for her own horse taking them in the opposite direction of Scot and Merlin.

“I want my brother,” she defiantly argued craning her neck hoping to catch one last glimpse of the child who depended upon her as a mother, sister, and caretaker. What would he do without her and she without him?

“This separation is not forever.  You will meet again, but for now you each must fulfill the destiny decreed by the Goddess,” Ororo explained quickening the pace of her horse.

Marie remembered that day with more clarity than any day in her life however there had come a time when she had questioned the priestess about her words. “If that was one of the most difficult days of my life what shall be the most difficult?” she had asked many months later.

Ororo’s eyes had shuttered.  “That is not for you to ask me nor can I answer you.  Our fate is dealt to us in due course. Do not rush into your destiny until you have embraced it,” she had replied.

“My lady you must please stay in our sights,” a concerned voice interrupted her thoughts.

Sighing heavily Marie turned to scowl at the young man who was trying fervently to maintain authority.  Her brother had not sent the most accomplished of his men because there had been no need. It was certain death to slay one who was in the service of the Goddess.  Marie knew she was quite safe.  She also knew that the youth who was leading her could be no more than ten and six summers.  He probably had just gotten his first outing as a protector rather than squire.  “I will be quite well.  You have no need to worry.”

“My lady the Saxon’s have no care for your markings as a priestess.  All they will see is the banner of Pendragon and seek an assault,” the young man hurriedly spat out coming to ride at Marie’s side.

“The banner of Pendragon is well and duly feared as well.  My brother has had not a single threat since he began his reign.  Why should they try and anger him now by seeking to clash with his knights?” Marie continued smiling back at the youth reassuringly.

“Young Tristan makes much sense my lady,” Sir Robert Drake intoned with authority.  “Your brother’s kingdom is renown but every man’s armor has a chink in it if the enemy wishes to seek it.  My lady at present your capture could bring your brother to his knees.”

For a moment Marie pondered the possibility.  Could the lands of Britain truly have changed that much since her departure to Avalon?  Had those in the service of the Goddess lost so much of their mystery and respect? Glancing at Sir Drake she nodded in understanding.  “I will try and keep myself aware of my surroundings,” she assured him.

Smiling in relief Sir Drake rode forward to lead the entourage once more but halted suddenly when a loud cry erupted from the hills surrounding them.  It was a battle cry intended to incite fear and catch those under attack unawares. The knights began to form a circle around Marie cries pouring from their lips in their wild battle fever.  Her horse grew skittish bucking and snorting.  Then men descended upon them from all venues.  As the battle-axes clashed and swords swung through the air Marie’s horse lost its tentative hold on its control and reared back sending her sprawling to the ground.  It then bucked once and disappeared into the melee.

Regaining her footing Marie quickly grabbed the dagger at her ankle and prepared for any attacker.  It was against the teachings of the priestess yet she always carried the weapon upon her.  There were times when no rules applied and those that did must be discarded.  She was a child of the Goddess but she was also the child of a warrior whose lineage could be traced to early Roman times.  Divesting herself of her heavy cloak knowing it would only impeded her she left the garment on the ground and started forward.

An arrow nearly grazed her and she felt the heated air of its flight past her head against her skin.  Whirling around she saw the man who had launched the arrow with her as the intended target.  Her blood roared in her ears mingling with the bellows of the men around her.  Starting forward she never reached her destination.  Another arrow found its mark squarely in her shoulder knocking her backward.  The force with which she hit the ground took the breath from her chest in a great heave and her head fell into one of the stray rocks that sprinkled the vicinity.  The howling of men in pain and victory faded from her mind.  Darkness enveloped her softly until she heard and felt nothing.

Placing a hand on her forehead he felt her skin and was relieved when it was cool to the touch.  Withdrawing his hand he paused to stare at the blue imprint of the crescent moon.  He faintly traced it with his index finger before coming to stand once again.  She was definitely different than what he had expected. The stories about Morganna of Avalon had been told only in whispers among the men he had traveled with in Gaul.  Some claimed she was a wispy witch with light eyes that gleamed in the dark. Others told her to be a small nymph who could take flight and spread mischief.  None had come close.  She was only a woman, albeit smaller than average, but a woman all of the same.

Her hair was a deep brown with auburn highlights accented by the meager light of the fire he had managed to build when they had first entered the cave.   Her eyes were closed so he could not see their color, but even in the distance between them on the battlefield that morning he knew that they were not light.  Her lips were almost considered too full but complimented her features.  Save for the markings of the Goddess on her forehead her skin was flawless.  It was a shame really that she could be of no more use to him than to gain him access to Camelot.

She was not like any priestess he had known or heard of.  They were by nature peaceful creatures who took death and injury as a sign from fate that they must endure.  This girl before him had wielded a dagger, puny though it was, and planned to defend herself despite the obvious teachings.  Yes she might prove interesting and make his stay in her brother’s court much more bearable.

Marie began to come to awareness slowly fighting to open her eyes. There was a burning pain in the front of her shoulder and another dull ache in her head.  Once her eyes opened the image in front of her eyes was blurry and she blinked several times before it would clear.  Once they had focused her eyes widened in surprise and she swiftly rolled to her side and away from the man leaning over her.  Baring her teeth her hand went to her ankle to draw her dagger.  It wasn’t there and she turned an accusatory gaze to the strange man.

He only smiled infuriatingly and waved the dagger in front of his face once pulling it from the top of the rock behind him.  “Looking for this my lady?” he taunted quietly.

“Who are you and what have become of my men?” she demanded angrily her mind racing with possible routes of escape.

“You mean your brother’s men?  They are well I suppose, what is left of them.  I have no answer to your question. I only sought to secure your safety. What became of them I do not know,” he answered her calmly.

Marie’s eyes narrowed and she stared at him for a long moment.  “You’re not one of the Saxons.  Your accent is different. Where are you from?”

It was true his accent did not reflect anything from his homeland. He had been fostered to a man of Britain at a young age and then sold to a lord in Gaul not more than four summers later. His speech bordered on that of the language spoken fluidly by Britain’s lords and the speech of those in Gaul.  It helped to add to the mystery about him.  However being truthful in some aspects with Arthur’s sister would earn her respect and Arthur’s as well. Bowing gallantly but not truly able to hide the mockery in the act he formally introduced himself.  “ Lancelot, my lady. I am humbled to be in your presence.”

He would as soon spit on her as show her any deference and she sensed it, but he was concealing it well.  “Lancelot,” she nodded.  “From what land do you hail?”

“The lands of Gaul across the seas,” he replied evenly.

“What are you doing roaming about in Britain then?” she asked sharply.  “Are you not very far from home, and your accent is not that of a true Gaul.”

“True.  My birthplace was elsewhere it is even unknown to me, but I have spent the majority of my years in the service of many lords in Gaul.  Why am I here in Britain you ask?  There are tales of your brother’s knights and their feats spreading very far my lady.  What man would not want to find a place in such legends himself?”  He watched her eyes, they were still mistrustful, but she was mulling over his words. He had her curiosity.

The man was hiding so much but he had obviously saved her from a dark fate within the grip of the Saxons.  He was making his way to Camelot. Perhaps he could lead her there safely.  Her brother’s poor men must be frantic with worry and guilt.  The sooner she arrived securely at Camelot the better for all concerned. “Why did you save me?” she asked wanting to allow herself one more question.

“My lady how could any man permit such a beauty as yourself to fall into the hands of those brutish men?” His voice was silky and smooth.  All women loved to be praised about their features.  They immediately became enraptured with any man who would turn a small compliment their way. He did suppose though that in this instance he was not far from the truth.

Even though she knew that he was only attempting to sway her with courtly words that more likely than not did not fall from his lips often it stuck a chord within her.  On Avalon a woman was not praised for her physical appearance but rather for only her abilities to control her gifts or to please her teachers with her studies.  Even though the compliment meant nothing to him it awakened something in her that Ororo had long tried to suppress in her. Unfortunately it was apparent she had failed. A priestess did not allow a man to coax emotions from her.  Though they participated in and welcomed the coming of the Beltane rituals it was solely to pay homage to the Goddess and celebrate her.

Quickly Marie drew herself up and straightened her spine.  It was frivolous to let a man cause her to doubt the Lady of the Lake’s teachings with a offhanded comment.  “Though you lie quite easily I think you might mean to see me safely to Camelot.  If you can accomplish this goal I will see to it that my brother rewards you handsomely,” she assured her in a cool steady voice.

The change in her was very sudden.  She had become the priestess he had heard about in that brief instant.  Her chin was notched and her voice was authoritative. He didn’t like the change.  “Very well at first light we will start off.  Many apologies my lady for your accommodations, but if you expect to remain unseen from your brother’s enemies then we must conceal ourselves here at least for the night,” he explained in a clipped tone.

Nodding firmly Marie turned her back and burrowed into her cloak while lowering herself to the floor of the cave. She positioned herself trying to ease the throbbing shoulder and finally accomplished the task.  Sighing she closed her eyes and sought sleep once more.  She would have to sleep lightly, the man was unknown to her and she did not trust anyone easily.  A moment later the sparse light in the cave was extinguished.  “What have you done? We need the fire for warmth,” she said her irritation present.

“Unless you would prefer to bed down with the Saxons I suggest you quiet yourself and sleep in the dark.  They will see the smoke and the light coming from the cave and be upon us,” Lancelot explained his aggravation completely revealed.

Sighing Marie burrowed further into her cloak.  The fire hadn’t provided much heat but some was better than the stark cold.  A loud clink sounded in front of her and gingerly she reached out to find her dagger.

“You might have use of this if they do prove more resourceful than we are thinking them to be,” Logan muttered and she could hear him settling himself down for sleep as well.

She didn’t answer him but held tightly to the weapon against her breast.  If he had meant her harm he would not have given her the means to defend herself. She closed her eyes again and found sleep dreaming of the reunion with her brother and setting foot upon the lands of Camelot again.

Marie sat serenely near a lake shimmering in the sunlight.  Every now and then a ripple would crease the quiet water when the wind would flit across it.  The light rustling of the leaves in the tress that towered over her had a calming effect on her   She drew her knees up to her chest and laid her head sideways on them smiling.  The day was achingly perfect.

It was a distant sound at first but grew with intensity as it neared.  A thundering began to echo through the forest surrounding the lake and the birds that were silent moments before grew frightened and their shrill cries pierced Marie’s very soul. The thundering grew louder and then she saw its source.  A stag stampeded through the brush and trees his horns down and his legs sprinting.  From the distance another stag burst from the forest. He charged the first stag and their horns locked in a fierce assault. Horns clashed and they grunted and snorted in their attempt to best the other.  Their sides heaved with their efforts and specks of blood appeared on their coats as their battle continued.

Beyond the forest a melancholy howl rose over the sounds of the combatants.  Marie did not notice the other animal approaching.  Her hypnotized gaze could not leave the sight of the magnificent stags fighting till their final breath.  They were each determined to dominate the other.  She jerked when something cold and wet nuzzled her hand.  Glancing down she saw a darkly furred wolf staring at her inquiringly.  Its eyes were open to her and she felt no fear as she knelt down beside the animal to stroke its fur and face.  It nuzzled her lovingly once more but then its ears perked and deep in its throat a growl resonated.  Frowning Marie turned and saw the second stag snorting above the now fallen one.  Its nostrils flared wildly and its foot stomped upon the ground once when it raised its head and focused on Marie.

The wolf growled again baring its sharp powerful teeth.  Placing his body between Marie and the stag the wolf lunged as the stag charged.  Both met in a blur of black and brown fur and blood.  Each snarl and sound of horns ripping skin tore at Marie’s heart and she watched helplessly.  She seemed to be frozen to her spot unable to move.  Her voice was absent as well and silent tears fell down her cheeks.  Finally the wolf threw its head back and the blindingly white teeth sunk into the throat of the stag tearing the tender flesh and on down the animal’s chest.  The stag let a rending cry rip through the forest and then was silent. With a final growl the wolf released its breath and then padded over to Marie.

She welcomed her champion into her arms and hugged the animal to her.  Then the wolf dropped to onto his belly and laid his head in Marie’s lap.  Her soft fingers threaded through the animal’s fur and she let her hands run over the top of his head in a comforting motion.

There was a faint smell of rancid breath that wafted through her nostrils before she was jerked to her feet. Blinking the sleep away as quickly as she was able Marie tried to find her balance but couldn’t seem to when her arms were trapped behind her painfully. A rough large hand held her wrists at the base of her spine and twisted her arms trying to impart to her that she could not escape him while another clamped over her mouth.  Bucking back she was only shoved forward and another hand slammed into her cheek causing her to jerk to the side.  The bones of her jaw rattled and she bit her tongue forcefully.

“Well we do have a feisty littl’ wench here and they tell that these priestesses aren’t more than cold fishies,” a coarse voice rasped against her ear.  Then the owner of the voice flicked out his tongue to slide it around her ear.  She shivered in revulsion and began to wonder where Lancelot had taken himself off to or if these men had already taken care of him.

“Aye, ye shivered little pretty.  Ye like a good fight fore tossin’ up ye skirts don’t ye?” the same voice came again in her ear.

“Easy Fyren.  Don’t get yeself all excited yet man.  Ye have to play carefully with this filly.  The king won’t take back soiled goods,” the man in front of her stated matter of factly.

The man who held her grumbled in her ear and his breath again made her stomach turn and twist as bile rose in her throat.  It was still dark in the cave and she stumbled twice as he hauled her along with him.  Once out in the open the moon’s light cast an ethereal glow on the lands around them.  Marie’s eyes focused slowly from the sudden change in surroundings going from pitch darkness to feeble light.  She tried to listen hoping that the mysterious Lancelot would make his presence known, but heard nothing. She was alone she realized angrily.  It was more than aggravating that he had taken his life in his hands to see her safely from an assault of nearly two scores of Saxons yet he had not been victorious against a mere two.

She blamed herself for her capture as well.  She had slept too deeply. It must have been the dull ache in her head and the injury in her shoulder that had kept her from reacting, as she should. Her body had been too worn down to defend herself properly.  Still she had the dagger securely tucked within the folds of her cloak.  When the next opportunity presented itself she was ready for the consequences.  A priestess was to accept whatever fate found its way to her, but Marie would rather be damned than allow herself to be foully used by either of the men who kept her prisoner now.  Their throats would be slit before they could so much as lower her to the ground.

“Methinks that we’re going to need to keep this one quiet. I have me doubts that we can make it back to camp without her screamin’ like some wild banshee in the hills,” the man who didn’t hold her commented as he walked toward two tethered horses near brambles that entangle themselves amongst the grass and smaller trees.

“Wot’s wrong with her screamin’ a little.  Proves we’re just gorin’ her proper,” the man gripping her arms painfully leered and jerked her head back so she could see his face.

There were deep pits in his face and his teeth, the ones that were not missing, were blackened and rotted.  His smile would have sickened the most steadfast of heart.  His bulbous nose and close set overly large eyes did nothing to add to his appearance. He licked his lips letting his tongue roll suggestively across his bottom lip then seeing the obvious revulsion in her face threw his head back and roared in laughter.

His companion joined in his mirth and Marie began to plan each of their deaths in her mind.  She prayed the Goddess would forgive her for her actions but they must be taken.  She must bide her time, the moment when they were not watching would come soon.  There was always one moment when someone was unawares. Grunting she pulled her hair free of his thick fingers and tried to struggle once more, testing his strength.  He snarled and pulled her back twisting her arms again this time nearly to the point she was sure one of her bones would snap at any moment.  Her shoulder protested and it felt as though heated spears were stabbing her.

“Wench ye’d do best to keep still.  Wouldn’t want to break any of these sweet little bird bones ye’ve got,” he hissed vengefully.

Suddenly the man’s companion grew silent his laughter dissipating into the stillness. There was no sound for another moment and then a gurgling and sputtering issued from behind her.  Turning both Marie and himself Fyren swallowed the vicious insult that he intended for his friend. “Beorn,” the man’s whisper was broken and strangled as it came from his lips.

Marie’s own eyes widened at the sight before her. The man known as Beorn fell awkwardly to the ground his blood pouring from his body.  His throat had been ripped open jaggedly the torn skin hanging from his neck and another long stream of blood covered his torso angling downward.  The area around them was silent. Only the last gasping sounds of Beorn and Fyren’s frantic breathing could be heard.  Marie’s eyes darted around trying to discern any movement.  The wounds inflicted on the Saxon were so brutal that Marie could only imagine them being imposed by some wild animal roaming about them.

There was no warning when Fyren was abruptly thrown from her and she was free.  Stumbling and losing her footing she fell to the ground her palms bracing her.  Throwing the long veil of her hair from her view she saw Fyren’s body being suspended above the ground impaled upon three sharp weapons that gleamed evilly in the moonlight.  Marie’s breath left her body in a shock and frightened gasp as she watched the men in front of her.

The once absent Lancelot stood with powerful legs braced and a feral snarl upturning his lips.  His right arm was extended and his hand was clenched in a fist while three ivory bones that curved and resembled claws protruded from the back of his hand.  Fyren met the same fate as his companion when Lancelot withdrew the claws and from the man’s throat only mere inches before slashing them to the side.  Blood spurted from the wound and sprayed Lancelot’s face and tunic already dripping from his past encounter with Beorn.  He then leaned over the prone man and easily sliced the flesh at the base of his neck to his navel.  Another mewling whimper escaped the dying man’s lips before he became eternally silent.

Logan drew himself to his full height and tried to breathe evenly.  The scent of his kill still hung in the air heavily enveloping him and nearly causing him to forget his surroundings.  He had to try and find some control. Looking down at the two mutilated men he had forgotten how thrilling it had been to defeat an opponent.  The absolute victory was always intoxicating, but this time it seemed to be more satisfying than was usual.  These men had almost surely ended his quest to see the priestess sibling of Arthur’s safely to his court.  Then there was their heritage.

Their accents were not totally Saxon which led him to believe that they had been one of the rising numbers of deserting followers of the now dead Pendragon. There was only a minimal chance that they had been among the band of men that had been responsible for the death of his father but they followed the men who had.  Shutting his eyes tightly against the vision that came to mind when he thought of his starkly desolate home in Eire Logan managed to stop the rage that shook his entire frame from overcoming him.  Drawing in one last deep breath he faced the priestess and the scent of his previous kill was eradicated by the scent of her fear.

She stood on shaky legs backing away from him.  Her skin was pale and her dark eyes were huge in her face.  For a moment she cast a glance toward the man who had held her captive and Logan moved forward while her attention was directed elsewhere, but her eyes snapped up to him again and she held out her arms.  “Stay back.  Give me a moment,” she whispered raggedly. Her mind was racing.  The brutality was not unknown to her, but to see such a sight first hand was unnerving.  Also the claws and how he had acquired them puzzled her.

During her training Merlin had taken her aside many times for quiet conversations.  He had shared information with her time and again about the vast numbers of those who were gifted yet had not been given the opportunity to find any to help them understand their gift or how best to put it to use.  The man before her was such an example.  He did not need to see her fear and her uncertain gaze upon him.  Had he not disposed of the men in her better interest?  He had expressed his intentions were to see her safely to Camelot and he had allowed her to keep her weapon.

“There is nothing to fear from me my lady.  I shall not gut you where you stand,” he snapped at her impatiently.  Long ago Logan had learned to expect fear and revulsion from those who witnessed his true self.  He mentally berated himself for allowing his control to slip. He had spent nearly his entire life training to be a warrior. He had yet to find a man who could best him in a sword fight, or take him down on a battlefield.  Still here he had seen the Saxon’s hands upon her and all civilized thoughts had fled.  She was his only way into the court of Pendragon’s son and he would not lose her now.

“Nay you will not.  It would be extremely foolish,” Marie asserted brushing her hair back from her face and composing herself.  “In fact I rather think I should be thanking you for your part in seeing that the mangy curs did nothing beyond threatening defilement.”

Logan narrowed his eyes at the priestess in wariness.  Her scent had change drastically and her heart was no longer beating wildly. She was as calm and serene as she appeared.  Nodding he turned to go and retrieve his horse tethered beyond their attacker’s animals.  Whispering a gentle command in gaelic Logan undid the steed’s bridle and swung up on its back.  “We must be away now.  When those men do not return they will send others to seek them out. I’m thinking you would rather not be here to greet them,” he informed her.  He then stopped and released the other horses slapping them soundly on their flanks sending them galloping away.

“Whatever did you do that for?” Marie asked outraged.  “I will need one of them to make my way.”

“I want the Saxon bastards to know that both of their men failed my lady,” Logan sneered watching the horses gain distance from them.

“How ever am I suppose to reach Camelot now pray tell?” Marie demanded placing a dainty hand on her hip. “I suppose you expect me to walk.”

Logan peered down at her shaking his head.  She had nearly been subjected to rape and untimely death and yet she recovered quite nicely, enough to peck at him irritatingly.  “My lady I intended for you to ride with me, but since you suggested that you would prefer to walk then who am I to deny you?”

Marie’s face fell into a deep set of surprise and then anger.  Quickly she tried to hide her reaction.  “Very well.  Aye, preferred to riding next to you a brisk walk would seem much more pleasurable.”  Marie then straightened her spine and notched her chin.  With her shoulders back she began to march forward.

Raising one dark brow Logan watched her walk away.  This priestess was proving to be quite unique.  Also she angered very easily.  Aye she was unlike any priestess he had met.  It was going to be very amusing to provoke her.  He decided to let her have her way and walk for a time, but he would have to keep her as close as possible.  Saxons were stubborn and determined. They would send someone in search of the other men.  Camelot was still a good day’s ride and they had to keep moving.

 “What do you mean the Saxons took my sister?” Arthur demanded his roar echoing up into the towers of the castle.  “Did I not instruct that she was to be kept safe at any cost?”

Sir Robert Drake shamefully cast a glance toward Tristan.  “My king I do not know how to describe to you what occurred except to say that I do not think that it is the Saxons that have taken the pirncess Morganna.”

Arthur’s blue eyes darkened.  “What mean you the Saxons do not have her?  I thought you said that it was the Saxons that attacked and that Mar, Morganna was taken?” He had nearly slipped using his sister’s past name in his fear for her safety.

“It was unlike anything any have seen my king,” Sir Drake spoke as though in a daze.  “He was something out of myth I suppose, but when the princess fell wounded this man swooped upon her and any man near fell in his own blood.  It was some kind of beast certainly my king.  No man could lay a mark to him.  Several tried even our men, but he would not have it.”

Rounding the wooden council table Arthur frowned fiercely.  “If such a man has my sister why are you all standing in my hall when you should be searching for her?  I want my horse readied and Sir Drake call forth your men.  We waste precious time standing here prattling tales about nonsense.”

“Aye my king we will leave posthaste,” Sir Drake bowed with deference and then walked away to carry out the orders entrusted to him.

Arthur stood silently for a moment in his hall.  His sister, the one who had cared for him in his youth from the time he was a babe until the Lady of the Lake and Merlin had separated them.  As she had once seen to his safety so now would he see to hers.  She was of his blood and the only one of his family whom he could find true peace with.  Stalking from his hall Arthur made his way to the courtyard of the castle. The man who had taken his sister would not live out the next day.

While the moon lit his path the elder man walked through the grass his great cloak trailing behind him. His white hair shined in the moon’s light and his almost black eyes always seemed to gleam.  His brow was furrowed in deep thought as he walked through the mists of the isle.  Finally he stopped and fought for a moment to catch his breath. He had walked the isle for many years and now the journey would take his breath from him more quickly than in his youth.  Still he needed to be away from the swirling minds of the priestesses and the never-ending musings of Viviane. Truly his gift to hear the thoughts of others at times was more a plague and curse than a blessing.  Perhaps a simple jest upon the part of the Goddess.  Knowledge beyond all comprehension, but with no peace in that achievement.

Glancing into the sky he watched the moon with great interest.  The snows had long melted and though the night remained crisp Beltane would be upon them quite soon.  His time was short.  Already forces were conspiring in his favor, but if Viviane were to have her way the threat to her plans would be eliminated.  Aye, this Lancelot who chose to conceal his identity as the son of a slain Celtic lord was a warrior of heart and spirit, but his strength could not compare to the age-old power granted to the Lady of the Lake. He would wait and watch from afar for two more days and then his journey to Camelot would begin.

In truth he longed to see Scot once more.  Pendragon had baptized the child as Arthur the moment he had been returned to him at after his fostering with the knight Sir Ector.  He wondered if his years of fighting had hardened his heart to the Goddess and the peace she represented.  He had watched his progress and like the enigmatic Lancelot he was a finely skilled warrior.  Pendragon had trained him well, as had he the Merlin.  Inside the heart of that warrior was a child who was born of the Goddess and would thusly return to her when he had taken his last breath.

Merlin sighed as he again pondered his actions.  His mind strayed to his past travels.  If one could concentrate with enough clarity and focus without yielding to the distractions surrounding them another plane of existence could be obtained.  In the quiet of the night Merlin would shift from the isle of Britain to years ahead of them.  An age where he had found his children among him once more.  Though he would only stay within the mind of his future body for minimal periods he had gathered enough knowledge to realize that Viviane’s aspirations for Camelot were doomed.

It was an injustice.  She had been and throughout her every existence would be utterly dedicated to her teachings and heritage.  She had learned the ways of the Goddess well and applied that knowledge generously and with caring vigilance daily.  She was adored by all and thought of as mother, sister, and earthly Goddess upon the isle of Avalon.  However her dedication often blinded her to external options.  She saw only the way of the Goddess yet she did not take into account the many different paths the Goddess would present.  Viviane would always practice the old ways and in kind that was best.  Still the Christian influence was strong and they must find their place in the changing spectrum of kingdoms and religion.

Perhaps if Viviane’s attempt to do the bidding she thought to be put forth by the Goddess were thwarted or simply reassessed history might prove more kindly for all those directly concerned.  Merlin sighed heavily.  Viviane would never stray from her purpose.  In all of his years he had never loved a companion more nor felt more sorrow at his coming actions.

“The night air grows chilled Old Father.  Your bones must feel the strain,” an affectionate, but low feminine voice spoke from behind him.

Merlin had known that Viviane would seek him out this night.  The Sight had probably led her to discover what had become of Morganna.  Already her mind was furiously churning with thoughts on the young Lancelot.  She was already thinking of the proper way to eliminate the threat Lancelot posed to her goal.  Merlin knew that she was not vengeful, but that the purpose of the Goddess must always be protected.  He would have to move quickly for Lancelot and Viviane’s sake as well.  There were times when her duties brought such anguish and pain to her that she would shut herself away in the House of Maidens and vow silence for days upon end.  Her inner torment would be so great that even he, the Merlin, would find no peace in sleep as her thoughts were running rampant with remorse and self-loathing.

“Aye, your concern is always soothing Viviane.  Tis true that my bones are growing weaker as are many of my attributes.  Age is a cruel trick of Fate is it not?” he chuckled wryly turning his full attention upon Viviane.

“I assume that you are aware of what has transpired?” Viviane inquired yet it was almost a statement rather than a question.

“Morganna is safe Viviane. Let us think only on that for now,” Merlin quietly implored.

"Beltane fast approaches Old Father.  I cannot allow for any interference. Do you not know that would there be any other way I would seek it?” Viviane replied the strain obvious in her voice.

“Would you Viviane?” Merlin asked softly.

Viviane’s eyes widened with pure astonishment. “But of course.  Morganna has been more the daughter to me than she was ever accepted by Igraine,” she stated slightly defensive that the Merlin would question her motives.

“Viviane I do not doubt your affection for the child, but I must ask you to truly search yourself and see if this is the only path.  The Goddess has many incarnations therefore she must travel many veins of life.  What might be in favor of some may only bring grief to another,” Merlin calmly intoned.  He knew this was futile, but he wanted to at least try and sense how deep Viviane’s perseverance was rooted.

“I have searched my heart and that of the Goddess and found no other path Old Father.  The ways of the Goddess are difficult to interpret and at times painful to follow, but I have given myself into Her service.  I must not stray from my convictions.  The Goddess’ will must be carried through,” Viviane asserted firmly still unsure as to why Merlin would probe her intentions so deeply.

“Viviane your service to the Goddess has been absolute in every way and your determination to follow Her through strife, plague, and even fire are evident. Yet, I cannot help but sense that even greatness should be questioned or explored more.  I simply plead for you to allow Fate to guide you at this time.  The Goddess is the hand that will wield the scheme of Fate.  Allow her to continue doing so Viviane,” Merlin suggested.

“Old Father, I have always taken your counsel to heart and applied it to all of my decisions, yet I find in this instance that I cannot in good conscience allow you to sway me from this end.  I will in no way harm Lancelot.  He has suffered greatly and should be allowed his own peace, but he must find that peace elsewhere from the Isle of Avalon and the kingdom of Camelot.  Once he has safely delivered our child you must suggest that he be sent upon a quest.  Arthur will feel indebted to this stranger for seeing to his sister’s welfare, but that is all he must feel.  You have trained Arthur well despite his father’s determination that he become a vanquishing warrior.  His heart is kind and he welcomes any who would seek to enter it.  He is cautious but willing to accept another.  However I fear that with each passing day he slowly forgets that which he came from. The Goddess is not as vivid in the court of Camelot as we had hoped.  The Christian priests have taken residence there and not a priestess from the Goddess’ rite has been invited into the walls save for Morganna.  This Lancelot has no use for the Goddess or her followers.  He has stated it quite openly as you have seen.  He considers women frivolous beings and relies only on men of his own aptitude.  If Arthur were to fall under his influence then the Goddess’ presence would suffer even more greatly,” Viviane finished feeling quite lost and alone that the Merlin could not understand her torment.  She had fought with herself for many months for another way to meet the requirements of the Goddess but could find no other answer.  It troubled her greatly.

“Your thoughts are accurate Viviane, yet there is much we do not know of this Lancelot. Perhaps you judge him too harshly.  There is a great hunger in the man to find a purpose.  Why could that purpose not be the preservation of Camelot?  Arthur is a child of the Goddess and no matter what chaos surrounds him he will always return to her.”

“I do not attempt to judge Lancelot at all.  I understand that his pain runs deep and I will not have him hurt by the will I must impose. He will do better away from Camelot as will all involved,” Viviane still held firm to her decision.

“Viviane do not set out with such conviction in your own will.  There was a time that I did such and though the result was Arthur I still regret daily the steps I took to ensure his birth.  Remember our gifts are meant to bring about peace and only used when all other instances are futile.  In the case of Arthur’s conception I allowed Uther Pendragon to bargain.  We needed the child and Uther wanted Igraine.  It was a simple trade.  Igraine was not even aware that it was not Gorlois that came to her bed that night.  I forced her mind to accept Uther as her husband and formed another image of the face before so that she would not see that it was Uther who she took to her that night.  The moment Arthur was conceived was the moment Gorlois took his final breath.  I had done my duty to the Goddess but at the cost of the trust of my child Igraine.”

Viviane nodded slowly. She had always known that the decision to commit Igraine to Uther had pained him greatly.  Igraine and Raven were both children of his seed.  When their mother had been the Lady of the Lake she had conceived twice with the Merlin.  Though he could never be recognized as such as only the priestesses were allowed to claim their children, he still held the two women as children in his heart.  “It was for the good of all concerned Old Father.  Igraine now lives as Uther’s wife of her own accord. Your suggestion in her mind did nothing but open her to the possibility of such a future. If not for that night she would yet live under the scrutiny of her Roman husband Gorlois and know no peace. Nor would Arthur be the monarch of Camelot or Morganna be placed to follow me in succession.  Many destinies reaped the rewards of that night.  Not only the gluttonous Uther.”

“I still beg you to tread with care.  The times are volatile and the Saxons are sacking more villages by the day.  Their power is growing and they need but a true leader to strengthen their ranks and set them upon a course,” Merlin spoke in hushed tones as he saw the images to come pass through his mind.

“The child will fight alongside Arthur and bring an end to the Saxon’s raids.  This must be done.  The Goddess has decreed that it must be so,” Viviane continued softly placing a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

“Viviane I fear this will bring more disorder and pain than good will.  Morganna will ultimately come to despise you and Arthur will not find forgiveness in the great heart that you know him to have.  It will bring disaster and the future of this child is cloudy and shrouded in uncertainty.  To put all of our faith into him would be reckless,” Merlin spoke again with conviction.

“I will serve the Goddess as I must.  I trust you to understand this as the days pass,” Viviane murmured demurely before dropping her hand from Merlin’s shoulder and turning to walk away.

“Viviane,” he called after her but she would not turn to him.

“Viviane,” he called once more, still she would not heed him.

“Ororo,” he whispered forcefully.

Immediately she stopped and stiffened. She had not heard that name pass his lips for many seasons.  To have it spoken aloud again in her presence was unnerving.  “Old Father,” she said simply in answer.

“The Goddess is kind and just, but the Gods that do her bidding are capricious.   Be warned that the child you seek to see brought into the realm of Camelot might well court danger.  There is always danger in the unknown and as I have said what lies ahead for this child is largely unknown,” Merlin warned.

“He will bring good to Camelot. He will be born of two children brought before the Goddess.  With his birth the Goddess’ influence will once more be felt throughout Britain.  It will be done Old Father,” Viviane asserted before turning and continuing down the hill leaving Merlin to the night.
 

The sound of hooves pounding into the ground echoed through the hills like rumbling thunder. The first pink rays of the sun were cresting on the horizon.  A light wind picked up the hair that framed his face and angled away from his features.  Arthur’s jaw was set in determination and his blue eyes were stormy and dark. He was in a rage and the man who was at the center of the fiery emotion would soon feel his wrath. He thought over the encounter that Sir Robert had described and could not fathom such a possibility.

They claimed that he must be some form of half man half beast.  Claws had sprung from his hands and he had taken down three men before Sir Robert had even managed to maneuver past one.  They said his skills with a sword were just as exemplary.  There had been tales of a swordsman that traveled throughout the hillsides fighting local villagers for a few coins.  He wondered briefly if the mysterious warrior from the field were the undefeated swordsman.  If that proved to be so then there could be more motive to his actions that first believed.

Arthur was aware of the exaggerated hearsay surrounding the wealth and power of a king.  They thought that he could move heaven and earth to see his will executed. He was only a man.  A man just testing his power and learning his strengths and weaknesses. Obviously his sister Morganna was one of those weaknesses.  Perhaps this man who had abducted her sought a price for his sister.  Perhaps the price would be too high.

He wondered if the man was a lone Saxon bent on revenge and wealth.  What could the man possibly think to gain but his animosity?  Did he think that he could gain an abundance of wealth or land?  Though it pained him greatly Arthur knew that should the situation prove dire and a choice must be made between his kingdom and his sister the choice would be evident.  Immediately he brushed the harrowing thought aside and focused on his current purpose.  Merlin had always taught him to keep his mind along a single path and remain dedicated to the desired outcome.  To stray would mean disaster.  Stay the course and in the end the rewards would be great.

A half man half beast?  Arthur still could not logically imagine such a thing.  Claws?  Surely in the heat of the battle and fury of the bloodlust the men had become confused or disoriented and only thought they had witnessed such an occurrence.  Merlin had told him of people with extraordinary gifts.  There were times that he himself thought that he was of the same gifted.  He had successfully hid the effects from his knights and would have to be even more protective of his gift once the daughter of King Leodegrance of Cameliard arrived and spoke vows with him.

His advisors had suggested the match as a move to ensure Christian support of his reign.  The daughter of Leodegrance had been preparing for the convent since birth. Then when a dispute had flared between Leodegrance and King Ryence of North Wales Ryence had demanded the king’s daughter Guinevere as a wife for his own kin Duke Mordaunt of North Umber. Arthur had quickly set to resolve the dispute.  Guinevere was declared his betrothed within a fortnight and Ryence now faced the wrath of the King of Camelot.

Arthur wondered if he had made a rash decision or simply followed orders.  Would he find this lady pleasing to the eye or desirable to touch?  It was commonplace for such marriages to occur but his parents had found love and companionship with one another and Arthur could not help but wish for the same.  Still with another so close to him it left him more vulnerable to those who would seek to usurp his throne or sack his lands.

Morganna was such an example.  He would not feel at ease again until she was safely behind the walls of the castle at Camelot.  The men were still traveling at a rapid pace and he knew that it would be daylight soon. Finding the man who held his sister would prove more effortless.  He could not conceal himself as readily in the light of day.  Drawing in a deep breath of the early morning air Arthur sighed and continued on. He was already contemplating the slow death of the beast of a man who had so ruthlessly captured his sibling.

No answer came and he rode forward more so that he was at her side.  “You are being foolish my lady.”

“I suggest unless you can improve the silence that you not speak at all,” Marie snapped yet did not look at the intended victim of her jibe.

Most men wouldn’t have spoken to him in that tone. None of them would he have allowed to continue breathing without an unkind reminder that they had been so careless with their words.  He had to remind himself that she must be returned to the king unharmed.  Sighing deeply he tried once more to reason with her.  “Either you continue to suffer or you overlook your immense pride and ride the remainder of the journey.”

No response came again.  Her treatment was becoming increasingly irritating.  She was only bringing herself more pain. He should have let her continue on as she was and let her learn that her behavior was childish.  He should have let her feet blister until she could no longer walk.  Instead he rode ahead of her and halted before her so she could not take another step.  “I must insist for your own comfort and safety that you ride with me.  I’ve been as patient as possible and allowed you to have your fit of temper but it’s past time to be practical.”

He leaned down extending a hand to her signaling that he would help her onto the horse.  For a moment she looked at the offered hand then up to his eyes yet not really seeing him.  She blinked at him twice before shifting her gaze beyond both him and his horse and started to walk around the animal that blocked her path.  She had only taken two steps when she heard a frustrated growl and felt herself being lifted off of the ground.  Then she felt a saddle beneath her and was settled before Lancelot on the great steed.

As soon as the animal began to gallop forward once more she had recovered from the actual shock of his actions.  No one was to touch a priestess unless given permission.  She immediately began to resist and protest.  The horse halted and Lancelot forcefully grabbed her to still her struggles. “My lady if you do not quiet yourself this horse will throw both of us from his back and I very much doubt that with your injuries a fall would be pleasant,” Logan explained as evenly as he could.  He was gritting his teeth in exertion trying to keep her from toppling to the ground and the horse from sending them both flying over its head.

“If you wish to serve my brother you must learn that I too will be in authority.  I wish to walk and you will release me now,” Marie ground out.  In all honesty she was being childish and letting her pride rule her decision, but she could not back away from her resolve now.

“I’m afraid my lady that I have come to the conclusion that you have very little common sense,” Logan stated matter of factly.

For an instant Marie was silent in astonishment, then she acted.  Twisting around she lifted a hand intending to lay it upon his cheek with a sharp crack.  Before her hand found its mark Lancelot reached out and easily grasped her wrist in an unyielding hold.  “That my lady would be your gravest error yet,” he informed her in a hushed, but lethal tone.

Suddenly Marie came to her senses and acknowledged what she had just nearly done.  She could not believe that she had almost broken one of the most sacred vows.  She had sought to physically hurt another being with vicious intent.  Her eyes now large in her surprise met his own dark gaze. She started suddenly at the intensity of those eyes.  They were hauntingly familiar as if she had always known them but never truly explored their depths.

The hand closed around her wrist was easing its hold now and she found herself dreading the moment when the contact would end.  It was drawing closer to Beltane and the time when her powers would be transferred to another.  Her skin would become deadly.  She would never again feel another’s touch upon her flesh.  Lancelot was watching her with a strange light in his eyes.  The dark orbs delved into her as if contemplating her inner most thoughts. His hand fell away from her and came to rest at his side but he did not take his eyes from her. Drawing her hand back she turned away from him and tried to appear aloof once more.  She attempted to place his eyes from her mind and forget the strange familiarity that came with the brief touch.

Logan had seen the momentary apprehension in her.  She was skittish now and uncertain.  It wasn’t quite fear; yet her scent had changed and he was not certain why.  She had seemed more shocked at her own action than his reprimand of her.  Something was not as before.  She had studied him too closely a moment ago and when he had touched her there had been a keen awareness that swept through him. As though many time before he had stared into those brown ageless eyes and felt the softness of her skin beneath his fingers.

He felt compelled to say or do something that might explain the sudden response that had echoed between them, but there was a distant rumbling in the air.  It grew with intensity and then it began to ring in his ears.  The priestess felt him tense behind her and tried to turn again and discern what had caught his attention.  He wrapped an arm about her waist pulling her back against him.

Marie heard him sniffing the air and only pondered the peculiar action for a moment until she caught the sound of bone slicing through flesh and saw the claws spring from his knuckles preparing for battle.  She still had not accustomed herself to the sight but her sudden wariness was only for the approaching men that could now be discerned on the horizon.  The early morning sun was glaring behind them glinting off of their armor making determining their number and stature difficult.  Only briefly did she wonder if they were the dreaded Saxons.  As they drew nearer her heart soared and relief settled through her.  Flying high through the mass of men was the unmistakable banner of the Pendgragon.  Whipping wildly in the wind was a dragon it’s nostrils flared and its body arched upon a blood red background.  Marie smiled brilliantly and whispered into the wind her joy evident in the single word, “Scot.”

Logan carefully watched the men that were pounding toward them.  Indeed the Pendragon banner bolstered them, but he was not certain of their intent.  Their leader who was now nearly upon him smelled of determination and barely leashed rage.  He would make sure that this was indeed the well spoken of King Arthur.  He should not have allowed the priestess to slip away from him.  Already she was walking toward the rampaging men.  Also the moment they had become visible she had whispered a name, Scot.  Perhaps this was a knight Arthur sent in his steed. One that the priestess obviously held in great affection if the tone of voice she had used associated with his name spoke of her feelings.

Finally the leader held up his hand signaling for his men to halt.  They did so in regal order and then the leader rode forward on his own.  As he rode even closer still the priestess hurried her steps toward the leader of the men. Logan started forward still unsure if the man would seek to harm her.  He did not dismount but kept his seat atop his horse ready to ride should the need arise.

For a moment Scot looked down at his sister with a slight mistiness over taking his blue eyes. It had been so long since he had looked upon her.  She had been his true confident when they had been children.  He could still vaguely remember her holding him and gently rocking him in her arms after suffering a childish nightmare.  She had always been so gentle and kind.  Her soft voice and lilting tone could calm him even when the most savage of images born of a child’s vivid mind gripped him.  Quickly he assessed her only to find what he had feared.

Abruptly jumping from his horses’ back Scot stormed toward his sister.  “Sister you have been wounded,” he stated with fierce anger. He only spared the man mounted on horseback behind her a parting glare before turning to order his capture.

“Arthur, do not,” Marie, gasped out suddenly reaching for her brother’s arm.  “He means no ill will.”

Scot paused for a moment to take in his sister’s words.  “You bear his marks yet you defend him?” he asked in confused anger.

“I bear the marks of the Saxons that beset us during our journey to Camelot.  This man Lancelot kept me safe from the Saxons not once but twice.  First in the battle and then when two lone men set upon us in the dead of night,” Marie explained sensing her brother’s growing fury.

“Sir Drake informed me that there was no just cause for this man to take you to safety.  Rather he placed you in greater harm it seems by giving the enemy yet another opportunity to capture you,” Scot continued his brown furrowing and his eyes narrowing at the man behind his sister.

Logan still made no move to come toward the priestess or her brother.  She had just a moment before addressed him as Arthur so indeed he was the esteemed king, but obviously he held little admiration for his sister’s protector. It was interesting as well that the priestess who was nearly reduced to violence now defended him.  He decided to remain quiet a moment longer to see how the conversation proceeded.

Marie sighed evenly knowing that a man’s word would be more valued than her own in this land.  On Avalon a woman was revered and held equal to a man, but in the still Roman influenced world of Britain her view would be worthless at best.  “Arthur I beg of you to listen.  Save your strength and battle lust for another foe.  It is the Saxons that plague this kingdom not this lone man.”

The next moment she placed her hand upon his arm in a more comforting gesture, the small action bringing old memories flooding through his mind.  Immediately the tension receded from his body and he found a more cautious view of the situation.  Sir Drake was his most trusted knight.  He had described the man as a brutal beast with claws and a blood lusting fury. Yet he was calmly watching the events before him awaiting what would follow.  He was not rampaging or pleading his case simply allowing Marie to relate that tale and see how it was accepted.

Scot studied the unknown man more closely and seemed to find nothing to state that he was different from any other man.  Like all warriors that traveled these hills he was strong and well formed.  His body was obviously structured to endure battle.  There was nothing different save for the bone protruding from three knuckles upon the hand that gripped the reins.  Scot narrowed his eyes at the sight not truly believing what he was witnessing.  Then in a fluid movement as though sensing his scrutiny the man drew the bone claws into his hand once more and idly flexed his fingers as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

“Do not question him about that just yet.  There will be time later. It does us little good to stand here in dispute while the Saxons most likely seek us out,” Marie whispered to her brother quietly.

Scot remained silent for a time mulling over the current circumstances.  Finally he raised an arm in greeting.  “You come forward.  If what my sister has spoken is true, and I have no cause to doubt the wise words of a priestess, you should be considered a hero.”

The knights that followed Arthur frowned in confusion and some anger.  Would their king so easily accept this savage into friendship?  They watched in cautious silence prepared to defend their ruler and his sibling should the unknown man prove true to the nature they had seen on the battlefield.

Logan did not like to be beckoned by any man.  It was not his normal fashion to allow another to order him.  Even the lords that he had served in Gaul had oft complained of his recklessness and his inability to respect authority. Now however he knew that should he be welcomed in the lands of Camelot he must show deference to the king who by all looks seemed to be his junior of at least half a score of years.  Drawing in a deep breath Logan rode forward but still did not dismount or show any true deference to the king.

“Lancelot is it?” Scot asked trying to keep his tone civil.  He was yet uncertain as to what to believe about the man before him.  “I must offer you my thanks for seeing to my sister’s welfare.”

Marie sensed the great effort it had taken for her brother to remain gracious. She knew Scot would warm to Lancelot once he accepted that he had brought her safely from the battle.

Logan only nodded to acknowledge the king’s words.  He knew that he should show more respect but his nature would not allow him to change easily.  Also this young king had seen what he usually sought to hide vigilantly.  Yet he had said nothing only offering his grateful words.  He was angry, furious actually, but he was willing to see the entire situation and wait for explanations.  It was told that he was fair and just.  He would see it those tales held any truth.

“He does not even offer his hand to our king,” Sir Drake muttered under his breath to Sir John.  The other only shook his head in disbelief.

Scot did not know what to make of the man who so obviously refused to accept another’s stature above his own.  “I trust you will accompany us to Camelot?  Surely after riding well into the night you could use a time to regain your strength.  It would be a less than fitting reward for keeping my sister safe.” Again he attempted to draw the man into some form of verbal response.

Logan nodded once more, but this time chose to dismount and face the king.  “I did only what any honorable man would.  I need no reward for my actions.”

Marie glanced to her side watching Lancelot.  He was gritting his teeth trying to bring himself to show her brother respect.  Scot could sense it as well.  The man was determined to keep control of the current state of affairs.  It was his way of ensuring his own security.  She could not fault him for keeping certain aspects of himself hidden, but his arrogance would not serve him well in the court of King Arthur.

“Not all men are honorable Lancelot.  You should feel pride in your deed.  You have yet to commit to my invitation.  Will you not accompany us to Camelot?” Scot offered this time the inflection in his voice was more gentle and convincing.

“I swore to myself that I would see the priestess Morganna to Camelot and so I shall,” Logan gruffly answered inclining his head toward Marie. “It would be a privilege to accept the hospitality of the great king Arthur.”

The moment Lancelot had agreed Marie released her pent up breath.  She did not know what the knights had told Arthur but it obviously had not favored Lancelot.  He was by no means courtly but it was true that he was honorable and had protected her.  It would do no harm for him to come to Camelot and find respite for a time.  All that mattered now was that she was at last reunited with her brother.  They had much to recount to one another and she did not want to waste another moment.

In the confines of her chamber that she shared with her husband Victor, Raven now Queen of Orkney brooded over the days events.  So the little priestess had returned.  Already she sensed a change in her. She wasn’t the timid child she had been; no Viviane had seen that she become the iron willed woman that she herself was.  A waste really, she would have been very easily manipulated to her will had she simply remained under the care of Igraine.  No Merlin and Viviane as always asserted their powers of persuasion and made their way through the lives of others without regard.

However the priestess had be accompanied by a rather interesting escort, Lancelot of Gaul. The man was an enigma, a delicious enigma that she yearned to uncover in more ways than simply discovering the secrets of his mind.  She wished to discover the secrets of his hard warrior’s body.  Their time would come.  Smiling to herself Raven began to paint a picture of her lustful thoughts in her mind imaging every aspect of the man who Arthur had so recently welcomed into his court.  He could be an interesting instrument in her plans.  It would be quite simple to assign him a role.  Her smile widened at the prospect.

Then there was Arthur’s intended bride.  Their wedding must not come to pass.  If Arthur were to wed all of her aspirations for her son would be jeopardized.  Gawain was far more capable in the role of king than Arthur. He was more able of body and mind. He had inherited his father’s hulking features and her cunning ways. Quite a perfect aspirant for a ruler.  No Arthur must not be allowed to take this mewling Welsh princess to wife.  If he joined with her and their union produced a child then Gawain’s chances of following Arthur to the throne would amount to naught.

“Come to bed Raven,” Victor called drunkenly from the doorway.  “Your plotting and brooding will keep until the morrow.”

Raven shivered but in revulsion.  Another night with the sotted greasy swine grunting and panting over her body nearly brought bile to her throat.  Then she caught herself and reminded herself what kind of power the swine afforded her.  Quelling the urge to spit in his face Raven turned smiling wantonly.  “Then I must do as you bid.  I live only to bring you pleasure,” she purred throatily loosening the tie at her waist and then slipping the woolen gown over her shoulders. When her snow-white skin was revealed and her full breasts and curved hips were enticingly displayed, she began to walk forward swaying her body slightly

Victor growled low in his chest appreciatively and lustfully.  Immediately he reached out and threw Raven upon the bed crushing her with his weight.  His hands clawed at her and his teeth painfully bit into her skin.  She knew once again that she would be covered in bruises and scratches in the light of day.  One day she would not have to submit herself to this vile torture.  One day her son would be king and his father would be only a nuisance that could be easily disposed of.

Her teeth ground into her lip as Victor thrust into her unready body with such force she was nearly afraid that he wished to rip her in two.  While he pounded against her hips grunting loudly, his breath foul and strong against her face, Raven guided her mind to another place where she could not feel Victor’s brutal touch.  She envisioned the Gaul warrior.  When Victor painfully pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger she instead imagined it was Lancelot drawing on the sensitive bud with his warm mouth languidly rolling it around on his tongue, and when at last Victor roared his release in a low guttural animal sound to Raven it was the exulted cry of fulfillment from the lips of the Gaul warrior Lancelot.

“Do the chambers not suit your tastes sister?” Scot asked quietly from the doorway.

Marie’s head came up and a soft smile played on her lips.  She knew what he was referring to.  It was very long into the night and she had yet to lay and slumber.  It was not displeasure with her new surroundings; it was simply adapting herself to them.  “Nay, they are more than adequate.  Actually very luxurious compared to what I am accustomed,” she explained rising to come and stand before him.

“I am pleased.  It does me good to see you again sister. I have missed you,” he admitted without shame and pulled her into an affectionate embrace.

“I have missed you as well brother,” she whispered.  She reveled in the feel of the contact.  It had come to her more often lately that she would be void of such pleasantries.  Once she gave her body to the man of Merlin’s choice at Beltane she would forever be untouchable.  She must savor any touch she was afforded until that moment.

“I should have sent for you sooner,” Scot acknowledged.  “Perhaps had you been present when my father was killed mother might have kept herself from the convent.  It still pains me that she has not sent word of her well being since reaching the church,” he murmured.

Marie sighed pulling away knowing that Scot could never find fault with either of his parents.  The truth was the Uther had been lustful and power hungry, and Igraine had been weak and easily bent to the will of her sister Viviane and Merlin.  Still Marie would not condemn the actions that were put into motion those many years ago.  Had those events not taken place she would never have been given the joy of knowing Scot as her brother.  “I would not have been allowed to make the journey had you sent for me.  My training would not have been complete.  That is not the point; my presence would have meant nothing.  You were always the light in mother’s eyes.”

“I never wished to take your place in her heart,” Scot began in his defense.

Marie held up a hand to silence him her smile warm and motherly.  “I do not place blame for our mother’s actions at your feet.  It was just as well that she looked upon you as a prize that was to be gazed at from afar and thought of me as only a mere annoyance.  At least it gave me free will to protect you and love you without her interference.  There were times when I would lay down to sleep and wonder what you had learned new that day. When we were taken from one another you were still so young. I missed so much,” she whispered trying to keep her voice steady.

“There wasn’t a night I didn’t fall asleep thinking along the same vein.  I wondered if the priestesses were treating you well, or if you were happy.  Sometimes after my foster lord had trained me so harshly I would fall into my loft so weary that sleep would claim me before I would lay my head upon the straw I would still whisper a prayer to God and the Goddess for your safety and welfare,” Scot told her.  “You were more my mother at times than Igraine.  I am simply thankful that you have fared well,” he finished gruffly trying to maintain a small modicum of his male pride considering his display of emotions.

“My thoughts were with you as well.  I have to tell you how much pride I feel for you at this moment in your life brother.  Your kingdom is truly resplendent and your knights are honest and loyal.  Perhaps in time they will come to see that Lancelot only sought to offer his assistance.  The Saxons had surrounded us.  Your men might not have been allowed to escape had they been protecting me and Lancelot not led them away.  We can not know,” she trailed off her words.  The knights had refused to recant their tale of Lancelot’s supposed rescue and still sought only to discredit him.  Though she knew Scot was coming to believe her Lancelot would not say anything in his defense but simply allowed her to speak as though testing the men to see how much influence she could wield.  Obviously both were learning that it was a paltry amount.

Scot’s features tightened somewhat. “Let us not speak of Lancelot tonight.  Tomorrow we will again see to the truth of your rescue.  I actually had a purpose for hoping you had yet to seek sleep.  There was something I wished to discuss with you.”

Nodding her encouragement Marie focused all of her attention on her sibling. “What did you desire to speak of?”

“I have decided to take a wife,” he broached the topic without hesitation.

Marie remained silent waiting for more of the explanation.  Her emotions warred inside.  She wished for her brother to find happiness and love yet she could not form a woman in her mind that would be worthy of the gifts he could offer.

“She is the Welsh princess Guinevere the daughter of King Leodegrance of Cameliard.  In a few days hence she will arrive and as soon as possible we will wed.  I wanted you to be informed so that you might have time to prepare for her arrival.  I think she will make me happy.  Tales state that she is a great beauty with a heart to match.  She is a Christian which will align the Christian lords with my court and with your presence here in Camelot the Goddess will also be recognized.  There must be a balance between the religions and the old and new ways.  If at all possible I would ask that you welcome Guinevere as she were your sister as well.  Guide her and help her accustom herself to life at Camelot and among the people of the Goddess,” Scot explained evenly hoping to acquire his sister’s agreement.

For moment only Marie paused.  “I would be honored to accept her as my sister.  If she will bring you joy then I wish you both the best in your marriage and many children.  You must create an heir for this grand kingdom you have built.  Please believe me when I say that I will look forward to her arrival,” Marie said warmly and truthfully.  The way he spoke of the princess was with apprehension but with a growing curious affection.  It was perhaps the beginning of a great love to come. She could only hope.

Scot sighed with pent up relief.  “You have made me exceptionally happy sister.  It warms my heart to know that you will accept Guinevere.  After our aunt’s reaction I feared what yours would be.”

“Raven was not pleased?” Marie inquired thoughtfully.

“Nay, she was most irate at the notion and nearly threatened to leave ere Guinevere darkened the gates of Camelot.  Only when she learned of your impending arrival did she quiet and agree to stay for a time,” Scot said shaking his head in bemusement.  “Raven has always been somewhat of a mystery to me.  I do not think even Mother understood her at times.”

“Do not give a care to Raven’s flighty moods.  Prepare for your bride and fear not our aunt.  I will deal with her should she pose any threat,” Marie assured him placing a kiss upon his smooth cheek.

“Already mothering me and under my care but a day?” Scot asked in mock anger.

“Aye and it is a late hour. Be off to your chamber.  It would not due for your bride to meet a gruff and weary warrior rather than the dashing man I know you can be,” Marie teased easing him out of her chamber.

“Very well, but I suggest you seek sleep as well.  May sweet dreams be with you sister,” he murmured before taking his leave.

“And you my brother,” she whispered as he disappeared.

Turning abruptly as a brisk wind caught her hair around her face Marie walked over to the window and fumbled with the fur hanging at the side to cover the opening and seal out the frigid air.  A movement below caught her attention and she froze in place.  Lancelot was standing only a few steps from a charging wolf.  She held her breath fearing the worst.  Surely the beast would rip the tender flesh from his throat and devour him.  It did nothing of the sort.  The animal stopped before him and sat at his feet.  Lancelot reached out and ran a hand over the wolf’s head ruffling its ears. The wolf then leaned its head back and howled to the glowing moon.

As though he sensed her eyes on him Lancelot glanced up and even in the great distance and wan light caught and held the priestesses gaze.  They stood as such not moving or speaking for a time before the wind came up again and whipped the fur covering from Marie’s fingers.  Earnestly she caught it to her and then placed it securely over the window.  Turning she threw herself beneath the fur coverlet and burrowed deep into her bed.  She closed her eyes and placed her mind elsewhere.  Soon dreams captured her attention and again she saw the two battling stags.  Again one defeated the other and the wolf in turn destroyed the victor.  However this time when the wolf came to her and laid its head in her lap the eyes were hauntingly familiar.  It was not until she had woken and rose from her bed that she came to a startling conclusion.  The wolf’s eyes were those of her protector, the same sharp gray hued hazel eyes of Lancelot of Gaul.

Logan stood silently in the presence of the king waiting to see what would be said.  The young king paced before him twice and then halted.  “There are many reasons for me to simp