Marion Bradley - The Mists of Avalon

Now he was in the door of the cave, the antlers gone from his brow, his hair streaked, his body smeared blue and stained with blood, white skin like the white chalk of the body of the huge figure above the cave ... the Horned One, the consort. He moved dizzily, too, naked, except for a garland like her own about his loins, and she could see the erect life surging in him like that of the chalk figure. He knelt by her side, and by the torchlight, dazzled, she could see that he was no more than a boy, not one of the little dark people, but tall and fair ... . Why have they chosen a king who is not one of their own? The thought darted across her mind like a moonbeam and was gone; she was not thinking at all.

Now it is the time for the Goddess to welcome the Horned One-he was kneeling at the edge of the deerskin couch, swaying, blinking by the light of the torch. She reached up to him, gripped his hands, drew him down to her, feeling the soft warmth and weight of his body. She had to guide him. I am the Great Mother who knows all things, who is maiden and mother and all-wise, guiding the virgin and her consort ... dazed, terrified, exalted, only half conscious, she felt the life force take them both, moving her body without volition, moving him too, guiding him fiercely into her, till they were both moving without knowledge of what force gripped them. She heard herself crying out as if from a great distance, heard his voice high and shaken in the silence, never knowing what either of them cried out at that moment. The torch guttered and went out in the darkness as all the fierce fury of his young life burst and spurted into her womb.

He moaned and fell forward across her, lifeless except for his hoarse breathing. She eased him away, cradling his weight in her arms, holding him with weary warmth. She felt him kiss her naked breast. Then slowly, tiredly, his breathing quieted to normal, and after a moment she knew that he slept in her arms. She kissed his hair and his soft cheek with a wild tenderness, and then she too slept.

WHEN SHE WOKE the night was far advanced; moonlight had crept into the cave. She was utterly weary, her whole body aching, and she felt between her legs and knew that she was bleeding. She flung her damp hair back, looking down by the moonlight at the sprawled pale body still sleeping the sleep of long exhaustion beside her. He was tall and strong and beautiful, though by moonlight she could not see his features clearly, and the magical Sight had deserted her; now there was only the moon's light and brilliance, no longer the compelling face of the Goddess. She was Morgaine again, not the shadow of the Great Mother; she was herself again, clear in her mind about what had happened.

She thought for a moment of Lancelet, whom she had loved, and to whom she had hungered to give this gift. Now it had come, not to a lover but to a faceless stranger ... no, she must not think like that. She was not a woman, she was a priestess, and she had given the force of the Virgin to the Horned One, as had been ordained for her fate before the walls of the world were laid. She had accepted her destiny as a priestess of Avalon must do, and she sensed that something of shattering importance had happened here in the night past.

She was cold and lay down, covering herself with the deerskin coverlet. She wrinkled her nose a little at its rankness; they had strewn it with sweet herbs, so at least there would not be fleas. Experienced at judging the tides, she guessed it was about an hour before sunrise. At her side the boy felt her stir and sat up sleepily.

"Where are we?" he asked. "Oh yes, I remember. In the cave. Why, it's already getting light." He smiled and reached for her; she let him pull her down and kiss her, wrapping her in strong arms. "Last night you were the Goddess," he murmured, "but I wake and I find you are a woman."

She laughed softly. "And you are not the God, but a man?"

"I think I have had enough of being a God, and besides, it seems to me that it is presumptuous for a man of flesh and blood," he said, holding her against him. "I am content to be no more than a man."

She said, "Perhaps there is a time to be Goddess and God, and a time to be no more than flesh and blood."

"I was afraid of you last night," he confessed. "I thought you the Goddess, all larger than life ... and you are such a little thing!" Suddenly he blinked and said, "Why, you speak my language, I had not noticed- you are not one of this tribe, then?"

"I am a priestess from the Holy Isle."

"And the priestess is a woman," he said, his hands gently exploring her breasts, which stirred into sudden life and hunger at his touch. "Do you think the Goddess will be angry with me if I like the woman better?"

She laughed and said, "The Goddess is wise in the ways of men."

"And is her priestess?"

Suddenly she felt shy. "No-I have never known a man before this," she said, "and it was not I, but the Goddess-"

He said in the dimness, drawing her close to him, "Since the God and the Goddess have known pleasure, should not the man and the woman know it also?" His hands were growing bolder, and she pulled him down to her. "It seems only fitting," she said.

This time in full awareness she could savor it, the softness and hardness, the strong young hands and the surprising gentleness behind his bold approach. She laughed in delight at the unexpected pleasure, fully open to him, sensing his enjoyment as her own. She had never been so happy in her life. Spent, they lay, limbs twined, caressing each other in a pleasant fatigue.

At last, in the growing light, he sighed.

"They will be coming for me soon," he said, "and there is much more of this-I am to be taken somewhere and given a sword, and many other things." He sat up and smiled at her. "And I would like to wash, and have clothes befitting a civilized man, and free myself of all this blood and blue dye ... how everything passes! Last night I did not even know I was all smeared with blood-look, you too are covered with the stag's blood where I lay on you-"

"I think when they come for me, they will bathe me and give me fresh garments," she said, "and you too, in a running stream."

He sighed with a gentle, boyish melancholy. His voice was breaking, an uncertain baritone; how could he be so young, this young giant who had fought the King Stag and killed him with his flint knife?

"I do not suppose I will ever meet you again," he said, "for you are a priestess and dedicated to the Goddess. But I want to say this to you-" and he leaned down and kissed her between her breasts. "You were the very first. No matter how many women I may have, for all my life I will always remember you and love you and bless you. I promise you that."

There were tears on his cheek. Morgaine reached for her garment and tenderly dried the tears, cradling his head against her.

At the gesture he seemed to stop breathing.

"Your voice," he whispered, "and what you just did-why do I seem to know you? Is it because you are the Goddess, and in her all women are the same? No-" He stiffened, raised himself, took her face between his hands. In the growing light she saw the boyish features strengthened into the lines of a man. Still only half aware of why she seemed to know him, she heard his hoarse cry. "Morgaine! You are Morgaine! Morgaine, my sister! Ah, God, Mary Virgin, what have we done?"

She put her hands up to her eyes, slowly. "My brother," she whispered. "Ah, Goddess! Brother! Gwydion-"

"Arthur," he muttered.

She held him tight, and after a moment he sobbed, still holding her. "No wonder it seemed to me that I have known you since before the world was made," he said, weeping. "I have always loved you, and this-ah, God, what have we done-"

"Don't cry," she said, helplessly, "don't cry. We are in the hands of her who brought us here. It doesn't matter. We are not brother and sister here, we are man and woman before the Goddess, no more."