The Legend Ch. 01

Author's Note: To get a better feel for the accents of the characters, the spelling is modified throughout some of the story to reflect how the characters would actually sound if you were to hear them talking. I have had some say that this is wonderful, and still others say it's annoying. That is for the reader to decide. I only hope the story finds you as a vivid and enjoyable experiance.

Year of Our Lord Thirteen Hundred, Forty-Seven.

The rain fell outside relentlessly on the autumn eve. A piercing silence had filled the ancient castle’s great hall and massive rooms like a flood of unwelcome guests. Beside the blazing hearth a lone figure sat in a trace-like state with the deep reflective pools of blue focused on the flames. The quietude has become almost unbearable. Rhiannon’s ears begin to ring with the emptiness of the surrounding air, which only would succumb with the occasional crackling of the kindling. The Welsh woman sighed a sigh of exasperation, and in that instant there was a sharp tapping on the heavy castle door.

“…At this hour?” Rhiannon groaned. The fact that someone would visit with the rain pouring outside made the late night visitation strange in the least.

A guard peered from the small opening in the door, though nothing was immediately seen.

“Who goes there?” He questioned.

“The wind” she thought. Gracefully the woman spun on her heel towards the stairs, only to hear the knocking once more, only this time notably louder. The guard questioned once more, and this time Rhiannon could hear something being muttered from outside.

“Well...who is it?” Rhiannon asked impatiently.

The guard opened the door and to her surprise, standing there was a young lad. He could not have been more than sixteen years of age. The poor child was soaking wet and shivering. The boy’s wide eyes gazed up at Rhiannon. Even with his overgrown hair plastered to his face and forehead, the child’s relief was hard to hide as the door opened.

Inside the mouth of the building the boy stepped graciously, only leaving behind him a sodden trail staining the wooden floor in the shape of his boots. Clutched to the young lad’s chest was a small package covered with a thick heavy burlap material to protect it.

The guard inspected the package with his eyes before Rhiannon dismissed him silently.

“Wot beh that ye haf there m’laddie? I haf sent for naught. ” Rhi asked the young messenger with one brow raising. “…and plis, ye should come tae warm yerself by tha fire. Ye look like a drowned rat, child.” With those words Rhiannon’s mouth turned upward at the corners faintly to offer the boy to hint a smile.

“M’lady this package was sent to ye with the seal of Lord Arawen. I was instructed to ride only by night and guard it’s contents with my life.” The boy answered in a shaky voice that fell just in time with his trembling as he followed the tall woman toward the hearth. “This volume, I was told to relay, had been in the lord’s hands for quite some time now. It was said that it would hold special meaning to ye. It was also said that ye should let others know naught of the book being in your possession for ‘tis being sought after by the most of Christendom for their archives.”

“Aye. They always beh findin’ something tae stake claim tae.” Rhi said softly with her gaze still upon the aged work within his grasp, her brows knitting together slightly. Daintily the Welsh woman lowered herself onto a nearby stool.

The boy seemed fascinated for a moment with the woman’s face as the orange light danced across it. Not even a single line could be traced against the smooth skin. Only large midnight blue eyes, delicate features and the skin. The face the young man stared at was fine like blanche ivory. “Lords” he thought “so frail.” The thought crossed the lad’s mind to wrap both of his large hands around her waist, just to see if he could touch finger to finger. The royal guards surely wouldn’t be as fond of this idea.

Rhiannon’s dark arched brow rose once more, head cocking to the side as if taking something into consideration before reaching for the parcel in the boy’s hands. It was willingly passed to her and though the cloth was dampened, its contents were dry. Rhiannon traced a finger along the spine of a worn book. The manuscript bound in brown leather was plain with no indication of what lie inside. No title adorned the front. The age of the volume was evident upon Rhi opening it. Yellowing pages lie before her eyes for the viewing, faded writing in a smooth hand. The very substance the small letters were scribed in, even though time’s grip had begun to lighten them, had a faint shimmer. Most likely the “ink” had been formed from a natural source such as crushed berries for pigment, blended through with ore that was ground into powder. Quite common.

The young man kept his place at the hearth, hands extended to the heat. Rhiannon glanced up from her new point of interest with an expression of concern.

“Laddie, there beh many rooms here in muh home. Ye may pick one and I will haf muh maid bring some dry clothing tae ye. On the morn when the sun snuffs out tha moon, ye may leave as ye wish. ‘Tis smart tae worry ‘bout ye own health and comfort and nae tha width or gathering of muh waist. Such will only leave ye wet with a cold chasing at yer heels.” Rhiannon remarked calmly.

Rhi’s attention found the book immediately much to the crimson faced lad’s relief. How did she know? The boy wondered while still in a fast paced stride for the staircase. The refuge of an offered room was now an escape from embarrassment; perhaps the young man even experienced a moment’s doubt with fear. Whatever the reason being, the lad scurried toward the upper level of the keep and vanished from the queen’s sight.

Scrolled against the sickening yellowed and crumbling pages was a word…a name.

“Ceridwen.” Rhiannon read aloud.

A surge of anxiety bit down against her insides. A mother’s story to children when seeking to scare them calm and into good behavior? This creature only existed in myth and folklore.

Why was someone sending this book to her? Rhiannon could only wonder quietly to herself while her eyes fluttered from the book to the staircase in which the young messenger had fled. She had the right mind to march up there and give the young lad a good shaking.

Sighing to herself, alas, she knew that the lad probably did not know much more than what his lord had ordered of him.

“This is absurd.” Rhi whispered to herself. To any avail the woman could not lift her gaze from the script even to answer her own doubts with the benefit of just throwing the book down and retreating into the night’s slumber. She began squinting to focus on the small serpentine letters and slowly the veils of time began to lift before Rhiannon’s very eyes.

CERIDWEN

Commencement

In all eternity it had wandered the glades near the villages…a spirit lifting the bent branches of the willow. It had no words that would ever collect what it would become. Neither male nor female, it , as a whole, knew not the tether of gender. The force had been air, mist, icy waters, and the mere essence of this land. It’s most loved haunts had been indeed the loch and streams just north of Gwynedd. It is here the “spirit” witnessed it’s first battle between humans. It could see how wasteful and callused these men were. Though it had no eyes, it would “watch” the souls lift from the bodies and rise toward the implacable skies. They could not see it, for it was nothing to see. If only these brute mortals could have warning ahead of time, they may not face such damnation and senseless tragedy.

For these reasons and these alone, over time the force began to learn to focus itself. The energies would swirl about, the intentions being to manipulate the space around it to appear solid. Alas, the most the spirit could accomplish had been a transparent shade like form for at best it was a novice.

Progress was something gradual. It took drawn out months and days just to create a momentary glimmer of silhouette. Intently it had studied the wandering humans taking in every curve and molecule of their bodies. Just to get the feel of their forms it would occasionally kick up a wind and circle playfully around the passing villagers…man, woman, and child alike. Even the domesticated animals that traveled most devotedly with their masters were not safe from the prodding and tickling. It would have laughed had it a voice at the time for the donkey or mutt’s wide eyed astonishment was something it found most amusing. The most appeal and beauty could be found in the form of the human female. The energy had made it’s choice.

Through many follies and failed attempts it graduated into an occasional wispy apparition…that of a female. A most intriguing vision it had created. The energy’s form was to appear one of long slender limbs, fair of skin and light of eyes. A young maiden bearing rivers of dark tresses and the softest delicate features. Time in the spectral vision became easier to uphold with practice. It set out for the original purpose, to warn the humans of oncoming battle or physical death…in hopes it would be avoided. The apparition had developed a great love for their kind in this time of study and even though it seems frivolous now, she felt the urge to save them.

It decided to show itself for the first time, thinking that it knew it’s beloved humans so well.

A gaunt young man passed through the glen, he brushing aside a bent willow branch as his deliberately quickened stride broke through the foliage. The darkly dressed man appeared exhausted but determination held him tightly. The clothes clinging to his wiry body were dirty and fringed with rips and tears. Dirt had been long imbedded into his fingernails and smudged the side of his sun kissed face. Securely under the crook of the man’s arm was something wrapped in cloth. He pushed on even as a wound in his side spilled blood against the forests’ floor. There were shouts off distance echoing from a good mile behind the man…the yelping and growling of canines. It could be no mistake, death called through the glade just as profusely as the dogs snarled and blood trickled.

In a furious abandon she gathered the air around her essence. A chill took the air and the wind began to pick up lifting the fallen leaves from the ground. It began to materialize into the shape it had practiced sculpting so many times before in hopes of assisting the man or at least trying to warn him of the onset death had whispered of. Within feet of the stranger it rippled through the barriers of the physical realm. The head and shoulders were the first to come into being followed by the rest of her willowy form. It hovered there transparent but unmistakably there nonetheless. She moved in closer, as the man was to pass by. The spirit tingled with an overwhelming anxiety and what was possibly known to humans as fear. Desperately she sought a way to attract his attention, as the commoner moved quickly in his haste. The spirit watched disdainfully as the hoards of men closed in faster.

From the very bottom of all it knew, it focused the panic that had started to flow freely through. It searched for words of warning yet nary a one would come, for all this time she had spent on perfecting a body, and had never once attempted to learn the power of voice or even the language of her beloved mankind. Frustration surged and seared her like a red-hot blade. The torment erupted rather suddenly as the fleeing man caught the vision of her figure looming against the trees with all the illumination her unnatural aura cast. As he skidded to a stop to behold the vision in wonderment and seemingly terror held fast together, everything compressed inside of her at once. It built into a dizzying spiral and exploded into a deafening release. A piercing unnatural cry, raw and unbridled. The sound boomed, echoing through the glades sending the birds bursting from the trees like shattering glass, the woodland creatures scampering from their burrows and places of obscurity. Out of fright from what had just occurred she lost hold of the form, it dissipating into a fine mist against the cool air. Though secretly, it still watched.

The young man had let out a scream and crumpled to the forest floor holding tightly to his ears, sobbing openly. He had drawn his knees up to his chest in a child like manner and refused to move. The men caught up to the youth, yet some lingered behind having heard the penetrating scream she had let forth…followed by the man’s cry. A husky man snatched the bundle from the fallen one and delivered a raging kick to his rib cage. The filthy human then spat on the other.

“You thieving scoundrel! Someone need be teaching you the value of hard work. Mayhap then you won’t be stealing the bread from a slaving maid at the market. You are as useless as the dirt beneath a swine’s hooves.” He seemed a maddened extension of menace as he shot another blow of footing no sooner than his words had ceased.

The swindler writhed in pain, his body jerking spastically with each blow. In his blinding suffering he thought of penance and called for the Lords…yet there was no answer from those vast heavens. The lad then offered the story of what had occurred only moments prior the arrival of the angered mob. The ones which where steadfastly held into superstition turned three shades of blanched fear. Some closer to the front had seen the faint glimmer of my coming and going and took the man at his word. Forcefully they heaved the man up by his collar and headed back for town, all the while talking of “the daemon” in the forest. Others claiming it was but a haunting, a spirit of the dead.

It had never been a being of the flesh and therefore, it was not departed. She knew naught of this “devil” they carried on about, for the spirit had never encountered such. Nature had been the creator…the earth her womb.

Only later through the dense whispering of passers-by did she hear the man had been hung at the neck before Town Square until dead. She was crushed in failure…though the spirit knew it had been just as well. The injuries the man had sustained would have surely been his death call had he kept fleeing the men. It was from this moment on she became obsessed with learning the language and how to project a voice. With the presence of words would come warning, not just that hellish primal wail that had ripped through the wilderness’ silence that day.

Like the entrapment of the ghostly form it had adopted, this took much time and effort. She continued to warn others of impending death and illness through out the countryside. Time and time again she had even taken to the air above battlefields tearing through the winds like something that could have leapt from the fires of hell itself. The apparition’s wailing echoed high above the battlefields, sometimes sending a whole army into retreat.

The spirit’s endeavors were even mentioned in written human history and passed through folklore. It had warned an army as they passed through as it commonly did. Years had now aided the apparition and it had grown rather adept to all the things that humans feared. What better way for them to consider the warnings?

A voice she had by then, it low and baritone yet still markedly feminine. It was the epitome of forewarning and omen. The leader of this Norman army took notice of the female figure as it gave the illusion that it washed clothes by the riverbanks. The material was slick with blood and gore. He approached her curiously stopping a few feet from the maiden, his strong form stiffening. Like any man he had originally been drawn by her splendor and fair vision, but all too soon did he take notice of what occupied her interest.

“My good lady…I have never seen such bloodshed against one single garment or weapon. What befell your husband?” he inquired in both wonderment and disgust.

The woman turned to him…the cloth still besotted with the stagnation of blood and dirty river water as if to let him see what waited. “ I have no mate to speak of. These my lord…my dear Norman….are your clothes.” The truth it had spoken for they were the exact replicas. This it had made sure of. Deeply troubled he was and swiftly he fled, yet as the apparition had predicted, De Clare found his maker calling on the battlefields while challenging the great Toirdhelabhach.

Stories of the “wailing woman” spread through the countryside like a hungry parasite feeding on the ears of all that would listen. So many they christened her with yet they would never give me the praise she deserved. When spoke of by the humans she had become “banshee”, “bansidhe”, “badhbh”, “Morrioghain”, “Macha”, “Fea”, or “Morrigu”. No matter what title awaited her, it continued what it considered to be good. The tales ranged in description from her being haggard to beautiful…from grotesque to utterly bewitching. The further the tales spread, the thinner the truth spread as well. Humans, it had learned, were strange and superstitious creatures indeed.

Accounts had spread so vast in the next centuries that it was astonishing. Later as it would happen, she realized that other spirits of nature were becoming learned much in the fashion it had and were becoming a mimic of the original. They of course varied in appearance and tactics…yet they were all her unintentional pupils.

Surprisingly a select few of the cousin spirits even centered themselves around certain families, only warning those with the same blood of one clan throughout the centuries. To her this was beyond all resonance. To all that would hearken she would bestow her message of death’s intention.

LLEWELLYN

Quietude circulated in her place of existence for some time. Those of great superstition and followers of the new religion, that of the one god, kept their distance choosing to fight their wars in lands strange to her. What had been considered in some cases to be her greatest triumphs had ebbed, nearly ceasing with fewer tracing upon her soil. The spirit would have been grateful to cast eyes upon any soul…rich lord or have-not. She grew restless in the ancient glen.

Emblazoned with these burning conclusions, the apparition was riven to become vagrant. She set out further into the never-ending emerald embrace of what surrounded her. It didn’t occur to the spirit that it may have tread upon another’s territory.

There sprang to life the babbling of a waterfall in the distance and the scent of nautical sweetness brimming somewhere off to the North. The newly chosen grounds were much deeper and darker than her captivating homelands. Shadows wound themselves around every leaf and pebble, snaking even into the flowing stream. The spirit was immediately intrigued. Teaming with creatures large and small, this place was vibrant and full of life despite the foreboding appearance. A hunter would have to pass through, a maid picking fruit, a healer busied with the seeking of herbs. Of this the spirit was ascertained.

Moons passed with no success and once again she ebbed through the branches and over the waters solemnly, only choosing to air herself in the guise of fog.

Blending into the night-tide music, one night the spirit finally caught faint sound of footfalls. Filling with a burning excitement she had been careful to still compose the silvery mist upon the water’s break. The soft steps that once had collided in a soft rhythm with the ground subsided.

It could sense the figure of a male nearing closer to the water’s edge. There was no death circulating through the colors encasing the man’s aura. In fact this was an aura unlike that of any the spirit had seen permeating about a mortal. The man’s face remained hidden by a dirty brown hooded cloak which licked around his ankles like an eager companion and only the toes of his ragged suede boots made their position known from beneath the flowing of stiff folds. Here, without her gift of materialization called into play, she admired this strange person. The curiosity had amplified ten times as it watched one of his large hands reach upwards to fumble with the concealment of his hood. Yieldingly, it slipped over a mass of ebony hair before resting against broad shoulders. A gasp the spirit admitted only echoed into the grove as a wind lashing at the grasses around his feet.