A/N: I couldn't write a proper summary in the little space given, but here is an overview of what the WHOLE story is going to look like, though I've only written the prologue:
Summary/Overview: The legend of King Arthur has been passed down for many centuries, recorded by many different writers, storytellers, etc. But did these meticulous recorders forget some IMPORTANT details? Were some characters left in the mists? Mirouaene of the Apple Grove, a priestess of the Old People, happens to be one of the missing details. She recounts the major part she played in the glory of the kingdom of Logres (Britain), as the individual who sustained the rule of King Arthur. She was one of the most fortunate young women, having beauty, intelligence, kindness of heart, and the magical skills of a priestess of Avalon. However, she is not willing to accept what she has, and though ambitious to reach perfection, is never contented with herself. How will she manage to take on a role that leaves all of Britain in her hands, as well as surmount her troubles? There is some romance in the story also with Mirouaene and some other "forgotten" characters.
My story has SOME components of Bradley's "Mists of Avalon" in it, like the magic, rituals, and everything to do with Avalon. However, much of the actual Arthurian legend implied in the story comes from many different books I have read. You will probably see in my prologue that I am planning to bring out characters that were not mentioned very often in "Mists of Avalon". As for a disclaimer (I don't even know what that is…I'm new to fanfiction…), I guess I own Mirouaene, since I constructed her, which means I probably own all the other characters that I have constructed on my own (Coneophon, Vivorann, Descardius, Suuven, Tessa, Kaellei…not all of them are mentioned in the prologue, but they will appear as the story progresses). Anyways, enjoy!
Prologue: Non-existent
Avalon is no more a part of this world. It has drifted far into the mists, and will never open its arms to anyone but the few who have the power and learning to find an opening in-between the worlds. I am one who possesses that power, but there is no point in using it. The land outside the mists has been raided as I have heard it, and the golden times have fallen into darkness. The Isle of the Christian priests no longer stands outside the enveloping fog that separates Avalon from the world. With my power of the Sight I see only bloodshed, hear only barbarian words spoken with rough tongues. Even the monotheist priests and their love of their god Christ over all others were divine compared to the loathly Horse God of the barbarians. However, a hope lies in Avalon, like a dim light fighting for eternal power over the looming darkness. In Avalon rests Britain's most loved leader, the king who had brought peace and happiness out of hiding, and had united all the religions as one. His golden age still shines its brightest in Avalon, as those skilled in using feather-and-ink record the many exploits of our beloved King Arthur and his fellow Knights of the Round Table. I, who have lived many long years through those joyous days, long to see the sun rise in all its glory over Britain once again. However, what has past is past and may never tear away from the path of its destiny for happiness. So here I stand, Mirouaene of the Apple Grove, serving my lady Morgaine, who has been like a mother to me though she is only ten years older. As she says, I must be ready to take on a great responsibility, for she may have to relinquish her position as the Lady of Avalon. I am her only heir, and though I age gradually, I must be in control of my land as the voice of the Goddess until my dying day. But never may I find joy in ruling Avalon. I am contented to forever weep in sorrow over the loss of a time so heavenly, as if it was a magnificent vision from the land of truth. Well, I guess I took pleasure in it while it happened. There would come an end to everything, even Avalon. Writing had kept it alive in Avalon though, and I could forever keep it alive in me if I read what was written over and over again. I shall now resolve my remaining years in this world to find happiness through written words.
I can now clearly understand what Morgaine was referring to when she said that all the lessons that were taught to a child of the Goddess were taught for a good reason. I thank the Goddess with all my heart for being so fortunate. I was a spoiled character to think that only the Christian priests were to be educated in anything invented by humans, and not by the knowledge of the Great Ones. By interpreting the flow of words on a page, I can now relive a glory like one would never have known. The wise Druid writer of the story has described the events like none other! I look up briefly from the coarse parchment, expecting there to be a large platter of roasted meat balanced on the shoulders of four jovial serving squires. I crane my neck back and look up, thinking to observe the high ceiling of the spacious castle of Caerleon. However, I only gaze into the darkness of my cozy cottage home, pierced by the mere glow of my candle, creating flickering shapes that dance blithely into the jet-black distance. Ah, I can clearly recall the time when the good knight, Sir Gawain, went on his great exploit after the great, terrible Green Knight of Wirrel. I had guided him on his quest, disguised as a tree spirit. I had further tested his honor, so that he would wear it like a second suit of the sturdy armor, preventing him from any harm. I giggle silently while I read of his gentle conversations with the Lady Birtilack. He has now left from the house of the kind lord…is on his way to Wirrel…ah, but where is the tree spirit? Was our wise Druid careless enough to leave out one of the foremost events in the quest? How was it possible that this writer had caught every detail so meticulously, but had forgotten to include one of the factors that had preserved Gawain's life? Moreover, it was I who was left in the shadows. I, who had maintained the glory of the Golden Ages and enhanced the leadership of King Arthur over all others in Britain. I flip through the pieces of parchment uneasily. I study the names of the innumerable people carefully. Not once do they mention "Mirouaene" or "Lady of the Apple Grove" or "Priestess Mirouaene of Avalon". I have half a mind to claw at the thick parchment and rip it to shreds, but in a flurry of confusion, I end up only turning the page. I recklessly go on turning sheets. Listed here are the most accomplished Knights of the Round Table: Lancelot, Gawain, Tristan, Gareth, Percival…wait a second…I remember how Arthur used to forever boast a knight called Sir Coneophon. None of the letters here seem to spell out his name! How dare this mad Druid? Coneophon had been the noblest knight after Lancelot, Gawain, and Percival. Most importantly, Coneophon had been the only man who was perfect in my view. He had been the one and only man that I had loved even more than myself sometimes. Nobody had a care that it was he who had captured the Golden Deer of youth, which would slow down the aging process by eating its meat. Ah, I must calm my mind before I start to go insane. I shall read about Sir Lancelot, his adventures are intriguing. Hmm…he is said here to be the youngest son of Viviane, Lady of the Lake at that time, and King Ban of Benwick. Did the recorders of the splendid times not even hear of the reunion with his younger brother Vivorann, after the healing of Sir Meliot de Logure? Vivorann had become Lancelot's squire and soon after had been knighted by Lancelot himself! What a pity he is not mentioned in this badly-written literacy. I had had eyes for that man some time before I fell in love with Coneophon. In a moment of disappointed realization, I understand that all the books written about the Golden Times would be the same, no different from this piece of bogus work. This time I cannot stop myself from flinging the treacherous sheets of parchment on the ground below me, and crushing them with my foot. I rant and rave, and though it is late into the night, in a mad rush I rouse the young priestess sleeping near me, ordering her insensitively to fetch me a feather and a cup of blue woad paint. If nobody shall recognize the truth behind the splendor, I shall make them recognize it. I will begin my own book, using what I know of writing. I will write representing Avalon, through the eyes of the Goddess. All of us who were non-existent shall come alive in this new, true story. Avalon will now know for generations the story of our great King Arthur, from the eyes of the woman who supported it on her shoulders, and they will know how the lady, me, Mirouaene, learned many lessons, went through many sufferings of the mind, to accomplish such a great feat for Avalon. I had always thought I was good-for-nothing as a young girl. I had believed that my beauty and flair would never shine with the sun. I felt that I would never belong as a significant part of this world, but I had blossomed, reined, won. I refuse to give up my life to the Death Crone until all of Avalon and the many lands under the sun hear what I have to say. Let the earth, waters, fire, and air listen to the voices of the once non-existent.
