This is my first attempt at any sort of Sailor Moon fic, so be
gentle, I bruise easily. Apologies to anyone who received two copies of
this, I'm having some trouble with my new e-mail program.
-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: Kod.txt
"KNIGHTS OF DANU"
DISCLAIMER: Loosely based on the original works of Naoko
Takeuchi. Buy her stuff and ensure a comfortable standard of
living for this talented lady.
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 Caer Medoc; 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
Caer Medoc. 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 Caer
Medoc 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 gone bad, 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 black 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!!!!"
**********************
END CHAPTER ONE
AFTERWORD: This fic is set during the tail-end of the Roman
occupation of Britain, (although it's heavily fictionalized,
of course,) and I'm taking tremendous liberties with the
social and religious makeup of the populace. Also, geography
is somewhat fluid. This is a Fantasy-Britain, and I intend to
pay only as much attention to historical accuracy as the story
requires, although I intend to avoid anachronisms wherever I
can; There will be no firearms, steam power or any such
nonsense. (this isn't Hercules: The Legendary Journeys...)
I should also add a caveat here. I don't intend any
statements regarding various religions made by the characters
to be taken as my opinion. I've got nothing against
Christianity (or, for that matter, the neo-pagan beliefs I'm
using as a basis for much of treatment of the faith of the
ancient Britons)personally, but I think it's reasonable (and
historically accurate) to have characters express distaste,
dislike, or outright hatred towards other faiths at this point
in history. Never make the mistake of thinking that the words
my characters speak represent my own thoughts or feelings.
If you've read this far, why not take an extra minute or
two to drop me a line and let me know what you thought? My
plans for this story are still very fluid at this point, and
I'm always open to suggestions and/or encouragement. Respond
publicly or privately, but PLEASE respond. this tale's future
depends on YOUR input.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: The seeds of this fic can be found in the
works of Naoko Takeuchi (of course) and more distantly, Marion
Zimmer Bradley and Charles De Lint. (Both fine fantasy
authors, whom I highly recommend.) I also wish to acknowledge
the fact that I would never have even CONSIDERED re-watching
Sailor Moon (let alone writing ANY sort of SM fic) if not for
the perspectives provided by the fan-fiction works of Angus
MacSpon, Allyn Yonge and John Biles. Gentlemen, take a bow.
You've converted another poor heathen...