A tale of gods and kings. Of lost Avalon. Of endings, and of beginnings.
The Fate of Avalon
Authors: DrGrimoire
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The Fate of Avalon: Sidhe Mytho-Prophecy in Context
Saoirse Farrow1, Maisie Sinclair2
Journal of Parahistory | Vol. 98 | January 2022
The fall of Avalon in the early 20th century is one of the most studied events in Veiled history, widely considered to be the worst backlash-induced humanitarian crisis since the fall of Atlantis. Most studies of the fall have focused on the narratives and events immediately surrounding the crisis, particularly as experienced by the Portlandser Sidhe population3. While it is widely known that several of the Sidhe ancestor-gods possess prophetic abilities4, and that their prophecies predicted the Fall, there has been little research done into the effects of these prophecies on the events they foretold.
Through the cooperation of several Sidhe Ancestor-Gods, and the generosity of the Royal Family of New Avalon, several narratives have been uncovered which were previously unknown to para-anthropology. These documents tell the story of the fall of Avalon from a wholly new perspective: that of the Ancestor-Gods themselves. These stories, particularly the oral mythohistorical narratives favored by the Ancestor-Gods, also shed light on the culture of the Sidhe at the time of the founding of their nation.
Sidhe Ancestor-Gods are gestalt entities embodied in symbolic artifacts known as mantles, which are borne by Sidhe individuals known as "incarnations" of the mantle's associated Ancestor-God. These gestalts possess memories and histories from all of their previous incarnations, though older memories have historically been considered unreliable by academia5, and as such have been discounted as primary sources for information surrounding the Fall of Avalon. It is our opinion that, while the specific details of their memories may be inaccurate, they still provide valuable evidence and insight into Sidhe culture, society, and history.
The first document in this new narrative is the story of the birth of the Morrigan, Sidhe Ancestor-Goddess of fate, prophecy, and war. Set roughly a century after the initial settlement of Avalon, the following is a transcript of the story as told by the current incarnation of the Dagda, recorded in 2021.
In the first year of the second reign of Nuada of the silver hand, king of the Isle of Mist and Myth, to his granddaughter Ernmas was born a daughter. She was not the bravest of the daughters of Ernmas, for that was her sister Banba. She was not the fairest of her sisters, for that was fair Ériu, who would one day be the lover of the sun. No, she was the most feared of her sisters, for on the morning of the day of her birth her hair was as black as the moonless night, and in the afternoon of the day of her birth her hair was as red as peat flame, and in the evening of the day of her birth her hair was as white as the mountain snow. To her ever-shifting daughter Ernmas gave the name Anand the fortunate, for Ernmas wished for this dreaded daughter to be the favored of fate.
A year and a day after her birth, in accordance with the ancient law, Ernmas took her daughter to meet her forebearer, mighty king Nuada, once maimed and now whole in silver. When the child was presented to the great king, the sun blazed above the great hall, and her hair was the color of evening sky. But when the king looked upon his great-grandchild's face, she spoke to him in the voice of a grown woman, and her hair turned black as pitch, and a great flock of ravens blotted out the sun above the isle as she said:
"Grandfather of my mother, mighty king Nuada, of the silver hand, one-maimed and twice-king, hear me now.
"In the twentieth year of your reign, the one who once took your throne will return, and with him fel Balor of the Evil Eye, and they will come for your kingship, and they will bring ruin and sorrow to the land.
"You will cede your throne to another, who will be bound to a spear as you are bound to your own silver arm, and he will lead our people to victory.
"But great Nuada, mighty Nuada, you who have led us here to the Isle of Mist and Myth and reigned for seven years and two years after, your crown will topple, though you have already set it down, and roll on the ground, and your arm shall go limp and your sword shall never swing again.
"You will not see the defeat of Balor, who is foe and grandfather to the one who shall come after you, nor the growth of your line, until the last days of the isle.
And when the child stopped speaking the crow-night cleared, and the sun returned, and her voice became that of an infant crying for her mother, and her hair burned again with the color of flame.
And the wheel of seasons turned, and the child Anand grew into a young woman, and her hair no longer followed the course of the sun across the sky but instead her moods. For when she was filled with joy and contentment her hair burned as red as sunset, and when she was filled with wrath and anger it was as white as iron in the forge, and when she was neither joyful nor wrathful, she was peering into the future, and her hair was as black as cold iron.
It came about in the eighteenth year of Anand’s life, which was the nineteenth year of the second reign of Nuada, king of the Isle of Mist and Myth, that for three weeks Anand’s tresses were night-black, and her home was mobbed by crows, to whom she spoke and sang in their secret language. And on the last day of those weeks, which was also Beltaine, Anand spoke not in the language of the crows but in the language of the people, in her voice of doom, and she told her mother and her sisters this:
“At the dying of the light today a robin will alight within our home, and you will know it for an omen.”
And to this the women nodded, for they all knew that a robin alighting within the home on Beltaine, the day of fire and water when bonfires were made up and buckets dropped into holy wells, meant that death would come upon the family, and soon.
“You will weep at this sign, for I tell you now that the portent is for me, and I shall die.”
And it was so, and the women of the house wept that the youngest of their number would be taken, for though she was a child of dread and prophecy she was also their blood and beloved.
“But I tell you, mourn me not, and instead heed my instructions. For I have seen my death coming, and I know what must be done to prepare for it, and the dead can mourn themselves besides.”
And her sisters and mother asked her “What can we do, Anand, favored of fate, if you are to die?” For they had grown used to her prophecies, and all had come to pass, and knew that when her locks were black like night that she saw into the future and charted the course of destiny.
Anand commanded them thus:
“Fair Ériu, you must go out into the fields around our house, where the crows now mob, and take from each of them a pinion, which they will yield to you because you are so fair that no beast nor man can deny you.
“Beloved mother, who has raised me, and who will mourn me keener than any other, you must spend a season weaving me a shroud of the finest flax. And on the last day of the season, which will be Lunasa, you will have finished the shroud, and it will be white like bone and soft like down, and you will weep to think I will never know its comfort.
“Brave Banba, you must take this shroud, and wrap the pinions Ériu gathers in it, and go to the bog where our tribe, the tribe of the gods, buries criminals and strangers, and bury it there for a season, and the cloth will turn from the white of bone to the black of night, a black so deep it is like the otherworld.
“And after a season in the bog, on the day before Samhain in the nineteenth year of the second reign of Nuada, all of us will go there and pull the shroud and the pinions from the murk, and wash them in the clear stream that runs behind our house. And we shall take the pinions and feather the shroud with them, and make a crow-feather cloak.
“This cloak shall be named Badb, and the one wearing it shall be called Badb, and I shall weave about it a spell that will allow them to wear the shape of a crow, since crows can fly between our world and the otherworld where the dead hold their court.
“And in the morning of Samhain I shall be bound to this cloak as Nuada, the silver-handed king, is bound to his hand, and Lugh, the hero who sits at the king’s right hand is bound to his great spear, and the Dagda, who sits at the king’s left hand is bound to his cauldron. And then I shall drown in the clear stream that runs behind our house, and be dead."
At this, Anand’s sisters and mothers brought a great protest, and asked her “Wise Anand, favored by fate, if you know how you will die, surely you can choose to live instead.” But she silenced them with her reply, saying:
“Water knows it will flow downhill, and the sun knows it will sink below the horizon each day. Just as they must follow their paths, I must follow mine, and besides, I have not yet finished telling you my instructions, for there is one more thing you must do."
And they were silent, and listened as the youngest spoke again in the voice of doom, and she commanded them:
“After I am dead, you will take the shroud from my body, and you will go to the healing-house of Dian Cécht, the son of the Dagda. And in that house you will find a woman with hair like wheat, whose body yet lives, though her spirit is dead, and you will wrap her in my shroud, and you will not mourn me, just as you do not mourn her."
And the women obeyed, and it was as Anand said, and they collected the feathers and wove the flax and dyed them in the bog, and made of them the crow-feather cloak, and fastened it with a brooch of carved oxbone, and Anand was bound to it as she said. The afternoon came, and she drowned in the clear stream that ran behind her house, and she was dead.
Just as she had commanded, they took the cloak and went to the house of Dian Cécht, and found there the woman Anand had described, and wrapped her in the cloak. And her once-empty eyes filled with life, and her golden hair turned to the color of night, and she spoke in the voice of Anand, and she said “I am returned from the otherworld, and I have charted a way back for myself and for all those who are bound, and I am Anand, and I am the gateway to the otherworld, and the hosts of the unquiet dead that roam that world will pay me fealty.”
And at this Ernmas and her daughters wept, both with joy that the child had been returned to them, and with sorrow that she was a child no longer, for in her regal bearing they saw that now she was a queen. Knowing now her sovereignty, in the morning Ernmas took Anand to see mighty Nuada, and Lugh at his right hand, and the great druid the Dagda at his left.
The three kingly men looked at the reborn Anand, and each saw differently. Nuada saw her royal bearing, and knew her for a queen. Lugh saw the battle-wisdom in her eyes, and knew her for a warrior. The Dagda saw the depth of her, that she was three-in-one, warrior and queen and woman, and knew her for the woman to be his wife.
And Nuada spoke first, and said “I see you, daughter of my granddaughter, reborn through the same bindings that all three of us hold. I see that you have charted the path for us to follow, and granted our spirits life beyond death. I name you Mór-ríoghan, the phantom queen, and I accept your dominion over the unquiet dead."
And then Lugh spoke, and said “I see you, daughter of the tribe of the gods, with the battle-fury of the hosts of our dead warriors within you. I name you Badb Catha, the battle crow, for your feathered mantle and your fury, and I accept your dominion over the ways of war."
Finally the Dagda spoke, and said "I see you, daughter of gods and death. I see you are woman and queen and warrior, and I see the beauty in all three. I name you not, for you are not mine to name, but ask you to name me instead."
Anand smiled at the Dagda’s wisdom, for she knew he could read the course of the future, though not as well as her, and knew that their futures were intertwined. And she spoke thus: “I name you husband, Dagda, though not at this moment. For I have much business to attend to before I am yours and you are mine."
And thus did Anand become Mór-ríoghan and Badb Catha, Phantom Queen and Battle Crow, the three-in-one.
A year and a day after her rebirth, in the twentieth year of the second reign of Nuada of the silver hand, king of the Isle of Mist and Myth, Mór-ríoghan's first prophecy came true. For on that day Bres, who had sat on the throne of Nuada for seven years, brought war to the kingdom at the head of a host of Fomorians. At his right hand was fel Balor of the Evil Eye, chieftain of the Fomorians, and they came to take the throne of the tribe of the gods for Bres.
For long months did the army of the tribe and the Fomorians wage their war, bringing suffering and death to the land, and though the tribe fought mightily they were slowly driven back, until at last the line of battle was arranged outside the great hall of Nuada.
Seeing this host arrayed before his hall, and the destruction they had wrought across his lands, Nuada of the silver hand despaired. And on the night before battle was joined, Mór-ríoghan came upon him pacing the length of his great hall and tearing at his hair, and she asked him “Great-grandfather, why do you despair? For it does not do for a warrior to fear his death in battle.”
And great king Nuada replied to her "I fear not my death, daughter of my granddaughter, but what it means for our people. For if I were but a warrior, my death would mean the loss of a sword-arm, but as a king I fear it would mean the loss of the head that guides the arms, and bring us to ruin."
And she told him "Mighty king, eighteen years ago I spoke to you a prophecy, of your death and your return. Surely you remember that tomorrow is the day of your doom, for what man or god could forget such a thing. But remember also that I prophesied more. You will die not as a king but as a warrior. Lay down your crown, and let vigorous Lugh lead our defense. Set down your burden, and let another carry it, for the weight of destiny is enough as it is."
And he knew her words for wisdom, and called out for Lugh, and named him king of the tribe of the gods, and gave him the Dagda for his second, at his right hand, and the Mór-ríoghan as his advisor, at his left hand. In the morning the battle was joined, and all fought fiercely, the Mór-ríoghan as the Badb Catha, her shield blocking axes and stones and cruel spells even as her spear struck out at the Fomorians, and the Dagda with the magic of earth and stone, and Lugh as a warrior king with shining spear and clear voice calling out strategy, and Nuada silver-hand as warrior alone, with his enchanted sword.
As the battle raged, Nuada silver-hand found himself in single combat with fel Balor of the Evil Eye, sword against sword. And though he fought mightily, the giant Fomorian was too much for him, and he cut his sword into three pieces, and then clove the head off of the former king, and it fell to the dirt and rolled there.
But Balor’s triumph was short lived, as noble Lugh hefted his spear and threw it true, and it pierced his evil eye and ended him, and with that single blow Nuada was avenged and the battle won, and Mór-ríoghan’s first prophecy fulfilled.
In the years that followed, Mór-ríoghan had much business to attend. The war had created a great host of unquiet dead who refused to pass on, and as their queen she was compelled to address them. She travelled across the land, seeing the destruction the war had wrought, and soothing the phantoms and spirits it had left behind.
From each ghost she quelled she took tribute in secrets, and in this way she learned the ways of the magic of death, and many hidden truths of the world of the living besides. And in her quest she saw the people of the land rebuild from the war, and spread far and wide, and when she returned to the hall of Lugh, which had once been the hall of Nuada, Lugh was king of twice again as large a tribe as Nuada had been.
As the wheel of the seasons ground on, the Mór-ríoghan grew into a woman, and a year and a day after she returned from her journey, she had decided it was time that she and the Dagda wed. Yet it was not to be, for the Dagda was old, far too old to be her husband, and dying besides of his age. And so she went to his bedside, as he lay dying, and she spoke to him in her voice of doom thus:
“Dagda, wise one, fiery one, hear me now. When we first met, you knew me for your wife, and I knew you for my husband, though we were not yet wed. Soon you will die, and you will walk back through your cauldron into another, and he will be young, and fertile, and mighty as you were in your prime.
“Know now that we are still to be wed, and on the day that another takes up your mantle he will be my husband and I his wife, and I will share with you the secrets of the magic of the dead, and will be yours for as long as you keep me, through as many deaths as we have.”
And at this declaration of love, the Dagda smiled, and spoke his last words, and they were: “Wise Mór-ríoghan, Fierce Badb Catha, Fair Anand, I have known that this body would not know yours since we met. Know that when I return, I will teach you the secret magic of the land, and of the sea and the sky, and make you my queen.”
With these final words the Dagda died his first death, and it was a year and a day before the one was found who would take his mantle, and his name was Ruad, and he took the cauldron and drank from it, and became the Dagda again. And the reborn Dagda and Mór-ríoghan were wed as they had agreed, and they taught each other the secrets of the land and the dead and the sea and the sky, across countless deaths and rebirths.
The following document was taken from the journal of Prince Arthur Ó Dagdas, provided by the generosity of the Royal Family of New Avalon. The exact time of the creation of the entry is unclear, but given the events of the end of the tale must have been after he assumed the Mantle of Nuada in 1882.
In the year 1882, having returned from Afghanistan after three hard years in the service of the Royal Avalon Fusiliers, I arrived at the opening of the houses of parliament, there to accompany my father as he went about his royal duties. On our arrival to those august halls, our party was set upon by a swarm of courtiers and clerks with innumerable questions for my father.
The subject of the conversation, aside from my return from abroad to our isle, was of the massed growth of the segment of our population known as draoi, those gifted with the ability to manipulate the etheric currents of existence. The Sidhe race, of which my family had been stewards for centuries, had always been blessed with a great proportion possessed of such gifts, far exceeding that of the common breed of man. Nonetheless, in the preceding years, there had been a peculiar uptick in the number of children born with such gifts, and more peculiar still a number of adults, long past the age at which such talents typically unveiled themselves, awoke to find they could suddenly make use of the arts of our people.
Having arrived only a scant week prior, I was unfamiliar with the particulars of the situation in my nation, though through correspondence with my father I was at least aware of the general outline of events. But, having served on the lines of the secret war raging across the world between the occult powers, I had been exposed to a fair number of rumors and made some small study of this phenomenon myself, for it was affecting peoples the world over. I made this point to the massed rumormongers to quite some commotion, for while similar news had arrived on the lips of others, it had been dismissed as mere speculation.
The hubbub only grew as we proceeded into the chamber of parliament, as our throng of civil servants was joined by the esteemed men and women of our upper and lower houses. I spotted among them the pixie Lady Feegle, whose son had stanched the bleeding after a German bullet had caught an artery in my right arm, who fluttered her gossamer wings at me as if she was baiting a bull. Making my excuses, I disentangled myself from the conversation between the elder statesmen, and made my way to the edge of the chamber, where boxes were affixed at eye-level to allow conversation between the smaller races of fey and their larger relations.
“My dear boy Arthur, how you have grown!” She said in bittersweet tones “Cob wrote to me about your adventures together in the wider world, and their tragic end. But he did not mention how broad you had become! Tell me, my boy, is it true what they say? Did a cabal of Germans truly kill a god, and usher in this bloom of draoi?”
“I cannot say for certain, for I never had a chance to converse with one of the German Godless, as they were ever too busy with shooting at us, but I believe it is so.” I replied, tentatively. “They certainly seemed possessed of the strength and fury necessary to do so. It would not surprise me if their goal was the wholesale elimination of all gods on our sphere, regardless of the consequences. I think we are quite fortunate that the aftermath of their success is relatively benign.”
“Well put, young prince.” Came her smiling reply. “Though I cannot imagine you are too fond of the ways of the gods at this moment.”
“Whatever do you mean by that, my lady?” I asked her in reply, for while I had been raised to honor the gods who were our ancestors, I knew she was far better versed in them than I.
“I speak of an ancient rule of kingship — that to rise to the throne, a king must be whole in body. I thought you would have heard the discussion by now, though I should be glad to be the first one to tell you, rather than one of the anti-royal voices who might make a barb of it.”
In truth I had considered that provision a great deal since my maiming. It was the very same rule that, if the hazy memories of our oft-absent gods were to be believed, was what had led to the deposition of Nuada and the crowning of Bres, the tyrant-king. I had grappled long and hard with thoughts that I would never rise to the ivy throne of my father as I lay abed in Baghdad, and had come to terms with it.
“If it is not my fate to be king, then I will accept it, though it may pain me.” I replied, though in my heart I remained conflicted.
We continued speaking for some while, I regaling her with stories of my and her son’s exploits in service of the crown, her filling me in on the happenings of parliament and the court while I was away, until with the heavy percussion of oaken staff on marble floor the speaker called the assembled audience to silence. The solemn ceremony of the opening of Parliament then began, culminating in a speech by my father and then, as tradition, an invitation by the speaker, calling upon the Lord Keeper of Prophecy to read any prophecies left us by the rarely-seen goddess Morrigan.
In the centuries since the Dagda passed down his crown to his mortal descendants, the crow-goddess of prophecy and magic had left to the crown many scrolls of prophecy, each with a peculiar enchanted wax seal which would break at a time known only to the goddess, at which point the scroll was to be read and the prophecy within revealed, there to guide or warn our rulers. It was one such prophecy which had instructed king Llewelyn to institute our parliamentary system, and in the years since the keeping of the scrolls had been entrusted to a member of our senior house of governance. To my knowledge, it had been nearly a century since the last scroll was read, and as such the ceremonial invocation was largely a formality, a signal at which several of the back-bench representatives began discreetly filing out, and the room began to fill with the quiet murmur of conversation.
Thus when the elderly Lord Burke spoke up in his frail tenor, shouting “The Lord Keeper informs the Speaker and the King of a cracked seal and a prophecy revealed”, it sent a wave of surprise and silence across the gallery. Those same ministers who, some moments prior, had begun the process of discreetly leaving now attempted to reverse course, stumbling over themselves in their haste to return to their benches.
“In accordance with the law of Llewelyn, the Speaker of the Houses of Parliament commands the Lord Keeper of Prophecy to read forth the will of the Morrigan to the assembled parliament.” The speaker barked, his usual eloquence lost in the struggle to remember the ceremonial phrasing.
In reedy tones, Lord Burke spoke once more: “The Lord Keeper of Prophecy accepts the command of the Speaker. Hear now the voice of the Morrigan!” Then, with a rustling of parchment audible in the now-silent hall, the elderly Lord read:
"When draíocht blooms as a thistle, and not as heather
"And by leaden blade, the line of kingship is severed
"Storms shall gather, that none can see
"To plunge the isle into thoughtless sea
"The first shall walk again, with silver hand
"And deliver new crown unto wind-tossed land
"Those that follow will endlessly mourn
"All that cruel fate has thoughtless shorn
"The eldest will fade, his arm ne’er to blacken
"Trapped outside, not to come back in
At this last line, he cleared his throat, and in a wispy voice declared “The vision of the Morrigan!” His reading done, the lord rolled the parchment into a tight tube and tied it with flax twine, before shuffling back to his ceremonial post.
For a few moments, all was silent. The assembled bodies, noble and common all digesting the rare prophecy, poring over it for meaning. Then began the shouting, as the messy process of deciphering the will of the gods began. Conversation quickly reached a consensus, and though none were certain, most agreed that it spoke of the long-prophesied end of our isle. To my ear, however, the prophecy had been clear enough in one line to be a cause of personal concern. The leaden blade which severed the line of kingship was certainly the bullet that deprived me of my arm, and my father of his heir.
I continued mulling these thoughts over as our royal party made its exit, leaving the cacophonous congregation to their speculation. As we rode our kelpie-drawn carriage up the mountain to our ancestral home, my father and I spoke not a word, his mind fixated elsewhere in a mirror of my own. As a footman opened the door and we strode into our keep, grown into a mighty palace from what was once the great hall of Nuada, I turned thoughts over in my head and arrived at a conclusion.
If it was as the Morrigan said, and our isle was doomed, then the “first” she mentioned walking with silver hand was doubtless great king Nuada. I knew that our first king had never had any take up his mantle. Unlike wise Dagda, brave Lugh, fate-loved Morrigan, or any other of our ancestor-gods, he remained bound within his silver hand, wrought to heal him of the same injury that I had sustained. To my mind, it seemed that I was fated to become the host of Nuada, the first and final bearer of his mantle.
In truth, the thought terrified me, for while I had become inured to the prospect of my own mortality while fighting in war, my injury and return home had reminded me of my own wants. Such thoughts saw me leave my chambers after dark and wander the halls of my home, my feet eventually leading me to the ancient great hall, at the far side of which stood the ivy throne to which I would never ascend. Pacing along the elder hearth which ran down the middle of the hall, its flames little but embers at the late hour, I mulled over thoughts of doom and desire for an interminable time, alone in the darkness until, without a word, I found I had a companion.
At my side was a woman, with skin as pale as moonlight and hair as black as the space between the stars. She was dressed in Parisian couture, akin to the dresses of the Princess of Wales, though instead of lace her fringes were a fine weave of black feathers. At the realization that doom walked beside me I missed a step, which she took as prompt.
“Kings have a habit of contemplating their ends here, Prince Arthur.” She said with a sad smile.
“I am never to be king, my lady” I replied in gloomy tone. “I am not whole of body, and the only means by which I might change that would be little different than my own death.”
“You speak of the process of becoming a god as if it is an end to you.” Came her bemused reply. “Such confidence, from whence does it spring?”
“I know the tales, my lady. I know that the minds of your hosts fade, as do their personalities, their very beings, and they become one with the ancestor. I knew two hosts of Lugh, one old and one young. And to be quite frank, the only difference between the elder and his successor was of vigor.”
She crooked an eyebrow, hooked like the beak of one of her crows at this. “Truly, you think naught of our hosts remains after they take up the mantle? You think us unchanging?”
“I do.” Was my honest reply.
She gripped my one arm with her own hand, her grip like iron. Looking up from the floor to whence my vision had drifted, I saw that her visage had changed, her cheekbones dropping and chin growing more prominent. “I remember all that I was before, Prince. There is no separation between the woman who became me and the goddess I am, just as there is no separation between Anand and Morrigan and Badb Catha. The joining creates something greater than the sum of its parts, it does not replace the new with the old.”
“But what of the doom of Nuada, the fading end he is promised?” Came my next question, more petulant than befit me.
“Yes, if you take up the silver hand you are doomed, o Prince. Doomed and fated to die a fading death with the isle, and sooner than later. But you are also doomed to live eternal in the minds of your people, those you are fated to save. And it does not do for a king to fear death.” She replied, in a voice like destiny. “What man wants anything more than that? To leave something behind that will live longer than him, a legacy, a legend.”
I had no answer to this. For while I might have pretended otherwise, in my heart of hearts I knew that was why I had lived the life I had. Why as the only heir to the throne I had joined the Fusiliers. Why I had requested to be sent into the heat of battle, rather than remain with other noble-born officers safely within friendly territory.
“I know the thread of fate which wraps around you well, Arthur.” The crow-goddess continued. “For it is a common thread that binds king and commoner alike, and makes up the most common color in the tapestry of destiny.”
“And you swear that I will remain? That if I take up the silver hand, I will still be Arthur?” The questions jumped to my mouth ahead of my thoughts.
“You will remain, but you will not be Arthur. You will be Nuada and Arthur, one and the same.
“Then that will have to be enough. For it seems that my people need me, and they will have more use for a dead king than a living prince.”
“Indeed.” She smiled. “Tomorrow, you will meet my husband and myself at the tomb of Nuada, and we will unseal it, and you will emerge a king.”
At this, she turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps silent on the rough stone of the hall, leaving me in question of if her last declaration was prophecy or invitation, or perhaps both. I retired to my chambers then, and found myself some little sleep.
In the morning, I awoke, and dressed myself in my finest Parisian suit, hoping to imitate the style of the gods, leaving my empty right sleeve unpinned and flapping in my wake. As I made my way out of my chambers, I found my father waiting for me in my sitting room. His hair was a shade greyer, the circles under his eyes a shade darker. He bade me sit next to him, and began: “My son, I am sorry to place this burden on you. But I spent all of last night awake, tossing and turning thinking of the prophecy read in Parliament, and I fear that it means that you are to take up the mantle of Nuada.”
I made to interrupt him then, to tell him of my conversation with the Morrigan, but he held up a hand to silence me, and continued. “You have given so much already, my son. None expected you to serve so willingly, nor to sacrifice so much of yourself. Would that your mother could see you now. But while you may never be king, you will always be my son. And so, if you wish to change fate, to throw the prophecy to the wind, know that I will help you. I know not what the consequences would be, and perhaps I am a poor king for saying this, but I do not care. I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”
At this, his eyes welled up with tears, a sight I had only seen once before. As he pulled himself together, I told him of my conversation the night prior, of the appearance of the Morrigan in the halls. And as he listened with rapt attention, I saw just how heavy the burden of his crown sat, the demands of governance and desire tearing him apart.
“Then, what is your choice?” He asked, when I was done.
I pointed to my dangling sleeve, which he had evidently not noticed in his anxiety. “It does not do for a king to fear death. I will become Nuada, I will meet my doom with open arm.”
He gave a sad smile at that, and I had never seen my father look so old. “Very well, then. Let me go with you to the tomb at the very least.”
I could not deny him, and so he joined me in our carriage as we wound our way down to the great mausoleum of my fate. Outside of the door was the Morrigan, her features returned to how I had first seen her, dressed again in Parisian style. Next to her was an enormous man, with the build of a steamship, his arms the size of oak trees and his legs like twin mountains. Yet behind his great red beard was an easy smile, and his eyes twinkled with deep wisdom, and I knew him at once for the Dagda, ancestor-god of my line.
“Grandfather” I greeted him, bowing.
He gave a nod at that, and rumbled “Prince.”
I turned to look at my father, and saw that he was stood at the gate of the mausoleum’s grounds, his eyes cloudy and unfocused. Behind him, the ever-fidgeting kelpies that pulled our carriage were still as if asleep, as was the footman who drove them.
“What have you done to them?” I asked, a note of anger in my voice.
“A simple sleeping charm, nothing more.” The Morrigan replied. “The becoming of a god is not something to be witnessed by mortals, regardless of their station. Normally, we would do this somewhere more isolated, but absent a cult to prepare a location, we will have to use what I worked the day we buried my great-grandfather. Now come along.”
Following the god and goddess into the cool tomb, I saw that it had been constructed around a shadowed burial mound, with sod roof and timbered walls. With a word that cracked the air like a whip, the Dagda set torches around the space blazing with cerulean light, driving back the gloom and revealing an ornate plinth, upon which sat a single silver hand, wrought with a fine pattern of whorls and triskele.
Looking at it for a moment, I came to a realization aloud: “It will not fit me. Fine though the craftsmanship may be, a hand cannot replace an arm.”
The Dagda and Morrigan both chuckled at this, and the smaller of the pair spoke up: “To be a god is not to be static, and a mantle is the physical manifestation and source of our godhood. Do you really think my crow-cloak was always cut in this style?”
I had no answer, and she took my silence as a request to continue. “Pick up the hand, and press it against what remains of your arm. From there, you will know what to do.”
With trepidation, I did as she bid me. Stripping to shirtsleeves to better access my wound, I grabbed the hand, the metal heavy and body-warm despite the chill of the tomb. Pressing it against the ruined remnant of my arm, I heard a voice deep within my mind.
“I am sorry.” It said in a deep bass, which shook the corners of my thoughts. “That you must bear witness to the end. That you must pick up the burden with me.”
I opened my eyes, which I had not even realized I had closed, and found myself at a crossroads across a mist-shrouded moor, lit only by a sliver of moon. Before me was an old man, regal in disposition, his right arm missing just as mine was. Nuada of the silver hand, first king of the Isle of Mist and Myth.
“Where am I?” I asked the dead god in a quavering voice.
The eldest god gave a sad smile. “Your body is where you left it. Your mind, however, is in the otherworld. The crossroads we stand upon is the intersection between the path your soul treads, and the path that mine trod. You stand upon your road, and I upon mine.”
“Then what are we to do, if our roads are separate? Are we not supposed to join our souls as one? Would that not be a single road for us both?” I queried, baffled as much by the protean surroundings, which flowed between shapes familiar to me — battlefields, tree-lined boulevards, the streets of Avalon — and shapes far older, drawn no doubt from the experience of the hand’s first owner.
“We do what men have done at crossroads since the dawn of time. We bargain.” Was his grim reply.
“Bargain? For what? I see no possession you have that I might want, and have nothing you might desire.”
“We bargain for the terms of our joining. We must forge our two roads into one. In so doing, we must agree to terms, or else instead of a joining this becomes a murder, one soul snuffing another out.”
“I see. And what terms would you ask of me? Control of the body?” I ventured.
“It is not so simple. We must agree on the essential nature of ourselves, create a shared legend. Anand taught me a game we must play, one she invented for just this purpose.” He looked at me, with pity in his eyes. “We must compare memories to memories, weigh them against each other. In so doing, we sift the densest parts of ourselves, find what is essentially us, like chipping iron from a bloom. And when we have enough, we forge them together into an ingot, a joint soul, heavier than either of ours, but not so heavy as both together.”
“You mean to say that something will be lost?”
“Yes, but not so much as will be gained.”
“And how can you know all of this? I thought I was the first to host you.”
“You are. But before my death Anand taught me much. And since then she has taught me even more, for she comes and visits me sometimes, when she is passing through the otherworld.”
“Very well, then.” I said, grimacing. “Where do we start?”
The answer to that was with our earliest memories. I showed him my mother’s face, her funeral, my father’s tears. He replied with his birth in a city of wonders, of warm sun and salty air. We danced at my first ball and learned the way of the sword from the great masters of history. He enlisted in the fusiliers and I led a fleet of refugees from a sinking city to a new homeland. He lost his arm to a Fomorian’s bullet, and I mine to a German’s blade. The sensation, to my mind, our mind, was less one of forging than of weaving, of taking two pieces of thread and tying them together. When all was finished, we stood on the road again, the crossroads replaced with a single path leading into a rising sun. And as one, I walked back into a body made whole in silver, Arthur of the silver hand, once and future king of the Isle of Mist and Myth.
The final document is a transcript of a mythohistorical narrative relayed by the current incarnation of Manannán mac Lir, Sidhe Ancestor-God of the Sea. As a mythologized version of events told by a primary source, it suggests that the Sidhe Ancestor-Gods experience their own past lives as semi-mythical narratives rather than continuous memories.
In the second year before the fall of the Isle of Mist and Myth, the first king was born again in his tomb. At his right hand was the Dagda, once his advisor, once his successor. At his left hand was the daughter of his granddaughter, the Mór-ríoghan, who was also the Badb Catha, who was also Anand. The reborn king looked at his two ancient advisors, his two closest confidants, and told them of how he had missed them. How now, being possessed of the memories of both the Prince Arthur and the King Nuada, he saw clearly on the horizon the threat that was coming.
For in the early days of his life, before he was a god, before he was a king, Nuada was a refugee. He knew of the great war, sibling to the one in which he had fought just months before as Arthur, and the great workings of aether which had been wrought. He knew also of the terrible fate that had come as a result of those workings, the backlash of the natural order. With the young prince’s eyes the old god scanned the horizon, and saw the same clouds that had drowned the city of his birth gathering.
And so he bade the Dagda to gather the gods, all who had been bound to mantles, for they would all have a role to play in the days to come. And so he bade the Morrigan to ride out into the world, to find a new place for their people, where they could ride out the storm. And so he bade himself to fight against the prophecy his daughter’s granddaughter had given, that half of his people would die, and he with them, for the part of him that was the king and the part of him that was the prince both loved their people, and would never accept the loss of a single one.
And the Dagda did gather the gods, and to each of them Arthur gave a task. He bid brave Lugh, to whom Nuada gave his crown that he might be able to die as a warrior and not a king, to rally the mortal leaders, and tell them that their gods had a plan to save them. He bade Rhiannon, mistress of the fey, to sway their nobles and courts, so often opposed to his living father’s aims, that they too might escape the coming doom. Each and every god and goddess was given a task, and each and every one obeyed, for their first king was returned, and all knew that doom was following.
His commands given, he then travelled alongside the Mór-ríoghan, as they scoured isles across half a world. The first one they found was an island of emerald green and gentle rains, much alike the Isle of Mist and Myth, and close enough too that they might save all of their people. But in the hearts of its people burned a faith that brooked no other gods, and when they saw the crow-goddess and the silver-handed god they cast them out, and the Mór-ríoghan cursed her step-daughter Brigid, who had been wife to Nuada’s slayer and was now sainted by this new god for poisoning the people against their neighbors.
Next they journeyed far to the north, to an island of ice and fire. And the faith that had burned in the emerald isle simmered there, but the people did not hate them, and knew their world was wide enough for more than just one god. But the winds blew too harsh, and the soil was too thin, and the sea crashed too roughly, and the god and goddess knew that any seed of Avalon planted in this soil would fail, and doom all of their people.
And so they journeyed on to yet another isle, this one the steam-beating heart of progress and reason, populous and prosperous, and queen of half of the world. And there they met with men learned in the new sciences and the old ways, who told them that this island had no place for them, for the same faith that burned on the emerald isle burned here with electric light. But though they were ministers of the new faith of progress, they yet knew the value of the old ways, and so they offered the tribe of the gods an island in the north, which was not so green as the emerald isle but not so cold as the island of fire and ice.
And so the god and goddess journeyed to this land, and found it suitable, for though it was a harsh land their magic could tame it, and though it was near the land of reason their magic could conceal it, and preserve the wonder that was their people. And they returned to the ministers of the new faith, to discuss barter-price for this new land, for though the empire of steam owned half the world it was not generous, and it coveted the power of the tribe of the gods for its own. And thus they demanded that the kingdom of Mist and Myth pay tribute in exchange for safety, and give fealty as price for survival.
The first king, reborn in silver, stood proud, and moved to decry them, to call them cheats and servants of greed and curse them as he once cursed the Fomorians, who had also once come for the throne of his people, but the Mór-ríoghan spoke wisdom in his ear, and she said:
"Great king Nuada, grandfather of my mother, did you not twice leave your throne? And once you left it to your enemy Bres, who was husband to my husband’s daughter Brigid, did you not reclaim it and lead our people to greater glory?"
And at this the great king had no answer, for he knew she spoke truth, and so he listened as she continued. And the fate-loved goddess spoke in the voice of destiny thus:
"Our people are proud, and will love not their lords, for who can rule the tribe but the line of kings that started with you, and passed to brave Lugh, and passed to my wise husband the Dagda, and from him to the mortal line that carries his blood? For a time they may pretend at subservience, and use that time to build their strength, but a day will come when the line of the Dagda sits on many thrones, and rules the empire of steam and the tribe of gods and more besides."
And so the silver-handed king accepted the accord with the empire of progress, and returned to his isle to make ready his tribe.
When mighty Nuada, the silver hand, the first and last king returned to the Island of Mist and Myth, accompanied by the daughter of his granddaughter the fate-loved Mór-ríoghan, to make ready the tribe and tell them of the accord he had struck, he first called together all of the gods of the tribe to his ancient hall, that he might tell them of what was to come. And from the four cities of the Isle they came, and brought with them the mantles of the gods not in flesh, for the silver-handed felt in his bones that the fall of his land would be a slow one, and the Mór-ríoghan knew that all would be embodied by the end.
And to the host of the gods of the tribe he spoke thus:
"Brothers, sisters, our time draws near. For I feel in my bones of earth and my bones of metal that the first day of the fall draws near, and with it my end. And the people are not yet ready, for how could they be, if we their gods are not yet ready. And so I give to each of you a task that you must carry out, for though I have found us a new home it is not right for our people, and it is our charge to make it right, and make our people ready."
Thus great Nuada gave each of the gods a task suited to them. First he went to the gods of craft and industry, and bade them thus:
"Goibinu, smith of wonders, who made my sword now lost to me and the spear of Lugh, you are to go to the woodsmen of the forests of the Isle and make them a score of axes. And these axes will be called wood-foe and the timber-doom, and with them a single blow will fell a mighty oak. And you will give these axes to the woodsmen, and command them in my name to chop all the good straight trees on the island until the forests are bare, for soon none will shelter in their shade any more. You will take these trees of the new-bare forests and give them to Crédne.
"Crédne, who wrought me my hand of silver, greatest of all craftsmen, you are to go to the carpenters and the sawyers, and make for them saws and planes that will make of the good trees good timber, that we might build of them wonders. And you will take these good timbers and you will deliver them to Luchtaine.
"Luchtaine, wright and carpenter, who sings the wood into shape and saws without dust, you are to go to the docks of the kingdom and take the good timbers, and shape them into boats fit to carry all of our people. And you will teach the boatwrights of our people to make ships that can sail day and night without wind, and which the ocean will fear to fill, and these ships will be our salvation."
And then wise Nuada went to the gods of the hearth and the home, and he spoke to them thus:
"Dian Cécht, healer and bone-setter, who makes right wounds and is feared by disease, you will go to the islands first, on the first ship that Luchtaine launches, and you will take with you the first people of the new island. And there you will mend their wounds and banish their diseases, for to settle a new land is peril, and they must all be hale and hearty to grow crops enough for the second ship.
"Mac ind Óc, poet of the gods, friend to the mortals, you will go among the houses of power and the houses of the meek alike, and sing and recite verse to them, and spread among them the message that we are their salvation, and that this new land will be their new home, for fear lurks in their hearts, and uncertainty in their minds, and these must be banished that they will leave the fading isle behind.
"Ogma, master of knowledge and skill, you are to go into the great libraries and houses of knowledge, and there you are to gather all the knowledge of our people, and create a great chronicle of all that we know, that the voices of our land might echo on forever. And you will then go on the second ship with the second people, and keep safe this knowledge until it rings eternal once more."
And then great Nuada bade the Mór-ríoghan to find the gods of the land and of the secret places, for though he had called them and they had come to hear him they were subtle gods and he could not see them. And he bade her speak in his voice to them, for he knew that the flesh of his flesh knew well what need be done. Thus the Mór-ríoghan strode out into the forests, and met there Cernunnos, the lord of the beasts and of the wild. And she commanded him thus:
"Cernunnos, lord of the wild things and the forests, you are to go forth into your kingdom. And from among each kind of animal and each kind of plant, you will take a score each of the male and the female, and put them on the third ship, and go with them to our new isle, and there you will plant the seeds and the trees, and let the beasts be fruitful, that the line of life of our isle will never be forgotten, and the sacrifice that has sustained our people will be rewarded, and your domain made safe."
And the lord of the forest nodded his horned head, and it was as she said.
Then she went to the place where the sea met the sky, and found there the boat of Manannán, who was called mac Lir, son of the sea, and master of the mist. And she commanded him:
"Manannán mac Lir, king of the sea, master of the mist, heed me well. For you bear great responsibility, and hold our people in your hands. You will make the waters smooth for our ships, and the winds follow them, and cloak them in your mist of vanishing that none might bar their way. And when the last ship sails from our isle you will be its captain. And when it lands you will blow your horn of mists, and cloak our new isle, that none may find it and bring it to harm."
And the master of the mist gave his assent, and it was as she said.
And the Mór-ríoghan and Nuada continued, and gave each god a task, and each of them saw it done, and bit by bit and year by year the salvation of the tribe of the gods came about.
And so it came that after twenty years of fading, the edges of the Isle of Mist and Myth crumbling to memory and belief and naught more, that the end came. And on the isle were the last people, the crew of the last ship, and the last gods, and they were Manannán mac Lir, and Nuada.
As the last ship was filled, the last people clutching babes to their breasts, and treasured possessions, and holding tight to each other, they found that the last ship was too small by one, for one tree had not been chopped, for it was the most beautiful tree of the isle, and beloved by Cernunnos, and by Lugh, and by Nuada, and they had been loath to see it cut before its time, for they thought it only but one tree.
And thus one would have to stand on the dock and fade, and become naught but memory. And there came a commotion when Nuada of the silver hand, first and last king of the Isle of Myth and Mist stood on the dock and bade the ship leave without him. For first an old man, who had lived his whole life already, spoke up and said:
"Great god, great king, take my seat at the bench and let me fade instead, for my life is already over, and your people need you."
And the king replied:
“No, father, grandfather, wise one. For your wisdom is needed and your rest well earned, and if your life is over your bones have earned rest in a tomb, and not the fading death of memory."
And the old man cried, but took his seat, for who was he to deny his king? And so there came another cry, from a sailor of the last crew, who said:
"Mighty god, mighty king, take my place at the rope, for your strength is greater than mine, and better needed, and there are none who will mourn me as they would mourn you."
And the king turned to the young sailor, who he saw was barely yet a man, and had not yet lived, and he spoke:
"No, son, husband, father. Your life is just begun, and you have much yet to live, and many will mourn you when your time comes. To cut your life short for my long one would be worse than to fade, for all that would issue from you would die too."
And then Manannán mac Lir, son of the Sea, master of the mist spoke up and said:
"My king, my lord, take my place at the prow. For our people have more need of your wisdom than my mist."
And the king turned to his fellow god, and spoke thus:
"Manannán mac Lir, son of the Sea, master of the mist, you are more deserving than I. For our people will live by your grace, on the seas which you smooth and on the island which your mists hide. And besides, I swore an oath that I would be the last one to step off this island, for it is the kingdom I built with my hands of flesh and of silver, and I would give my life that any one of the people might live in my stead."
And the people, and the crew, and the son of the Sea all wept, for they knew it was true, and knew that their king would not be swayed, and at his command they set forth from the fading dock, and into the flat sea beyond, there to build a new kingdom in memory of their silver-handed god, who chose to fade in their place.
Taken together, these tales suggest that the Sidhe Ancestor-Gods, and the Sidhe people immediately before the Fall, considered prophecy to be inviolable and inevitable. While mythology and history abound with stories of the defiance of fate and the rejection of prophecy, this narrative instead suggests that the Sidhe attitude towards the prophesied fall was one of mitigation and cooperation rather than attempted defiance. This contrasts with common stories told by ordinary Sidhe about their and their families' experience of the Fall of Avalon, which often emphasize themes of defiance of the odds and a personal struggle against the apocalypse6.
This leads to a burning question: What is the true story of the fall of Avalon? Was it, as the Ancestor-Gods and Prince tell it, a story of a fated end, prepared for in advance and bought through the sacrifice of the first king of the Sidhe, or was it a mad dash by individual Sidhe to escape and find safe harbor?
The facts tell us that the Sidhe Ancestor-Gods Nuada and the Morrigan did meet with the British Occult Service to negotiate resettlement of Sidhe refugees in 1898, that by and large the evacuation was carried out in an orderly manner, and that Nuada Silver-Hand did in fact choose to give up his seat on an evacuation ship to allow others to escape. But they also tell us that Nuada was not the sole casualty of the fall of Avalon — at least 1,000, and potentially as many as 3,000 Sidhe were lost in the Fall7.
In our opinion, the truth is likely somewhere in the middle. While the Ancestor-Gods may have seen the fall as inevitable and faced it without fear — many of them being subjects of prophecies requiring their own survival — for the average citizen of Avalon, the fall was a terrifying ordeal, requiring great effort to avoid and with a very real risk of death. While they may have been aware of the prophecy spelling the island's doom, they likely did not let it influence them to the same extent that the aristocratic class and Ancestor-Gods did, similar to how many people are aware of the long-term risks of climate change but do not change their behaviors today.
Cite this page as:
"The Fate of Avalon" by DrGrimoire, from the SCP Wiki. Source: https://scpwiki.com/fate-of-avalon. Licensed under CC BY-SA.
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