Well, So It Must Be, For As

I Know All About Endings. It Is Beginnings That Elude Me.

From These Christians Who Came To [avalon] To Escape The Bigotry Of Their Own Kind I Learned Something, At Last, Of The Nazarene, The Carpenter's Son Who Had Attained Godhead In His Own Life And Preached A Rule Of Tolerance; And So I Came To See That My Quarrel Was Never With The Christ, But With His Foolish And Narrow Priests Who Mistook Their Own Narrowness For His.

The Visible World Was Only An Imperfect Reflection Of The Ideal, Which The Philosopher Sought To Transcend.

Rome Was Mud And Smoky Skies; The Rank Smell Of The Tiber And The Exotically Spiced Cooking Fires Of A Hundred Different Nationalities. Rome Was White Marble And Gilding And Heady Perfumes; The Blare Of Trumpets And The Shrieking Of Market-women And The Eternal, Sub-aural Hum Of More People, Speaking More Languages Than Gaius Had Ever Imagined Existed, Crammed Together On Seven Hills Whose Contours Had Long Ago Disappeared Beneath This Encrustation If Humanity. Rome Was The Pulsing Heart Of The World.

I Should Know, For I Am Morgaine Le Fay, Priestess Of The Isle Of Avalon, Where The Ancient Religion Of The Mother Goddess Is Born.