Fog hung heavily throughout the street, creating a most dismal outlook on the life around her. The birds had quieted for her passing, and when she glared angrily at the mist-ridden trees, they began again. Swirls of vapour shrouded the twists and turns to the path, creating obstacles that she had to backtrack around often, ones seeming to jeer at her misfortune. A taunting children’s rhyme also encircled her, butting into her thoughts every so often.

She swatted at the air and continued traipsing through the clouds, narrowing her eyes every so often as if trying to see through them. A glance was even given to her feet, as if they could somehow solve her problems, which they didn’t. This was quite all right, though; wandering through mists had always been her idea of fun. A discord struck through her mind; was she being sarcastic in her thoughts?

And was that her name? She scoffed at the air, and then at the people who were singing, knowing they were purposely bothering her. Or, thinking she knew. The lurid air had seemed to thicken; yet she could see a white light piercing through them, perhaps a sign of life. She couldn’t answer why she was thinking like that, she was far from dead, merely dreaming. Yes, a dream. That sounded reasonable, and she needed all the reason she could find.

"Violent song," she commented aloud, throwing a cautious gaze about her form, seeing if any would respond. She received nothing, but found that the white light was growing closer, lucent orb holding steady in the midst of shifting haze. All right, so this was her goal. She could handle that much. Her pace quickened in somewhat of a haste to get to the light, finding the air about her swirled maliciously, as if wanting to keep her from her objective. She swiped at it again but only gathered a handful of wind, which slipped easily from her clenched fist.

She stopped dead in her tracks, as the song did, feeling that had came to an end. Did she have to come to an end as well? When she regained what was left of her senses she saw the lamp – for that was what it was – still glowing, and started walking again, steps slower, this time. Aye, she came upon her destination in quite a short time, finding the lamppost was one of an old era, fashioned sturdy and elegant. She ran her fingers down the metal, feeling it cold and damp to the touch – misty air clinging desperately to it. A cough brought her twisting ‘round on her heel, facing an old man who sat prone in a high backed chair, face devoid of emotions. A fake smile spread about his lips, and he nodded curtly.

"Welcome to the Mists of Avalon, Seri."

"How . . . how did you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things."

She raised a brow, then moved from the light and over to stand in front of him, eyeing his form with consideration, perhaps inspecting and making notes for a later use. A scraggily beard gushed down his chest, each strand prudently touched with silver, the ends curling like hawk’s claws, seeming to reach out and try to touch her. She stepped back involuntarily, taking in a breath – then continuing her overview. His ebon black eyes gazed out from baggy slits, ones that held nothing resembling life, and even more nothing that resembled death, if that was possible. The whites and irises seemed to have been devoured by the black, creating a rather peculiar look. Strange, strange man.

"So . . . what exactly is the Mists of Avalon?"

The man shifted in his seat, old bones crunching and grinding against one another in a contrary cacophony of noises. She cringed at this, feeling her nose wrinkle up involuntarily, so hastily straightened it out and waited for him to speak again. He didn’t, however shifted once more, the assailant of sounds beating at her ears unmercifully. When it seemed he had settled into a semi-tolerable level, he began to speak, voice husky and deep, worn and creased from time. His beard transferred from side to side unnaturally with the movements of his jaw, as if not really being there.

"The Mists of Avalon is the darkest of rainbows, the sun splattered storm cloud. It is the essence of irony, the dreamer’s demise. It is where the writer rarely knows, the daydreamer visits, the place that belittles even the greatest of imaginations. It is the place where dreams exist – from the horribly mundane to the achingly esoteric. True dreamers are familiar with it – but the people who Know visit it on a regular basis, free to travel to and fro from The Mists to their own. The Lost are trapped here, well; at least until they find a way out."

She felt her jaw drop, which the old man chortled at, crow’s feet by the bags beneath his eyes deepening, now defined darkly. He leaned back in his seat – no cracking, this time – and his face returned to the look of complete uncaring – expression utterly unreadable. He left her to pluck at her wits, chaotically smoothing them into her skin, causing her breathing to fall back in synch with the rest of the world. She wanted to ask, oh, did she want to ask; but should she?

"Am . . . I . . . Lost?"

"Of course, Seri."

She squeezed her eyes shut, and began counting backward from twenty. When she reached around three she pinched herself very hard near her wrist, accomplishing only a red mark that was whisked away by her dismal surroundings, ones that seemed to less them appreciate color, and a curious look from the man. That last for only for a moment, though, his jet black eyes moving back to the Point in Space that he previously seemed so interested in, contemplating this instead of the girl.

"Is . . . being Lost a . . . a . . . bad thing?"

He simply shrugged, bony shoulders making naught an imprint under the folds of tweed grey cloth that was thrown over them, making the motion barely distinguishable. Seri gave an exasperated sigh, and looked around herself, but saw nothing other then the lamppost and the man in front of her. The mist hadn’t lightened or thickened, holding the same density that it had before, yet still wafted casually throughout as far as her limited vision could see, as if going about a job it did every single day. She figured, the mist-watching giving her insight to things she never thought about, that the man was the only one that could answer her questions as of yet, so decided to try once more to get something out of him.

"Can I ever . . . find myself?" And : "What are you doing here?"

His shaggy brows raised at the last question, perhaps interest.

"You can Find yourself if you can come to terms with the Mists." He paused for a moment, seeming hesitant; maybe he wouldn’t answer her last question.

"I watch things," he said at last, and nodded once, assuring himself of that fact. The chair let out a sharp creak, and the light flickered. One more question.

"Are there others?"

Silence. He shrugged again, after a minute, then added, at the tail end of the shrug : "Probably."

She ran her tongue over her dried lips, sighed; then bobbed her head in thanks and turned, casting a last, sidelong look at the lamppost in goodbye. A friend? Nothing she could answer herself, so looked away, squinting to find the path in the Mists.

Probably.

So. There she was and she was there, Lost forever in the Mists. She purposefully dragged her bare heels upon the ground – whatever it was made of she didn’t know; she couldn’t see that, either – making something aware of her "demise". The drizzle – for that’s what is seemed though there was no rain – shifted quite blatantly, swirling around her hair and heels before moving on to tackle others. Were there others? If she found someone . . . well, besides the old man, maybe she could figure out how to get out.

Maybe. Probably.

No, no, not the song again. "Sing something else?" she offered.

"No, thanks," came the reply.

She wasn’t frightened of this unexpected response, merely raised a brow and turned slowly in a circle. Thick grey-white clouds obscured her view of anything else, but did she really want to see who responded? "Hell . . . oh?" Was her next word, one of a questioning nature.

"Hello," said the voice, in a matter-o-fact tone, and of a very casual and laid back nature.

"Won’t you come out?"

"I am out."

She narrowed her eyes in confusion, and opened her mouth to respond; yet no words emerged, stuck silent in her throat. Her form was still turning slowly; perhaps about ten revolutions had been completed at that moment, seeing nothing but the distant glimmer of the lamppost, which shone comfortingly at a low shade of white. It was her constant companion up until this point, but she had a sinking feeling that she’d loose it and have nothing to look back upon.

"Can I see you?" She asked, and paused, facing one direction.

"See, out, know," the voice sang, and she could’ve sworn she heard the noises of someone skipping. Close eyes, count from twenty.

Seventeen . . . sixteen . . . fifteen . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . . twelve –

"What are you doing?"

– Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . "Counting."

"Why?"

She hesitated. "Why not?" If she could see through the haze, she could be positive that that the voice had a blank look. "Will you please come out?" She asked again, wanting to prove that her vague assumptions were true.

The veil of mists in front of her nose parted like a curtain, thin tendrils of whispery clouds slipping aside to allow passage of a boy around sixteen years of age, two or so years older then her. Ebon black hair fell in a pile across his head, and he wore a mischievous glint in his grey eyes. She wanted to ask him what color they’d been up until the Mists devoured them, for she was almost positive that her own weren’t the same sea-green color they were before. "Are you Lost in the Mists?" He asked, apparently not noticing the mockery on words – slender form not moving from its position a few inches in front of her. After hearing these words her eyes widened, jaw daring to drop again. The look she wore turned from slightly astounded to awe-struck, her taking a step back from the boy.

"Were . . . Lost and Mists capitalised?"

"Yup."

"I . . . could sense them."

"Right. Are you?"

She flicked her tongue against her teeth, calming racing heart. "I s’pose. But I don’t Know what being Lost means, in the first place, so I couldn’t really answer your question."

"You used Know wrong."

"What?"

The boy sighed, and stepped closer to her once more, lingering a few inches away, not seeming in the least perturbed by the look she gave him. "You used Know wrong. It’s not s’posed to be capitalised in the sense you used it." Her features spelled out confusion, which he seemed to take pity on – sighing before explaining himself once more. "You can’t use Know unless it’s used in a certain way, y’see. I can’t explain it – it’s a known."

Seri shook her head, raising her hands to her temples. "Twenty . . . nineteen –" The boy placed a finger on her shoulder, just one, as if not wanting to disturb her by setting any more weight upon her. She ceased the counting but didn’t look at the finger, instead, up into his eyes, almost knowing what he was doing. Her own extended, settling on his shoulder, which was quite a bit higher then her. "You’re real," he breathed, and a grin spread about his face. "Everyone I’ve seen – or thought I’d seen – has been . . . a mirage."

Their surroundings seemed to dull with this observation, doleful environs holding nary a sense of joy. The wind tossed about them would’ve thrown tree’s branches around, if there were any to throw, but she thought – if she listened carefully – she could hear leaves flickering in and out of existence, trying to evade the breeze with its coming and goings. She saw that her finger still lingered upon the boy’s shoulder and took another step back, twisting at her waist to look about herself. He withdrew his as well, then said quietly, the few words chiming familiarity, "The Darkest of Rainbows soars above; where’d the sun go?"

"You’re becoming more and more cryptic," she informed him, and forced a large breath from her lips, one attempting to resemble a sigh but failing horribly. No new observation was given, but a note in the background of her senses, one that sounded like an off-key wind-chime, was heard, this being the only difference. She spun her head back to face his, which she found to be rather close, still. Another footstep was made to be taken, but he reached out and grabbed her shoulder. "You keep moving . . . hold still. The only reason we have to do this is too not loose each other. If you hadn’t noticed, the Mists don’t like the Lost interacting; but then again – p’raps you haven’t interacted with another. And, aye, I heard that too."

She shivered, wrapping her arms about herself. The counting had long since dissipated as any way to provide condolence for herself, now only taking what was said and observed and trying to analyze it. She hadn’t a clue as to how to begin doing that, like having a stack of papers in front of her scribed in a foreign language and asked to sort them; perhaps a life or death matter. Eventually she took his words in check, letting them sink in before nodding slightly, and only once. "Alright . . . so the closeness is necessary? I can handle that, I suppose. About the noise : what was it?"

He shrugged apathetically, seeming not to care. "I haven’t a clue. It could be anything. P’raps – p’raps, p’raps, it’s another person, another Lost trying to make contact with another. Most of them’re rather stupid, I’m surprised they don’t know that making any noise other then talking will attract the not-so-friendly section of the Mists."

"Not-so-friendly?"

"Aye. They’re fond of smothering people."

"Are they," she said, slowly, more of a comment then a question, inwardly disturbed by the ‘helpful’ tip. She scratched at the back of her neck, leaning her weight onto the other hip, which placed her even closer to the boy. A moment of reconsideration and she moved it to the other leg, ignoring the shivers that insisted on badgering her. "It’s bloody cold out here . . . are there ever any temperature changes? No – don’t answer that. Should be go see what that was, or stay here? Standing’s nice, but I’m not sure how much we’ll get . . . what’s the word, done? In doing so."

Chuckles trailed out of his pale lips, splattering unenthusiastically upon the ground near their feet; what he found humorous, she didn’t know. His expression gave no answer to this, being simply prone to whatever outward forces might try to change it. Like the old man’s in a sense, yet not. "We could go see if you would like to, but I cannot guarantee that I’ll stay if our new ‘friends’ aren’t hospitable, and I cannot, as well, guarantee your safety." His words held an indecisive tone, not seeming to lean toward one choice or another, leaving her to mull silently before coming to anything that even touched the surface of relation to a decision.

"Let’s go, then, and see what we can see?"

"The bear climbed over the mountain, the bear climbed over the mountain . . . the bear climbed over the mountain, to see what he could see," he sang, tone merry and light, seeming irregular in the dull area about them. She rolled her eyes then turned to walk forward, her steps followed soon after by his, him skipping up beside her, offering his arm. "Shall we, m’lady?"

She glanced over at the proffered arm, vacillating before sliding her hand through the crook formed by his elbow, falling into step next to him, rather him next to her. The haze seemed to mutter then swerve elsewhere, finding more interesting candidates to bother. The wind-chime clinked again, the now-furious note resonating in her thoughts as well as ears. She cringed and her arm tightened against his, growing wary of the things around her and feeling paranoid at not being able to see anything. Without realising she was doing so she whispered, as if trespassing somewhere strictly forbidden : "Do the Mists ever retreat?"

He snickered at this, a quite noise, but then responded in a deep, booming voice, "Never!" After this, tone lowered to her level, smirking at the shock laced upon her face. "They cannot retreat, for this is the Mists of Avalon. How could a place with such a name be lacking in them?"

"But where is this place?"

"Everywhere. Nowhere. Somewhere."

"That makes a lot of sense."

"It does? It’s not s’posed to make sense, y’see."

She crinkled her nose up at the air in front of her, and settled for a subject change, though not expecting much in the way of answers. A musing was mused, yet not aloud : if she knew the answers she was sure the boy and the man knew, would she grow as enigmatic as they were? Perhaps straight answers would not befall anyone from her lips when she learned – if she could learn. But without anyone to teach her, then she would remain ignorant. What was that saying, "ignorance is Bliss"? If bliss it was, it didn’t settle right on her stomach, swirling the insides around carelessly. She remembered the boy’s last words, but decided against answering them, not wanting to explain her sarcasm, and have him explain whatever it was he couldn’t explain.

"Do you have a name?" She asked him, instead.

"Sure do," he told her, casting a sly side-long glance as if proud of that fact.

"Could . . . you . . . tell it to me?"

"Mmhmm."

Her brows raised expectantly, nodding her chin in a, ‘go ahead’ motion. He didn’t respond until a minute had passed, maybe preparing the regal tone he wore when he spoke.

"I am K’vn."

She started, expecting the name to be horribly amazing. It wasn’t, no, not at all. Hiding her disappointment she directed her eyes forward, his form at the edge of her peripheral vision. They walked in silence, him not asking her what her name was and her not retorting to his previous statement, the chimes being the only sound that shone through the overcast sky. She heard him draw in a breath at reasons unknown, and felt him quicken his pace, though the pressure of her arm through his didn’t change, and he gave her no look to explain his haste. The ringing note began to heighten in severity, more like a person screaming rather an instrument made for pleasing one’s ears. K’vn broke into a run, snapping the link between the two, and Seri had no choice but to follow his footsteps in a futile endeavor of keeping track of him, but was somehow steered on the right course.

When she saw him pause, she jogged up to his side, pausing a foot or so behind his shoulder. He was gazing at an intricately carved door, it hovering above the ground, wavering in and out of existence. She felt an extreme need to find out where it led, as if it might, perhaps, allow her to escape this . . . this . . . dream. K’vn was apparently in as much awe as she was, his mouth dropped open in the astonishment that flickered about the two, unable to comprehend. Their eyes met at the same time, a knowing passing between them. He smiled mischievously, and offered his hand again, palm up.

"What could it hurt, to explore? And . . . I think we’ve found our ‘friend’." He gestured to a lone wind chime, one that swayed indolently above the door, strung upon an invisible nail. It made a sweet noise, one that couldn’t be mimicked by the most talented of sirens, then settled, falling quiet. She sensed her own lips rising into a smile, and drew in a breath, letting out a confident, "You first," the words ironic, for they imitated not her tone. A nod was passed, followed by K’vn stepping forward. He rested a hand upon the knob; platinum colored metal, and twisted it. The door swung easily open, creaking sonorous in the still-bleak area. Nothing even partially spectacular met them, not friend nor foe or anything at all. A long, white hallway strung with sparse dashes of mist met their view, various offshoots crooking into fingers and inviting them in. K’vn strode forward, not seeming the least affected by what was shown before them, stealing a half-glance back to Seri before taking a few more steps. She let out the breath she’d been holding, then followed.

What could it hurt? She didn’t want to know . . .