L' Avis d'Gwendydd
for the "what the myth got wrong" challenge
Gwendydd walked among her orchard, a crown of apple blossoms in her hair. The trees stretched their branches to the spring sun and danced in the breeze. She breathed in their heady perfume as she wandered the dark, tilled earth. The promised harvest loomed pleasantly in her thoughts, and the cares of the world were far beyond her concern.
A sudden wind blustered through the leaves, bearing with it the deep scent of rotting leaves and a crackling in the air like the breaking of a summer storm.
“Well met, sister!”
She stood unmoved until the whipping wind stilled, tender green leaves stripped from their trees fluttering to the ground.
“Myrddin. It’s been many a year since you’ve darkened my threshold.”
Gwendydd’s wizarding brother stood before her, wild as the last they met. Deep dark robes and an unruly gray hair all but hid the sharp, bird-like features marking them as family. A shrewd gaze peered out from bushy brows. “Yet not a moment of it has weathered you, I see.”
She bowed her head. “The virtue of a quiet life.”
“Too quiet for my taste.”
“Why are you here, then?” Gwyendydd challenged quietly. She harbored no great love for her prophesying sibling, his satisfaction in meddling in the lives of others would bring him to no good. As she gazed upon him, a warning whisper brushed the fringes of her mind. He was playing at something far grander than his previous plottings. Something with a dark and dreary end.
“Am I not allowed the simple pleasure of your company?”
When she did not reply, the thin ruse of the pleasantry dropped.
“I seek your help in weaving the threads of a tale that shall rival all of proud Briton's history, before and after our age.”
Gwendydd sighed. Another dream.
“Imagine it,” the wizard continued, not awaiting her reply. “Can you not see it, sister?
He spun his premonitions fine as spidersilk, catching on her mind like sunlight on dew. A boy of nothing, rising from the dust with a sword and a fire in his eye. A king robed in the mantle of myth. A man of stout heart, of honor, leading a united kingdom, peace in his grasp, strength upon his brow, and the wisdom of a graybeard in his ear. Myrddin, the storm-robed sage at his shoulder.
Myrddin, the long-fingered puppetmaster. History would not remember him like this. Gwendydd alone saw her brother as he was: a madman playing at godhood.
However, he was not the only one with a farsighted gift. She closed her eyes, calling out to the future, awaiting its echoed reply. Hours, weeks, years, a century dripped through the hourglass of history.
“I will help,” she said finally, reaching out to touch a blossoming, low-hanging branch. “However, I have some rules of my own.”
The glint never left Myrddin’s eye as he gave a small bow, bidding her continue.
“The boy’s ascension will not be by your hand alone. You will be the gale at his back, but others shall be his wings.’
‘When the time comes, you will bring him to my daughter, Ninaine. She will have for him a mighty gift, one which he will need to prove his kinghood beyond any shadow of a doubt. It will be she, not you, who will prove his claim to the throne of Britain.”
He rubbed his hands, seemingly satisfied. “Very well. Anything else?”
She stepped close enough to see the tangles of his hair, and the dirt beneath his nails. The Madman of Carmarthen seemed to shrink under her unflinching eye. “Only this; remember, at the end of it all, you are still only a man.”
“You were always the morbid one, sister,” Myrddin chuckled darkly. “When the bards sing of King Arthur, they will sing of us. The wizard Myrddin and his gloomy sister with her apples of gold.”
“No,” she paused, and tilted her head thoughtfully, the flowered crown slipping ever so slightly over her midnight hair. “The world will not hear the name of Gwendydd. The glory is yours for the mastering, brother.”
He raked a hand through his wild beard, a smile playing at his lips. “As you wish, lady.” With a swirl of his storm-dark robes, he took his leave of Gwendydd and the orchard.
Gwendydd turned back to her trees. She had seen it all. The rise of a boy king, the golden age of the Britons shining brighter than the sun on the sea. She saw also that to which Myrddin turned a blind eye. The darkened days, the whispers, those who would betray their beloved Arthur. The ultimate end to a wildling’s fantasies, and the sorrowing bones of those who played his unwitting pawns.
There was one more vision her fanciful brother lacked, for all his foresight. His own demise curled around her vision, gnarled roots and the earthy dark swallowing him alive for all eternity. Even he was not immune to the grave. From dust to dust, so the mad prophet of the forest would return to his beginnings beneath the trees.
No, the world would not know the name of Gwendydd. She would become the nameless force that kept Myrddin’s maddening dreams at bay.
A glass-eyed raven landed on a limb near her. Gwendydd reached up to stroke its shining feathers.
“Send for Vivaine. My student has a new lesson to attend to.”
About the Creator
M. A. Mehan
"It simply isn't an adventure worth telling if there aren't any dragons." ~ J. R. R. Tolkien
storyteller // vampire // arizona desert rat
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The Frozen Pass Mystery: The Night Nine Hikers Ran Into the Darkness
In the winter of 1959, a group of nine university students decided to attempt a difficult expedition through a remote mountain range deep in northern Russia. The leader of the group was Arman Karev, a calm and experienced hiker known among his friends for planning tough but exciting adventures. Joining him were his close friends: Leonid Petrov, Sasha Morov, Nikolai Varenko, Yuri Sokol, Viktor Belin, Irina Volkova, Tania Orlov, and Mira Petrenko. All of them were skilled hikers. Some had already completed several winter expeditions before. None of them were beginners, and they knew exactly how dangerous the mountains could be in February. Still, adventure called them. They began their journey at the end of January, carrying heavy backpacks, cameras, journals, and enough supplies to survive the brutal cold. Their goal was to cross the frozen mountain pass and return home with stories of challenge and victory. During the first days of the expedition, everything seemed normal. Photos later recovered from their cameras showed the group laughing, walking through deep snow, and setting up camp under the pale winter sky. They looked happy, confident, and completely unaware of the mystery their journey would become. But after they failed to return on the scheduled date, worry began to spread. Days turned into weeks. Finally, search teams were organized to look for the missing hikers. When rescuers reached the area where the group was believed to have camped, they quickly found something strange. The tent was still there. But something about it felt wrong. The fabric of the tent had been cut open from the inside. Experienced hikers would never destroy their own shelter in the middle of a snowstorm unless something forced them to escape immediately. Outside the tent, the snow told a silent story. Footprints led away from the campsite. But the rescuers noticed something terrifying. Some footprints appeared to belong to people who were barefoot or wearing only socks. In temperatures far below freezing, leaving shelter without boots or coats would be almost certain death. The tracks continued down the slope toward a dark forest about a kilometer away. When searchers followed the trail, they discovered the first two bodies beneath a tall cedar tree. It was Yuri Sokol and Leonid Petrov. Near them were the remains of a small fire, as if they had desperately tried to warm themselves before the cold became too much. Between the tree and the abandoned campsite, three more bodies were found: Arman Karev, Sasha Morov, and Nikolai Varenko. Their positions suggested something heartbreaking. It looked as if they had been trying to crawl back to the tent before collapsing in the snow. Weeks later, after heavy snow began to melt, the remaining four hikers were discovered inside a nearby ravine. What investigators saw next made the mystery even darker. Irina Volkova had a fractured skull. Viktor Belin had several broken ribs. Mira Petrenko was missing her tongue. And Tania Orlov had severe internal injuries that looked similar to those caused by a powerful collision. Yet strangely, there were almost no external wounds. Even more confusing, there were no signs that anyone else had been present. No other footprints. No evidence of an attack. Some of the hikers’ clothing was later reported to have unusual radiation traces, adding another layer of mystery to the case. Over time, theories began to appear everywhere. Some believed a sudden avalanche might have terrified the group. Others suggested secret military tests happening in the mountains that night. A few locals even claimed they had seen strange glowing lights in the sky during the same period. But none of the explanations fully answered the biggest question. Why would nine trained hikers suddenly panic so badly that they cut open their tent and run into the freezing darkness? Years later, the case file was quietly closed with a strange explanation. Officials simply stated that the hikers died due to “an unknown and overwhelming force.” The mountain pass where the tragedy happened was later renamed Frozen Pass in memory of the lost hikers. Even today, hikers who visit the area say the place feels unusually quiet. The wind moves slowly through the snow-covered slopes, and the forest stands dark and still beneath the mountains. Some visitors say that standing there at night feels unsettling—almost as if the mountain is hiding something. Something that happened long ago. Something no one has ever fully understood. And perhaps never will.
By Baseer Shaheen 5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Broooooooooooooooooooo this was EPIC!!!