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"KNIGHTS OF DANU"
A Sailor Moon "Elsetimes" by Dave Menard
DISCLAIMER: Loosely based on the original works of Naoko
Takeuchi. Support the creators and buy the originals first!
TIME AND PLACE NOTES AND CAVEATS FOLLOW THE FIC.
**************************
CHAPTER ONE
The village of East Crown hummed with quiet industry that
morning. Smoke from the breakfast cookfires wafted fragrantly
into the grey morning skies as the sounds of hard-working
villagers starting their days echoed off the rolling hills
that circled the valley. The village's impressive-sounding
name was merely a holdover from pre-Roman days, when the local
Tribes had once held court in this very place. East Crown was
now merely a sleepy farm town on the outskirts of the bustling
city of Dunmonia; an outpost of pure Celts amidst the
Romanized Britons of the area.
The early morning peace was shattered by a scream of
rage, followed by impish laughter from a small wooden home
near the center of town. Gwendolyn, a pretty young girl with
flowing blonde hair (a legacy from a half-Saxon grandfather)
done up in long trailing braids dashed out of the house, hot
on her brother's heels. He was dark-haired and pale, much like
the majority of the villagers.
"Seamus, get yerself back here!!"
The eleven-year-old boy didn't pause in his escape,
merely looked over his shoulder and stuck out his tongue.
Pestering his elder sister was a joy he savoured to the
fullest. "What's the matter, Gwennie? Cannae keep up with
fleet-footed Sea- Ooof!" He smacked into something firm and
unyielding, tumbling head over heels to the ground in an
ignomious heap. "Hey, now! Dinnae ye watch where ye're..." His
voice petered out as he saw the woman with whom he'd collided.
Morgaine, the new village Priestess, a young woman of
sixteen summers, (marriageable age, if not for her sacred
vows) looked up at him from the ground, a cold glare in her
piercing midnight eyes. "'Tis not I who should be watchin' me
steps, Seamus Ap Iowerth." She drew herself up, assuming her
sternest visage. "Have ye been bedevilin' yer sister again?"
Gwendolyn came up alongside her, huffing and puffing.
"Aye, the wee fungus hae been makin' a nuisance o' himself.
Thankee for yer trouble, Mistress Morgaine." The Priestess
sniffed disdainfully. Gwendolyn flushed. The Priestess was no
older than she herself, though she projected an aura of
competence and power far beyond her short years that never
failed to make even the bravest warrior quail.
"Ye should be keepin' yer eye upon him, Gwendolyn. 'Tis
ye're responsibility as eldest tae mind the scamp." She
gestured meaningfully at her muddied charcoal-grey robe. "I'll
have tae have this scrubbed now, thanks to yer foolishness..."
Gwendolyn blushed furiously. It seemed her brother (or
her own clumsiness) was always getting her into trouble.
"F'rgive me, Mistress... Ye'll not tell me Mother, will ye?"
she pleaded. Morgaine seemed to waver, and sighed. Something
about this girl made her mind... Itch. As punishing the
affront to her dignity would undoubtably inflict Gwendolyn's
presence on her for hours at least, Morgaine opted to get rid
of her in the most expedient manner possible.
"Ach, away wit' ye. T'was no true harm done this time.
And as for _you_, fella-me-lad," She glared meaningfully at
Seamus. "Ye'd best mind yer sister. I've my eye upon you,
boyo." Seamus swallowed hard. If there was one thing you
didn't do, it was annoy a Priestess of the Bel-Fire. It was a
sure route to misery.
"A-aye, Mistress Morgaine. T'won't happen again, I
promise ye..."
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. That promise might, _might_ be
worth half-a-day's peace, but no more. Still, the Goddess
sends her blessings, large and small. Rounding on her brother,
she grabbed him firmly by the ear and dragged him, kicking and
screaming, back to their home. "Sure 'n Mother'll be
interested in hearin' about this, Seamus-the-daft..."
"Ach, nae! Ye mus'nae tell her, Gwennie! Ple-ease!!!!"
Morgaine chuckled to herself as the siblings carried on.
She remembered similar mischief taking place amongst the
Novices on the Isle of Apples, where she'd trained. Although
she'd left only four months ago, it seemed like an eternity
had passed since the carefree days of her childhood there,
amidst the scented apple-blossoms that were perpetually in
bloom. Still, t'was a minor miracle that she'd managed to find
a village that even _wanted_ a Priestess of the Old Ways in
this day and age, what with the Christians spreading across
the land like weeds in a garden. The villagers of East Crown
followed the ways of their foremothers, and those that chose
to follow the new faith, simply packed up house and moved to
Dunmonia. It was a point of personal pride to Morgaine that
the Bel-Fires still burned on the hilltops every month. It was
in the interest of this survival of traditional ways that she
was up and about this morning, when she preferred to sleep
late.
She had succeeded in obtaining an audience with a
Priestess of the Cult of Mercury this afternoon, and needed to
ride out before noon, since the Temple of Mercury at Dunmonia was
a good hour's ride away in the best of weather, and the skies
were threatening rain.
The Cult, despite being an institution of the hated Roman
oppressors, was itself facing a struggle that Morgaine knew
all-too well. The hardy weed of Christianity was also
infesting their garden. The two Priestesses intended to work
out some form of strategy to woo the populace back to the Old
Ways.
Unlike the Christians with their one jealous deity, the
Roman priesthoods were at least willing to admit the existence
of gods beyond their own; making them an ally of last resort
in these troubling times. Morgaine smirked wryly to herself.
If her father could only see her now, he'd be in a frothing
rage at the merest suggestion that his daughter would be
collaborating in any way with Rome. Still, was it not one of
the Greek orators who had said, "politics makes for strange
bedfellows"?
************************
In a place that was both leagues away and closer than a
heartbeat, another, much darker Lady made plans for the
future.
She had suffered her lonesome exile in the Darkness for
endless aeons, more than long enough to hone her hatred into a
razor-sharp spear; one she intended to cast into the very eye
of the Light itself.
With a gesture, she summoned her Chieftains to her. Four
shapes appeared before her, their dark forms visible even
against the inky blackness in which they hung.
"<Go forth, my Warrior-Lords, my Generals, my
Chieftains...>" she intoned in a language that was ancient
when humankind still walked on their knuckles, "<Go forth, and
bring your Queen the souls she needs...>"
The four dark figures saluted, and vanished. Soon, the
Lady laughed madly, soon I shall revenge my imprisonment!!
Yet the Lady's actions did not go unnoticed by those
responsible for her imprisonment, and they took measures of
their own...
***************************
Gwendolyn lay on her back in the hayloft, idly chewing on
a piece of bannock and pondering the myriad injustices that
permeated her life.
Not only had Seamus recanted of his vow the moment they
were out of earshot of the Priestess and proceeded to pester
her unmercifully all day, but she'd run afoul of that
insufferable Darius at the market.
Darius was the youngest son of the local Roman Prefect.
Unburdened with the responsibilities of his elder brothers in
the bureaucracy of the region, he consequently had far too
much idle time on his hands; time, it seemed, he relished
spending making the lives of East Crown villagers miserable.
Untouchable by the law by right of birth, he delighted in
barrelling through town aboard his chariot, pulled by a team
of tall horses he claimed had been imported from the
southernmost reaches of the Empire. Somehow, although
Gwendolyn was at a loss to explain why, he'd taken notice of
her in particular amongst the village maidens, and had singled
her out for "special treatment".
Unfortunately, "special treatment" entailed being the
butt of the spoiled highborn lad's jokes and taunts. He'd even
gone so far today as to loudly proclaim that she had all the
sense of a pudding. Of course, the local boys, egged on by
Seamus, had immediately dubbed Gwendolyn "Puddin'head", and
the nickname had every appearance of being the kind that would
haunt one for years...
So consumed in her brooding was she that she barely
noticed the approach of what she first took to be one of the
six or so barn cats that made their homes on the small farm.
"Scat, pusskin!" she shooed. "I'm in nae mood tae pet ye
today..." The small black cat leapt back out of reach of her
flailing hand and sniffed disdainfully.
"Such execrable manners! Fie, what insolence the People
tolerate in their offspring these days!"
Gwendolyn blinked and sat up. The mellifluous male voice
had come from nearby, and spoke in the accent of the Old
Nobility. She whipped her head around in search of her
visitor, but saw no one but the small black cat sitting near
her feet. Puzzled, she scratched her head. Surely she must
have been dreaming, then. Unless... She laughed.
"Ach, t'was you then, pusskin? Are ye a cat in truth,
then, or one of the Fay Folk come to torment a poor lass and
tie her hair in elf-knots?"
The cat sneezed oddly; it almost sounded like the little
thing was... Laughing?
"Nay, I'm not of that noble race, and I daresay you need
not my help in tangling your mane..."
Gwendolyn goggled and rubbed her eyes. She could have
sworn... She checked her bannock. Occasionally, if the flour
had gotten damp in storage, the mildew could cause visions. Yet
the bannock was fresh, and the flour ground that week from the
miller... Gwendolyn yelped, and scuttled away from the cat until
she was backed against the wall.
"What... ARE ye, pusskin?"
The little cat capered merrily and sketched a bow. "A
True Bard am I, girl, charmed into this form by a Queen. Tom I
am called, once called True Thomas, since I am bound never to
speak falsely. And _I_," He leapt nimbly up into her lap, "Am
at your service." At this close range, Gwendolyn could see
that the tiny cat, Tom, was not pure black, as she had
supposed. True, he was dark as peat from whisker-tip to tail,
but he bore a strange device, like a golden torc, on the fur
of his brow. He gave another sneezing laugh. "And are you now
struck dumb, girl? Have you nothing to say to such a fantastic
visitor as myself?"
Gwendolyn had something to say, all right.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
***************
TO BE CONTINUED
AUTHORS NOTES AND CAVEATS:
This fic is set during the Roman occupation of Britain,
roughly around 100 A.D. Although I'll try to avoid anachronisms,
a few might creep in despite my best efforts. This is, however, a
fantasy in the end, so some liberties will be taken with the
history.
Gwendolyn is Usagi/Serena, as you've no doubt guessed.
Morgaine is Rei/Raye. Her name is a corruption of Morrigan,
a celtic war goddess who was also a patroness of ravens. Given
Rei's feathered friends in the original, I thought it was a nice
parallel. Morgaine is also the name of the Morgan Le Fay
character in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Arthurian novel "The Mists
of Avalon", a work that greatly informs certain aspects of this
one.
Tom is a Luna-Artemis fusion, with a healthy bit of the
Celtic folk hero Thomas the Rhymer thrown in. Like our Tom,
Thomas the Rhymer was enchanted never to lie, and was sometimes
known as True Thomas.
The language spoken by the characters in the fic is Latin;
the Old Speech referred to is the ancient proto-gaelic spoken by
the indigenous British tribes before the Romans invaded.
Linguists have posited that this language might be very similar
to modern-day Welsh, but for the purposes of this story I'm using
an accent midway between Irish and Scottish to indicate Latin
"flavoured" by that language. The Britons or British Celts in the
story (Gwendolyn, her family, and Mistress Morgaine for example)
speak a rough dialect of Latin, which was the lingua franca of
the Roman Empire at that point in history.
Regarding certain hostilities expressed by the characters in
the above story regarding members of the Christian faith. Please
be assured that the opinions expressed are those of the
characters,and do not reflect those of the author. I think that,
once historical context is taken into account, that it is
plausible that the characters might have hostility towards faiths
other than their own.
I would at this point like to acknowledge the fact that this
fic would never have been written if not for the terrific Sailor
Moon fanfiction works of Chris Davies, John Biles, Angus MacSpon
and Allyn Yonge. Without their works, I doubt i'd've EVER re-
watched Sailor Moon, let alone written a SM fanfic. If you liked
this, they're the reason. If you hated it, blame me.
Dave Menard
-------------------------------------
Fanfiction pages: http://spghome.tripod.com/
"Just as there are laws of Conservation of Matter and Energy, so there are
in fact Laws of Conservation of Pain and Joy. Neither can ever be created or
destroyed.
But one can be converted into the other."
-Spider Robinson, 1977