King Arthur's Quest for Avalon

Quest for Avalon:

By Ancient Muse

Morgan Le Fay stood stiffly straight, like a priestess of Avalon held herself. Queen or no, image was important in the Arthurian-mortal’s world. Especially, Morgan mused, now that there was no King Arthur in the world.

The mists parted silently for her and her barge that moved without a rower. Morgan looked into the water, which looked seemingly normal to the human eye. She, of course, knew the Lady of the Lake guided her boat with a smooth hand. Sending a silent thanks, she turned her attention back to the shore. The hills of Britain, green with the tears of the Goddess, burst clear out of the mists, as did the procession of people making their way down to the water.

When the sharp edge of the barge nudged against the land of mortals, Morgan drew up her black cloak of aging magic from the fairy world before stepping off. The magic would keep her youth in image, if not her ageless stare. Smiling, she waited for the mortals, some once friend or enemy.

She recognized them instantly, and her experiences with them. The round-table knights, Arthur’s lap dogs; Guinivere, and her maids. Elaine was with her still, no longer the priestess Morgan once knew her sister to be. Morgan recognized with disgust the black veil of mourning and the Christian silver cross hanging in Guinivere’s pale hands.

Guinivere, Dejected Queen to the end, pulled up short when she saw Morgan waiting by the barge. Her mouth widened in surprise, her eyes blazing.  “Morgan!” she gasped. “What mean you in coming here, to Arthur’s funeral!”

Morgan’s smile, and expression, did not waver. “Funeral? Why, I’m afraid I haven’t come to watch you…waste my brother’s worth by burning his body on your cremating barge. I’ve come to take him to Avalon, where he will find the rest his spirit deserves.”

Guinivere was speechless only a moment. “How dare you! You and your, your son Mordrid murdered him! And you call him your brother! Witch! Filth of Satan! He’s not going to any island of myth; he’ll have a Christian burial, as a Christian king!”

Morgan eyed her dispassionately, before stepping around her. “I’m afraid, Guinivere, that you have no say over Arthur’s fate or faith ever again.” Ignoring the wall of knights with death in their eyes, she stopped next to the cherry wood barge they had hauled over the land with them, or the stacks of fresh wood for burning stacked inside. It was the body of King Arthur, laid out inside, that she gazed upon.

Even in death, he looked serene and calm, ready to defend his country with the sword or words of ruling passion. No one would believe she felt love for her brother; she often wondered just what sort of love it was.  Despite being her brother, he had once been her lover. Back when they’d run in Avalon with the fawns on the solstice, when gender and relation hadn’t mattered. Ordering his death had not been easy, or un-painful. Sighing, she brushed a light finger over his cheek.

Magic hummed in the air as his body lifted into the air by invisible hands. Crooking her finger, Morgan led the hovering body through the mass of people to her own waiting barge. She watched him laid gently inside, before stepping into the barge herself.  Guinivere, tears of outrage struggling in her beautiful blue eyes, leapt near the bank of the lake.

“Morgan! He is my husband, my follower in God!” she cried one last time. Morgan, safe in the barge, drew her hood back, so her dark, raven head of hair out shone Guinivere’s thin mass of white curls.

“He stopped being your husband the day you took Lancelot, Guinivere.”

Knowing her words were an efficient slap of guilt, she turned back to the mists. If Guinivere did dare cry anything else, Morgan turned an intolerant ear, and did not hear. Settling comfortably against the side of the barge, Morgan let her thoughts drift to the approaching land of Avalon.

The rocking of the boat lulled her thoughts like nothing else. So much, that she felt herself jumping when the body next to her took a deep breath. Her thoughts scattered, Morgan stared at the gasping rise of Arthur’s chain-mail in puzzlement, before realization set in. Sitting up, she knelt as best she could in the boat, and lifted Arthur’s eye lids to study the white, lifeless eyeballs. His spirit still searched for his body, obviously. Bending near his ear, Morgan whispered an enchantment into his ear.

“Bheith id`o, Braithair”, she bid. “Live again, brother.”

The body shifted as life flowed into it. The eye’s rolled until Arthur’s murky, brown eyes focused on the world again. Morgan smiled and smoothed a hand over his shoulder. “Welcome back to life, Arthur.”

The man once known as King of all England-Britain sat up as if waking from a dream. He gazed confusedly about the mists on the steaming lake. “Where am I at now?” he asked dazedly.

Morgan smiled. “On your way to Avalon, where you can live in peace, for once. Your well ready for a rest, in any case.” He turned those brown eyes on Morgan, not seeing her, but there was no mistaking the joy alight in them. “Avalon…I’m going to Avalon?”

Morgan studied his face of wrinkled amazement. The hair, thin with white age, began to thicken and crisp with a dark, rich brown that melted as if from his scalp. Even his skin began to smooth out, and in an instant, her young, handsome brother sat before her again. He looked like his father, Uther, and he would be proud of it, while Morgan prided herself on being the image of her father, Gorlois of Cornwall.

“We’ve just entered Avalon’s water borders”, she informed him, “See for yourself.”

Arthur leaned out slightly from the barge to gaze into the mists eagerly, but his attention caught on his reflection in the water. In an instant of shock, he saw an image of his young self reflecting back at him in the water. After realizing it was not imagined, he ran a hand down his face, feeling where old wrinkles used to be, a fresh growth of beard. Arthur leapt to his feet, causing the barge to shift in the water. Morgan shot him an annoyed look, before she caught his own.

“I remember now”, he whispered, his voice a deadly whisper. He turned back to watch Morgan with narrowed eyes. “I’m supposed to be dead, or was. I was in that state because of  your son Mordrid…”

“Our son”, Morgan interrupted quietly.

“He’s no son of mine!” Arthur hissed, barely suppressing the shout he wanted to release. “You, Siur, would only think to betray me in so horrid a fashion as to have my own flesh and blood run me through with only the intent to take my throne!”

“Again, I correct you, Brathair”, Morgan said calmly, “You betrayed the pact of Excalibur to uphold the Old Ways. You took our agreement and gave nothing back. I had to remove you. Politics and rulership are only decided one way in this day and age, Arthur, and that’s war.”

Arthur chose to ignore the last. “The old ways are savage and pagan!” He said the last with such vehemence, and was perversely pleased to see Morgan shudder. “I chose to uphold Christianity because it is clean and right. The old ways breed vileness; Mordrid is proof of that.”

“You forget the beauty of a summer solstice, Arthur, and that cold affection of parenting brought Mordrid. Guinivere is the only reason you even looked at Christianity, and you know it,” she accused, “You sought what you know in your heart you did not understand, and that was Guinivere and her little cross. Anything to buy her love you would do: Slay dragons, build churches, burn the heathens. And even then, it wasn’t enough for her. Why, Arthur? Because she knew, in your heart, you ran with fawns and faeries, not saints and angels.”

Arthur stood, unable to justify himself when his pride argued one thing, and, she was right, his heart demanded the another. “Why am I going to Avalon?” he finally asked. He turned those solemn eyes back to her. “Could you faeries possibly want me back after the…misdeed I have supposedly done to you?”

Morgan searched his face without guile, and complete honesty. “Arthur, you belong in Avalon. You need Avalon. As for your misdeeds, in death all is forgiven. Understand me, Arthur,” she warned, “Your spirit lives in Avalon now. Leave it, and you die. Your time in the world is done now…as is mine.”

Arthur flexed his hand, the muscles strong and newly stiff. “Are you saying that if you or me steps into the mortal world again, we become dead corpses? Are we trapped?” he asked, wanting all the angles of his situation.

Morgan inclined her head. “More or less. I find Avalon a much more enjoyable place to live then in your Christian world. Magic is the heart of Avalon, which is why you and Excalibur are finally going home. Everyone is eccentric with joy.” Morgan paused, before she could go off on a passionate display, then frowned as she ran her gaze over her brother‘s chain mail. Arthur shifted uncomfortably, not sure why her mood shifted to intense so suddenly.

“Arthur,” Morgan began after a bit, “where is Excalibur?” Arthur frowned at her, and his hand, formed of habit, reached to his waist where Excalibur should have hung. Feeling it not there, he felt a moment of panic, before he remembered.

“Before I died, I had one of my knights throw it back to the Lady of the Lake. I didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands…as it nearly did,” he finished, somewhat bitterly.
Morgan got to her feet and uttered a stream of curses in clipped faerie language that had Arthur nearly smiling at the translation.

“Brathair, you gave it to her? Now, she might have given it to you before, but it was made in Avalon! Not in the Lake! She cannot keep it, it belongs to us!” Morgan leaned over the edge of the boat and scowled into the water. “Well, it might be a little difficult getting her to give it back. But, I think I can make her see reason. I’d rather not fight with the old water droplet.”

At this, the boat jarred to a neat stop in the water, and the mists seemed to close in more. Arthur sighed heavily, and sat down comfortably in the barge. “Now you’ve gone and insulted her. Does this mean we row to Avalon?” he required mildly.

Morgan turned to him, still standing, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re rowing to Avalon. I’m going for a swim.” With that, Morgan slipped over the side, and sank like a stone into the dark water.

Arthur opened his mouth to protest being left alone, but realized it was a little late for that. He might have grown up part of the time in Avalon, but his adult experience there had not been pleasant, especially with Morgan involved. Why, he wondered, was he looking forward to it again? Avalon was dangerous to un-experienced travelers. Magic creatures could be deadly, as well as beautiful. Deciding to follow Morgan’s hurried instructions, he lifted the spare oar from under the eaves and began to row, in a direction he hoped led to Avalon’s shores.

What seemed ages later (and it very well could have been being this was the lake separating worlds), his rowing broke through the mists into a moss covered knoll. Breathing a sigh of relief, Arthur leapt onto the small excuse of land and pulled the barge up by its nose. Breathing only slightly heavily, he studied the still waters stretching into the lake for any sign of Morgan. She hadn’t seemed worried herself, so he had no idea why he was. A grating sound of wood filled his ears, and he turned to look at the barge. It moved of its own, without help, off the moss slope and into the water smoothly, backing up until it disappeared entirely in the mists.
Arthur felt like laughing in long lost humor, but instead turned on his heel to the white pebbled path leading through the knoll. As he walked, he felt Avalon’s magic humming through every pore, in every gulp of air, and in the moisture that seemed to coat his throat. He found, as he walked, that he had missed the beauty of Avalon. Even Britain-England couldn’t compare to it.

Before long, the path entered a thick, bubbly swamp. He recalled that it encircled Avalon as a form of protection from the northern faerie lands. Arthur had once been trapped with the northern faeries, again Morgan’s doing, and hadn’t rather enjoyed the experience. Uneasy for good reason, he hurried down the path, deeper into the swamp.
After miles of sulfur smelling air, and bog puddles that bubbled, Arthur got a disturbing feeling of being watched. Not stopping, he slowly turned his gaze clockwise, studying every reed rush with scrutiny. Normal colors of brown, muddy red and green slime met his vision. That however, wasn’t proof of anything, with creatures that turned invisible. He angled himself on the path so that he could look behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary met his vision.

Then, he saw a flash, just a flash, of deep red surf under the bog water. Arthur stopped, quiet and watchful. The red appeared near the surface, but closer, ever closer. Arthur approached the bog edge, his hunting instincts, fighting, and Crusade Wars stirring in his blood at the thought of being stalked. He stopped at the near the edge of the lapping water, not willing to get any closer to the red mystery swimming closer.
It gathered a moment, lapping at his feet. Arthur held his breath, wishing for a weapon, or his Excalibur for protection.

In an instant, a human sized shape broke up from the water. Arthur stepped back at a jerk, his blood humming.

Dark bog mud covered the atrocity thickly. As he watched, the mud slid off like oil on a canvas, revealing the blood red color of cloth. As if freshly cleaned, the red-cloaked creature stepped onto the bank where Arthur had once stood, empowering. The hood was as dark as blood, and shadowed the face in the hood.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur tested his voice. “Faerie or creature of magic, who are you?”

Small, gray hands lifted from out of the side of the cloak. Arthur’s stomach rolled at the wrinkled veins and long, black nails that gripped the hood, before throwing it back. One look at the face, and Arthur gasped and sprang back.

The ugliest hag or Camelot’s beggar woman could not hold an ace to the hideous witch under the hood. Her hair was thin and yellowed at the roots. The skin was nearly a rotten peeling that hung off the bones in bruised flaps. The nose had rotted off long ago, leaving a dark hole that sucked in air like a wheeze. The eyes were the worst; a blood red, with the irises white, like blind rats were known to look.

As he found himself unable to look away from those eyes, they turned a gorgeous blue. Blinking, Guinivere’s face replaced the witches. Her hands reached for him, skin smooth and nails a gentle, clean pink.

“Arthur”, her voice pleaded, “Don’t leave me again for myths. Stay with me!”
Arthur shook his head, hearing and seeing enchantment of strong proportions. For a moment, the witches face appeared, then switched to Guinivere’s. Arthur’s alarm rose as she, whoever it was, stepped closer. The face began to flicker between the two, fast, until the two images blended. Guinivere the witch reached out and took his shoulders gently.

“Don’t leave me,” she begged again, her beautiful head falling back to draw him in closer.

Arthur studied those entrapping eyes of the woman who Morgan had accused him of wanting what wasn’t his. She was right, yet he couldn’t stop wanting her.

“I won’t leave, Guinivere”, he said quietly, “I should, but I can’t.”

The eyes blazed red in Guinivere’s face. Her laugh, a grating hiss of triumph, escaped those beautiful lips as she leaned forward. Arthur could only wait with his hands at his side, resigned, as he could hear Morgan in his mind cursing at his stupidity.
Guinivere’s face was close, her eyes unblinking. Revulsion shot up in his throat as he watched her mouth tremble open.

Then, to his surprise, she licked his nose.

Evil magic, hot and fiery, raced up his spine. Guinivere evaporated, and the hag cackled in her place. Breaking out of his reverie, Arthur recognized his mistake. It wasn’t Guinivere, it was magical illusion. Arthur went to throw up his hands and to run.
He couldn’t move a muscle.

His eyes widened, a muffled groan of anger whistled out of his mouth. He crumpled to his knees, and nearly fell back, but the hag clutched him by the back of his throat. Her horrid teeth curled under her black lips as she screamed a cry that seemed to echo through the bog.

Then, she shot into the air, dragging Arthur with her.

Arthur coughed, finding air not so easy to breathe as her fingers squeezed with purpose. Wind rattled over his chilled skin as they flew through the mist. He watched, as best he could, the swamps give way to hills covered in dewed flowers and forests. It was like he remembered, only no fawns, faeries, or horse-like dragons frolicked in joy. The moors were silent as their twin shadows rushed over the ground.

Then Avalon rose up, chasing away the mists to reach the sunlight.

Its turrets and towers twisted elegantly over arched windows and vine covered walls. Stairs curled around where they willed. Gardens that usually echoed life were silent.
The hag descended swiftly, her cloak billowing behind her to whip Arthur in the face. She landed in the enclosed garden of the Well, the water source for Avalon. The hag didn’t even look back to see if Arthur had landed, but continued walking. Arthur hit the ground hard, not being able to cushion his fall. She dragged him up the steps without mercy, and down a hall shot with light from the circular windows.

Arthur looked through each door for help, for a familiar faerie who could help him. Each room was empty; some were even wrecked, as if a fight had insured.
It was obvious to a warrior of experience, that no faeries lived in Avalon now. This evil hag, and whatever or whoever she was taking him to, did.

The hag, hissing silently now, pushed open some large cherry doors, and hefted Arthur to his feet as she glided in. They shut with a bang of doom behind them, and the hag stopped abruptly. With a jerk, she tossed Arthur in a heap with apparent little effort.
He groaned, sure he was going to sprout eloquent bruises by the time this charade was over. He rolled face up conveniently. He could see room at it’s fullest. What he saw caused his breath to hitch.

In the throne, Morgan’s throne, sat a monstrous man. A giant, more correctly. And, perhaps it would be fair to admit he wasn’t sitting, but trying to balance on the hand rests. What was astonishing to Arthur, was the giants body.
He had one eye, one ear, one arm, and one leg. The eye, a pale black like his hair, which was pulled back in braids, watched Arthur beadily.

The hag bent to a crawl and prostrated herself in front of his gigantic foot. It was pitiful to watch, but Arthur did. More hisses and moans rushed from her throat, and the giant appeared to listen.

After a rather retching gurgle, the giants one good arm leapt out and curled around the hags throat.

“Bring me Morgan,” he ordered in a rich brawl northern tribes were known of having. When he released her, the hag crawled hurriedly to the doors and got to her feet.
When she had gone, the giant turned to study Arthur. Lifting back his head, he chuckled thinly and got to his foot, with some difficulty. Arthur didn’t know how to rationalize how the man walked to him with one leg, but walk he did. And Arthur developed a great hatred of being helpless in the giant’s presence.

“Sooo, you are the great King Arthur of Britain-England, of Round Table Knights, and Excalibur.” His gaze flicked over Arthur, in search of the sword. He looked annoyed to not find it. “Know who I am?” he asked after a moment.

Arthur, having only his pride at a moment like this, didn’t say a thing.

“I am Balor”, he informed with relish, “Giant of Formorias, and Faerie King of the Northern Seas. Know why I’m here? Of coarse you don’t.”
Balor turned on his heel and gestured around the room with his good hand. “I’ve come to finally take back Avalon. Know its history, do you, King Arthur? Perhaps Morgan thought to tell you.”

He turned back, a crazy light burning in his one eye. “I lived here, with my Bean Sidhe… they would be the lovely red-cloaked women…before the Goddess and her Faeries of the Sidhe came and wanted it. We were driven out, back when our knowledge of magic was primitive at best. Ever since the Second Battle of the Magh Teredh, we’ve waited, and now my power is great enough.”

Laughing, he produced a small wooden box that fit in his hand. He set it on the floor in front of Arthur’s face. “I’ve not only taken Avalon, but I’ve imprisoned all the murdering faeries in this box. I’m thinking I’ll drop it down the well, so symbolic.” He paused and leered at Arthur. “After, of course, I get Morgan Le Fay, Queen of the Faeries, inside.”

A great anger filled Arthur, and a want to destroy that eye blinking at him.

Balor lifted Arthur by the lapels of his chain mail. His feet dangled helplessly 10 feet in the air. Balor’s fowl breath nearly made him gag.
“You want to kill me? Hows it feel wanting something, but being helpless to get it?”

Arthur thought instantly of Guinivere, and found it in him to smile. “I think I understand perfectly”, he answered.

Balor spat in his face and shoved him ruffly against the stone wall. “I never liked you mortals. I think I’ll let you watch your precious Avalon disappear down the wall before I roast you for my Bean Sidhe. They never tire of revenge.”

Just then, the cherry doors burst open on a blast of hot air that whipped Balor off his foot and through the opposite wall. Arthur dropped like a sack of sand down the wall to the floor. He stared in amazement as Morgan strode angrily into the room.

Her hair was dripping wet, and the green in her eyes pulsed with purpose. Arthur knew her mood was not pretty, and would be deadly. Her hand clutched the red cloak of an unconscious Bean Sidhe, who she dragged in the same way Arthur was. On a whim, Morgan dropped her like one would a garment bag. Worry and disgust lit her eyes when she saw Arthur slumped against the wall.

“Brathair, did you honestly let them lick your nose?!”

Before she could stride to him, Balor re-entered the room through the gaping hole. Four Bean Sidhe flew in behind him. Screeching war cries, they landed in a circle around Morgan.

She cursed, turning to watch them warily.

“Morgan”, Arthur warned, not sure why he was, “Don’t look at their faces, their not real!"

“You think I don’t know that?” she hissed temperedly at him. Reaching over her shoulder, Morgan drew a long sword from her cloak. Arthur’s eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat when he recognized Excalibur. Its song lit hope in him, as it always did.

Morgan pivoted to get his attention. “Take Excalibur, Arthur! Kill Balor!”

Sliding her grip to the blade, she threw herself against the nearest red-cloak. With a cry she heaved it, before the Sidhe and her collapsed. Excalibur flew through the air, spinning its glory as it went. Both Arthur and Balor watched its flight with eagerness. As an after thought, Arthur hoped Morgan’s aim was true.

With a twang, the sword stuck to the wooden support near Arthur’s side. It vibrated and waved back and forth from the impact, brushing Arthur’s skin. It was enough contact to spread its warm magic into Arthur, and the paralysis spell that held his spine dissipated.

The call for battle reaching his ears, hummed through his being, and he sprang up. Arthur pulled Excalibur from the wood, and felt like weeping for joy when he held it again. He met Balors steaming eye with a look of challenge before springing for him.
For a giant with one leg, Balor could dodge well. He escaped each swing and hack that Arthur attempted, dancing his way around the room, and making Arthur sweat to attack.
Morgan had her own problems. The Bean Sidhe had all fallen on her, and were doing everything they could to get to her nose. Morgan had her hand firmly planted on it, while she tried to remember a spell for elevation. It was hard, with four dashing Lancelots begging her for her forgiveness. She’d learned long ago to forget that little dream.
“FLAITH GRA GRAITH!” she managed at last, throwing out her hand.
A fireball shot from her fist and blew the three directly on top of her into a stream of ash. Morgan rolled while the other was distracted in its screams of outrage. Sitting up on her knee’s she grabbed the Sidhe by its de-fleshed throat, cutting off the annoyedly ear splitting scream.

“Go lick Mordrid’s nose for me, will you? Tell him his mother sends her thanks.”
With that, it was a simple matter to slice with a sharp edge of air across the throat of the hag. The Sidhe convulsed a second as fresh blood ran over her already reddened cloak, then melted lifelessly to the floor.

Morgan took a small breather, before awkwardly getting to her weak legs. Was Arthur still alive? she wondered. With a glance she noted his little dance and his whirling of the sword. She’d barely grasped the situation when Balor suddenly gripped his vise of a hand around Arthur’s stomach and lifted him. Arthur yelled something and hacked at the iron arm of muscles. Balor, if he felt any of it, didn’t seem to even blink, as his arm was chopped like meat, or as blood dripped down in pools.

“I’ve grown annoyed with you, mortal Arthur. It is time to die now, I think.” His grip tightened and Arthur’s eyes bulged as his insides were squeezed. He could feel his lung threaten to burst.

Morgan heart rose into her throat at the threat of her brother’s life. Memories of her life and Arthur’s twisted into her mind in an instant, until her sudden need of desperation grew too strong to stand in shock.

“NO!” she yelled, thrusting her arms out straight.

Whip-like cords of blue light shoot from her palms and twisted in the air. With a crack of thunder, they coiled around Balor’s leg, like a deadly snake. Morgan twisted the cord around her wrist, and pulled with all her might.

The rope jerked Balor off his foot, and he fell with a woof onto his back. Arthur, stars dancing in his eyes, landed on his great chest. As air rushed into his lungs, he understood what needed to be done. As Balor watched, stunned at being all of a sudden at a mercy on the floor, Arthur lifted Excalibur, point straight over his great, black eye.

“Goodbye, King Balor,” he bid dispassionately, before bringing the sword down hard.

The great eye burst into little water droplets that burned with intense salt on Arthur’s skin. There was a great sigh, like a passing sea gale, and Balor’s body liquidated into a giant wave of salt water that spread out in a deep puddle on the floor.
Arthur lay, soaking wet, like a wet beached dolphin, sputtering for air. His grip tightened on Excalibur as he once again thanked it and the people responsible in his life for giving it to him.

Morgan sloshed her way to him and kneeled, her knee’s soaked through. She gripped his face in both hands and lifted it. Her eyes blazed with worry as she studied every scratch on his face. ”You all right?” she asked, a little desperately.

Arthur smiled as best he could and sat up. She looked so beautiful and concerned that he found himself forgiving every misdeed she had ever done to him.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he reassured, and checked for himself to see she was. Better off then him, he had to admit with some stab of irony.

“That was incredibly brave of you, taking on Balor that way,” she praised, her eyes sincere. “You’ve saved Avalon, even though you despise it. Thank you.”

Arthur grinned. “I might appreciate Avalon more then you think, as it is my new home now. You handled those…hag women just fine yourself.”

Morgan shrugged dismissively. “They were only banshee’s, from the north. They hang out in watery places looking for victims to replace their long lost children. Balor would have found their watery preferences handy, I suppose.”

Reaching over, he lifted the wet wooden box in his hand and gave it to Morgan. “The faeries and fawns are in there. Balor trapped them in there, somehow.”

Morgan took the box eagerly in her fingers. “Give me Excalibur, Arthur,” she bid. Arthur hesitated only for a moment, before handing it to her. He couldn’t deny, anymore, that Excalibur wasn’t his anymore, but rightfully Avalon’s. Morgan fed the tip of the blade into the lock on the lid, twisting it sharply. The box lid sprang open, and seemed to grow. Morgan dropped the box hurriedly, and stepped back with Arthur to watch.
Stairs led down into the box, and a dark room. A disheveled looking woman, hair twisted in a curled knot, poked her head timidly out.

“Falias!” Morgan cried, and bolted for her. Falias’s frown of alarm turned to relief as Morgan pulled her out of the box and into the flooded room.

“Morgan! We were so sure Balor had gotten you!” She nearly wept, enveloping Morgan in a hug.

Morgan pulled back enough to scowl at her. “Falias, I’m hurt you have less faith in me!”

Falias, grinning, turned to stick her head back into the box. “It’s alright now! Morgan defeated Balor! Get out of that hole, you flippin’ faeries!”

In short order, all the inhabitants of Avalon were standing in the room, surrounding Morgan, Arthur, Falias, and three other faerie leader women: Goriash, Finias, and Murials. Morgan closed up the small box and slipped it into her cloak before turning to address the crowd of admirers.

“I’m afraid I’m about to shock you all, including myself, by displaying some show of humbleness. I’m must correct you all in the events of the battle. You see, it wasn't really me, but my brother, Arthur who wielded Excalibur and killed Balor.” She smiled amiably at him. “Though I may have helped a little bit, he is who you should be thanking.”

As a pleasing silence filled the air, Morgan stood up straight, like a Queen priestess about to do something momentous. Stepping towards Arthur, she held Excalibur length wise out in her hands.

“Excalibur was made here, by us, for you Arthur. For you to protect us and the Old Ways in the Mortal’s World. We took it back when you dishonored that.”
The hall was silent, as judgment on Arthur rested in Morgain’s words. Arthur found himself swallowing at the blank looks of the faeries who waited on Morgan’s jurisdiction before choosing.

Morgan held the blade out as if in offering. “Today, you’ve upheld your oath to protect us and the old ways by destroying Balor. You’ve more then earned the right to wield Excalibur once more.

Welcome to Avalon, Prince Arthur of the Sidhe Faeries!”

The faeries all leapt as one into a roar of delight. Arthur laughed in relief and happiness as magic flowers were tossed, and everyone was jumping and shouting together.
Morgan, smiling happily, slid Excalibur into Arthur’s nearly limp hands.

“You might not believe this, Brathair,” she whispered in his ear, “but…Ta me chomh, Arthur.”

Arthur was speechless with the turbulence of emotion that raced through him, all un-definable, but he welcomed them. Smiling, his grip tightened on Excalibur, and his sister’s hand.

“I believe you, Siur, because, believe it or not, I love you, too.”
With the shouts of trumpmatic celebration echoing over Avalon, Arthur, now the Prince of the Faeries, slid Excalibur home into its scabbard.
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So began the adventures of Prince Arthur and the Quests of Avalon.
For he still lives there today, waiting for when-some say-he will rise again to rule Great Britain-England with the mighty sword Excalibur at his side.