Side One Hundred And Four – Gwenhwyfar Pryce, Merched y Llyn

Side One Hundred And Four – Gwenhwyfar Pryce, Merched y Llyn

“It seems we have unwelcome guests.” Gwenhwyfar muttered, the play of the silver lightning overhead reflecting in the ripples of the small lake that sat at the heart of the glen, fragrant trees resplendent with pink, white and golden blossoms despite the season back in the Material. Well, autumn is no matter here, in the shadows of Avalon. Placing down the cup of half-drunk tea on the pretty, enamelled saucer, she put it on the table made from oak wood, inlaid with gold and silver in patterns of Celtic knotwork.

A replica, of course, and a pale shadow of the original. Or so the stories handed down go. Turning to the shapely females that surrounded her, their hair long and auburn, their white dresses diaphanous and transparent, barely hiding their inhuman beauty, she asked them to fetch her guards. As they curtsied and backed away, Gwenhwyfar considered her options carefully.

“Well, I suppose this was only a matter of time. They were content to leave us remnants of the old times alone while the Gods were absent, but now... well, Aeronwen smiles upon the brave, does she not?” Standing, she swept her black cloak over her shoulders, in stark contrast to the white gown she wore, unadorned but of fine cloth, reaching for the rusted sword that lay against the nearest leg of the round table. Once it was in her hands, the feeling reassuring, familiar, she looked at her own reflection in the placid lake. Her clear blue eyes stared back at her, her rich blonde hair streaming down her back, the colour of spun gold. Unlike her sister or most of the few remaining Merced y Llyn, she was well endowed and tall, far from the willowy, nymph-like figures that those with Fae blood often sported.

The tranquillity of the lake was broken by the sound of booted feet, as a half-dozen of her closest relatives, all men appearing from ages of twenty to fifty, arrived, wearing strangely old-fashioned chainmail armour, and carrying maces, axes and swords. “Daughter, is it trouble?” one asked, his blonde hair faded to grey, a scatter of stubble on his patrician features. Beside him, the youngest of her guards also asked for her counsel.

“Peace, brother dearest, father. Yes, it is definitely trouble. It looks like the long-hidden arm of the great Church has come calling. I doubt very much they are simply here for tea and pleasantries. And if they know the location of this small hidden vale, it seems likely there would be little point in fleeing this fragment of Avalon. No, their advantage is likely greater there. They always did have the resources.” She smiled bitterly. The history of what truly happened fifteen hundred years ago on this blessed isle has long been distorted, sometimes by simple mischance and the acts of writers and historians, other times deliberately, by those who have no wish for any divinity to be praised but their own sterile, abominable, solitary being.

“Surely the strength of our will should keep them out?” a third man, this one a few years older than her, declared, his arm muscles bulging as he hefted a mace almost as tall as Gwenhwyfar herself. “This sacred site is powerful, surely the lingering Fae will allow no trespass?” The expression on his face was angry at the intrusion.

“The Fae will do what they can, but we are long separated from the greater Court, and the proud Llyn porth cleddyf. The ones who remain here are not powerful.” She warned. “And while the wards of this Territory can turn aside roaming beasts or passing scavengers, against a determined opponent, they will surely fail. By our Lady Nimuë, this is a bitter day. Why did it have to happen in my lifetime?”

“Well, we live long, don’t we?” her father chuckled. “Though to be fair, you are still a young fawn at your age.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, father.” She sniffed. “Well, there is no point making a scene. They know we are here, and they know we know they are here.” Gwenhwyfar raised her hand, and a brilliant play of rainbow light spread from her palm. The still lake responded, the reflection of the silver skies above fading, replaced by scintillating prismatic light, and for a moment the waters parted, revealing a series of beautiful black and sapphire spire-like trees beneath the surface, the leaves a brilliant azure blue, before the waters covered them again, leaving no trace of their presence.

It is too much for them to overlook... no, the one who leads, I feel her power. It is sharp, cold and unyielding. There is something else though, another, weaker, yet... somewhat familiar.

“Well then. We may as well at least look like we are in control.” She proclaimed, sitting on her chair again, legs crossed, cloak wrapped around her. Reaching out she retrieved her cup of tea, taking a sip, only for her face to crease unhappily as it was now lukewarm. Placing it down again with a sigh, she watched as the tall trees, ferns and grasses that surrounded the tranquil glen parted, and their guests arrived.

“I give you my greetings, in the name of the One, True and Only God.” The lead figure smiled, her appearance a distorted mirror of Gwenhwyfar own. Well, the eyes are different, and not just the colour...

The gleaming green eyes of the visitor were sure of themselves, showing no doubt, unlike Gwenhwyfar, who feared her decision to remain was the wrong one. No, I know that they will have found this place back in the mortal world as well, otherwise they surely would not have risked a confrontation... Behind the young woman, who was wearing priestly vestments of white and gold, numerous tinkling bells adorning them ringing sweetly as she moved, her long blonde hair wrapped around her like a cloak, came a score of men and women, wearing armoured robes and carrying bare steel, their swords bright and sharp. Amongst the group was someone strange though, someone who did not seem to fit.

Wait, is that... no, that shouldn’t be... dumbfounded, Gwenhwyfar missed her chance to return the greeting, leaving the woman to speak, her gaze hardening.

“Well, are you not going to offer your guests hospitality? Or even a few welcoming words? You heathens, so rude.” She sniffed. “We have come a long way, so at least offer me a chair to take the weight off my weary legs. I am a Cardinal, not a soldier. I’m delicate.”

Behind her one of her relatives snorted wryly at that, and she raised a hand to beckon them to silence. It is probably too late to worry about bad impressions, it was probably too late the day I was born into this world. But there is no advantage to stoking their ire... “My apologies. I can’t say I was expecting such an... august... visitor. Father, fetch her a chair.”

With a hard look, her father brought a chair forwards, and the woman sat down casually. Seeing that, Gwenhwyfar tightened her grip on her old sword, which she had pushed behind her with her leg, hoping to keep it out of sight.

“Oh, I am hardly so important, just a humble woman doing the work of God.”

“Humble, hardly.” Gwenhwyfar’s father said as he backed off, his body language defensive, ready to move at a moment’s notice. “I recognise that ring. That’s the ring that old crone Magdalena Stuart used to wear. It has some stupid Latin name. You’re British, right? At least use English. It’s too much to expect Cymric or Gaelic.”

“Father...” she hissed, annoyed at his provocations, but while most of the forces the newcomer had brought looked furious at the insult, the green-eyed woman merely tittered, as if she had heard something incredibly amusing.

“Oh, so you knew my grandmother? How fascinating. Well, she did like to keep an eye on... special... people. Hence how we found you. There are records of the locations we know of ... what do you call them? Ah yes, Glades of Avalon. How very ... poetic. If rather blasphemous. Well, do allow me to introduce myself. I am Mary Stuart, and I have the honour of being Prophecy-Cardinal of the True Revelation. Oh, I suppose I am indeed an august visitor.” She grinned, placing a hand on her cheek, tilting her head cutely, though Gwenhwyfar was not fooled at all. This one is dangerous. Extremely so. She has the look of a fanatic. No, all of the True Revelation are fanatics. After all, even the secret societies of old, such as the Knight’s Templar, were said to fear them. But her eyes shine with a different insanity.

“In that case, why not walk away? Give us time to decide. I know you said we had little remaining, but surely a day can be spared, no? You may be strong and outnumber us, but here within the glen, my Territory, I doubt it would be worth your time or the cost it would entail to try and force our compliance.” Her hand was sweating, the hilt of the old sword terribly cold on her skin.

“Oh, you think so?” Mary leaned back in her chair. “Well... perhaps a... demonstration... is in order. I sense a lot of non-humans hiding in the trees. I have no need of them. Those of you who have human blood, well, there’s still hope you can reach salvation. But those who were not created by God...”

Wait, she wouldn’t? “Hold, there is no need for...” her words fell from her lips, leaving stunned silence behind as the air warped behind Mary Stuart, and something dreadful began to form, shadows and light coming together in impossible shapes.

“Come forth, Principality, and show the sinful the cleansing light of the Lord!” she intoned in a singsong voice. Immediately Gwenhwyfar’s kin sprang into action, rushing forwards as a great breeze sprang up, rustling the trees and grasses, the lake waters blown aside, revealing the precious structures that kept the Glade functioning. Priest-Soldiers responded, and soon there were screams and shouts, the clashing of metal on metal, cries of agony, splashes of blood, silver and red, all defiling the tranquillity of the sacred glade.

Gwenhwyfar watched as the gleaming golden light started to form a figure. It was vaguely humanoid, although the limbs seemed to have too many joints, and it had great, expansive wings. It was hard to make out due to the golden glow, yet she was sure she could see a multitude of eyes in places they should not be, unblinking and reptilian. Her head ached and her stomach was screaming, bile rising.

An angel? Here? Impossible. There’s no way that the thin spiritual power can support a being from such a higher realm. Even so... her instincts were telling her it was something terrible, and as her father staggered, blood pouring from a deep wound in his side, she made up her mind.

I must end this, even if it costs me... Aeronwen, I need your strength. Avalon, answer my call... The Territory, the sacred spot, that was deeper in the shadows of the lower astral than most places, answered her fervent prayer, and brilliant silver and rainbow ether flooded her.

“Oh? Trying to resist?” Mary raised one blonde eyebrow, her green eyes sparkling. “Well, before the servants of God, I fear your efforts will be... huh?”

“See this?” Gwenhwyfar brandished the rusty sword, an old, ordinary weapon, wielded by a nameless soldier fifteen hundred years ago. “It may not be a noble blade, but when one is a true Merched y Llyn, any sword can shine!”

“No, you are one of the bloodline of that...” Mary began, and it was gratifying to see the look of fear on her face for the first time as power coursed through Gwenhwyfar, the blessing of Aeronwen combining with her bloodline and the power the Glade provided. The angel, if that is what it was, was starting to appear more corporeal, and the glow illuminated the skirmishing melee, her kin fighting the priests, only her, Mary and the cloaked figure unmoving. Though not for long.

“Sword that defends the Isle, Granted by the Arglwyddes y Llyn, Nimuë, one of the greatest of the Fae, to defend against injustice and evil, I call upon thee by my blood and power. Lend me thy edge, to cut that which threatens this land, the Fae and those they protect! Cleave hard, Caledfwlch!

The rusted, old sword suddenly shone brilliantly, rust falling away to reveal a blade of unearthly metal. Glowing with power, the air around it seemed to warp, silver to rival the golden glow of the Principality. With a single swing of the sword, the gold was sliced, light pouring towards the stricken Mary Stuart. Die! If I can take you down here, then perhaps this place can be made secret again... There was a loud explosion, and Gwenhwyfar cried out as the force pushed her back. Fragments of black cloth were drifting on the breeze, and as she rubbed at her blinking, tear-filled eyes, the sword she once held now crumbling away to dust, she stumbled over the body of one of the priests, torn apart by the invocation of Caledfwich.

That must have killed her. Surely she couldnt have...

“And the Lord spake unto Moses.” Something was spoken, and blood gushed from Gwenhwyfar’s ears. It was as if her very soul was on fire. She staggered, and stumbled again, this time over the body of one of her relatives, who was lying still and unmoving. Dead, no, it can’t be...

Suddenly a heavy impact rocked her, and she caught a glimpse of red before splashing down in the shallows of the lake, vomiting red of her own, her ribs shattered. As she looked up, she could barely see that the priests were covering their ears, and her family was lying motionless, dead or unconsious.

“Good job.” Mary Stuart strode forwards, patting the shoulder of someone who had struck her. My eyes, they are messed up... my ears too, nothing works... she coughed, spitting fragments of broken teeth, her eyes full of sparks like the worst migraine imaginable, her ears hissing static. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Kneel.” Mary declared, and blood sprayed from Gwenhwyfar’s eye sockets, ears and nose. The lake was dyed scarlet, as her very skin began to weep blood.

“Well, I guess once more good fortune saves me.” Gwenhwyfar couldn’t see it, but Mary was laughing wildly, her face and clothes soiled with blood, most of it Gwenhwyfar’s, some of it her own, as her own nose was bleeding, blood tricking from her mouth, giving her a ghoulish cast. “Well, that and your defence of me. The Lord will remember this. As will I.” She rubbed at the ring she wore, the golden knotwork of the band shining, the bells of her robes tinkling as she moved. “Having you protect your ears this whole time was a good choice.” She coughed, spitting blood. “The Gifts of the Lord are quite profound but should not be used carelessly. Oh Metatron, how great you must be to bear this without pain.”

I have to do something. I have to... Gwenhwyfar struggled to rise, only for Mary to loom above her, a shape in shadow, as her eyes could barely focus. Even so, the deep green of Mary’s eyes was clearly visible, looking down on her.

“Well, I offered charity, and all it would cost you is willingly surrendering your blasphemous gift, given by a false idol. Well, I suppose blood will tell. A child may be born sinful, but if they repent, they can be cleansed. But you, my half-breed sinner, have soaked yourself in it without regard for your immortal soul. Hmm, that’s an interesting question. Do such hybrids even have a soul? Or is it just half a one? Curious. I wonder if Cardinal Lorenzo knows? No, if anyone would know, it would be Judgement-Cardinal Luca. Though I shall not be asking him, he rather seems to despise me... oh well... should you find yourself in Hell, tell the Devil I’ll be sending more his way soon... ah, yes, there it is. Under the lake. Ingenious really. Sinners are so cunning. Well, best get to it...” there was a flash of light, something shattered, and Gwenhwyfar screamed, before her consciousness faded, the last thing she felt the sensation of sinking into a dark abyss, the pressure cold and soothing, washing away the fiery pain throughout her body...