Years later, Guinevere would continue to walk through the memory of those days, searching, hunting, trying to dissemble where fate overcame choice, and choice grew shadowed with fear. She would try to rearrange events and people in her mind, like pieces of a chessboard, and hope to understand how why what for. But such conclusions were but ghosts in a whispered dream. Even without the wisdom of hindsight, Guinevere knew that they were enmeshed beyond reprieve in a web of events whose reach only the eyes of Avalon could fathom.

They had spent barely a week in the cottage, when it became obvious that Morgana could not travel until after the baby was born. Each day her belly grew, like the life of a shadow-languished sapling suddenly opened to sunlight. They had let the stitches out of Morgana’s dresses to accommodate the incipient life, but Gwen knew she would need bigger clothes soon.  Merlin also brought troubling news from the royal councils: there were rumours of uprisings in the north-west territories, and Peadar had ordered all the roads and harbours patrolled until the revolts were subdued. Even if Morgana had been able to travel, there were no roads that could lead them safely away.

Their cottage seemed a small and desperate isle of safety amid turbulent seas, and Guinevere felt a weight of responsibility on her shoulders. Morgana slept excessively, as though the life inside her required every ounce of vitality to sustain its rapid growth. When she was awake, she said little, spending long hours gazing out the window at where the vast ocean heaved and flung itself against solemn cliffs, one hand always resting on the mound of her abdomen as though it alone anchored her to the world of flesh. On these occasions Gwen noticed such a faraway look in her eyes that it almost unnerved her, remembering Morgana’s words about the mysterious golden-haired woman.

Two weeks elapsed.

Guinevere watched the moon change and swallowed her growing uncertainty and fear.  She found herself longing for Arthur’s presence, his strong shoulders so comforting to rest her head on, the easy gallant strength of his arms, his lips which, even in memory, could evoke the tight-coiled desire deep in her womb, draw its delicious tendrils through her centre and the edges of her breasts and, gods, even her very fingertips. Try as she might, she couldn’t push thoughts of him away.

Merlin visited as often as he could, bringing them food from the palace kitchens and, perhaps even more importantly, news. The uprisings were still going strong: though at first they appeared scattered, the reports now indicated some strange coherence among them, though who or what unified the desperate rebellions was unknown. 

Travel was completely out of the question now. It was one afternoon when she spoke with Merlin over a quick-brewed tea that Morgana suddenly burst upon them and, grabbing Gwen’s hand, placed it on her belly so she could feel the unmistakeable movement within.  Morgana’s face glowed opalescent, “I can feel him, Gwen,” she whispered, almost reverently, “I can feel his heartbeat through my own, his breath in my veins.” Her eyes were cloudy again, looking deep within herself to a place no one could fathom.

Gwen met Merlin’s eyes across the table as it sank upon them both, the reality they had avoided confronting: the baby would be born at the cottage.

***

Her name was Angelica, and some called her a witch. Although, when Guinevere’s mother was alive, Andromedhe had told her she was a wise woman, a gatherer of herbs, a midwife, a moon-worshipper. That was when the names for those who practiced the Old Ways were many, and beautiful.

Faced with the imminent birth of Morgana’s child, Guinevere grew desperate. She had some basic knowledge of midwifery herself, having attended and assisted at few births as a young girl, but the speed of Morgana’s pregnancy, and its unknown source, frightened her. Each day her friend sank deeper into a state of dreamful waking, losing touch with the physical world of the cottage as her life-force pumped sustenance into the forming baby. What was happening to Morgana was beyond her skills and knowledge, and so one afternoon while Morgana slept Gwen slipped on her cloak and rode out to Frann’s house, hoping to gain information about Angelica’s whereabouts. Soldiers patrolled the streets, and she felt like a criminal as she ducked her hooded form into alleys and behind walls to avoid being seen.

What happened to the days when a child walked with her mother down these same streets, and laughed and wreathed flowers together with other laughing children?

But Frann was gone, her house abandoned, and no one would answer her about where she might find either Frann or Angelica. Frustrated, Gwen nevertheless saw plain the fear in their eyes, and ultimately she could not blame them.

She was about to return to her horse, dejected and weary, when a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her into a dark corner. Gwen opened her mouth to scream, but was silenced by a pair of lucent green eyes. 

Angelica.

“In here,” she hissed and shoved Gwen into a small, desolate hut, its windows smudgy and blind.

“You were looking for me, young Guinevere,” Angelica straightened, eyes scanning the filthy windows, “A dangerous thing to do in these times. And a foolish one.”

“How did you know?”

“I have my ways.”

 A magnificent woman with ebony hair, Gwen noticed that she was dressed for travel, and carried a large satchel.

“You’re leaving,” she noted sadly.

Angelica whipped her head around, “Of course I’m leaving!” she snapped, “When my friends are slaughtered for dancing the midsummer moon, as they have done for hundreds of years, and when they fear persecution so much they refuse my help, turning away the remedies of herb and leaf I learned from my mother, and from her mother before her,  when every day the cloud of Uther Pendragon creeps over the heart of Eirinn like a plague, tell me Guinevere, what should I stay for?”

She noticed Guinevere’s sorrowful face, and her voice softened, “I know what you seek, daughter of Andromedhe. And I cannot help you.”

“How can you - ,”

“I will not preside over the birth of this child.”

Gwen felt again that cold, gnawing fear, the sense of being enmeshed in a giant web, feeling its strands shiver ever so slightly with the approaching monster of fate.

“Why..?” she whispered.

Angelica pulled her away from the windows, motioning for silence, and Gwen heard the tramp of soldiers marching by.

Her tourmaline eyes fixed on Gwen once again, “Listen to me, Guinevere, and listen well.  This child Morgana carries, it is not a child. An evil and unholy magic caused her womb to bear this fruit. For your sake, and the sake of Avalon, it must be destroyed.”

Gwen recoiled in horror, “I will not abandon Morgana.”

“Child, there are forces at work here beyond my power to prevent, or foresee.  Those of us who serve the Heart of Avalon are afraid, and rightly so, of the destruction of our kind by Uther’s hate. But there are others who would use our fear, our uncertainty, to defile the Heart, who would see the Dark Fire worshipped.”

 Guinevere shook her head, “Whatever the nature of her child, whatever is destined to be, Morgana is my friend, my sister! Tell me how I can help her, I beg you.”

Angelica regarded her for a while, “I fear she is already beyond your help, Guinevere.”

Gwen shook off her arm, “Then we are both of us wasting the other’s time. The Heart of Avalon does not withhold compassion, even from those who seek its destruction. I will not abandon my friend,” she repeated.

Angelica half-smiled, though her eyes were dark with sorrow, “So much like your mother.”

Guinevere felt the tears stand in her own eyes, “Farewell, Angelica.”

But as she turned she felt the other woman press something into her palm: a small pouch such as apothecaries sold their remedies in.

“These herbs were gathered by me, and blessed by the sickle moonlight. They can ease the pangs of childbirth, and soothe the mind. Use them when the time comes.”

Gwen looked down at the small pouch, “Thank you.”

And as swiftly as she appeared, Angelica was gone.

***

She rode back to the cottage with a heavy-heart, dreading yet another night alone with her thoughts, alone with Morgana’s distant eyes. When she rounded the bend and saw Arthur standing there, his tall figure and beautiful masculine face, she felt almost weak with relief. Fighting the urge to rush into his arms, she dismounted and walked up slowly.

“I came to see how you were. I was worried when you were gone,” he smiled, and it was then she realized he held a small bunch of lilacs and blue-bells. They were somewhat crushed, and worse for the wear, but their sight and shape and colour, and the fact that Arthur held them, filled her with precious delight.

“I thought you might like these,” he seemed suddenly unsure of himself, “Merlin said I’m rotten at picking flowers.”

“They are beautiful, Arthur. Thank you,” she ran her fingertips lovingly over the blue-violet petals, thinking how in bygone days these blossoms would make a fine garland for Maying. Arthur watched the quiet smile across her lovely face and felt a tug on his heart, like a boat being loosened from its moorings. But then, she always made him feel as though he were suddenly adrift in new waters.

“I heard from Merlin you were looking for a midwife.”

Her smile slowly faded, “And I found none. I fear…I fear I must be the midwife to Morgana.”

“I suppose the Royal midwife can’t be trusted,” Arthur frowned, “What do you need? I’ll send Merlin over with some supplies.”

Gwen felt a stab of disappointment that he might not visit again. “What news from the councils?”

He looked troubled, “We’ve received word that the warlord Cendred has attacked one of our allies, Lord Godwin. My father wants to return so we can aid him, as soon as council matters are concluded,” he paused, “How much longer do you think before…?”

Gwen shook her head, “I can’t say for certain. At this rate, it could be early as next week….Arthur,  what are we going to do?” Even as the words fell from her lips she realized it wasn’t just about Morgana. Were they to say goodbye, unfinished and indefinitely, with only the memory of a kiss between them?

Arthur’s gloved hand cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the soft skin, “We’ll think of something. Whatever happens, Morgana has us by her side.”

We. Us.  Did he not know that his words were delicious torture, a flickering hope that burnt the edges of her eyes with longing?

He plucked two flowers and tried to affix them in her hair, but his large gloved hands were ineffective at the delicate task, and within seconds he was staring at the crushed remnants of a flower, expression befuddled.

Guinevere couldn’t bite back her giggle, “Here, let me.”

Arthur watched as she carefully tucked a single bluebell into the thick twist of hair at her nape, its vivid violet colour the perfect contrast to her dark curls and honey skin. His eyes wandered to her lips, and desire to taste them again clenched his fists with the force of his restraint.

Gwen smiled up at him, thinking how his eyes were blue like the heart of violet, like the twilight sky, like a lake she could drown in. He took off a glove, touching his fingertips to her chin. Whatever came after, that moment, right then, was perfect enough to break her heart.

Arthur’s hand dropped from her face, and he looked over her shoulder, expression troubled.

Gwen turned around. Morgana stood by the cottage door, pale as a wisp of smoke, gazing only at Gwen, at the flowers she held, the flower in her hair.  For the briefest second, Gwen could swear Morgana’s eyes flashed green with a cold and terrifying malevolence. It was as if a stranger looked through her eyes, and Gwen remembered Angelica’s warning.

But Morgana blinked, her eyes cleared, and she smiled at them both, "Shall we have some tea?"

Guinevere almost thought she had imagined their earlier expression.

Almost.