Author's Note:
This is a Halloween special I wrote using an epistolary novel prompt. An epistolary novel is a book or story told through letters or journal entries. This form of storytelling has been used for centuries and includes such titles as Dracula by Bram Stoker and The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. At this time, the story is meant as only a short story to give myself some Halloween vibes.
My dearest Isolde,
Curse the day that King Arthur befouled the mood of the witch Morgana. And curse the day that you dared me to throw tomatoes at her in the market. Truly, how did we get in this heap of steaming cow—ahem. I can already hear you scolding me for my language.
Fret not, dear Isolde, I shall not offend your sensibilities.
But I shall force you to listen to my tale of mischief and woe, for it is partly your fault.
T'was a frightfully rainy day when you dared me to throw that rotten tomato at the old hag strapped to the stock in the town square, and I shall not forget (nor forgive, mind you) how you teased and poked my side until I finally acquiesced.
How was I to know she was really a witch?
The tomato had barely left my hand when I heard the loud shouts "make way, make way for the king!" In that moment I dreaded that, with my luck, the tomato would splatter the shiny armor of the newest man to establish himself as King over this dreary island.
But I suppose it would have been better to offend the king—at least then my death would have been swift and I could haunt you from my grave.
Nay, the rotten fruit collided with the silvery, unwashed tendrils of the hag, and my fate was sealed.
I expected her to crow with displeasure, but she just laughed. She laughed heartily, as if she had not been forced into the stock for indecent exposure and public urination, and rather had come down from the mountains for a picnic and a spot of entertainment.
You, Isolde, had already moved on to join the crowd gathering to greet the new king. Do you recall how he looked that day?
His broad armor was so shined and greased that the rain dared not stick to him, and his gold chainmail could be heard clinking even above the thunder. His hair, a bright yellow, was encircled by a jewel-encrusted crown that held the strands in place against the rain.
Handsome? To be sure! As is a requirement of any young man in uniform, I suppose.
His faithful dog, the First Knight Sir Lancelot, rode a warhorse just behind him, his green eyes always watching the crowd for danger. His armor, less polished than the king, showed the years of strain that war had wrought. Prince Arthur and his knights of the round table had fought for many a year to secure his father's throne, and now he returned home a King.
The hag's laughter only increased when King Arthur rode by, and he paused, looking around as if astounded that someone would dare to do anything but swoon and throw flowers.
He drew his black warhorse up sharply and looked down at the woman. I stood so close I was almost between them and dared not move as his knights surrounded us. Horses' hooves pounded the sticky mud around me. The knights glowered down from their worn and dented armor.
"Who dares mock the King of Camelot?" said he, his voice raised above the pattering rain.
"Oh," crooned the old crow, "I would never mock the true king, but I may laugh at any pretender that I wish."
I should have known then that this would end poorly.
King Arthur drew his sword, that fabled weapon which he claimed to have pulled from the stone, and pointed it at the woman.
Unfortunately, that meant angling it past my neck.
"Repent, hag, or I shall remove your head from that stock in a most unpleasant manner," he sneered, glaring down his nose at her. It was a rather fine nose; although not broken enough for a knight who'd seen battle.
She twisted her head to look up at him and her smiling lips wrinkled into a scowl that revealed her remarkably even and white teeth. "You would pester a poor old woman in the stocks? And you call yourself a king," she turned up her nose and spat a little.
It landed beside the worn-out toe of my boot. We all looked down at it, and then I met the gaze of the old woman.
I tell you, Isolde, her eyes were the palest brown I have ever seen. Pity prickled me somewhere between my heart and my spine. I don't know why I would feel such a rush of emotion for this strange old woman. I had never been one to cry over orphans and widows. But something in her gaze made me feel ashamed of my very existence.
She had the kind of eyes that would have sent even a druid priest scrambling for a catholic cross to ward against the evil that lurked in those pale brown depths.
If I had spoken up to defend her, perhaps things would have turned out differently. But I had just thrown a tomato at her, so my pride would not have allowed for it. Again, I blame you.
"Silence, hag!" the king shouted, and swung that mighty sword.
With a blue burst of light, the stock around the old woman's neck shattered.
The horses reared, their sharp hooves slicing through the air around my head, and the knights shouted in alarm.
To this day, I do not know precisely what happened to me, Isolde.
Something sharp pierced my chest, throwing me back a dozen paces until I landed in the soiled alley. Unable to move, or even breathe, I watched in alarm as the hag's elderly façade faded away, and a tall, beautiful woman stood upon the raised platform.
Feathery brown cloth, as thin as dragonfly wings, draped her shoulders and flowed around her body. Her hair, still silvery, now twisted into a braid which extended to the ground behind her, and her pale brown eyes caused the crowd to cower in fear.
Morgana, the most feared witch in the land. King Arthur's sworn enemy.
I had seen her once before as a child. She cast a spell on the land and caused a drought to strike our crops. She haunted the nightmares of every villager, the boogeyman of every child.
Although I lay frozen in a moment before certain death, I watched in wonder as she extended a hand toward the king, who had become unseated from his horse and now sat on the cobbled stone at her feet. His knight, Lancelot, spurred his horse onward to protect the King, his sword raised.
But I never heard what she said. My eyes fell closed, and for a time, I knew nothing.
When my eyes opened again, I saw only murky darkness. I lifted my hand to my face, my movements slowed by cold, heavy water, and a stream of bubbles escaped my lips.
Kicking furiously, I pulled myself to the surface and discovered that I had awoken in the depths of a lake. Reeds choked the shores and white mist hugged the water's glassy surface, broken only by the ripples around me.
This could only be a place of magic, Isolde. I knew it in my bones, which ached from the cold water and yet vibrated with unseen energy that flowed through my veins.
"Rise," a light voice commanded, and some unseen force pulled me from the water and lifted me through the air until my bare feet touched the hard earth of the shore. Water streamed down my arms and plastered my hair to my neck. Starlight glinted harshly at me, as if weighing a final judgement.
I could not hold myself up, for I was so cold. I dropped to my knees, folding my arms between my legs for warmth, and looked up into the smooth, beautiful face of my rescuer.
"Morgana." My voice cracked from lack of use, the air ragged and cold in my throat. Clusters of yellow eyes peered through the mist at me, unblinking. Curious.
Motionless, she simply stared.
"What happened to me?" I asked, looking around. Wet folds of white clung to my skin, not even marred by the dirt upon which I knelt. The mist was so thick that I could see nothing beyond the shores of the lake. Nothing but those hundreds of strange yellow eyes that never looked away.
"You died," she said.
What an odd reply, so even and matter of fact.
When I felt my chest for the object which had killed me, I found only a bubbled scar below my collarbone.
Morgana continued, a smile playing on her red lips. "And so you shall die again each night at midnight until such time as you can break my curse upon you."
I clutched handfuls of dirt below me. "How?"
"Kill King Arthur."
And thus my tale begins, my dearest Isolde.
With all my love,
Gweneviere.
Thank you for reading this Halloween Special! Someday, after I'm not bogged down with finishing my master's thesis, I'd love to do more with this story, but for now, I hope you enjoyed my burst of Halloween creativity.