Disclaimer: This is based on Agrivaine from Marrion Zimmer Bradley's book, The Mists of Avalon
I can't remember the last time I smiled. Not with that brat I call a foster brother, Mordred, constantly running about cirticizing me and what I do. He is not even squire yet, and already he behaves as an adult might. I suspect that he has the sight.
I sound like a man who doesn't know what to do anymore, for that is what I am. I am simply a factor in the great process, and not a large factor at that. While my brother's are off dallying with fair maidens at Camelot, serving our Uncle the King, I am here, looking after the kingdom of Orkney since father has died. His magnificent haven is desolate and worried by the new prospect of war. The Saxon's are mustering again. Will there never be any peace?
Peace is a foul word. Peace is only a notion in these dark times, where death awaits the unwary and the work of one who holds the lives of many in his hands finds that a steady tension rises. Always.
I find that I can't sleep anymore. I sit up in bed, then dress, and take a stroll along the castle grounds. I go by the mews and by the stables, and along the jousting posts. I wander forever through the mists, getting myself lost and just not caring.
I miss Camelot. I wish to go back, and sit in my siege at the Round Table, wish to see my brothers and cousins. I should wait until Mordred is older, and then take him along with me. Perhaps he will have better manners then. He even talks back to his foster mother, and she obeys his every wish! I should send him to Avalon with Vivien next time she visits, the little wretch.
Agrivaine put down his pen. He crumpled up the papers and tossed them into the fire, and poked at them for a bit. He turned and looked out over the castle grounds. He wondered if perhaps he should pay Rallaidh a visit.
The prince of Orkney trudged down the narrow stairway, and left the castle, heading toward the stables. He reached into a stall, and gave his charger Revenge a rub, as Revenge snapped at him. Agrivaine moved to his favorite horse, the gelding Rallaidh, and pushed the door to the stall open. He entered and picked up the comb, and begn to untangle Rallaidh's mane. The horse nuzzled him.
"I do still have a friend, don't I?" He rubbed the gelding's nose and forehead. Agrivaine took down the horse's tack and strapped him up, and began leading his mount out of the stables.
He mounted and took off at a trot. Once the Prince reached the field, he spurred his horse into a gallop.
Agrivaine began to think about his situation again. He was a quiet, stern knight with a quick temper and was therefore not the most liked, but the friends he had loved him dearly. Especially Easnadh.
The Prince smiled. Easnadh. His maiden. She had remained at Camelot when he came home to run the fief when King Lot of Orkney had been killed.
Agrivaine was just a plain brunette, with no special qualities, but Easnadh loved him as no other had. And he loved her. Dearly.
Agrivaine was so in love with Easnadh, in fact, that he had not seen the great black hound that bounded up. It snarled at Rallaidh, who reared, and threw the knight from him. The Prince was tossed like a sack of potatoes, and he hit his head on a rock, slipping into darkness and black mist...