“Morgaine,” Arthur whispered, “is it really you? I cannot see you, Morgaine, it is so dark here-is the sun setting? Morgaine, take me to Avalon, where you can heal me of this wound-take me home, Morgaine-“ His head was heavy on my breast, heavy as the child in my own childish arms, heavy as the King Stag who had come to me in triumph.
