New Idea for a Book Series


Hi all,

The other day I read a prompt that started to play with my mind. Anyways, as I was thinking about the prompt I came up with an idea for a new series loosely based on the Greek Gods. I thought I would share it with you and try to get an idea of what you think of it. Feel free to share any opinions you have! And as always,

Happy Reading

Two thousand years ago the world stopped believing, thus causing a long descent into utter chaos. As their beliefs faded so did their gods. Finally the essence of the gods was so week that their souls joined with the mortal world.

The gods are consistently reborn ever generation; never regaining their memories.

Humanities consistent association has left only one goddess to tend everything – Hestia, goddess of the hearth.

Hestia can no longer see the world suffer. So one by one she calls the gods home to Recreate Olympus.

The first to be called home is the lustful, temperamental god Zeus.


He Waited For Her


Just as a warning this post is another break from Arthurian Legend. This particular piece was inspired by a writing prompt with a limited word count. The scene had to start with the words He Waited For Her.

I know of several other authors that have taken up this prompt and have done wonderfully with it. Without further ado here is my take on He Waited For Her.

As always feel free to leave a review and Happy Reading!

He waited for her. Just as he did every day for the last seventy years. He sat on a bench that faced a set of wrought iron gates. Cherubs decorated the pillars of the gates. Just beyond those gates was luscious green grass that had dragonflies resting on its wide blades. Above him the sky was a brilliant shade of blue that hadn’t changed in years.

He could hear strings playing a joyful tune in the distance, but still he did not go in. He had a vow to keep. One that meant more to him than all the music in the world. He wore a pair of rough breeches and a billowy white shirt. A walking stick rested against the bench.

He swore to her on their wedding day that he would always wait for her. He had watched her over the years as she struggled to move on and raise their children. She had raised their children with aplomb.

Their son was literally a miracle doctor who had broken the code that the world called cancer. As for their daughter, suffice to say she had the highest rate of college graduates the world had ever seen. They were both treasures that he would have liked to have seen.

As for his beautiful bride, she was always on his mind. The struggles she had faced over the years had only made her more precious to him. Soon she would be with him though. Together they would finally be able to walk the ancient gardens as she had always wanted to.

He was determined to see her smile once more. That was the truly sad part about his bride. She seemed to have lost her ability to grin giddily to the world. It was the main factor about her that had caught his attention all those years ago.

He could have had anyone; but her joy in life wouldn’t let him go. Just as he wouldn’t let her go. They had married against the wishes of both their parents. Those wishes didn’t matter to them though – they were in love. As far as he was concerned they still were. From watching her all these years he knew they still were.

He knew she had tried to find someone to help her, but no one ever seemed to be what she needed. He would have been happy if she had found another – but he was the slightest bit glad she hadn’t. She was still his to love and cherish.

These many thoughts made him smile. Before his thoughts could start up again the light around the gates brightened and the scent of honey and oranges filled the air. The man turned his head sharply to see her. He waited with bated breath as the light dimmed and the most beautiful woman in the world stood in front of him.

“Abigail,” he whispered throatily.

“Dafid,” was her excited reply. “You’re here!”

“I swore I would always wait for you,” he reassured.

“After all this time you kept your word.”

“You have always meant more to me than anything beyond that gate. I missed you. I had to see you again.”

“I missed you too.”

“After all this time would you care to go for a walk?”




Hey all,

For the moment I am taking a slight break from the world of Arthurian Legend. I hope you have enjoyed what I have put out so far. The following is a rough excerpt of the current novel I am working on. The novel is tentatively titled “Isis’ Savior”.

It is about a young woman who is on the brink of mastery in the world of Alchemy. Unfortunately she has been charged with bringing the love of the Mother Goddess Isis back into the world. Sadly there are people out there who don’t want her to accomplish this task. To impede her progress they have taken the one person in the world that means the most to her – her grandfather.

As always feel free to leave feedback.

Happy Reading!

Iseult tossed and turned in her sleep before waking with a gasp. The thin, cotton night gown she wore did nothing to ward of the chill from her terrifying dream. The morning dawn was just beginning to paint the sky with vibrant hues. As she listened to the birdsong in the early morning, Iseult tried to control her breathing. She lay there with matted hair and wild eyes as a bead of crimson trailed out of her nose. As a tear rolled down her cheek Iseult whispered, “No!”

Swiftly she sat up and threw her embroidered blankets off and made her way to the study in bare feet. Upon entering the candelabra cast a golden glow about the room, illuminating the desk in front of her and the stone floor beneath. Paying no mind to the damp stones Iseult flew to the desk.

The minute Iseult sat down she pulled paper and quills to her and began to furiously write down all she knew. Iseult never noticed the candelabra dim or the blood running down her face as she relentlessly made her way through scrawling pages of notes. As she turned one page and then the next blood from her nose fell onto the pages.

While lost in her thoughts, Iseult never noticed as her blood began to form in runes on the paper. Without warning the papers on the desk began to glow. When the glow caught Iseult’s attention her eyes widened and she let out a faint shriek.

The light grabbed Iseult and pulled her towards the paper. Iseult twisted and turned in her struggle to break free of the light. The slippers on her feet left a fuzzy trail as she was dragged towards her desk. Despite her struggling Iseults hand finally made contact with the glowing paper.

When the light subsided Iseult looked around her only to find that she was in a dingy stone cell with a fire on the wall for light. The walls around her were covered with mold and in the distance Iseult could hear the moans of people in trouble.

Before she could get her bearings a male voice said, “Well, if it isn’t a tainted Kleopatra.”

Iseult whipped her head left and right before settling in on the growing image in front of her.

With an obstinate set to her chin, Iseult rose to her feet and declared, “I am not tainted. My honor is as clear as yours.”

The mysterious voice chuckled darkly from the shadows that surrounded him.

“I’m not tainted. My honor is as clean as yours,” she stated forcefully once more.

“I doubt that, little Kleopatra. My blood is clean,” the man said snidely. His mention of blood had Iseult raising her hand to her face in an attempt to wipe it clean.

After that insinuation the man stepped into the light Iseult saw sallow skin full of angry pockmarks and thick jet-black hair with a silver stripe down the center. His pale lips were set in a disdainful frown. His eyes a frosty blue. All in all the sight of this man caused Iseult to give an involuntary shudder.

With a smug sigh the man continued, “You disappoint me, young Kleopatra.”

Taking a calming breath Iseult replied, “How so?”

With a slight quirk to his thin lips the man replied, “Your reaction to my presence is the same as everyone else’s. Revulsion.

“Sadly that is a response I’m used to receiving from my guests.”

“Are all your guests behind bars,” Iseult asked smartly.

“Touché, young Kleopatra.”

Iseult gave her host a sour smile for the acknowledgement before asking, “Might I have the name of my host?”

The sallow skinned man looked at her intently before answering, “I see the spawn of the Stone Goddess taught you manners. My name, young Kleopatra, is Bricius Aielius. You may call me Bryce.” Throughout his introduction Bryce never raised his voice above a cold whisper.

“You know more than you should, Mr. Aielius. Perhaps you could see your way to returning my grandfather,” Iseult insisted calmly.

“The key to breaking the valued and vaunted Isis Charm,” Bryce insisted in a cold whisper.

“My grandfather,” Iseult demanded, her voice getting ever so slightly harder.

“I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s safe,” a sharp female voice assured from the darkness.

That voice, with its nails-on-chalkboard quality, caused Iseult to become as pallid as a ghostly moon. She knew that voice and there was no way in the nine pits of hell that she could be here. She couldn’t be in bed with this family.

“Gwendolyn,” Iseult shakily muttered as her eyebrows extended to her hair line.

“Yes, child. Now what is the key,” Gwendolyn demanded as she stepped into the light. Her red hair glittered like a thousand rubies on fire. Her lips were painted a garish shade of red that they looked as though they were bleeding. Those tainted lips were set to a cruel parody of a smile that no one could mistake for warmth. Her lilac colored eyes were as cold and dead as Iseult had ever seen.

“How could you? He’s your father,” Iseult cried.

“The old man means about as much to me as you do. Now how do I break the charm,” Gwendolyn almost shrieked at the child she had given birth to.

“I don’t know. I didn’t design or brew it,” Iseult stated boldly.

“The key for your grandfather,” Bryce taunted.

“Give me my grandfather,” Iseult demanded.

“The key,” Gwendolyn demanded harshly.

Iseult stuck her chin out and stared straight ahead as she intoned, “I cannot give you what I do not have. Now give me my grandfather,” Iseult forcefully demanded.

“Perhaps you should think about it,” Bryce coolly informed. With that he motioned for Gwendolyn to follow him.

When Iseult could no longer hear the breathing of another soul she tumbled to the floor in exhaustion. As the cell she was in cooled off Iseult began to shiver. Drawing her thing gown closer Iseult began to mutter to herself as she surveyed the damp cell she had ended up in.

The stone beneath her bare feet was cold and sharp; the bars of the cell were made of hard iron. There was no window to provide air in the little cell. Wall sconces surrounded the outside of the cell. The fires that glowed from within them provided no warmth.

Seeing no way out of her cell, Iseult began to think on her predicament. There had to be a way out, this much she was certain of. The shrieking creak of a rusty hinge bought Iseult out of her thoughts.

Wildly she began to look around the room. Unfortunately the darkness outside of the torch light was impenetrable. The scent however was not. Cinnamon and saffron wafted heavily through the air.

Iseult knew better than to start a conversation with her newest visitor while they were in a room by themselves. That was fine to do on a crowded street, not in a prison cell where other alchemists had ways of listening in that science could only dream of.

With her back to the cell bars Iseult looked to the ceiling of the stone prison. As it she concentrated on it Iseult found it to be exceedingly odd. It looked as though it were the night sky and yet there was no moon.

Taking a shaky breath, Iseult uttered, “Where in the name of all that is holy am I?” She was not expecting an answer.

“They can’t hear or see me. You, on the other hand, are fair game. Listen and listen well. This place is like nowhere you’ve ever been. It is as old as the ancient world. Unfortunately, it is extremely hostile to any that consider religion a safe haven. This place is basically Primordial Chaos embodied.

“The only ones that are safe here are those that relish chaotic darkness. An exceedingly pale man rules this place and his heart is as black as they come. The old man isn’t worth it, save yourself. Everything is here,” Aldman finished in a hoarse whisper.

Within seconds the smell of cinnamon and saffron dissipated leaving Iseult alone once more. Taking heart at the strange warning, Iseult began to pace her cell. Scrutinizing the floor and bars of her cell Iseult saw nothing but a bare room. This cell made Selk’s sitting room look lavishly furnished!

Before she could pace another length in her cell, Iseult heard creaking hinges. “I don’t have what you want,” Iseult declared to the shadows.

“Are you sure about that,” Bryce asked as he stood just outside the light of the cell.

“Positive,” Iseult firmly declared.

“Such a pity,” Bryce murmured as he dropped a heavy package just out of Iseult’s reach.

When the package hit the ground it rolled into the light. One end of the package was dripping a bright red color. The other end had a wrinkled hand with a very familiar ring on it.

Iseult shook as tears leaked from her violet eyes. “What have you done,” she asked in trembling tones.

To Roma


Here lately I have been posting quite a bit of Arthurian one shots. I truly hope you are enjoying them. Today I have yet another one shot for you. This particular one takes place early on in Arthur’s reign. As always feel free to leave a review.

Happy Reading!

To Roma

Sunlight filtered through the arrow slits of what was quickly becoming known as the king’s workroom to the denizens of the castle. The sunlight allowed enough light to see by and a slight breeze to circulate the air of the some what stuffy room.

In the light’s path sat a sturdy wooden table covered with scrolls. The paper was imported from Aegyptus and known as papyrus. It was extremely durable and versatile. The durability of the papyrus was invaluable to the nation,

Although Khitai was able to produce a cotton blend that was cheaper, it was also more delicate. The papyrus was one of the few extravagances that Arthur allowed his administration this early in his reign.

Behind the table of scrolls sat a man with reddish brown hair and dancing blue eyes. The man was bent over the table carefully reading a scroll. There was a slight frown on his face as he stared at the scroll.

After several moments the sound of a man clearing his throat alerted the seated man to the presence of another in this his workroom. The seated man looked up and said, “Sir Gareth, come and sit for I have something of a quest for you.”

Sir Gareth entered the room and looked warily at the man before saying, “A quest, Your Majesty,” alarm colored Gareth’s voice.

“Of a sort,” his majesty confirmed with a half smile on his face. It was a smile that made Gareth nervous.

With trepidation in his stomach Gareth echoed, “Of a sort?”

“Yes. I would like for you to make a journey with the Lady Seraphim,” Arthur answered. Gareth could have sworn that he saw amusement in the king’s eyes as he said that.

Gareth almost sagged in relief. Doing anything with Lady Seraphim was both refreshing and amusing for the fact that it was common knowledge that Seraphim acted like no lady that any knight had ever met.

It was well known that you could take Lady Seraphim into a tavern and she would encourage one to act with boisterous pride amongst your peers. The Lady Seraphim also tended to act as though she were any other knight. That tended to help with thinking of her as a comrade in arms rather than a damsel in distress.

“What sort of journey had you in mind, your majesty,” Gareth asked his king.

“’Twould be naught but a journey across the seas, to the land of Roma,” replied Arthur, his hazel eyes sparkling in mischief.

“Then thou wish a mission of secrecy,” Gareth questioned. The prospect of traveling in secret with the king’s champion sparked the knight’s interest. Gareth, like all other knights of the table, had never served with a female knight and the king’s chosen champion was a woman. This was a highly unconventional thing to have.

The danger this trip held for the King’s Champion was great. This much Gareth knew. The danger was primarily because Seraphim was a woman. All in Camelot knew how the Romans tended to treat women.

Especially given the fact that the primary religion of the Roman conquerors was that of the Christ child. This was a religion that saw women as a frail lot that were to be protected and kept far from the fields of bloodshed.

And the King’s Champion, the Lady Seraphim, was anything but meek and mild. In many ways Seraphim was more of a knight than some of those that sat at the Table Round. For she truly did believe in and try to live by the ideals that the King had set forth for his Knights. It was rumored that the Lady Seraphim didn’t even know the meaning of the words ‘lip service’. That was something that Gareth found to be extremely true in the few dealings that he had attended with the Lady Knight.

As Sir Gareth lost himself in his thoughts the king interrupted, “I have every confidence that my Champion can defend herself. Unfortunately I also know the depths of treachery that the Roman Senate can fall too,” he finished sternly.

“Understood, Your Majesty. I shall do my utmost to keep faith with the high honor that you have seen fit to bestow upon me,” Gareth finished solemnly.

Arthur gave an ironic grin as he nodded his head. As Sir Gareth strides were taking him from the room the king intoned, “Oh, and Sir Gareth, remember to tone her temper with an alehouse if need be.”

Gareth paled at the thought of what could drive the formidable Champion to the alehouses to calm down. With a half bow towards the king, Gareth strode the door shaking his head at the adventure to come.

Already A Legend


Hi Folks,

Once more we are sticking with the Arthurian theme. This time though we have an appearance made by Elaine, Lady of the Lake. She is known to have raised Lancelot du Lac. This time though the eternal figure has a question for the famous descendants of the king of Albion. From here on out I give you – ALREADY A LEGEND.

As always feel free to leave a review and Happy Reading!

Already a Legend


In a German prison-palace sat a man with bright reddish-gold hair and eyes the color of a cloudless sky. There were no adornments on his fingers and his clothing lacked any fancy embroidery. It was in this palace that he resided since his capture by his cousin Leopold of Austria. Normally the man had a jolly grin on his face, today though he was pensive. His current predicament was heavy on his mind.

The weather had forced him to take the more dangerous land route from the crusades back to a kingdom that he really didn’t like and the only use he found for it was as revenue. This latest Crusade had been trying on him but at last Christians had more access to the holy land of God.

Here in this prison-palace he had basic rights and the assurance that his captors would not kill him due to his exalted birth – although his brother John would probably like for him to disappear permanently. His daily routines were not changed. He had one servant girl assigned to him. She had dark hair that was held back with an iridescent pearl net and ancient blue eyes. Never once did she say a word to him and yet Richard got the feeling that every time the woman even glanced his way she said a volumes.

The raven haired woman always bore him his meals, but never once had she uttered a word, causing him to assume that she was a deaf mute. A fair occupation for such a creature.

Richard would swear though, that she was not dumb. There was too much intelligence in her aged eyes.

In a few minutes Richard would once again see the raven haired woman. For the sun was about right for his midday meal.

Right on time the servant girl came into the room with his noon victuals. This time though, when she looked at him she asked a question, “Tell me Coeur de Lion, which would you prefer – the sword or the scabbard?”

Her soft voice was melodious. Richard looked surprised at the woman. Without a moments hesitation he answered, “The sword Milady. How else were I to defend myself?”

The dark-haired lady shook her head mournfully and answered, “Than I fear, brave-hearted one, that your demise shall be as sad as Charlemagne’s predecessor.” She ended this statement on a sigh as she set the tray of victuals down.

“The man you speak of was naught but a myth,” Richard replied haughtily.

“Arthur was more than myth and fable. But if it is the sword you want than it is the sword you shall get,” she stated with finality. There was a slight sneer on her delicate lips as she turned from him and left the room in something of a temper.

As the woman left she slammed the heavy wooden door as hard as she could and if Richard could have seen her blue eyes he would have wondered if the woman was mortal or one of the Church’s despicable demons.

Once outside of the room the woman carefully worked a spell throughout the castle so that she could leave as unnoticed as she had arrived.

Oh! Why did the men of Constantine have to be so stubborn! Could none of them see that Arthur was right all those years ago? Even now, not a sole believed him and that deplorable fact was the fault of Arthur’s final orders to his Champion. Why did she have to be so successful?

But there was no use in lamenting the fact that orders had been followed successfully so she’d best get on with the future, else it wouldn’t happen the way that the immortals wanted it to. So if it was Excalibur that the Kings of Albion wanted it was Excalibur that Elaine of the Lake would give them.

A Call To Arms


Alright folks,

I thought I would continue with the Arthurian theme for a bit here. So for today’s short trek into my weird mind I give you A Call To Arms. This one features Palamedes the Saracen and the, by now, rather infamous, Lancelot du Lac.

As always,


Several seagulls flew around the stone castle making their braying call heard throughout its numerous halls. The outer walls of the stone castle had four parapets. Each parapet was covered with gleaming red tile. Atop each parapet was a white triangular flag with an embroidered raging blue lion on it. The flags were limp as there was no breeze to hold them stiff. From the top of these parapets you could see cresting ocean waves hitting the sandy shore.

A grey stone wall covered in salty brine protected a modest castle. If you stood just outside of the main hall you could catch a whiff of a pheasant dinner being prepared.

This castle by the water was the famed Joyous Guard and its master was the most famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Knight of the Table Round: Lancelot du Lac.

Currently he had one guest in his castle and that was another knight of the Table – Palamedes the Saracen.

Palamedes was one of three knights of the Table from the country of Babylon. Many courtiers were shocked to learn that the distant lands of the Saracen had heard of the wonders of Arthur’s court at Camelot.

Even now when the glory was beginning to fade Arthur’s dream of peace and safety for all people was spreading. And that’s what the two men seated in wooden chair decorated with brightly embroidered dorsals on the backs were discussing.

“This I tell you true, Lancelot,” the dark skinned Palamedes began, “though Arthur will die, his dream will not die with him.”

“Talk of such a great man bodes ill for a splendid dinner of pheasant and vegetables,” said the fair skinned, dark haired knight. If one looked closely you would be able to see the fear in his blue eyes when talking of the death of a man he still considered to be his greatest friend and liege lord.

“I do not mean to ruin our dinner, Lancelot, but surely you must see his mortality as I do,” Palamedes explained.

“After all these years Palamedes, do you still not know what he means to us personally,” Lancelot asked his guest in slight confusion.

“Well I know that many of you consider him a friend and companion. I myself consider him to be a great friend. But what I am trying to impress upon you is that his dream will outlive him,” Palamedes explained as the servants brought the food in and set it on the long wood board table before the two middle aged knights.

As the servants backed out from the dining table the two men began to load their plates although their conversation took on a different tone.

“Do you believe how far the fame of Camelot has spread,” Palamedes asked his companion.

“My friend, when you and your brothers first came to Camelot as emissaries from your father, Esclabar, King of Babylon, I had trouble believing. As for this day his fame is almost inconceivable,” Lancelot replied truthfully.

“Yet Gaul is closer to Britannia than Babylon,” Palamedes replied.

“True,” Lancelot conceded.

After a moment of silence Palamedes said, “Word from my home land is that even Belshazzar respects what Arthur has managed to accomplish in these times.”

Lancelot winced at the disdain in Palamedes quiet voice. All residents of the castle knew that Palamedes had little respect for his oldest brother who now ruled their father’s kingdom. Lancelot could understand those feelings, they were after all, the same way he felt about Mordred.

Only with Mordred there was more black-hearted hate than lack of respect. That villainous, base born bastard had nearly destroyed the kingdom. And while Lancelot knew he played a part in the near ruin of all that he held dear, he knew for certain that Mordred’s part was far larger than his own. Lancelot knew that many people would agree with him. Including his guest.

“It amazes me how one man’s dream can mean so much too so many,” Lancelot replied.

“He is a great man surrounded by great people who would do anything that he asked of them,” Palamedes told his friend.

At this moment a man with wild eyes and straggly hair was ushered into the room. The only saving grace about his looks was that he wore a red tunic embroidered with a gold dragon. This man was a messenger from Arthur.

Lancelot motioned the man forward. As the man approached the aging knight he extended a scroll secured with a black ribbon.

Lancelot opened the scroll and quickly scanned the contents of it. His tan face was pale when he raised his head to look at Palamedes

“What does Arthur say,” Palamedes asked, slightly alarmed at his friends paleness.

“He has asked for aid in a battle against the surly peacock Mordred. A final battle,” Lancelot replied gravely. The tone of the scroll told Lancelot that this battle would be one for the famed castle of Camelot itself. Because the man who controlled Camelot controlled the nation.

Lancelot and Palamedes looked at each other and hoped that they would arrive in time. Both knights knew deep in their hearts that with war between nephew and uncle this would be the final tolling of the bells for the greatest nation on earth. And in the backs of their minds they hoped against all hope that Arthur’s dream would live on in the memory of the people.

Born of Common Blood


The following is a one-shot background piece on an early book I wrote. It is part of a set of one shots about the goings on of King Arthur and his Noble Knights of the Table Round. This one happens to center on two characters one is my own creation the other is a mainstay in Arthurian Mythology. Sir Bors is the mainstay as he was on the legendary Quest for the Grail. The character of my own creation is Lady Seraphim, Champion for the King. I present to you, – THE TALE OF SIR BORS, A SWORD SWORN KNIGHT OF COMMON BLOOD.

As always,


It was nearing sunset on a warm summer’s day when someone knocked on the door of the little three room cottage. The villagers down the road didn’t visit the old woman that lived within. The village elders thought that she was off of her somewhat rusty hinges.

As for the children of the village, they were a different story altogether. They thought she was a bard. The old lady told them stories of Camelot. Of great Lords and Ladies. Even ones of knights in shining armor at tournaments jousting for a ladies favor.

She even told them of a time when there was no famine or war. When miracles happened as often as the new dawn, and good deeds were a knights daily fare with his lady’s smile as a reward.

The old woman gave a heavy sigh as she rose from her old wooden chair to answer the door. Her dark hair had long sense faded to white and her joints ached with the cold, but she was still as alert as she had been when she was a young maid of twenty.

Upon opening the door it wasn’t to find a child as she expected. Instead she found an apparent man of the gentry on her doorstep. His long white hair was tied back with a thong and his blue eyes were shadowed with the wisdom of age. The lines of his face spoke of a hard life lived with many adventures. It was obviously a face that spoke volumes to the right person.

“Seraphim? King’s Champion? Is it truly thee? Has my long search sought thee out,” the man asked. Relief was evident in his gravelly voice.

Seraphim, for that was the woman’s name, was shocked. Who was this man? How did he know the truth of her past? Seraphim had thought herself successful in erasing herself from popular memory.

“Who art thou,” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice that had nothing to do with fear and the frailty of age. While she may have sounded weak, you could almost hear the hidden strength that lay just beneath her surface.

“Do not you remember the Knight born of common blood,” he asked in a soft voice.

“Born of common blood? Bors? Could it possibly be you that stands at my door?” Confusion was evident in her voice. This couldn’t be Sir Bors.  He hadn’t been seen since he left on his quest to find the Grail with Perceval and Galahad. Rumors had abounded of his death for years now.

“It is Milady. Might I beg entrance into your cottage,” he enquired politely.

“Granted Bors,” Seraphim answered in the same tone. Bors walked humbly into her home. Granted her home was not as grand as the rooms that she had acquired at Castle Camelot but the cottage was comfortable and it suited her needs perfectly.

“Please arrange thyself to thy comfort. For I wager that our conversation shall last well into the next sunrise,” Seraphim told him.

“Indeed Milady. For we have much to tell each other,” Bors agreed. He spoke quietly as though he were afraid to disturb the memories she held. Bors knew that his friend held a temper most powerful and he did not want to be the one to disturb it should it be resting peacefully after all these years.

Even though his voice was quiet it was serene. Just as it had always been at court, where Arthur and Guinnevere had presided in days long gone. Seraphim thought she detected a note of weariness in his voice as well. If it were there it would be a first, for Bors wasn’t known to be weary of anything.

“Before we begin would you care for refreshments?” Seraphim’s tone was polite, yet her eyes shone with merriment.

“I’ll not turn it down if you’ve a mind to share your precious ale,” he answered her with a slight grin. For in times now past it was almost unheard of for the Lady Champion Seraphim to share any ale or mead that was in her possession. It was just something that wasn’t done.

Seraphim nodded her had as he went into her little kitchen. She returned with two wooden mugs and a jug of ale.

“Where have you been Bors,” Seraphim asked after she sat down with her ale. There was more than a hint of sorrow in her voice.

“I shall answer your questions if you shall answer mine, Lady Seraphim.”

“Name thy question, Sir Bors.”

“What happened Lady Seraphim?”

“It fell apart. Her Majesty took to Lancelot’s bed,” Seraphim informed Bors gravely.

“The stories are true then? The tales told on peoples lips,” Bors asked in confusion.

“They are, my friend. Everything from the betrayal of Mordred and Morgause to that of the king resting on the isle of Avalon,” Seraphim confirmed. Her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“How? Why?”

“I do not know. It was a combination of many things. The battle with Lancelot for Guinnevere shook the people’s faith in Arthur. Thus opening the door for the vile that was spread by Mordred and Morgause,

“Other than that I know nothing more,” Seraphim replied.

Bors grew upset at the news. This was not what he wanted to hear. Especially not from the only female knight of the Table Round. She was the King’s Champion! How could she not know hat destroyed the realm?

“How did you survive? You who were his staunchest supporter and protector, yet there isn’t a tale in all the land that bears your name or presence,” he accused.

“Tis not what ye think, for you see, I am still bound by orders,” Seraphim stated simply.

“How is that possible?”

“Before the final battle, during the last gathering of the Court, I was ordered not to fight in the final battle against Mordred.

“Arthur gave that ordered at the beginning of the gathering in front of every surviving knight. I was furious. And I let my anger be known by storming off after he explained his orders.

“He said that I was to survive so that Camelot would be remembered,’ Seraphim explained.

“In other words, he left the hardest task to you,” Bors clarified.

Seraphim nodded her head in agreement. “And you Bors? What happened to your companions, Galahad and Perceval,” Seraphim asked.

A look of sadness mixed with joy crossed his face before Bors replied, “They are no more Seraphim. Listen well and I shall tell thee of the holiest adventure of the Knights of the Table Round.

“Across the blue sea and the land of hot sands there lies serene a hollow hill. Within it stands a glorious stone Cathedral dedicated to our Holy Father. It was protected by a silent order of monks.

“Before we reached the Cathedral, Galahad joined the ranks of the eternals.

“Upon reaching the Cathedral Perceval and I were silently led to the bishop of the Holy Ground for he was the only one permitted to speak.

“He told us, Perceval and I, of how his ancestor Joseph came into possession of the Cup of Christ.

“And then we were told of Joseph’s long journey from the land of milk and honey.

“After this he bid us to stay the night. And to receive communion the next day.

“So we stayed in the simple quarters provided. And truly we intended to stay but a single night. But that night turned into many seasons.

“Finally one day I awoke for communion to find that I woke alone. For in the night Perceval had ascended the steps of heaven.

“On that day the bishop told me that it was my duty to return to tell the tale of Christ’s Cup.

“And so I returned only to find that Camelot was no more. Arthur and Guinevere were no more. And absolutely no one knew of the Lady Champion Seraphim.

“Seraphim, I am most sure that when you were charged with keeping Camelot alive in the hearts of the people you were not supposed to erase yourself,” Bros finished.

“You may be right but it was all I could think of so that they will remember the most important parts,” Seraphim replied.

“Could you not have saved Her Majesty’s honor,” Bors asked.

“I tried and tried true. But by the time I started ‘twas already too late. She had been condemned in the eyes of the populace,” Seraphim replied.

And so the two old friends sat there and talked long into the night. They talked of recent times and those long gone.

Come morning Seraphim knew she had more to add to the legend before she could take her eternal rest.

So when the children came the next day Seraphim told them a new tale. The tale told that day would forever be remembered as the greatest adventure for Arthur and his Knights.

It would come to be known as the Quest for the Holy Grail.