The great north porch of Crookland Hall was beset by turbulent clouds, the wind whipping through the columns and bannisters with an eairy sound. The Major leaned against a post, his eyes appearing to see the figure of a great dragon in the frothing of the clouds. The dragon was beset by a host of leathern creatures, ball lightning danced through the skies, appearing to attack the Dragon, which was still in slumber and could not rise to her defense.

Crookland awoke with a sweat...the dream and been coming more regular and more intense in detail each night. The quiet sleeping form of Hattie, with her delicate hand over his chest and her strawberry blond hair in cascades around her pillow were radiant. Only the closing of her eyes in sleep hid the stormy blue orbs that could awaken the deadest of souls.

The War was over now. The servants had stayed on to work the land, and in five years they would own their cabins and enough grounds for a farm of their own. It would save Crookland from the Carpetbaggers, and the ever increasing taxes. Another group of servants stayed in the old log house on top of Crook Mountain, digging in the old sand mine there, where the occasional vein of gold was found. The indians, who had left here on the trail of tears had shown the Major's father where the gold hid in the sand of the large hill, which had been their sacred high ground. They gave him the gold in promise to protect the sacred groves their and the cairns of sandstones that marked the lines of power.

Father Crook had starved himself in May of 1865, he could not bear the defeat of his country at the hands of the invading northmen. He had sent all of his sons to war, outfitted their companies with arms, tents and uniforms. Later, during the siege of Corinth, Mississippi, he sent his strongest servants under his overseer, Gabriel, to build earthworks and entrenchments so that the few troops their could concentrate on defending the old town. Gabriel claimed he was the son of a King of Madasgasgar...and looking at his regal bearing and his great seven feet and rippling muscles one could believe his claim without the slightest doubt. Gabriel had married "Callie" Mother Crook's handmaid that she had been given by Grandfather Arnold as part of her dowery before leaving Spartanburg SC for the new land in Henderson County, Tennessee.

1820, that was so long ago. The Major had been born in 1836, his mother had gone home to Spartanburg to have him, and their was always trips to see the old family their often. Gabriel and the strong ones sent with him never return. Even after emancipation and the end of the War there was still no news, and none had come back. Gabriel and the others would have come back for their wives, even if it was only to move on to somewhere else. Aunt "Callie" said the rumors among the freedmen that occasionally came by looking for food was that the Confederate position at Robinette had been held to the last man, that a great black figure of over 7 feet, side by side witht the young starving rebs, in tattered rags knocked yank after yank into the Promised Land with a shovel. Aunt "Callie" knew what had happened to her beloved Gab and the others.

Father Crook had sent sister Nannie to Corinth in December of 1865. Her husband, Col. John W. Estes of the 52nd Tennessee, CSA, had been severely wouned in the fighting around the defense of Atlanta as Sherman pushed to the Sea. The connections of Father Crook and the Major sent the wounded Colonel safely through the Federal lines to occupied Corinth to the hospital there.

Father Crook had gone to Jackson, Tn, to Gen. Grant's Headquarters to get passes for his daughter, twelve year old son, and his old servant Ben, and his two young grandchildren by the colonel, Hubert Ross and John W. Jr., who were still only babes. At first the General was indignant, but Father Crook had lost his temper, telling the whiskered whisky drink Fed General that he had been neutral before the War, hoping men of good heart on both sides would avert a confrontation. Ahhh, but when Mr. Lincoln called for 50,000 troop to coerce South Carolina, his native state, back into the Union at gunpoint, he told the General that then he was all with her and that he had sent every son and son-in-law into the newly formed reb army, and "General," going right up to the cigar smoking figure and shaking his hand right under his nose,"the only reason why I am not out fighting you myself is because I am too damned Old!"

Father Crook strode out then, passes be damned, he'd send Nannie through if he had to raise a small army to do it.....but a firm grip caught his shoulder before he left he tent, stopping the old planter aristocrat dead in his tracks. He stood motionless, with the gripping hand on his shoulder, and his temper mounting by the second.

"Mr. Jeremiah Crook, Esquire, turn around sir...I want to shake your hand." Father Crook turned and looked into the saddest eyes he had ever seen. The wrinkles around those eyes carried a burden that the old aristocrat had not noticed during the previous conversation. Shaking his hand, General Grant bellowed out for his orderly and look at Father Crook. "Sir, if there had been more men like you before the War, then I would not be here now...you'll have your passes and a mounted escort to get you to Corinth. I'm pressing on to Vickburg and troops from Corinth will redevous with me on the way, so once their your daughter will be well protected by the hospital garrison, and the commander will issue passes upon your son in laws recovery. If he will take the Oath not to fight again, then he can go home...if not, he'll be allowed to leave on his own to return to his unit. Given civilian sympathy for the brave but tattered Army of Tennessee, then Colonel Estes should had no problems making his way back. Your daughter and son will have passes to return home through our lines."

Well Nannie, and my youngest brother Joseph Alexander Crook, the two babies, took the large family carriage with old Ben driving and made it to Corinth. Sister Nannie nursed her husband for three days and nights without sleep. She finally was forced to nap, not being able to go any further. During her nap the Colonel passed quietly away, never regaining consciousness. When the old manservant Ben woke Nannie to give her the news...well, she fell dead away.

Young Brother Joe and Ben sold the carriage and exchanged it for a large wagon. They had a casket made large enough for the Colonel and his wife and had they laid together, with Nannie wrapped in the Colonel's arm, her head resting on his breast and her arm touching his once strong shoulder.

They made the trip back, the four of them, with the over large casket, the fourty miles or so from Corinth to Father Crook's house near Jacks Creek. They were buried at the Old Unity Cemetery, near brother Williams Crook, with all the family and servants turned out. The old church cemetery was barely a half mile from Father Crook's home, on the south end of the farm, the road went across upper Jacks Creek with a rough hewn but sturdy bridge. The congregation had moved in 1858 to a pretty hill on Cousin John Arnold Crook's place, near Uncle Willis Arnold's house, and had a nice spot there. A new cemetery was being started as the boys from home were killed in battle.

The Major heard the two young Estes boys playing out in the yard...he and Hattie, being so close kin, were unable to have children, and had adopted their orphaned nephews.

The Major rose from his bed without waking Hattie, going out on the front porch, halfway expecting to see the great dark Dragon still in the sky

Lightings thundered brilliantly throughout a unnatural fog that had settled over the fields and trees. The Major's mind kept flashing back to vague memories, senseless in this time frame, but somehow more than just familiar.

Lightning struck the cedar, some 10 yards away from the great house, tearing the tree in half and throwing the Major against a colume into unconciousness.

"Sire," a gaunt form was saying to him. "Sire, wake up, there's no time for drowsing and we must make our way into the hills." The Major looked up at a gaunt figure, long bearded and shod with armor..."Pelly?" he stammered.

"Aye, and if you are well enough to spit, then you are well enough to walk," Pellinore said as he Crookland by the arm and led him half shambling into a thicker grove of trees near the foot of some dark mountains. Hail began to drive against the ground, the thickness of the trees abatting the whip lash of the icy stones into a dull thudding.

Pellinore laid Crookland underneath a low shelf of rocks and began a fire. His ancient master had drifted back into a sleep.

Crookland awoke, but his field gray uniform was now gone, a rough woolen cloak covered his gaunt form, the hood pulled over his head in an effort to break the fever.

"Milord" Pellinore softly spoke, "are you with me or still in the land of dreams?"

Crookland opened his eyes to see the graybearded potbellied old knight, his armor bursting at the seams...."Ahhh, Pelly...I hurt...am I here or somewhere else, my mind is confused."

"You be here with me, sire, but where you have been in the Bubble I know not...our paths parted when I went with Lord Arthur and the Merlyn back to Camelot...and you, you sire, went gods know where. You were dressed in wool, my lord, but a stream-lined cut, grey, large golden buttons and no hood, with gold loops about the sleeve. Nothing like that has been seen in Arthur's kingdom since the first day you arrived...so 'tis my assumption that you made your way home to the barony you once called Crookland Hall."

"Uuuuh.....oh Pelly...yes..yesss, my god indeed yes, I was at Crookland..and with Hattie...I thought? I saw dark clouds gathering above Middlefork Village Proper....I saw a dragon. It all seemed familiar, yet unreal, like a dream lightly remembered. Yet home, I suppose Pelly, was the dream, while I must have been still here someplace in your world."

"I would not know, milord," Pelly replied with bended head. Three large kits and a mother cat stood behind him, now joined by a black and white Tom. "Where I was too, at Caer-upon-Usk, Camelot, was as much a dream in the bubble as your "plant-tal-tionis" milord."

Crookland smiled, "Plantation, Pelly, plantation is the word :)" I don't think there is good latin for it anyway", chuckled the dark lord to his companion.

"Aye, milord, and you have a new companion with you...this great black kit you have with the white shield on his breast and paws."

"Oh," Crookland said clumsily.."You mean Claudius."

"Claudius? Lord?" quizzled Pellinore.

"Yes, ah, let's see, named after one of Ambrosius Aerealanus's emperors of the old Romans....Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus....to quote Robert Graves, sometimes known as Claudius the Idiot, Claudius the Stammerer, or simply Clau...Clau...Claudius :)" None-the-less, he is a rather bright tom kitten, and is the resident mouser at the great house Crookland. I suppose he must have followed in search of an adventure instead of mice....albeit it may be more tasty than filling in the end" The dark lord Crookland smiled and roughly rubbed the head of the new member of the band.

Claudius merely said "Meow."

"Well, Pellinore, my dear fellow...it seems that my wife Hattie was a dream, but my mouser, yourself, and the dragon in the clouds were real...what is actually going on?"

"Danger is afoot, milord" Pelly said with downcast visage. "The Merlyn is dead, Arthur has been wounded by the dragon and cauled madame that road him, and cannot rise from his slumber. The Knights of the Round Table have separated to find a draught that will revive him....and rumor has it that Mordred and Morgana have freed themselves from under the ice."

"Freed themselves?" Crookland inquired.

Pelly again looked at the floor..."Aye, freed themselves or were freed, I suspect, by the winged serpent and its mistress...'tis a powerful enemy you made in your world, sire, that would pursue you, even to the destruction of my world and yours."

Now Crookland held his head low. Taking the male kit in his arms and rubbing his chest he murmered to Pellinore "Yes, a vile enemy indeed." "Pelly, I had no choice in coming to Camelot, and no choice in returning this time either, but I promise you...the Lady Yodwin will not escape to do harm again. All I loved is gone, I've merely enjoyed a charade while the rest of the world collapsed beneath me."

The dark lord raised up his eyes and his right hand, grasping Pellinore's arms briskly..."Help me to rise, old knight...we have to find that young maid with the bubble pipe and the serpent torque...this time there will be no dreams until the nightmare has been vanquished."

King Pellinore looked at Crookland with a gleam in the fierce eye "Yes, milord, this time the game is afoot until there is a real end...welcome back to Lord Arthur's Court, my lord, and my liege....the Mearlyn's own apprentice you were, sire, and I shall follow you to death's own door."

Crookland rose and cuddled the young Tiberius Claudius kit in his arms. "Dear god, I hope I'm up to this" he thought, but to Pelly he gave a grand smile and clasped him firmly on the shoulder. "Yes, Pelly, the games afoot...let us be off"

Mounting two horses, with the claudius kit in Crookland's robe, and the three kits and their mother surrounding Pelly, the former Lord Crookland raised his hands and called down the Dragon's breath...the passage they needed for the next leg of their venture.

~Ahhhh, Sir Gwydion! Tis good to see you back at Tir. May you conquer every foe and win the fair damsel's heart!~

Pelly, and his friend the former Confederate Major-turned-knight-errant, emerged from the mysts in front of a small Irish tavern. Music echoed gaily from without its dimmed interiors. Various and sundry locals were enscounced upon the tables, stout and grog at hand, enjoying the night's pleasures to the music of a local troup of bards and the dancing of some very winsome lasses.

Amoung the lasses, yet not amoung them was Laurel Rose, the dame of the Bubble pipe, whose talents and powers had brought the last confrontation to an successful closure.

"Pelly" the dark lord mused, "attend to the mounts and make our camp in the willows just east of here...I have business in the tavern."

Pelly looked aglance at his often ill-fated companion.."I, sire....so shall I do...is your business OUR business?" he smiled, "...or mehap some of your own?"

Crookland chuckled and threw a shifty eye to his companion "A bit of both, King Pellinore" he smiled gamely :) "A bit of both indeed! ;)"

Crookland entered the pub and made his way in a round about path, first to the bar for a bit o' stout, and then to the table of Laurel Rose.

"Ah, my fair maiden...alas..we meet again." Laurel Rose looked up to see the Maerlyn's former apprentice standing before her....she began to cry and reached for his hand "They're alll gone...murdered by that which cannot be!" she gasped.

Crookland pulled her up into his arms, burying his head into the soft hair of her own, his arms nearly wrapped double around her slender form. "Laurel...Laurel...I've missed you so :( but first I need to know the full measure of what has happened...is there a place where we may speak and do so in safety?"

Laurel Rose raised her head from Crookland's chest, his hand still buried in her strawberry locks, "Yes...I've a room upstairs" she stuttered, both eager to be alone with him and struggling to stay to herself. Her thoughts raced, nearly as quickly as the racing of her heart...in the end, her heart, and the passion buried deep inside her won out...and led the former dark lord up the steps into the loft.

Pellinore fell asleep beside the mounts, music and merriment drifting to him from the tavern. From an upper window he saw a slight figured lass emerge to draw the shutter...behind her, in the laterns shadow, he saw the form of the dark lord. Pelly smiled, glad, at least, that things were beginning to build for the better...not only for himself, but for the slight statured strawberry blonde with the stormy blue eyes and his companion from the mysts who had won his heart and loyalty some twenty years ago in the jousting yard at Camelot.

As Pelly slipped into the gateway of pleasant dreams, the former dark Lord Crookland slipped into a far different gateway....yet both of them were ushered into the same Hall of things hoped for...Pellinore into the Hall of things yet to come, and Crookland into the coming of the hall-yet-here. Both, within the hour, fell within the dark hall of sleep.

Laurel Rose pulled the dark lord's head onto her bosom, smiling at his childlike expression in the dark. The horses, knickering softly in the early moon, nosed some hay over portly King Pellinore....also seeming, in the shadows of the dark, to be smiling at the child like expression upon his face.

Claudius, at his post between the Tir Na nOg and the camp at the willow grove, with a fat mouse in his paws, merely said, "Meow."

Crookland woke the next morning...the beautiful strawberry blonde nestled comfortably in his shoulder. He looked at the spritely form, wondering again how so small a lass could grant such great pleasure in one evening. A pity that her eyelids were shut...hiding the stormy blue eyes that had brought the former dark lord into such passion. Spent with the night's pleasure, he brushed a lock of the lasses strawberry blonde hair to the side, and once more entered the arms of Morpheus.

hmmm *alternate version*

Crookland wakes in the afternoon, wondering WHY he continues to destroy his body and brain in this fashion! Looks down at the strange woman in his bed, wondering how on the freeking earth he found her attractive last night! She opens her eyes that are the colour of red that match his own. He instantly knows she is wondering the same things he is.

One magic moment, they both realise in the same instance they need to fight for the bathroom!! and QUICK!!

............... and the saga continues ...

TYPICAL!...Pellinore is in the land of the yet to come and good ol Crookland (by name by nature)gets to the coming of the hall..bah! *S*

Every great person encounters mediocre minds. It does not take an Einstein to figure that out. But to decide who the great person is? Come on! Liten up! It's a story and according to Rod Stewart, you are the picture. E=mc squared? Anything worth writing or reading is worthy of criticism. :)

~Critics Post~
Daily Helluva Mirror

An aside: Did you know there is a Crook or Crooktown, County Durham, in Northern England....??? Coal mining and rairoad were it's main industry...had a football(soccer) team till about 1960, Crook A.F.C.

An aside: Do you know, to be 'crook' in Aus means you are 'unwell', 'sick', 'not up to scratch', 'not 100%' .. post hoc, ergo proctor hoc .. to be in CrookLand would mean that everyone was feeling poorly?

I hope you are all feeling better real soon!

Brilliant, Brilliant, Brilliant!!!!

The author is magnificient!!!!

Obviously the story evoked emotion. IT IS A STORY!!! INSULTS?????? IT IS A STORY!!!

Gorilla?? is that YOU?

:)

Crookland awoke groggily the next morn...LaurelRose had long since departed on her mysterious traipsings about the Tir. He was confused as the other dreams that had disturbed his dreams...namely a distressing one concerning a gap-tooth tavern wench, red-eyed with ale, and sagging at every definable point of her body. Jumping Jehosophat, thought the dark Lord...I'd best leave those Aemoriacan drinks alone and still with good old Stout :)

He ambled downstairs where the found Pelly enjoying a rather large breakfast...which amused Crookland greatly. The last they had met, Pelly had been transformed into a trimmed torso lad, whose armor actually fit. The banquet before the old knight now would soon return his ancient friend back into the armour bursting giant that he once knew.

"Pelly??? Any of that for me, are are you preparing for winter hibernation?" the young lord gaily mused at his companion.

"Nay, sire, this is my own, but yonder wench will fulfill your needs....and break your fast" the old knight hinted with a sly wink...."She certainly brightened my morning."

"Well, Honorable King Pellinore, that explains both your good humor and your appetite this morning :)" the young lord jovially ribbed his compainion.

"Oh, Miss....if its not too much trouble, I'd like a bit of bread, some of your country butter, and some that hot mulled wine which my friend is so ethusiastically enjoying....or perhaps that is a smile from earlier in the morning from which he induldges???"

The saucy tavern wench tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled complacently, rather like a much satisfied cat, at Lord Crookland..."Your breakfast you shall have, but keep your manners to yourself" she winked...."I'm walking bowlegged this morn..thanks to your grey whiskered companion who makes a show at being a harmless sort..." then she added, and not with any remorse,"Not that in this dull part of the world that I am complaining :) She turned and waltzed away with a saucy back and forth banter of her backside.

"Pelly! I'm shocked!!!" Crookland mused :)

"Ah, er, ohh,, uh, ahh, sire....I assure you that the conquest was not made by force of arms, but rather compelled by her part on myself" Pellinore answered with a bit of fluster.

"Well, there seems to be no harm done, and the both of you look like new born pups romping in the glade," mused the former apprentice of the great Mearlyn. "Ah, just see that we don't acquire more traveling compainions than we can handle."

Pellinore chuckled.."Alas, my liege, methinks when this adventure is over I mayhap retire to this nice inn...yon maid runs the place besides waiting tables, and needs a strong man to take care of other needs.

Crookland winked very slyly..."Oh, Pelly, I'm sure you bean bouncing rough customers and perhaps keeping the books...no doubt :)"

"aye, sire, keeping the books...that's me alright" but he deep hued blush on Pellinore's face fully indicated that he had already qualified for the other male duties involved in helping the winsome shifty eyed waitress.

Crookland returned to the upstairs room after breaking his fast, still contemplating the dilemma before him. "What, pray tell" mused the former Confederate Officer, "could have caused such a mess now?" His brows scrunched together in thought. "How now to proceed, and where to proceed?"

LaurelRose could give no answers to the where or definative who, but the presence of the leathern creature and its shrouded rider made the answer of who almost certain....there could be little doubt that the Lady Yodwin had indeed survived the attack of the spectural kits, and was able to gather enough power to free Morgana and young Mordred. Now, with Lord Arthur wounded, and the Maerlyn dead, Crookland contemplated his own presence in the scheme of things. Twelve hundred years occupied his last tenure in the absence of Taliesin...another twelve hundred he was loathed to spend.

Claudius merely said "Meow."

The hooded figure came out of the myst...instantly recognized as the daughter of the dragons by the animals in the wooded area...respect commanded and demanded at once. As she walked through the dewy grass, all beasts of earth, air, and water bowed graciously as she passed. As the wife of the great tiger, even she could not stop his reign of terror. The beasts still crouched in the evening sky, holding their tireless gaze upon their targets of persecution as he had ordered. In truth, she had to admit, as long as he was respected, he was a gentle creature, just very protective of his bride of fire. He had gone to her ancestors, the great dragons, and asked them to protect and watch. At the moment she was grateful to have their shadows above her. Only occasionally could she get a good glimpse of the enormous wingspan, as they cloaked themselves with their mystic powers. She shuddered, thinking of the dangers her delicate frame had escaped, then again, thinking of the dangers others had not. She moved slowly, carefully back to the safe haven where her tiger lay waiting.

Crookland looked down upon his dream-wracked body, knowing to gaze too long would draw his spirit back into its shell. Already he had hovered too long in the land of Truth, where sometimes the Sighted go instead of dreams. The wife of the Tyger intrigued him...reminded him vaguely of someone he once knew. With a thrust of his great dragon's wings he swirled through the Mysts to Crookland Hall, sitting timeless between the worlds. Slowly he circled the sacred pool, just below the old north porch of the great house. On a slope approaching the pool the former dark lord concentrated his faerie will, slowly and exorably sandstone markers moved down High Crook Mountain, in whose shadow the great house set. They moved and shimmered in a circular pattern, circles within circles, sunwise and moonwise, and settling down on the slope commanding the pool.

Crookland looked to the blue woad dragons entwined about his wrists...the circles of stone he knew where a pattern, a map..a flat rememberance of an island made of concentric harbors alternating between circles of land and water...and in the center of the circles a mountain of fire with a Temple to Orion upon its crown....the drowned land, Atlas-Alamoiousis--Atlantis. Every circle danced and magicked in a forgotten map of the worshipers of Orion, the endless Hunter, the Horned One.

Lady of the Tyger, the Circle beneath Crookland's dark columns and the Sacred Pool are yours. Beltane approaches, and I call you here to make the Great Marriage." Crookland bowed his head and in a flash of light and roar of thunder returned to the sweat soaked body lying in repose.

The former dark lord raised from his bedding and looked dimly into the dying fire of the hearth. Sweat still beaded his brown and his mien was one of recognition...and resignation.
"I know what lies ahead now" he thought and forced himself upwards. He pulled his old mantle about his shoulders and ambled back downstairs to Pellinore.

Pellinore caught the haggard look and sent the tavern's wench off for some mulled wine.

"Sire" Pelly began, but Crookland cut him short with a glance. Easing himself down at the table across from the old knight, Crookland gave his companion a steady look.

"Where's Arthur, and where's the Maerlyn?"

Pelly crossed his arms over his once again widening girth, "Where should they be, milord, but in the cavern. Arthur rests on the dragon throne in a slumber, and the Maerlyn lies dead on your own bearth. Lord Arthur would not have it otherwise, he could not bear to the Maerlyn of all Britain deposited in a grave. The blue nimbus of the dragon throne keeps Arthur alive and preserves Taliesin."

Crookland lowered his head a bit, musing the information slowly. "Then that's where I'll start."

At that the gallant old knight brightened considerably..."Aye, I thought you would...I have two mounts and the pack mules already gathered. The game's afoot?"

"Yes," Crookland smiled, "Yes Pelly, the game's afoot."

After crossing through the mysts the group stood reflectively in front of the sealed entrance of the cavern. Crookland proposed that they camp for the night as the travel had left him too weakened to attempt the opening of the cave's mouth.

As darkness approached they each sat around the fire; Pellinore with the mother cat and three kits, and Crookland with Claudius comfortably in his arms. The kits had not grown during their time in the Bubble and were still friskily hanging from King Pellinore's beard and tunic. His attempts to either eat or talk were thwarted by each of the furry little heads.

"Egads" Pellinore finally mouthed as one of the kits was dislodged from his mustache and upper beard "I know not which is worse, the damage caused by the leathern creatures or these damnable kits!"

"Hush, Pelly. You know you couldn't make it without them...besides the kits know a real ladies man when they see one," Crookland chortled.

Claudius nibbled at the dark lord to remind him that there was still petting to be done and entrenched himself deeper into the mantle. Crookland unsheathed his old Masonic Tyler's sword, a ceremonial weapon that had not only seen him through four years of the American Civil War, but through most of Britain's medieval period as well. Never intended for battle, nevertheless the keen steel of the American 1850's was far superior to that of 5th Century Britain and had nicked and sliced many an opponents blade. Crookland looked dour as he sharpened both edges, the blade itself still darkened in places with the blood of Lancelot of the Lake. The combat between the two had changed British history, but Crookland now mused that it had changed none for the better. The blood of his friend had purchased very little now that the present circumstances had arisen.

Pellinore watched Crookland with the blade, remembering too the festival at Camelot where Lancelot had bled to his end in Arthur's arms. Guenivere was spared, Arthur's kingdom preserved, and Mordred locked beneath the ice in a final desperate battle in a fjord in Denmark. Now, with the Merlyn dead and Arthur on the brink, he too seemed that the trial by battle between the two friends had been for naught.

The mysts hung heavy on their own above and about the sealed doorway of the cavern. King Pellinore had finished packing up the camp in the time just after dawn and had secured all the final items prerequsite to entering the cave where he, Crookland, and their belated companion Don Quixote de la Mancha, had spent nearly twelve hundred years in seclusion...monitoring the ever changing earth and the silent ice covered wastes where the Merlyn and Lord Arthur's army lay frozen in combat with Mordred, Morgana, and the host of Danemark.

Crookland's mantle had seen better days...nevertheless it wrapped his shoulders proudly as he lifted his arms and spoke the word of power to unseal the cave. Blinding shards of rocks pelted the questors as the sealed doorway unbound, and then, among the concaphony of shrieks, rumbles, and groans the cavern opened itself to the host that lay before it.

Silently the two knights, their horses, pack mules, and familiars entered the ancient passageway and made their way to the dragon throne. There, enshrouded by the blue nimbus of the throne sat Arthur Pendragon, High King of all Britain. And, within the nimbus of the throne, lay Taliesin, Merlin of All Britain, Messenger of the Gods. Crookland fell first before his former master of oak and wisdom, his sobs echoing softly off the cavern walls. Pellinore lowered his head, unable to give any solice to the former dark lord.

Retrieving the Merlyn's staff, Crookland intoned the words of making, and the nimbus about the throne parted. Arthur opened his eyes groggily, his pain returning to his wound in equal measure as his cognition returned.

"My dear Lord Crookland....I had not thought to see you again." Arthured murmured. "I thought you gone to your barony beyond the mysts, where your dark skinned serfs picked snowballs among the greenery and sang their plaintive songs to the god of Abraham." Crookland, even amongst the pain and weariness of his king, noticed the glimmer of a smile within the deep blue-grey eyes of the Once and Future King.

"My lord, the Grey-Ones I left and the dark ones who served me needed me no more greatly than my friends and knight-companions of the Round Table. I have returned, Sire, to offer my sword, and if needs be my life...to put an end at last to this great wrong."

Arthur teared and his voice was weaker "Crookland...the enemy you seek is not my son and my sister....you must rouse the Merlyn---he is not dead...he sleeeps..." and with that the blue-grey orbs of the Pendragon closed and the blue nimbus of the throne sealed itself before the companions.

Bravo! Well put, Gwydion! Jolly to see you back on board, missed your musings! More on Merlyn, never goes out of tone you know!

Gwydion looks about with a sly smile and nimbly bows to the compliment of his guest :)

Crookland stepped back weakly from the nimbus of the dragon throne of Lord Arthur, pulled the Merlyn's staff close...and sat down. He gazed blankly through the floor "A puzzle that never ends, a path that winds back upon itself, reaching the end and the beginning is part of the same journey" One of the last of the Mysteries that the Merlyn had imparted to the former dark lord during his training as a Druid. Crookland continued to stare, wondering at such an odd thought when what he actually needed was a way to wake his former master.

Pellinore laid his hand on the shoulder of the former mage "Sire, while you have been in contemplation I have fixed our evening's repast. The kits have all eaten and so have all the mounts, rouse yourself and take meat." Crookland looked up glumly "Pelly? Did we save any of the shards of the Crystal after it burst?"

Pellinore thought back to the beginning of the quest to the first attack by the cowled figure and the leathern creature, the death of de La Mancha, and his return to the cavern to find the Seeing Crystal shattered. "Aye milord, some of the larger shards I placed in the Merlyn's chest."

Crookland started towards the great chest, taking a bit of rabbit to eat while he mused. In the chest were various sized shards, he took a mid-sized one and placed it on the floor at the foot of his master's bier. Taking a small silver crescent shaped dagger, such as the ladies of the Holy Isle carried, he cut off a bit of the Merlyn's mantle and lay it underneath the shard.

"Why is Pelly that the ladies of Avalon and the Druid's use no iron? Do you remember?" Pelly looked aglance at his mage.."That requires no divulging of a Mystery, milord." he huffed. "The wee folk were here before the Roman's brought iron, they made do with silver and gold, and bronze then a sharper edge was needed."

"Very good Pellinore...so you won't mind taking everything out of the chamber that is iron or steel will you," the dark lord grinned. "Take everything you can find, from harness to my blade and place it in the back niche...ward it with a Word that will blind its presence from the wee folk. I need them to rouse the Merlyn, methinks. If not...well...it will do no harm."

The ancient King mumbled along his way "No harm, he says, humpfph....he's not the one that will spend all night warding iron." Crookland gamely smiled at the former monarch of the Lake Country trusting full well that the sensitivity of the old king would be more than enough to remove any presence of iron in the chamber.

Crookland picked out choice bits of the rabbit and laid them on a small silver platter, sprinkling it about with rare herbs, and then sat it aside. "I need a honeycomb," he remarked and turned to Claudius. "Okay, my fine mouser, I need your nose to find me a comb...go on safari will you and find one that we might borrow from the bees." Claudius merely said "Meow."

"Ah,well, looks like I'll be finding the comb myself," he said shaking his head and exited the cavern on his own safari. Claudius disdainfully raised his left paw and began to groom it.

Deep inside the Maerlyn's mind arcs of blue lightning flashed along his cerebal heavens. The Maerlyn floated here, captive between the world and time with no way to send the urgent message that was trapped with him. He knew that Crookland would eventually make an attempt to bridge the gap, but was helpless to guide him along the way. Here, amid the subatomic particles that some called the Force and other's called the Will & the Word, the Maerlyn could describe it as nothing less than the soul of the Goddess herself, the energy that bound all matter together in each of its intricate forms.

He wanted to warn the dark lord that treading in this landscape would be more than dangerous. Modern man had minimally tapped this resource and had destroyed two large cities. The terrible burden of pre-carnation....to be born in one world and re-born in a passed one...trying to warn and always failing. The common man told campfire tales of the Bard who lived backwards, born old and 'aging' towards youth backwards through time. Yes, a little something like that it would seem, but more complicated. Only a few spaces in each era were manageable for rebirth, and even fewer for a incarnation with complete memories of the future. Still fewer would allow complete memories of both the future and the past. The Maerlyn felt old, far older than his shell allowed, old enough to have stood on the fire mountain of Atlantis, and young enough to have travelled to interstellar colonies.

Yes, the danger here between the atoms was great, the wrong approach would blast Crookland into cinders....an even wronger approach would start a chain reaction that would ignite even time itself. Power sizzled here, coruscating itself in great swaths. Unseen attractions pulling matter together, and equally forbidding zones repelling matter into regimented paths...the only difference between water and rock here was how the very soul of the Goddess regimented these particles into specific paths.

The Maerlyn yeilded himself to rest between bands of repulsion and attraction. There was still time to concentrate on a path to guide Crookland towards him.

What about....
A noblewoman from another place and perhaps from another time tries to unite or re-unite with the noble soldier on his way to the Merlyn. The noblewoman is trapped in another world and is trying to connect and possibly correct the past by trying desperatly to fuse together what is right, but somehow Crookland can't see it. Maybe write about the anxiety the noblewoman feels because she calls out to him in silence and in tears but of course he can't hear her.

The shrouded figure pulled back the dark hood from off her tresses, and caught one stray lock still in her eyes. In her lap lay a crystal orb and she moved her delicate hands neatly...just above the surface of the glass and focused her will on a former love. Within the glass milky clouds began to part and showed a grey clad figure moving silently through the wood. Her heart fluttered briefly as the shape moved from under a bough and the worry-line face of Lord Crookland emerged. He reached an ancient beech tree with a large cleft down the center. Holding a bunched mass of wettened leaves in his hand he murmurred an incantantion and the mass began to smoke. The forming cloud of damp smoke eased into the cleft of the tree awakening a dull buzz within. As the smoke increased the buzzing decreased and at last the former dark lord reached into the cleft and brought out a golden combe of honey.

"Ah, the final bit of bait to lure the wee ones out to help me...I imagine sour ole Mordred himself would lend me aide for a bit of this combe" he mused.

The Noble Lady of Fire gazed at the orb, and a tear rolled slowly down one of her fair cheeks. "Yes, I still love him...but I suppose he hates me now." and the tear splashed onto the surface of the orb. In the Noble Lady's world it was a slight tinkle, but in the world of the dark lord it was a muffled boom in the distance.

Crookland glanced up at the sound, the last shimmers of a dying comet appeared to him. He followed the comet's trail, thinking inwardly that the shape reminded him of the passing wake of a former love. She was a daughter of the Dragons....a Noble Lady, some said a Lady of Fire. Crookland had lost her to another, had neither fought to regain her nor wooed her return. He bowed his head low..."I thought to give her liberty." Instead he now supposed that she had thought that liberty meant that he did not care...that she wasn't worth fighting for.

"E-gods" Crookland weeped "would that I had done something...silent pride makes a lonely companion indeed." But in his world Crookland could not hear the weeping on the other side of the orb and could not hear the ache of a heart that missed him just as much.

Like the fabled two ships that passed in the night, each thought of the other as the milky substance of the crystal orb covered Crookland's world from the site of the Noble Lady, daughter of the Dragon, Lady of Fire.

The Noble Lady would not give up. She new deep within that she had to reach him. She continued to pray for his protection during his Journey. The Lady thought, "if only I could send a mystical message to Crookland that only he could see, and understand with his heart, then maybe, maybe we two can unite".

The Lady turned to walk back to her chamber and noticed an odd stone in her path. Upon the stone was the seal of Crookland Hall, bearing a Shepherd's crook, crossed with a sword, and surmounted by a single boll of cotton.

The Lady picked up the stone...on the reverse side in classic script was one brief line...

caesaraugustu23@hotmail.com

With that a tiny faerie gave a sloe wink and tinkled out of sight.

The moon was waxing. The Lady knew that her best hope of using the stone was to combine it with the orb during the full of the moon. She would have a few days to prepare herself by fasting and to search for the herbs she would need to free herself for the 'sending.'

Crookland made his way back to the cavern, the evening mysts began to close around him. He followed a well known path, but somehow the trees seemed much larger and much older. He broke into the clearing where the cavern should have stood, instead there was a small lake surrounded by ancient beech trees. The sun shown fully here, when it should have been night, and Crookland looked around in confusion.

One of the wee folk emerged from behind one of the ancient beeches..."Welcome to Castle Chariot, Lord Crookland. Your visit here has been long over due."

Crookland peered about, much in confusion, but each time he began to raise a question...then it really did not seem to matter at all. The wee one was joined by a slender knight, gray-bewhiskered, whose armor was rusted nearly to shut in places. He took the knight arm in arm as they walked towards Chariot. A nagging sensation bothered the back of his head...a dim memory of Pelly telling him of the death of de la Mancha, but of course it was just a dream as Don Quixote was here. And where Q or Pelly was..well that was home and safe....and the trio entered the baileyment.

Once in Chariot Crookland feasted and fetted amoung new found friends. Day followed night, and night follow day, and in some manner the former dark lord kept count of his time away from the cavern. He indulged in drink, in jousting, and in the wine ensoaked lips of the chambermaidens....oftimes more than he could actually remember, but it seemed to him to be a festival and everyone greeted the other as neighbor, as lover, as friend. Once, when he and the rusted Knight were involving themselves in the sweetest of chambermaids Crookland noticed a latin cross...circled in the manner of christian druids...and he spoke the words of power. At that he found himself in the depths of midnight, with Don Quixote at his side...but no real bearing upon the day nor even the hour at which he raised his fist against the sky.

The mounting thunder clouds clustered over a small area...beneath them a grey robed figure and a rusted knight rested fitfully in the moss. A nimbus of blue light quivered above them, protecting them from enchantment but not much else.

O dear, no one reads me anymore :( *pout*

hey are you gonna publish any of this, Lord Crookland? *g*

If all the readers jumped in to say bravo/gwan/etc., the story would get lost.

okay :) I'm happy now

The pair rise from the forest floor and begin the walk to the Cavern. Crookland looks around to gauge how much time has passed since he entered Chariot. Q's armor gentle flakes rust as they walk, the muffled screeching lessening as they progress.

Crookland found it strange to have his companion back from the land of the dead...but stranger things than that, he vaguely remembered, happened while he wandered in the dreamy land of Castle Chariot.

Crookland and Quixote entered the sanctuary of the cavern to be met boisteriously by King Pellinore. More flakes of rust eloped from Quixote's armor as the two old friends rejoiced in an embrace that would have shattered small huts. Both companions, red faced with glee and mirth began to exchange information since their last meeting. Crookland, however, noticed that the wee folk were only now entering the cave. "That should have happended long ago" Crookland mused, "from my last experience in Castle Chariot time stood still while the rest of the world passed by...now it seems as though I was only gone for a moment or two?" Perplexed, the former dark lord took his seat and waited for his two companions to finish their greeting.

Crookland watched apprehensively as the wee folk gathered around the offerings of fruit, meal, and mead...they danced in a circle, weaving in and out of two circles breadth, faint blue illuminations gathering more strong as they wove. The two old knights sat enraptured by the sight of the dwarfish folk creating such mage for what they considered a meal handful of mid meal repast.

Faster they danced, their chanting entranced the group further and further into a world here, yet beyond...someplace else beyond definition. Finally the trio seemed smaller than the wee folk themselves, entrapped in a bubble of blue magic, a glimmering shadow of bluish fire, and in the midst of that fire, growing larger and larger, with dancing balls of sub-atomic particles lay enstretched the Maerlin himself, a picture perfect rendition of Galileo's man outstretched in the five star pattern.

A low hum grew, overwhelming everything in sight, and in a burst of brillant light they heard the thunderous voice of the Maerlin himself..."Crookland, approach, and meet your doom!" Blinding as it was, the former dark lord raised from his place and knelt before his former master.

"Master," Crookland said lowly, "What is your will?"

The Merlin, caught in the fabric of time and world itself uttered in staccatto phrases "You cannot change what has been, the fabric of time and tide has been rent. I am caught here, betwixt atom and moon, to breach the rent in time."

"What must I do?" petitioned the former dark lord. "I followed the path through the bubble, and thought freeing your and Lord Arthur would correct a terrible wrong."

"Your intentions were good, my young mage, but Time cannot be corrected. I stand here, holding the fabric, like Atlas, until the breech can be sealed. You must go back to the fjord with Arthur's Legions. The olde stalemate betwixt ourselves and Mordred must be resumed. Your path is clouded now, the Daughter of the Dragon and the Tyger stand in your path...they are not your enemies, but they must be overcome before you begin to correct the damage."

"But, Master?" Crookland began, "How can I send both your and Lord Arthur back to the frozen wastes?"

The Merlin replied in soft tones, "Eliminate the barriers which confront you, and we will slip back into our former stasis. Fear not, young Gwydion, none of us knew that even the Bubble could not breech such a wrong. The Dragon is restless, I hold her fabric in my hands. The very strength that pulls one world to another follows a pattern. The science of this age knows the ancient pattern, of atome and nucleus and electron. I stand in the fabric of time...one atom changed during our release, and that one atom I now bind with myself...I speak a mystery to you, but what was changed must return. Have you not the Quixote at your side?"

"Yes" Crookland replied "In Chariot he was returned."

The Merlin grimaced under the strain, "That was the clue to our dilemma, your trio is united, and to the last battle you must return. This time the stalemate must resume, there can be no victor. Go now, and complete the quest."

Crookland bowed low, tears welling in his blue-gray eyes.

The trio engaged themselves to supper, Pelly and Q didn't waste any time with the ale barrell. Q provided the excuse that his time at Castle Chariot was entertaining, but very dry. Pelly, of course, thought it bad mannered to let his life long friend drink alone. They railed at Crookland for a tale to pass away the night..."Dour enough events to keep company later," Pelly chortled, "might as well have a bit of light entertainment to accompany this serious round of drinking."

Crookland smiled sheepishly as he wove the story...


Gwydion made his way through the heavily forested path. Young King Arthur’s companions lay encamped in the meandering swamps surrounding Avalon for the winter. The Saxons would not penetrate the mysts and the treacherous pathways without giving notice to Arthur’s recovering legions. The weather cooled as the young mage traveled northward, the undergrowth still somewhat green, it being shaded from the frosts by the thickened branches overhead. Gwydion bore a message to King Lot, overlord of Lothian, in the foothills separating upper England and Yorkshire from the wild land of the Scots.

The light woolen mantle was designed with enough folds to make a hood against the increasing cold and wind. The material was a bluish-gray color, much like the young druids eyes, and concealed him well in the lessening light. Underneath the mantle was an old roman breastplate of dulled bronze …a much worn reminder of an ancient army which had brought their own stamp of civilization upon the land. The legions left with the last contender for the roman purple, and did not return.

In the fallen leaves to his right behind the thick trunk the young mage heard the muffled sounds of thrashing. He pulled the weary war horse to halt-- this was no place for an ambush. The evening chill brought the horses breath in small clouds and Gwydion laid a hand across the stead’s warm neck to comfort him. The thrashing sounded like the kicking of a lamed doe, and briefly the thought of fresh venison caused the young man’s stomach to knot tightly. Too many days on lean rations made this too good an opportunity to let pass. Gwydion did not take time to question whether this was a gift from his own tribal goddesses or the gentle shepherd of the growing Christians in the Isle, but quietly slipped from his saddle and knocked an arrow to his bow.

The soft leather of his boots made no sound among the wet leaves, these were not the hard hob-nailed caligulas of a legionary, but the supple doe skin of a druid priest. The blue woad serpents tattoed on his forearms corded tightly as the bow was drawn, reminding him briefly of his duty to the great dragon of Britain, of the taking of life to give life in an unending path, and he silently offered thanks to the doe. He would take only what he needed and give the rest to the earth and forest.

Staying down wind he approached the thrashing, coming easily around a great beech tree to take aim at the center of the noise. His instinct had placed him well for a clear shot, but instead of looking into the deep brown eyes of a doe, he was caught instead by the even deeper brown pools of a dragon. Each of them froze. This was no dragon from his ancient religion, neither green nor gold with scales like armor, but a shimmering red, soft looking, supple and catlike in its movements. The saucered brown eyes were dulled in pain…both a wing and a leg looked badly broken, the creature had silently thrashed among the leaves in an attempt to free itself from an ugly pine branch which pinned it to the spot.

No sound was made, no offer of battle, but no look of pity either. There was proudness in the great serpent that lie before him, and neither fear nor panic. Gwydion lowered his bow. There was still no movement, the deep brown eyes seemed to look into his very soul.

“One is trapped.” a melodious voice softly echoed. The arrow fired dully into the damp earth as the young man’s grip let go in stunned surprise. “The language of the man-things are not beyond One…there is no danger.” Gwydion seemed to hear the voice twice, once with his ears, and once in his head. The dragon lay its head across it’s forepaws in a somewhat painful gesture.

Gwydion eased forward, cautiously, the battle between his curiosity and the urge to flee in full tilt. The compelling eyes of the dragon brought him closer. The branch was driven through the broken wing deep into the earth. The branching of the fork not only kept the wing from being removed, but had also roughly damaged it during the thrashing. Gwydion drew his sword and the serpent’s head drew quickly back with a soft hiss. “The branch,” Gwydion started, “I’ll have to cut it free.” The dragon laid her head back down to rest on her forepaws. “Her,” he thought, “the dragon is female and not very old.” Gwydion struck the branch swiftly with his tempered steel, the blade humming as it sheared the pine. Carefully he pulled the branch through the wing and the dragon gave an audible sigh... “One is thankful.”

A light snow had begun and darkness was beginning to settle heavily on the pair. “You can’t move like you are…I will make a litter…there is a cave not far from here.” Gwydion spoke in brief spurts, still not quite believing what he saw in front of him. Seeing a fire-breathing dragon after eating certain mushrooms was not uncommon among the druids, but this was quite something else.

Gwydion whistled for his war horse, which approached without hesitation, nodding to the beast before him and blowing a quick snort in greeting. The young mage quickly fashioned a litter and the pony sized dragon was pulled to the cave where Gwydion had planned to camp. With steel and flint he made a fire and began boiling different herbs for a poultice. The dragon remained quiet, her brown eyes calmly watching his every move, much like an overgrown housecat would watch the human she owned in the disinterested way of felines. The sleekness and dexterity of the animal kept bringing the thought to mind, and as he set the leg and poulticed the wing a deep purring from the beast contended against the wail of the wind outside.

Gwydion went back to the fire, the dragoness still calmly watching him. “One’s mate will come. He will slay you,” she said. Then, very catlike, she arched her back, yawned and stretched her claws…and went to sleep. Slack-jawed, the young companion of the brave King Arthur simply stared.

Early the next morning he and the war horse made their way across the new snow and tracked a deer which he brought luckily down with just one arrow and no chase. They carried the animal back to the cave where he selected parts for his own future meals and gave the remainder to the dragoness. Again he noticed the catlike manner in which she batted her meal about and then settled down amidst great purring to eat. He changed the dressings and poultices again. “You are not of this land, Dragoness,” he mused. “No, One is from very far away,” she replied. She told him of a land with a great wall stretched across it, and great cities, where, like Britain, the dragon was honored and revered. Gwydion’s mind was filled with pictures of strangely armored men with even stranger helmets and swords who spoke quickly to one another in sing-song cadences.

The next few weeks were spent in the exchanging of stories. Gwydion told her of the land and its struggle, of the great ring of stones where the druids met and the dragon was worshiped, of the stars over Britain, and of the lands before them that drowned in the sea. He played a small harp before the fire to pass the time away, with the dragon’s sleek head resting on his shoulder, adding her purrs to the strumming of the harp.


“Does One have a mate?” the dragoness purred. “No,” Gwydion was slow to answer, and finally spoke of the red-haired green eyed willowy lass who had come from across the Irish Sea to become a priestess at Avalon. How they shared time as both friends and lovers. He spoke of the young man who had come in from the fens as the Year King to make the great marriage with the land and how Diedre had caught his eye and had given herself to him as the Spring Maiden. His voice became somewhat softer and lower when he spoke of the rituals of the Holy Isle, that Diedre could not simply go with the Year King, but that the Year King would have to fight for her. The dragoness sensed the dilemma in the tone of Gwydion’s voice…the Year King would fight him to the death for the right to Diedre, but Gwydion would not be able to kill the Year King…Diedre loved him. They were friends before they were lovers…. Gwydion left his druid robe and his life behind in dishonor and set off. He would find a new life in Arthur’s legion. He spoke brightly of the brotherhood of mounted knights that Arthur had trained, of his best of friends Pelli and Cai, and how they all loved Arthur, of the great round mead hall table that they had captured from a Saxon chief, and how they would built a castle around it and tell their tales when the land was at peace. Gwydion and his dragoness sang and storied the days away and the cavern echoed with gaiety and laughter.

Gwydion woke to the nudgings of his old war horse and with the chilling sense of alarm. The very air vibrated with the heavy beat of wings, dust and smoke filled the cavern as an enormous winged mass blotted light from the entrance of the cave. Small rocks tumbled and the floor trembled as the double-head of a monstrous griffin shrieked forward into the cavern. It’s talons tore the earth as it forced its way deeper into mouth of their winter’s home. The dragoness looked pained “One has let you linger too long, One’s mate has come.” Gwydion looked briefly at his small dragoness, grinned and shrugged “I thought it a jest.” Quickly he snatched sword and a small round shield. The beak of one head smacked against the shield, his sword glancing sharply off the other. The heads reared back and one of the talons ripped across his breast plate with a screech. The cavern constricted the wings, but the shrieks of the double heads made the young mage wince. The men of Cornwall carried the figure of a griffin on their standards that resembled this beast. Gwydion had considered the totem from the dour rocky coasts to be another myth, like harpis or the fabled phoenix. But by all the gods the furor coming against him now was no myth. Beaks smashed against shield and sword parried against slashing talons as Gwydion was forced further back into the cavern. His war horse lay smashed against the rocks, ripped and shredded, the embers of the fire glowing hotly as they sailed through the roaring air. Gwydion struck for the head but was jarred to his teeth as talons tore through shield and into his arm and hand. He struck the rock floor, his sword flying, his mouth wide as he gasped for breath that was no longer there. The griffin was caught in his shield and not being able to withdraw pressed more tightly against him. Gwydion braced his arm under the beak of one head and forced it back, but the other head dove in attack and battered at his breast plate in an effort to take his throat. Only the distance Gwydion could keep against the one head kept the other from finishing the fight. Sweat and dirt stung his eyes and the pressure increased, his head thrummed from the screeching and the lack of breath as his breast plate was beaten down closer against his chest.

An angry hiss joined the other noises in the cavern and the talon pierced shield was torn out of his grip. Gwydion sputtered and kicked his way backwards against the rocks and caught his breath. With huge wrecking gasps he wiped the dirt from his eyes and face to see the young dragoness baiting the griffin out of the cavern with her life. Still lame she spit and struck and clawed, but her soft flesh was no match against the razor sharp talons. They clutched at her breast while beaks gouged savagely at her. “Noooo!” Gwydion guttered from deep within his throat, caught up his dagger and threw himself against the griffin. He buried one hand into a host of feathers and the other buried the dagger into the back of the griffin’s neck. He struck again and again with blind savagery until the beast collapsed.


He eased the wounded dragoness into his arms and carried her back into the cave, her breathing ragged and shallow. He held her head gently in his lap and began to cry. The dragoness opened her great brown eyes and looked at him tenderly… “One wondered if you had learned at last to fight for what you love.” He held her head tighter to his breast with great shuddering tears, “Yes, I learn slowly, but I learn.”

As the tears fell from his eyes they caressed the form of the young creature, they melted away the red skin and the soft scales, drop by precious drop they washed away the outer features of the dragoness and her wounds. But Gwydion saw not, his eyes were red and raw and blurred with the tears of his sorrow.

Gwydion felt a differing warmth in his hands and opened his eyes. There now in his lap and against his breast was an angelic figure much his own size, with long dark hair and rose bud lips. Her outer garment was no longer soft red skin with scales, but a long silken gown with the same red hue, with small figurines of the dragon that he had known patterned into the fabric. Instead of paws there were delicate hands the color of cream that rested gently against his chest, and her breasts rose and fell with soft warm air. She looked up at him with eyes of deep brown, eyes full of calmness that had looked deep into his soul that same first winter’s day in the wood. They kissed.

“Does One have a mate?” she purred. He looked down at his angel, “Yes,” he smiled. and held her closer.

They say that on a bright star lit night that Orion sweeps across the southern ecliptic of the sky. They say if you watch Orion closely enough that he will show you a painting among the stars. In the painting among the stars, they say, you can see young Gwydion…. holding his Angel, for ever, and ever, and ever.


Crookland paused at the end of the story, only the crackling of the fire and the sound of Q's slowly rusting armor broke the silence.

"That's a fine tale, lad" Pelly began seriously, "but you left out the naughty parts!" Q and Pelly both broke into gales of laughter, ale bespeckering their wiskers and glee dancing in their eyes. The Trio was united.

Y-E-S.

A NEW START
In no way is this to be considered perfect poetry just words from the heart.

Farewell Tir Na Nog

It has been nice joining you
But at last I must say goodbye
For the one I love no longer stops by.

I guess I made a mistake
When I gave him my heart
To Christ my heart should belong
For joy and salvations sake.

The one I love,
I suppose doesn't love me
Although I thought I felt love the day he held me.

I often think of the wonderful times we shared
How happy it made me feel
I thought I felt his love for me
I thought for me he cared.

I think of him everyday
and I often find myself crying
Couldn't we be friends? I ask myself
and why does he treat me this way?

I tried to protect him in Tir Na Nog
From those who I thought weren't nice
I tried to encourage his faith in Christ
and to be there if he needed advice.

Was it my dark hair and dark eyes
that made him turn his back?
Or was he just deceiving me with empty words
encased in lies?

I thought my true love loved me,
I thought my true love cared.
I guess I cannot compete
with those born with red hair.

I really feel like a nobody
of what value am I?
I feel like such a failure
again and again I cry.

My heart reamins broken
I don't know what else to do
No loved one has ever broken my heart
But life goes on that's true.

I pray that one day
He will know Jesus
that Jesus truly loves him
I hope he realizes this before judgement day.

So fare well Tir Na nog
it's been nice joining you
Perhaps he will never care
that my love for him was true.

miserable

Miserable too.

Quite Sad indeed.

Still in love. This feeling never seems to go away.

Dear Guest,
Though you're an anonymous voice in cyber-space, I hope that you'll be alright one day.

Heather

Sadly, but I guess I have been forgotten. Thanks Heather, I wish you the best too.

Great cheer fellow nOg'ans, I tied the knot on November 30th. Her great-grandfather was named Robert Emmett Cleary and was first generation American, so I guess that's enough Irish to pass muster :)

FAbulous clay Congrats. many good wishes for the future

*blush* thanx. she's really sweet. Sorry to hear about your cd player, job, etc, but archeology sounds simply splendid :) give my best to mum and dad, james et al.

thanks. yes it's fun. and i will

i'm crushed.

For the Lovelorn and Disheartened...........

Love is a fickle thing.
When you think all is lost, it is not.
When you think all is fine, it is not.
If you take it for granted, it is lost.
If you cherish it each day and be thankful for it then like tending a fire it will flourish.

I have made mistakes, been devastated, pulled myself up by the bootlaces and realised that life really does go on. You find love in the strangest of places and always when you least expect it.

I lived with my previous partner for 10 years and she left me (for a younger man) without notice.
I told no-one the circumstances (I guess I realised that I had taken living with her for granted as I was no way perfect) and dealt with it myself.
Not everyone is as strong as I, but my parents have been married and in love for 48 years without a harsh word so I had faith that there was someone out there who needed me as much as I needed them.

Six months later I met my current lady. I say met, I have known her for 27 years and she was married to a friend of mine who treated her cruely. She had done the brave thing and taken her daughter and left him. They had been living in a bedroom at her mother's on a blow up bed for a year at this time. He was and still is living in their £200,000 house.

They like I were all in the same Biker community and because of his BS about his wife taking his daughter from him, they were shunned.
This was also because some of these people were afraid of his reputation.

I stood by her (as a friend at first) because I knew what he was like and I will not be told who I can and can't talk to. Eventually friendship turned to love.
I have lost a lot of so called "friends" and I face him from time to time but it is a price worth paying.
We have now been together for four years, never had a row and I have her love and her daughter's respect. I am not a rich man but I could not be happier and would not change my situation for all the tea in China.

Never give up hope, you can find love from 5 to 95.......... and love can find you !!

*lights a candle of hope* Thanks for sharing your journey Ghost. Tis encouraging.