"Pour everything out for the blood you have shed, you're wasting your time in appeasing the dead."
- Aeschylus
Hate begets hate, violence begets violence; it's as sure as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Uther Pendragon sowed the...
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To ride through the gates of Camelot, not as conquerors but as refugees, felt like a betrayal to all Mairead knew.
She had to remind herself that this was all part of a greater plan, a plot that would hopefully see Camelot in flames just as Beladur had been.
Still, it didn't make the sight of Camelot, bustling and alive, any easier to swallow. While her people lived in tents, forced to exist in poverty and in a constant state of fear, Uther lived safely in luxury.
From the gates, Mairead could see the stone turrets and towers piercing the sky, a mighty monolith that sent a churning roil through her belly. No wonder no army could take the citadel; it was a fortress more than a castle.
Mairead fought the urge to give into fear; what good did it do?
In this place, away from the safety of her mother's garden and the overgrown walls of Beladur, fear meant death. Weakness would only be met with cruelty, a noose round her neck, or a fire at her feet. Should her secret be revealed, or even her relation to Nimueh, Mairead didn't doubt that Uther would execute her without a second thought. So, while she remained in Camelot, fomenting a plot to ride this land of evil, Mairead Rhyl would have to be no more.
It was in the waning candlelight of Beladur that Mairead Garridan was born, a daughter of Daobeth.
The identity her aunt created of a young refugee without money, means, or family was far too similar to Mairead's life, she found. But then again, aren't the best lies born from truth?
Mairead could play the role of a sniveling lady who knew no hardship until it was foisted upon her by the tragedies of life. She would do anything if it ended in Uther dead at her feet.
But it would not be Mairead in truth; though she was born of love, she was rebirthed in conflict.
A baptism of fire, she often thought, the sacking of Beladur burning away all that once might have been and giving way to a new path. But, it wasn't just her kingdom that burned that night, but the potential of a Mairead free from hate. Perhaps she would have genuinely been that young, soft princess, untouched by tragedy.
The part of Mairead that still believed in fate, that clung close to the belief that her life had a purpose greater than bearing the wounds of her family knew that before her lay destiny's chosen path.
Listening to Nimueh as she divulged the plan one late night, the hearth fire casting her aunt in shadow and leaving only a wolfish smile in its place had strengthened something Mairead once thought dead within herself. The belief in a greater power.
Surely all the pain and suffering must have some end in sight?
If not an end, then at least retribution. Mairead swore to cling to that belief when doubt hounded her; her mission was true and right; none could deny that.
