The stories are under the cut
Jessica Bonito sent me a copy of her arthurian novel "Camelot Lost": She had been superkind and she had contacted me because she saw me talking about it around. It had been a strange and amazing surprise. The novel was also quite unique in its genre because it took into considerarion Mordred and Amr (AMR, can you imagine!) as the two main characters, along with a lot of Guinevere, Arthur and Morgana. Also, I recommend it to people who like the relationship between Guinevere and Mordred (as in Monmouth, consensual relationship).
And I managed to interview Phyllis Ann Karr and Douglas Clegg (mail interviews of course). I randomly sent them mail asking for an online interview (because I am shameless) and they... said yes! So now you can find answers and questions (all arthurian related) at these links:
INTERVIEW TO PHYLLIS ANN KARR
iNTERVIEW TO DOUGLAS CLESS
(The Phyllis Ann Karr has a little mistake, I have still to correct it, sorry, my life has been crazy, but I will do it soon)
Merry Christmas! Or just happy holidays! And for all the atheists like me: Have a nice day!
will probably be disappointing not only for my inability to write n
English but also because I didn’t manage to finish. This is just a sort
of first chapter of a probable steampunk arthurian au.
I hope you will like it anyway!
(Congratulations on surviving the end of the world!)
warning: English is not my first language
25th DECEMBER: (steampunk au)
The vial was now empty in Morgause’s hands but the only thing she regretted was not being able to see Uther agonizing on the floor, spitting blood and cursing, slowly dying. The fact that her mother’s rapist and her father’s murderer was finally dead was not enough but it would have to do.
“Maybe, it is enough that is is because of me,”
said Morgause, Governor of Orkneys, after her husband’s death. The void in her, filled with anger, wasn’t vanishing but maybe that night she would not have to dream her mother’s desperate eyes or the moment Uther sent her to Lot.
Ambrosius had given Morgause the recipe of the poison, a deadly liquid impossible to detect by smell or colour, and Morgana had administered it in Uther’s last meal.
“It is enough for me, sister,” replied Morgana, the witch who used to live in the woods and had decided to come back to civilization for revenge and sisterly love.
Guinevere was writing an article about potatoes. Not that there was a lot to say about potatoes or vegetables, a part from mentioning the way the soils got impoverished because of the wars. But she couldn’t even do that. She could only write about cooking potatoes.
She stopped, massaging her temples. How the mighty have fallen. Not that she considered herself one of the mighty ones but surely, she deserved better than a little column about cooking in the newspaper. She knew she deserved better.
She had had better.
She had had a newspaper of her own, “The Quest”, she had written what she had preferred, she had not stopped from writing what she felt had been right: the useless war against the kingdom of Saxons, the useless deaths of soldiers, caused only but Uther’s need to control his people with fear and threats of conquests. She had had told the truth, of that she had been sure: Uther was more of a king or a dictator than the President of the Cities of Camelot.
The people had not liked her truths. The people and the police.
She had been endangering her family, her sister Guinevak had had to face difficult times for her restourant, her fiance Arthur had had to change university to get his degree in politics.
Uther was a murderer, Uther was a dictator, Uther was-
“Uther is dead! Our president has been killed!” shouted Guinevak, stumbling in the room, nearly tripping over one of the mechanical cats Bedwyr gave them as a gift the previous Liberation Day.
“Careful, Guinevak- but- what? What did you said?”
“Uther is dead! Uther!” answered Guinevak, letting herself fall in her sister’s bed. “That bastard is dead.”
“I don’t believe it… he is dead,” repeated Guinevere. She felt empty. The man she had considered the enemy, the monster, was dead. She felt regret, for not having been able to disgrace him, to discovers all his dirty secrets, she felt relief, but mostly she felt filled with fear.
What was going to happen now? What was going to happen to the Cities of Camelot which were born with democracy and justice but had been tainted all those years by Uther’s influence?
“Guinevak, was he killed?”
“Yes, I told you. Someone poisoned him. That’s what the people are saying.”
“I didn’t want this. I fear, oh, Guinevak, I fear martyrs.”
Arthur tried to be as quiet as he could. Bedwyr hates the noise while he worked.
The problem was that Arthur was quite bored. He was raining and he had still to find a job and his abilities with mechanicals were quite useless compared to Bedwyr’s and even compared to Kay’s mediocre abilities in fixing broken clocks and mechanical dogs.
“Arthur, please. Just… drink some tea,” smiles Bedwyr, without looking at him.
Arthur sighed and looked at Kay who was smiling in a corner and reading one of Guinevere’s old books.
“He never tells you to just drink some tea,” complained Arthur, whispering to his foster brother. Kay shrugged: “It’s because I am quite.”
“It’s because you sleep with him.”
“Technically it’s because I have sex with him.”
Bedwyr glared at them but before he could offer more tea (he just needed to finish fixing the little wheel of a client’s toy before dinner) someone knocked on the door. Arthur jumped up, glad to have something to do. He was quite surprised when he found his teacher Merlin in front of him. Merlin had taught him a course at the university (Foreign Politics) and had been quite famouse. People had liked to gossip about him having mystical powers or being a wizard. Arthur had never seen any enchantments from him but had been enchanted by his speechs, by his charisma and his ideas. They had never been friends. The coldness of the relationship between the master and the student had always been quite clear, still Arthur had missed him in those months away from the university. He had missed Merlin’s brilliance.
He had never thought he would see him again if not in some pathetic revivalist party of university times. “Mr. Emrys?”
“Oh, call me Merlin, Arthur. You are not one of my students now.”
Embarassed and feeling awkward all of a sudden, Arthur decided to do the one thing
Ector taught him in case of danger: “Would you like some tea?”
“Oh, no, not at all. I am just here to talk to you, Arthur.”
Bedwyr abandoned his work, glaring at the stranger old man dressed in elegant black clothes.
“Why don’t we go upstair? My-“
“Uther is dead and you are his son.”
warning: English is not my first language, ages ages ages! (Ector was 20 when he adopted Arthur, Arthur was 15 when he conceived Mordred, Mordred was 19 when Melou was born so basically now Arthur is 33 and Ector is 54)
24th DECEMBER: (Ector, Melou, Hug)
Arthur takes the little baby in his arms. Kay is trying really hard not to smile at Melou’s sleepy face and Mordred is twitching as if he doesn’t completely trust his father to not let the baby fall.
Guinevak smiles at her husband, taking his hand.
Suddenly a voice calls from the hall. “Let me see, let me see!”
“Father!” recognizes Kay, opening the door of the little room to let his father Ector enter.
“I am a great grandfather,” says the big ruffly man. He feels old, but not that old to be a great grandfather also if his hair are already all white and he can’t fight anymore because of his wounded leg.
“Yes, you are,” smiles Arthur. Mordred stops twitching. “We told him, of course. He is still your grandfather. I hope it’s all right, Mordred.”
“Of- of course,” manages to answer Mordred, who suddenly feels suffocated by all that family.
The imponent figure of Ector advances toward Arthur and with incredibly careful hands he takes the tiny Melou in his own arms. Melou mewls softly before stirring and taking one of Ector’s old and big hands into a hug.
warning: English is not my first language, slash
23rd DECEMBER: (Sagramore, Aglovale, Love)
“You are in love.”
Aglovale nearly jumped. For a man who was twice his size, Sagramore had always been incredibly quiet while moving.
“Why?” asked Pellinore’s son, trying to look casual and bored.
“You have been carving in that piece of wood all morning. And that is a heart. And that is another heart.”
Aglovale looked down at the knife and the wood. He had to admit that there were a lot of little hearts.
“Who is the lucky maiden? One of Guinevere’s handmaidens? Or is him a knight?” asked Sagramore, sitting beside his friend. It was no secret (not even to the little disapproving Perceval) that Aglovale’s tastes run in both directions.
“It’s a him,” answered the knight, nervous.
“Who is he, then? It’s not Lancelot, isn’t him? Because the list of damsels and knights who are infatuated by our handsome champions is a bit too long.”
“No. Not Lancelot. Not- not a knight.”
Sagramore frowned, surprised, massaging his black beard. “A man who is not a knight. The king?!”
“No. No, Sagramore, he is, he is just a blacksmith. He lives near Tintagel, in a village. You surely do remember when I was wounded and I took refuge in a village and there I met him- he is not a knight.”
Sagramore bursted into a sudden laugh. “That’s what’s troubling you?” he asked, trying to not run out of air, among the tears. “Don’t say ‘he is just a blacksmith’. He must be a damn good blacksmith if you are in love with him.”
Aglovale smiled, feeling his own face burning. “Yes, he is. A damn fine man.”
warning: English is not my first language
22nd DECEMBER: (Guinevere, Elaine of Corbenic, Pain)
Elaine tried to get up, without much success. She had a bad fall and her horse Lily was ignoring her calls.
Brisane had been right, Elaine should have never left the castle alone. But she had been desperate to see Lancelot. Her Lancelot.
“Are you hurt?”
Elaine turned. A woman was looking at her. She had managed to take Lily’s rein and in her other hand she had the rain of a beautiful white mare.
“Yes, I mean- a bit. That is my horse.”
“I imagined,” smiled the woman. She wasn’t exactly beautiful. Brisane
would have disapproved the way the stranger was dressing (with red which was awful with her strange orange hair) and smiling (like… like a peasant girl) but Elaine felt strangely charmed by the woman’s sincere smile.
“Let me help,” said the woman, giving Elaine a hand to get up and helping her to get on Lily. “Where are you going?”
“Wonderful!” laughed the stranger. “I am the queen of Camelot!”
warning: English is not my first language, superhero AU
21st DECEMBER: (Ettard, Tor, Christmas)
Tor opened his eyes that night of Christmas all of a sudden.
He could see projected on the wall the soft lights of his Christmas tree. Which was strange because he was alone at home and he always switched them off.
“Who is there?” he called. No one answered.
He got off the bed, advancing towards the open door of his room, to enter into the living room. He took his mother’s umbrella, ready to use it if necessary.
“Are you a thief? Or am I crazy?” he tried again.
Tor jumped, dropping the umbrella for the surprise.
There was a woman in his living room. She had a mask on her face and she was dressed in green and gold. “I am not a thief, before you ask me again. Au contraire. I am here to bring you a gift.”
“What- what gift? How did you enter?”
“I like the posters in your room. All those superheroes. The great
Pendragon, the Lady of the Lake, Merlin, Pellinore… Don’t you want to
become one of them?”
“Who are you?” asked Tor this time.
“Please, don’t call me Santa Claus. My name is Ettard and I am one of them also if I don’t fight exactly in their same league. Let’s say that I have a little grudge with the Lady of the Lake.”
“You are a supervilain!” shouted Tor. Everyone knew that the Lady of the Lake was the Pendragon’s most trusted ally and everyone in England had something to thank the Pendragon for.“It’s a point of view, of course. But I have another story to tell you, if you care to listen. It’s about your father. Then you can decide the side you want to fight for.”
warning: English is not my first language
20th DECEMBER: (Merlin, Clarissant, Selkie)
When Merlin meets Clarissant he knows there is something different in her.
She is a simple girl with long red hair and a round nose, but her eyes are watery and long for the sea.
“What are you?” he asks her. Clarissant smiles, before answering: “Did you mean ‘who am I’? I am Clarissant, the daughter of Morgause.”
“No, you are not. I know Morgause, she may have raised you but you are not her daughter.”
“Why? What do you think I am?”
“You are a witch?”
“Maybe,” Clarissant shrugs. “Maybe not. Maybe I am becoming a witch.”
“You are not human,” tries Merlin, looking at her face. Her skin is ridiculously pale, almost blue.
“I like you. You know spells that Morgause doesn’t. You are useful. And you are not human either, you are the son of a demon. If you will help me, teach me your magic, I will promise I will tell you who I am.”
“First you must explain to me why you want my spells.”
“To find my brother. A mad woman stole him from my mother’s arms, a mad woman who had lost all her other children because of the king’s wars.”
Merlin nods. Clarissant’s face seems sincere, eager. “Then, tell me what are you.”
“I come from the sea. I am a selkie and I’ve hidden my pelt into a cave, maybe one day I will show it to you. My mother calls me Dindrane and I am a Nimue, a seeker of the ones who were lost in your human world.”
Merlin shakes her hand. She is a selkie. The power of a selkie- Merlin will help her find her brother and then he will look for her pelt.
Maybe the power of the selkie will help him saving Arthur’s kingdom and himself.