All is still in Glastenning. Since my Gwen passed from this world, I have eaten alone, and I do so tonight. But I have no stomach for it. I withdraw from my cloistered keep and stroll the hill that all of Britain knows as the Tor. An emerald pinnacle among a thick sea of mist, my hillfort has often been called Avalon. There are many wild tales about Avalon, of Faery Kings and white palaces guarded by red and white stone dragons, but anyone who has actually been to the Tor knows differently. Pilgrims who would find the Everliving King Arthur alive and well, in a mantle of samite, brandishing his unmatched Excalibur, are sorely disappointed. I watch hope fade from their weary faces, bonfires of faith extinguished before my eyes. It was so with me at one time, as well.

Across the countryside burn fires of faith. Some burn for Christ, some for Dôn, some for Mithras. Some merely burn in anticipation of Dawn. But there are no fires atop the Tor. Not tonight. The King is dead, and the Tor is dark. The Kingdom of Summer does not warm us this bleak Twelfth Night.

I was born when Macsen was still Emperor of the West, a glorious age. My friend Scirlocc and I were Emrys Wledig's childhood friends and his greatest supporters, and Britain grew stronger at the defeat of Vortigern. Uther's reign is best forgotten, though it was his son who outshined all other Pendragons before him. In ermine-fringed mantle fastened to his breastplate by a silver, penannular brooch, the High King brought unity to Britain and dared foreigners to invade. They wouldn't dare. Or those who tried met with failure time after time. But our Golden Age wouldn't last.

Though Britain's reputation ripples through foreign lands, we are in worse a state than we were before the Romans came. We are left shattered, warring tribes, leaderless, lawless, disconnected. Our hope is lost and the so-called Avalon has disappeared into the mists, buried in the hill with our High King.

My wandering feet take me to Scirlocc's roost, where my old friend routinely meditates upon the misty lake that surrounds us. He is so unlike me, though we are like brothers. Ever hopeful, ever vigilant, ever mystical. If I ever saw a glimpse of Avalon, it was in Scirlocc's dark eyes.

"Good evening, old friend," I put a hand upon his sinewy shoulder. "Please end this vain vigilance," I advise soothingly. "Surely you do not hope to find any more of our number returning home. The Table is in splinters and many of our sword-brothers slain. We must look to our own defense now. There is only Glastenning." It is difficult to admit the truth: "There is no... Britain."