The great Abbey of Glastonbury is no more. But, had it survived the Dissolution of the monasteries in the time of Henry VIII, it might have retained some hint of the majesty its sister in Avalon still retained. Built of grey granite, polished and sparkling in the promise of dawn, its sweeping buttresses and high spires by far outstripped any other on the Isle. The Cathedral stood tall and dark in the dawning, the light of dozens of torches within glittering through the stained glass that filled every window. The sounds of chanting came from within, the voices of the monks at prayer to welcome the glory of a new day a gentle counterpoint to the more mundane sounds of people rising and going about their daily business in preparation of their day. Yet even here, in this house of the Christian God, there was a reverence for the Lady who ruled Avalon and the powers she represented that would never have been tolerated on Earth.
Two Handmaidens, garbed in the blue of the darkest night sky, escorted their charge and his companion to this imposing edifice, from the gentle feminine energy of the Temple to the stronger masculinity of the Church. They were joined on the steps by two monks of the Abbey who fell into place in escort, leading the way into the cathedral and along the line of the nave to where a simple set of steps led downward into the crypts below the high altar. And it was here, within this enclosing space that could almost have been the womb of the great building, that the softness of the feminine could be felt once again.
Men and women stood about the small space, garbed variously in armor or gowns, robes or mantles, all of them unarmed but some clearly used to being armed, empty scabbards hanging at their sides. They all faced the altar of this Lady Chapel, before which stood the Lady of Avalon herself, her eyes trained upon the statue of the Virgin Mother of the Christian God, smiling as though she were greeting an old friend. This was where the Grail resided; this was where Rhys would take that final step into the future that had been promised to him.
Rhys was quietly reverant as the Handmaidens escorted him, along with Natalya, to the place where he'd take that final step. If one was to look at his face, they might think he almost content, at peace with the decision he'd made, perhaps lost in thought or vigilant prayer, but nothing could be further from the truth. Still waters run deep, and beneath that facade of serenity, lurked a restless soul, as old as time, facing the uncertainty of an unknown future, no matter what had been promised. Yet this was the way of mortals since time immemorial, trusting in a higher truth, a greater good, putting their faith and trust in a nameless, faceless power they could not understand or prove existed.
As Rhys made his way toward this final step in his initiation to become a Knight, it occurred to him that he was doing that very thing - putting his trust and faith in the Lady, and in a way, in Natalya, in the Divine Feminine, to lead his life from this moment forward. He couldn't help but smile at the irony of that, pride swelling inside him, knowing that not only was he truly human, but despite all his faults and failings, he was special, he was worthy, he was chosen.
The handmaidens and monks led Rhys before the altar, to stand behind the Lady, forming themselves into a sort of honor guard. Natalya, holding her silence in reverence, met Rhys' eyes with a loving gaze before she left him to take her place among those who stood assembled in the chapel, beside a man who bore the distinctive red cross on white that marked him as a Templar.
The Lady, resplendent in shining white and gold, her face veiled beneath a circlet of moonstones, turned from her contemplation of that other lady. Even through the filmy gauze that covered her face, her smile was warm, the ineffable beauty of her being palpable in the flickering torchlight. "Who comes before us all, the counsel of Avalon, and seeks admittance to our ranks?"
Rhys' eyes met Natalya's for a moment, and it seemed something passed between them, some deeper understanding. Despite his nervousness, he offered a reassuring smile, telling her without speaking that everything would be all right. It had to be. He had not come this far to die now. What was the point in that' He watched while she took her place in the chapel, his eyes turning then to the altar and the Lady before him, once again caught off guard by her beauty and by the power that seemed to surround her and radiate from her.
His heart swelled again with a feeling that was close to love, wonder, devotion. He had made this choice freely, willingly, called to duty by a deep sense of destiny and a desire to serve, not unlike those who offered their lives in service to God. He faltered a moment, caught up in the beauty of her presence, before realizing she was addressing him, and he lifted his chin, betraying a small sense of pride. He had not been given a script, and had no way of knowing the proper response, but it was a simple enough question and one he was easily capable of answering. "I do," he answered simply. "Rhys Patrick Bristol," he continued, giving his full name, almost daring anyone to claim he was unworthy.
The smile behind the veil deepened, amused and proud of the challenge that rang forth in his voice as he presented himself to those who were gathered there. "Do you come to us of your own will?" she asked, and though the words were ritual, the question was genuine. She would never tolerate anyone forced to undergo this ordeal of faith.
There was the big question, the one that hung heavily before them, the one upon which the rest of the ceremony rested, knowing from this moment on, his life would never quite be the same. Like those who'd come before him, deep inside he somehow knew he'd been called to a greater destiny than any could have imagined, and though he felt no great sense of pride in the path he'd taken thus far, he, perhaps more than any who had come before him, was worthy of this great honor.
"Yes," he replied without hesitation, knowing he was once again offering to sacrifice his life for a greater cause, but also knowing the reward was well worth the risk. "I come of my own free will." There were those words again, words that had haunted him all his life. Free Will versus Destiny, but perhaps, he considered, they were one and the same.
The Lady nodded, reaching out to take his hands, drawing him to the intricately carved marble altar, where an ornate tabernacle of silver and gold stood on a cloth of white. "Few have seen the Grail, and fewer still have drunk from it," she said quietly, but her voice was clearly audible to everyone there as though she were standing directly beside them. "To drink from the Grail is to know yourself, to understand, to forgive. Yet forgiveness is not truly a mortal trait. That we may do so is a gift from those who watch over us. If they can forgive us, then we can forgive ourselves."
Her fingers pressed his very gently before retreating. She turned away, opening the beautiful tabernacle and drawing from its depths the Grail itself. Simple, ancient, it seemed ordinary in her hands, a rounded shape with two handles, cast of pottery and wearing its age. Yet what other vessel would both rich and poor alike have used through the millenia the Grail had been in existence"
The appearance of the Grail didn't really surprise him. Afterall, he'd seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade umpteen thousand times. It wasn't the appearance of the Grail that surprised him, but the Lady's words. Could he forgive himself" That seemed to be the matter at the crux of what she was saying. He was certain he'd received divine forgiveness, otherwise he probably wouldn't be standing there, but what of his mother, his father, his sister, and all those whose deaths he'd had a hand in" Could he have saved them' Had he done the right thing" Even if they had forgiven him, could he forgive himself"
His gaze moved from the Grail to the Lady, focusing on her face. She knew his heart, she knew who and what he was and everything he'd ever done, and still she chose to favor him, and suddenly he realized it wasn't the Grail that would find him worthy, but himself. If he believed himself to be worthy, really truly believed it deep inside, than who was there to challenge him"
Two Handmaidens, garbed in the blue of the darkest night sky, escorted their charge and his companion to this imposing edifice, from the gentle feminine energy of the Temple to the stronger masculinity of the Church. They were joined on the steps by two monks of the Abbey who fell into place in escort, leading the way into the cathedral and along the line of the nave to where a simple set of steps led downward into the crypts below the high altar. And it was here, within this enclosing space that could almost have been the womb of the great building, that the softness of the feminine could be felt once again.
Men and women stood about the small space, garbed variously in armor or gowns, robes or mantles, all of them unarmed but some clearly used to being armed, empty scabbards hanging at their sides. They all faced the altar of this Lady Chapel, before which stood the Lady of Avalon herself, her eyes trained upon the statue of the Virgin Mother of the Christian God, smiling as though she were greeting an old friend. This was where the Grail resided; this was where Rhys would take that final step into the future that had been promised to him.
Rhys was quietly reverant as the Handmaidens escorted him, along with Natalya, to the place where he'd take that final step. If one was to look at his face, they might think he almost content, at peace with the decision he'd made, perhaps lost in thought or vigilant prayer, but nothing could be further from the truth. Still waters run deep, and beneath that facade of serenity, lurked a restless soul, as old as time, facing the uncertainty of an unknown future, no matter what had been promised. Yet this was the way of mortals since time immemorial, trusting in a higher truth, a greater good, putting their faith and trust in a nameless, faceless power they could not understand or prove existed.
As Rhys made his way toward this final step in his initiation to become a Knight, it occurred to him that he was doing that very thing - putting his trust and faith in the Lady, and in a way, in Natalya, in the Divine Feminine, to lead his life from this moment forward. He couldn't help but smile at the irony of that, pride swelling inside him, knowing that not only was he truly human, but despite all his faults and failings, he was special, he was worthy, he was chosen.
The handmaidens and monks led Rhys before the altar, to stand behind the Lady, forming themselves into a sort of honor guard. Natalya, holding her silence in reverence, met Rhys' eyes with a loving gaze before she left him to take her place among those who stood assembled in the chapel, beside a man who bore the distinctive red cross on white that marked him as a Templar.
The Lady, resplendent in shining white and gold, her face veiled beneath a circlet of moonstones, turned from her contemplation of that other lady. Even through the filmy gauze that covered her face, her smile was warm, the ineffable beauty of her being palpable in the flickering torchlight. "Who comes before us all, the counsel of Avalon, and seeks admittance to our ranks?"
Rhys' eyes met Natalya's for a moment, and it seemed something passed between them, some deeper understanding. Despite his nervousness, he offered a reassuring smile, telling her without speaking that everything would be all right. It had to be. He had not come this far to die now. What was the point in that' He watched while she took her place in the chapel, his eyes turning then to the altar and the Lady before him, once again caught off guard by her beauty and by the power that seemed to surround her and radiate from her.
His heart swelled again with a feeling that was close to love, wonder, devotion. He had made this choice freely, willingly, called to duty by a deep sense of destiny and a desire to serve, not unlike those who offered their lives in service to God. He faltered a moment, caught up in the beauty of her presence, before realizing she was addressing him, and he lifted his chin, betraying a small sense of pride. He had not been given a script, and had no way of knowing the proper response, but it was a simple enough question and one he was easily capable of answering. "I do," he answered simply. "Rhys Patrick Bristol," he continued, giving his full name, almost daring anyone to claim he was unworthy.
The smile behind the veil deepened, amused and proud of the challenge that rang forth in his voice as he presented himself to those who were gathered there. "Do you come to us of your own will?" she asked, and though the words were ritual, the question was genuine. She would never tolerate anyone forced to undergo this ordeal of faith.
There was the big question, the one that hung heavily before them, the one upon which the rest of the ceremony rested, knowing from this moment on, his life would never quite be the same. Like those who'd come before him, deep inside he somehow knew he'd been called to a greater destiny than any could have imagined, and though he felt no great sense of pride in the path he'd taken thus far, he, perhaps more than any who had come before him, was worthy of this great honor.
"Yes," he replied without hesitation, knowing he was once again offering to sacrifice his life for a greater cause, but also knowing the reward was well worth the risk. "I come of my own free will." There were those words again, words that had haunted him all his life. Free Will versus Destiny, but perhaps, he considered, they were one and the same.
The Lady nodded, reaching out to take his hands, drawing him to the intricately carved marble altar, where an ornate tabernacle of silver and gold stood on a cloth of white. "Few have seen the Grail, and fewer still have drunk from it," she said quietly, but her voice was clearly audible to everyone there as though she were standing directly beside them. "To drink from the Grail is to know yourself, to understand, to forgive. Yet forgiveness is not truly a mortal trait. That we may do so is a gift from those who watch over us. If they can forgive us, then we can forgive ourselves."
Her fingers pressed his very gently before retreating. She turned away, opening the beautiful tabernacle and drawing from its depths the Grail itself. Simple, ancient, it seemed ordinary in her hands, a rounded shape with two handles, cast of pottery and wearing its age. Yet what other vessel would both rich and poor alike have used through the millenia the Grail had been in existence"
The appearance of the Grail didn't really surprise him. Afterall, he'd seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade umpteen thousand times. It wasn't the appearance of the Grail that surprised him, but the Lady's words. Could he forgive himself" That seemed to be the matter at the crux of what she was saying. He was certain he'd received divine forgiveness, otherwise he probably wouldn't be standing there, but what of his mother, his father, his sister, and all those whose deaths he'd had a hand in" Could he have saved them' Had he done the right thing" Even if they had forgiven him, could he forgive himself"
His gaze moved from the Grail to the Lady, focusing on her face. She knew his heart, she knew who and what he was and everything he'd ever done, and still she chose to favor him, and suddenly he realized it wasn't the Grail that would find him worthy, but himself. If he believed himself to be worthy, really truly believed it deep inside, than who was there to challenge him"