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Another Side to the Story

The Brother

By Alexandra FPublished 5 years ago 5 min read
1
Morgause

That tart, Guinevere. Her friends called her Gwen. I don’t see how she was a Gwen, or a Gwynne for that matter.

I wound up bearing a child that no woman should because I wound up under my own brother at a masquerade party. There were no contraceptives then. There were no abortions either. Morgaine, Morgana and I tolerated the little weasel until he was old enough to be on his own and then threw his lot in with that little Wiccan. We were Pagan, thank you.

I don’t know what Merlin was, save that he practiced magic that even we didn’t agree with. He aged as one shouldn’t. That’s not natural.

He trained Arthur fully in the pure arts (light). When we tried him on Mordred, he couldn’t get much out of him. It was only when that girl came along, claiming to be his daughter, that Mordred lit up. He fawned on her, kissed the ground that, according to him, she glided on. He said he thought it came of her powers that she seemed to naturally ooze. There was more natural about Merlin and his Father Time trick than his “daughter.” She came from some gypsy woman Merlin vaguely remembered having danced with at her caravan campsite. The child looked like the gypsy woman as he described her then, not at all like him.

Later, when she got lighter, he claimed she looked like him, but really she looked more like Mordred. They both had thin faces except for disturbingly wide jaw lines that, when they grinned, made them look like they wanted to eat people. They both also got this sickly pale look to their skin, greenish olive and pasty all at once. It was particularly noticeable around their hairlines. They were skinny, darkly hyper little things. If one were to imagine a leprechaun’s reaction to a rainbow or his gold, it’d be like those two when they got together.

They cast spells that even Merlin and Morgaine forbade. They could practice their magic and live elsewhere or live in both houses and not do so. They chose to live elsewhere and didn’t tell anyone where they lived. They began stealing off of the townsfolk as their prior families had disowned them. Everyone was appalled.

For all that he was a hands-on king, Arthur was the last to know about the thievery, and this was in the midst of Guinevere’s affair with Lancelot. He was the last to know about that too.

It seemed the looming threat to his gates took precedence. He had to plan and plan with his men once a day. He’d gone from the calm and happy and confident king whose faith in light and his own light powers were unwavering to a paranoid and haggard man whose bond with Excalibur was wavering as well.

Some nights, he would sit in his most private chamber he wouldn’t even let Guinevere into. Only one guard was allowed just outside of it. That went from being Lancelot, up until he began “guarding” Guinevere on her many walks, then it was some new guard, and finally it was Galahad.

The second guard would report this to Lancelot, then Galahad kept his own council about it, and only confessed it to Merlin once the onslaught was over. Arthur could be heard arguing. At first, they didn’t know who with. Then, it became clearer that it was Excalibur he was arguing with, or rather the spirit within Excalibur that Arthur had been known to mention during happier times.

Once he was found dead, Galahad no longer held the silence he’d had to for his king. It all came pouring out of him to Merlin at his house one night. He’d elected to follow Lancelot and Guinevere the day after he’d noticed her smiling at Lancelot in a way a wife shouldn’t. She’d never smiled at Arthur that way. She’d always regarded and treated him more as a friend, and it had nothing to do with his having once inadvertently bedded his own half-sister. Arthur confessed that to her on their wedding night. Neither of them knew of a son having issued from that union. It was best to protect my brother, the king, from that painful truth.

The truth himself didn’t know how to keep his little trap shut. He wouldn’t no-matter how much Galahad, guarding the front entrance to the palace, tried to stop him. One of the times, his little friend decided to go with him to distract Galahad while he got inside. He confessed he was Arhur’s son to him in front of the entire Round Table. Arthur gave one of his beatific smiles he was known for, then asked what proof he had.

“You know what my mother, Morgause, looks like,” he said, implying he should infer the rest from Mordred’s features.

Arthur shuddered as he recalled that awkward and disturbing night with me. He saw it in his features well enough.

He started upon hearing a guttural cry of pain from Galahad, then saw a female version of Mordred practically dance her way into the room as though she owned it. He wondered if it had been twins and she shook her head and grinned wickedly playfully, as though reading his thoughts. Perhaps she was. All he knew right then was that he felt his back being stabbed, pain from the blood pounding in his temples, and his legs giving way as his men rushed to his aide. It was Lancelot who slit the girl’s throat, for all that he’d done with Guinevere. All the other men had Mordred pinned down, and then Lancelot came back in and stabbed him in the lower abdomen, where the girl had stabbed Galahad.

Why did I cry over my son’s body, pounding it as though I were mourning him? He’d done it.

I had the following conversation with him once he’d moved in with that girl but before we’d disowned him:

“I’m going to tell him.”

I gave him a tired, pleading look. I paused. “What do you think will come of this?” I was implying “hope.”

He paused, then drew a breath, then said, “If the news doesn’t kill him, I will.” He seemed elated, with this manic glee in his eyes.

I looked sad at first, then drew myself up. “If you do this, you’re no son of mine.” I turned my back on him fully, a signal he understood, and walked away.

~

Standing there over Arthur’s body, looking at him pensively, I can see how I would have seemed his murderer. He was still my brother. I’d spent the latter part of my childhood with him. My tears and allegiance were for him.

They’d found a hex bag on the Round Table leg nearest the door. They assumed it was mine, or Morgana’s, or Morgaine’s. It had none of our signature herbal mixes in it, and there was no pentacle on it. It had the sign of the triple goddess on it. The Morrigan would never sanction this. That misconception and that Wiccan girl would.

fan fiction
1

About the Creator

Alexandra F

I write to give myself an adventure & if it's fun perhaps you will enjoy it too.

This is the link to my journalistic blog: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/franklynews

I only make money if you contribute, so please click the bottom button. Thanks!

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