It all began upon a Winter's Solstice. It was cold and bright, with a feeling of new things in the air. He felt born all over again, into a new life, sloughing off the out-grown skin of the youth he had been, eager to try out the man he felt he was becoming. Fresh-filled with power, determined not to return to Rebma until he had done something he deemed worth the doing, Mordred went a-wandering. Llewella had told him it was time to grow up, to take a stand, to develop himself and hone his abilities, fine-tune his powers, in preparation for making his entrance to Amber, so off he went. It was probably not surprising that he ended up in Erde, as it had elements of danger and mystery as well as great beauty - it called to him and so he came, knowing it would be an excellent test of his abilities as a warrior, that area where he felt weakest. He called himself Niall.
Soon enough he found a place that was remote enough to serve his need for solitude, yet still had people close enough to reach when he wanted human contact. It was the time when all of the lambs were born on the hillsides and in the pastures, when people were often at their most depressed and melancholy, when the predators came a-hunting for easy prey. Mordred chose to take exception to this, and the villages in the area became his adopted children, as he spent his nights stalking the hilltops and creeping through the shadowed valleys, protecting 'his flock'. His reputation grew, as did his pile of fine rich pelts - each one the result of a desperate struggle in the dark of a fog-bound night. Inspiration struck him once, when he stood wearily leaning upon his spear over the steaming corpses of three great dire wolves – and he took their essences to render for a magical working, according to the magical rules that were in effect in the Shadow. The spear became a repository for the Essences of all those it slew... He named it Wolf-killer, and was content.
Then the Spring Equinox came to Erde. It was a time of new beginnings, with bright green buds on the trees and all of the fields covered with a similar sprinkling of color; shafts of new growth coming up in the midst of last years dead grasses. It was also a time for other things, and so it was absolutely appropriate for him to have met her then. His first love, and possibly his greatest, Meara – whose name meant 'Wild and Abandoned Laughter'. She had come to see who this mystery man was, who took it upon himself to battle the fierce beasts of the hills, without even the excuse of being clan-bound to the people he cared for. Her family had been over-seeing these lands for generations and so she felt it necessary to look into it. Is there a special magic to spring-time that makes all wish to fall in love? Or were they fated to be together, no matter how or when they met? Regardless, it was only a matter of moments before each knew the other was meant for them. Over the next few months their courtship went on a-pace. She was a bit older than he, and perhaps more worldly, but it did not take long for him to take flame from the sparks she was throwing off.
All too soon, at a village Fire-Festival to celebrate the fertility of the newly awakened land, they consummated their love. It was the time of passion... It was the season of the hunt - not of animals, but of the foeman who always sought to take from those who had and give unto themselves. They adventured from that time on as a team, until each knew the other as well as they knew themselves, could block the blow of an attack meant for the other and know that they were covering them in return - without even looking. Their strength grew and their command of their abilities did likewise. She was a champion and a hero of her clan, a warrior and princess, handsome brave and bold; Meara of the hostages, Meara of the nine, his heart's beloved. They ran together, fought together, lived and loved together, until the day he set eyes on Dierdre, later to be called 'of the Sorrows' because of all the tragedy that came about because of her, though through no fault of her own.
It was the time of the Summer's Solstice, when the days were longest and the nights shortest. There was a great inter-Clan-meeting, as was called every year at this time in order to ensure that issues regarding feuds and marriages were dealt with properly and efficiently. In past years when things were let go many shed their blood to no purpose due to misunderstandings, so this was instituted. Also, many met the ones they were destined to spend their lives with this way and thus forged strong bonds of inter-marriage between clans, so it was always well-attended. Unfortunately, though Mordred loved his 'Meara', it became clear he was not 'in-love' with her, as soon as he set eyes on Dierdre. Her form was as lithesome as a sylph, she was countenanced like an angel, yet fully human withal was she. Eyes bluer than skies, Tresses dark as night, ruddy lips and teeth white as pearls.
When Mordred saw her he would never see another from that day forth, and his lover, the warrior woman known as Meara, stopped laughing that day. She could not even bring herself to hate this rival, for she was as sweet and innocent of malice as a young bird. Instead, on the day when their betrothal was announced, she cried out in her grief and dove into the ocean from the top of a great cliff. But this was only the beginning of the sorrows...
It seems that Dierdre had five brothers, and all of them took offence at her betrothal to young Mordred, this stranger from the hills. They came and took them while they napped one day, blindfolded and bound, from a small garden that overlooked the sea. Separated, he knew not where his love was, but he was brought to a mist-shrouded grove and tied to a tree, taunted and derided, then left with one final insult; a hive of angered bees thrown so that it broke against his face. Coated in honey and covered with bee-stings, Mordred waited for very little time - it was clear there would be no rescue and he'd best do it himself, then see about rescuing his love.
He struggled against the ropes, the slipperiness of the honey helping some, but then the wolf came. He'd thought the tormenters were joking when they spoke of the man-eating beasts, thought it perhaps a reference to his reputation as a killer of the beasts, but clearly whoever had him put here was more serious than he'd thought. Now he worried in truth about his love...Still blindfolded, he smelled it first, the rank odor of damp fur – and then heard its breath. At first it began to lick at the honey, but when he squirmed, trying to continue getting free of his bonds, it growled and bit him, hard, taking a chunk out of his leg.
He ignored the pain, and the blood coursing down his leg - he was so close to having an arm free, but dared not do anything, not even move to save himself. Determining upon a course of action, he held still, even though twice more it bit him – small nips that drew blood but no worse.
He waited until its fetid breath was hot on his face, almost asphyxiating with the smell of rotted flesh mixed with honey, waited until he judged his moment was ripe – Well he knew he had only one chance... The tongue was now licking at the honey on his face, the beast growling to itself, clearly scenting the blood all over him and anticipating its meal. Darting forward with his head, he grabbed its tongue in his own teeth and bit it right through.
If he'd had his hands free, he'd have used them to cover his ears, for the howling was deafening. Still, his purpose was served, for the beast was distracted by the pain. Mordred spit out the foulness in his mouth, got his remaining arm free, and tore off the blindfold. He could see the wolf was too busy to think about him, but no doubt the smell of blood or the animal's cries would bring others. Getting himself loose finally took almost all of his remaining strength, but at last he was free.
Quickly he backtracked to their little cottage and grabbed his spear and a blade, then began to follow those who had taken his love. On the trail of her captors, he twice encountered creatures that wanted to finish what the great wolf had started, but each time he summoned the strength to fight it off. The second time Mordred was so tired that he stopped, in spite of his fears, resting for a time as he dined on the flesh of his erstwhile hunter, adding its material sustenance to the magical Essence he had drained it of to heal his wounds and strengthen his reserves. Now, he was ready.
By the time he came up with them, he had divined their intent. They made as if to burn her alive as a sacrifice to some foul demon they worshipped and so of course her lover came to her rescue. In the conflict she was slain. Stunned beyond words, he stood by her corpse for hours, until he saw the truth and buried her there. Then, mad with rage and grief, three times over, he rose up out of his grief-stricken shock, tracked down his beloved's killers, brought them to the mound where they had held their foul ceremonies and slew them one by one atop its tainted earth. He drew their essences out of them as well, placing their souls into his spear, seeing them as no more than wolves themselves anyway.
At this there arose the Demon itself, angered at losing its worshippers as well as its sacrifices. He fought it, tired as he was, in a single-handed combat with nothing but spear and blade, that lasted all night and through the next day and deep into the night after that. This was the Night of the Winter's Solstice, and the Dark of the Three Moons as well, a conjunction that happened only once in a millennium. It was a time of great power for the dark energies that the demon commanded. The fiend's size and strength waxed as the night wore one - the longest night of the year and the darkest time known to any living. There were many times when he almost despaired, but always Mordred thought back to his shining memories of love, in all of their purity - and continued.
When dawn arose on their third day of fighting, the power of the beast was broken - it owned itself defeated by him and fled long and far out into the shadow. The exhausted scion of Rebma did not have the energy to chase it, so he simply sat – and thought of what might have been. He dwelt for a time in the lost and lonely places, listening to the winds and speaking to the waves. The days came and went, as he sat and delved deeply within himself, seeking out every shred of love he had felt for both his ladies fair and bringing them forth - not to destroy, but to cleanse, purging them of all dark sentiment, all jealousy. The pain would never fade, but he was determined that his memories of his time together with these two never be tainted, would remain always pure and shining as they deserved to be. In time he came to a place within himself where he was content.
Mordred looked about him at the day. It was cold and bright, with a feeling of new things in the air. He felt born all over again, into a new life, worked over on the forge of despair and anger, tragedy and fruitless triumph. He was no longer the youth he had been, he was now a man - though with no idea yet as to what he would become. Fresh-filled with knowledge, loath to stay any longer in this Shadow that had been witness to both his greatest joy and greatest sorrow, he made ready for his return to Rebma.
The Spear remained behind, in a protected place only he could access, filled with the essences of countless wolves, five of them once human. The Demon was fled, and well hidden itself by now as well, but somehow he knew he'd be back for it, when he was stronger – they were not finished, they two...