Last Man to Avalon: The Silurian

By L.A. Wilson

Last Man to Avalon, the final book of The Silurian series, needs no introduction--only that this is Arthur's final battlefield; his and Bedwyr's final days...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9781445794570

Book preview

THE SILURIAN

BOOK EIGHT

LAST MAN

TO

AVALON

TwoRiders Productions

2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

L.A. WILSON author of © THE SILURIAN series

©LAST MAN TO AVALON

BOOK 8 OF 8

ISBN: 978-1-4457-9457-0

Acknowledgements:

First, my beloved father, George Alfred Wilson (1919-2011); a man of peace who survived for three years as a POW during World War 2 on the Thai-Burma railway: to his gentleness and incredible endurance, he did not deserve to pass away in the manner that he did; the unfairness of his last years will always haunt me. My father was a prisoner of war, as I said, of the Japanese. In all the years I knew him, not once did I ever hear him speak a single bad word about the Japanese, not as his captors, nor as a nation of people; in fact, one year while on holiday in New Zealand, my dad befriended a young Japanese woman who was travelling alone and became her friend on that trip. That is the kind of man my father was.

Jacqueline Chilard, my amazing and loyal lifelong friend; the bestest friend I ever had or ever will have: intelligent, forthright, strong, witty, greatly deserving of a good life.

Mary Josefina Cade, who discovered The Silurian online, and became my first truly understanding reader.

To my very special fans in no particular order, cos you’re scattered all over the World: Marc Gonzales R.I.P.; Julian Smith, Johnathan Mansfield-Clark, Dave Soria, Alejandra Sonadora, Rick Stilson, Mark Velasco, Samantha Ciavarra, Wili Alvarez, Enat Rodriguez Duran Jr, Renny Tasker R.I.P., and some readers lost in time: Hal Faden, Jeff Martin,

James Blandford, and many more, who must forgive me for not naming them here.

To Ryan, Sonya, Ashley, babies Sienna and Eli; and of course, D.M.! All of you, my family, who never tried to stop me doing what I do. To my mother-in-law, Mary Meads, who was a teacher of mine when I first began to write, so many, many years ago, who once said that I knew Arthur so well, I must have lived another life with him. And finally to Bedwyr himself, who without him, I am nothing as a writer. To Arthur; whose myth is the most enduring in a world of real harshness, who will never come again; the Once and Future King passed from this world so long ago, his power was lost in a dark haze of historical blunders and fools who say he never lived. Bedwyr knows better. Immortality is their great reward.

I will arise and go now,

and go to Innisfree

And a small cabin built there,

Of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there,

A hive for the honeybee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there,

For peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning

To where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a-glimmer,

And noon, a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now,

For always night and day,

I hear lake water lapping

With low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway

Or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

William Butler Yeats

∞

NOW into the descending darkness and mists of time and terrible changes, I write this: the words are almost all his, as he gave me his life and his love and his words from his voice that was as golden as his eyes. Fierce he was with passions so deep, none could see them, save when Bedwyr himself chose to show them; he was a force of nature, unrelenting in loyalty, and even when he was broken, he was everlasting in his love. The Fox’s invincible endurance only ended when Arthur died—for the death of the Bear was not a mere death of any common man. Arthur’s death was the death of an Age.

The death of the Defence of Britannia, and Arthur’s Heroes are now all gone.

I am no warrior, so the lasts words can never be mine. I have no right to cast the last words; I never fought for Britannia’s defence. And yet, the Prince chose me to give his last words to, and he chose me to trust, as if he knew somewhere that I would remain alive to be his final scribe of the final warrior who stood upon the final field of battle. This wasteland of a battle that men now call Camlann, that men call The Great Traitorous Rebellion. This being Arthur’s final, where he died upon the land of Gwynedd, betrayed, beleaguered, and embattled, surrounded on every side as a great stag is brought to bay by packs of ravening dogs. There was no escape from this Camlann, as it was Fated. And Medraut, son of Lot, he took the last of Arthur’s life in the end. And even as I had once betrayed the Fox in my broken youth, he trusted me at the end of his life to finish the long years of words that lived inside him: I loved him beyond the hills and stars, and without him, who am I? I am a good scribe of Latin words. I joined with him once as he stood high upon the edge of a cliff that overlooked the grey crashing sea.

Upon this high place, he whispered to me, My days are silent and stilled now. I know he sleeps in peace; he deserves his long restful sleep. Soon, I will go and join with him again. Arthur and I will be one together: as walkers over the earth, as ghosts in the shadowy skies, as runners with the great Hunt, as Lords of the Land—of the forests in Avalon, he waits for me there, as I cannot see him here, only the breaking sea that breaks like my heart...there are great holes torn in me, beaten as I am by his death.

Thus from Bedwyr’s grieving words, I travelled into the fierce cold of my own grief, where I scribe long into the coming winter that will be the bleakest I have ever known—my Fox is gone. The Fox they called him; he went down to the water before sunset one cold evening, six months after Arthur’s dying day. I heard him leave the villa where we lived. He took the sword, and I knew. He thought I was sleeping, but I knew. I knew he was going to take his own life, and I knew no force, not even those of the gods and goddesses of our great land could have stopped him, for Bedwyr was a greater force even of they, the gods.

The Fox was Fated to follow the Bear, to protect him, to be a brother that was beyond a brother. Fated, it was in his very blood that Bedwyr could die at no man’s hand but his own; that he could cast spears and javelins farther than any man alive that I had ever heard spoken of; and to cast Arthur’s sword, he would have thrown it far.

Far, far over the dark waters. And when that sword fell away from this world, so too did the Fox.

I pulled him from the waters of the lake, naked, and found him cut to his flesh over his left breast, so deeply he had opened himself to his bones and his broken heart; and he was drowned only moments dead when I reached him—in time only to stop him from floating down to the bottom of the lake and join with Arthur’s sword, and there take it up again in his single hand, a hand so potent in strength, and like his love, unbreakable in his power.

He floated in the water like some blessed water-spirit, sleeping there in the arms of the water upright. The ship that bore Arthur’s body sailed slowly away into the Everlasting Night, into the Western Sunset, with sails adorned with the Red Dragon; he sailed away, and for the Fox, there was no more reason to live, and the flame of love that still burned in his breast, he cut out and allowed it to die away in the wash of his blood, and the waves of the lake where the King’s sword had gone. Some say gone home.

Arthur was my King, and to his funeral rite I attended. Sworn to secrecy on the lay of his grave. The gates to his home caer were opened wide and all of his people from far and wide came in processions through the gates. Men, women and children, all Arthur’s. They came in long long lines, where I heard the united voices of them in aching song around his body, lying at sleep and rest upon a great bed of stone, wood and flowers.

And his warriors stepped forward, and drew their swords in unison, and with the blades raised over him, there as one voice in honour of their loss, they cried out a death lament, a cry in poetry, hailing their lost king, their lost leader, their greatest blood-warrior and defender; and some wept as they spoke aloud their poetry of farewell. I added my own voice to theirs, the sword I never wielded in battle, held high, and my tears broke my voice. I sobbed. Then came the women, signing for him a song of final farewell. They cried as they sang, and gave flowers to his body; one lone woman finished, Morganna. I did not know she could sing so well! And her face was white and filled with pain as she sang. The women held hands in a great wide circle around their king, singing as one, so beautiful a rite, my tears never knew how to truly end.

Drums pounded the warriors charge as the men hailed their king one last time as he slept before them, their voices speaking his name, and the pain of his death at the hands of traitors. Now they have all gone home save myself, and the last women of Arthur’s family, his blood left for the power of Ffion, Princess of the Silures, now Queen of the Silures. Arthur’s daughter, who bore the pain and suffering of her father’s loss with dignity and sorrow. So beautiful in her torment. And what of his son, the Prince Llacheu? He too died in that terrible battle-day. All of them gone.

I knew naught of that battle, save only the day before, when I saw the amassed forces against us: when the Fox was the lone champion on the field, who saw first Medraut die, and then...no, no more can I scribe for now, for this winter will be bleak, more open, more exposed than any other Britain has suffered before. With Arthur gone to his secret burial, the Saxons will return in ever greater forces: Wessex was stopped by him, but they will come again under Cerdig’s grandson, who is now King of the West Saxons, and a new power will arise under them.

And where now is the Fox laid to his rest? I will not tell it; let other men tell it, yet in Gwynedd he lies, far away from Arthur’s grave. And for him, the Men of Gwynedd gave the same laments of death and sorrow as he left us to his great rest. The greatest warrior. Now the Fox and the Bear lie apart; yet only their bodies, for they cannot be forced asunder by the death of their physical bodies. Their bonding of souls cannot be severed by death.

Their hearts are joined now as one in Avalon.

So this is the Last Song of Bright battle-brothers, those fierce fighting days of the Fox’s youth, that time of routing resistance, Arthur’s hero remains where he must. He has earned well his place in British song. He has earned his rest in his secret valley, and he sleeps alone among the standing trees and mountains rising. But always there is water surrounding the Fox, out of his element, he would dive to the bottom to grasp that falling-sword in his one hand. I love those who have been lost. Even the Snake, who was beautiful, till he cast himself into darkness, overshadowing himself with the cloak of betrayal, as he did.

He always loved his cousin, but Arthur was so powerful, he walked on higher paths, in greater sunlight, while Medraut dwelt below him, not so much in darkness, but in Arthur’s shadow, and it destroyed him in the end.

I live on now for reasons of history-telling, for scribing into words Bedwyr’s story of life: of betrayal, of pain and struggle, of death and the deepest of loves. I scribe it all in a mighty ledger that maybe one day will be passed down as a great record of History. I have taken to the art of writing, wishing now in my heart to be a bard. The kind of bard who sat at Arthur’s round table; young, harping, sweeping words to the smoky rafters. But I fled from the Clan Bear before I could see the fullness of Arthur’s truth and his power—yet I saw enough to flee in fear when I was young and lost. I fled to Rome, and there lost myself even more. I came home for him. To write such things that he would want me to write of him and of Arthur. I wrote down all that he told me, and I saw what Arthur’s death did to him, when the loneliness struck upon him like the Saxon axe that took his battle-arm. Now myself thrown down with a desperate pain, I take up his memories and sit with firm believing that I must carry on to cast away my grieving. No, this grieving is eternal. And what of the others? What has happened to them now? May it be that I will tell what Bedwyr never told—the very last of his story is now in my hands—the greatest responsibility of my life is to tell of the Last Man to Avalon—

M.SLOAN, scribe of the King

THE LONG DEFEAT

1

WE were forced to leave this place of death and we tracked onward like wolves and bears and foxes. We were all wounded now, lost, in exile, so many broken clans, and behind us, a trail of dead men, hundreds of leagues long. It seemed to me that we walked the length of Britain for the sake of our dead. And each step we made was counted as one lost life of a brother of ours. So then the forces of nature joined to drown us with rain and blow down the forests with wild winds from the sea, as the sea itself rushed beneath flying dark clouds. Through this attack, we came back to where we started: to the tent of the now headless Gladitor; the tent still standing alone on bare ground at the base of the Crag. It was not hard to tell ourselves that this place would be our shelter for the night, till the morn when we would continue to seek for our way home. Yet it was not safe for us in this place; it was no true harbour from our storms, for at any time we could be set upon by the remains of the Gladitor’s men, if any still lived in this land, and I was sure they did, as did Arthur. He placed the praetorium in a state of defence, with guards and all the usual, that as we went inside from the hounding rain, we saw we were not alone.

A warrior in full armour, standing at the brazier, now turning in fear to see us—Prince Gawain. With him, Gwen, alone. I looked fast and saw that my rescued Princess Sorcha was gone, but there was no time now to discuss where she was, as Arthur went first to Gawain.

Gawain saluted him and bowed as Arthur said, Why are you here? I sent you home!

Gawain saluted, My lord, I could not get home, so I came back for you. I went as far as Eburacum, and there, there is a new bishop from Rome, and news from my homelands that the Saxons have invaded Venta Belgarum, and my father is dead, my Lord. He bowed again, and his eyes sought through the crowd of us. The rain and wind came down harder; water flooded off the roof of the tent, and some of the men tied down the doors.

Buffeted and blown, a roar off the sea, and Arthur said, The Saxons have taken Venta Belgarum? What did you hear? What happened in Eburacum?

Gawain bowed and said, I visited with King Ellion Great-Host; he told me of the Saxons attacking my city, a sacking and razing and killing. My father, just an old, old man! died in the battle. Or so Ellion claims.

What else does Ellion claim? Arthur demanded.

To this question, Gawain almost balked in fear; he showed in his eyes, his fear.

A long stop before he said, King Ellion begged me, if not ordered me, to come and seek for you, my Lord, and say, you must return to battle—the Saxons of Cerdig Cynning, West Saxon; it is him who leads those people now. My city is sacked, my family are all dead, and there is only you, Arthur, no man but you who I love and will fight forever onward. The Kings of the Brigantes say they will raise you again to Imperator if you return to fight our invaders.

He bowed low to Arthur now, and looked up, and for reasons of his own, he looked at me, as if I could turn Arthur back to battle for him. Yet it was as if Gawain had asked Arthur to kill his own children, for Arthur stood away, turned away, pushed through the men like a bull on heat. Flaming with anger, injustice, brought to the end of his strength. The rain poured like waves off the tent and the wind buffeted, and I turned and asked Willard and some of the younger men to see if they could go out and find something to burn, as the brazier was falling low of fuel.

Out they went, and Arthur turned back for Gawain, and said, Imperator? Their kings, they think that of me? After all they did to me? If I ever fight again, I will do it as myself, as the Bear of Britain, and I will leave them to fend for themselves. I no longer need such titles granted on me by others. I am who I am, and I need no rank other than to be myself. No others in this land will I fight for now but my own.

He laughed with scorn, and I could see how much he was hurting for the doings of the Brigantes against him, with the aid of their power-hungry Bishops. There was naught to say to ease his anger now, and the men stood quiet, and moved to settle themselves and find what food we had with us and pile it on the table. All this time, Arthur stared at Gawain, and again, Gawain bowed low.

Arthur fronted him and said, I think...the Saxon allies of the Brigantes are in rebellion; emboldened by the success of their brothers in the South, they seek to overthrow the Kings of Ebrauc, and these kings want me to come and save them. This is what I think is the truth of them calling again for me as Imperator, to flatter me into fighting their rebellious Saxons for them. Aye, am I right, Gawain?

Gawain stood silent for a moment, then agreed, Aye, my Lord, you are. And I say you should not return to Ebrauc ever again, for if you do, I do not think you will ever see your homeland again. They only set me free in the hope I would bring you to them. But I will not! I will go with you Arthur, now and forever, wherever you lead me. I have nothing left, and here he laid his eyes again on me, perhaps seeking for me to support him. I gave him a nod of approval; no, we would not go back to Ebrauc ever again. Arthur did not answer this, only that we had to settle for the night; I went to the brazier, here waiting for the boys to come back with something dry to burn. There was no more talk, only looks of discontent, only the pounding rain and howling winds that were now so cold, we knew we were going to suffer a long freezing night. Hopefully, morning would see us back on our way home with early summer sunlight again to show the way.

In this quiet as we settled, I moved to Gwen’s side, one sad lone woman amongst us, and here I asked about the princess whose head I had split in battle against Queen Branca.

I could not hold her here, Gwen told me. She ran away as soon as she got the chance to flee. She would not stay with me, or for you, my Prince. Her place is with her own, and we are her enemies. She is gone, Bedwyr.

I stared into Gwen’s face; her eyes showed her weariness, and I did not blame her for the loss of Sorcha. I could not hold to this Pict princess either—I was her enemy, and she took her chance and fled me, even as I had grown quickly sweet on her. For what would I have done with her besides? Marry her? Keep her as my maid, my prisoner? Na, I regretted her loss. I prayed that the girl should return to her people safely, and that her mother would welcome her daughter back, even as Branca swore to disown her. But there were greater worries for me now, for all of us. The cold in the tent grew worse, and the boys came back with nothing to burn; the land was sodden, no wood could be found that would burn with anything more than spitting smoke and no heat. Marc took charge of sharing out the food between all of us; yet not enough, leaving us hungrier than before. And in the rain and wind, we tried to sleep away the cold and hunger. Then it was suddenly the morning of a new world, as when I stepped outside in the dawn, the land was fresh, clear, clean and new. It was summer again, and it seemed as if the storm of the night before had washed away all things that tainted us. Our lost horses were back, found by three of the men who hunted for them overnight; the beasts had not wandered far from their masters, and were found, grazing by the loch, now brought home again, and I wondered, was all of this truly a new world of Fate around me now? The sun was up over the hills, and the sky was already day-blue. Seabirds flocked the Crag over us, and down to the waters of the icy sea. Full of mermaids, Arthur would believe, as he kept telling me nowadays that all great women, worthy of love, became immortal mermaids upon their deaths, and he was sure my Clodia was with them in the seas off the coasts of Rhos, as was his Isleen, firm and young and waiting for him on the shores of Siluria, by the waves of the Sabrina Sea.

It seemed to me now, as I watched the water flowing down to the open mouth of the estuary, that Arthur no longer worshipped the Goddesses of Sky and Earth, but had given his love to the loveliest female creatures of eternity, the watery realm of seaweed and sunlight down to the homes of fishes, and women with fishtails who loved him, as he loved them. Aye, this was Arthur’s way these days, for maybe he believed Britannia had deserted him. He told me of his dreams often these days, at night, as he said once that I had convinced him that all gods were in the waters of the world, as I said long ago, and it was true, and now he believed me that gods and goddesses could not live in a place unliveable, that being the sky. And with Isleen and Clodia, who swam beneath the waves hand in hand, with them was Essylt, and this he believed so strongly I knew we would find these women again when passing over the waters to Avalon. His sword, lying under the waters of the lake. For the mermaid that was to take it back after I had thrown it was Isleen, the Mermaid. I smiled to myself for his beliefs, and felt a beating strong inside me that he was right.

2

EVEN with a day of bright sun, it was still a hard road home from this place where so much strange battle had come upon us. I thought long on the Princess Sorcha—would her mother take her back? Kill her? I should have kept her for myself, but it was not to be, and she was left behind, as we left Medraut behind, and this too added to the wrongs that moved further and further away into the loss of the North. We left that place of murder, death and treachery for the conflict of our homeward path. And on our way home again, we found harder truths and insults awaiting us, as if we had not already tasted enough rot and decay in our lives—that decay now being the Men of Cynfarch Oer, who would rebel against us in full.

Once, in some ancient past, all the roads of this land were ours: open, clear, and wide, yet now, we rode on tracks of brambles, overgrown with thistles, all the time growing hoarier and narrower. Would we have to take out our swords and hack our way through? On roads that were once all ours to ride without bar or barrier? Na, we rode like a band of outcast bandits, with us Gwenhwyfar. I saw that Marc stayed always at my side, and I knew he hated this harsh trek homewards, yet he made no complaints. He was shocked by the happenings now in his life with me; still he was strong enough to plough on like the rest of us. And all the time with Arthur was Gawain, returned to his commander. Gawain never left Arthur’s side and had taken up the role of his shield-man, all without words. Gawain too rarely spoke, only to Arthur, and like many of us on this homeward trek, he rode as a horseman downcast.

After five days of slow riding, we reached the lands of Rheged, and the old fortress home of Uthyr and Lot—Caer Luel that stood now in the hands of a new warlord, King Meirchion Gul. And reaching here, finally, with plans to stay and take rest, food, ale and beds for the night, Arthur told his men, I’ll go alone with Bedwyr and Gawain; no others to threaten their gates. I will send you word.

He nodded to me, and I hitched my sword to my front for ease of drawing, and went with him and Gawain on the road down to old Caer Luel. And this place that we knew so well, for so long our bane, where so much of our youth was entangled, now it was a bare and barren place with the gates closed, and mournful flat banners of Black Ravens unable to fly in the lightless sky. Yet the gatekeeper knew who we were right enough, as the moment they sighted us approaching they stiffened to attention, especially when Arthur rode forward alone, and called up to them to open their gates, to summon their lords to greet him. The lead gatekeeper saluted him and left the tower, and was gone for a long time, leaving us waiting on the road outside.

I frowned and itched and fidgeted to be getting inside, to find a place to rest for the night, and yet I sensed something wrong, something darker in this world where there was no loyalty left alive. So long we waited, I saw the hard look come on Arthur’s face. The insult and slight of a lesser lord to leave the Once High King standing, unattended...no.

I moved forward and said to him, as he still sat upon his horse, They’re doing this on purpose, you know; and it wouldn’t be safe for us to enter here, Arthur; you know this now. Cynfarch—I sense in him the way to rebellion against you. Beware.

I sense it too, he answered. If he does not open for me, then he is declaring his rebellion. No longer my ally, the Ravens will join against me.

Then we should leave at once, my Lord, Gawain said. Leave before they put their spears in us.

Arthur did not move, and a moment later, the gates opened, and Cynfarch himself came out on foot to meet us. With him was his wife, Arthur’s half-sister, Anna, and she carried in her arms a babe in swaddling-blanket. They came to us and stopped; Anna curtsied and Arthur leapt off his horse and went to her at once. They embraced as Cynfarch stood back to watch.

I moved closer again, and heard the girl say, Our son, Cynfarch’s son and mine. He is your nephew, my brother-king. We named him Urien. Lord Urien of Rheged.

For this, Arthur looked at Cynfarch and said, And as I am the uncle of your son, why leave me to wait for so long? We need a night’s rest, food—

I have no food to give, the man answered, with insolence in his voice. Again I moved closer, my hand now ready for my sword. Gawain followed me. No food? Arthur said with disbelief, for the man was lying to us.

Cynfarch then pushed Anna aside, and ordered her back into the fort, and she went with eyes of sorrow on her half-brother Arthur.

None, Cynfarch answered. The world is in tilt, Great Bear. And I slide down with it, as you will too. You are no fool, and you know the gates are now barred against you. My people live in fear of the Bear, for you have a history of destroying warlords who stand in your way.

Then don’t stand in my way, Arthur moved on him. Be my ally. Don’t stand in my way and you’ll have no need to fear me. But if you take up arms against me, only then will you have need to fear me. Why do you rebel?

Cynfarch stepped back from Arthur when he answered, as if afraid by his own words, I have taken power from my father, who no longer lives here, but has gone far North, back to our ancient homelands to live out the last of his days. I am now the power in Rheged, and I will not be cowed by you, Arthur. I am young, and married to your sister. Even so, I will not let you through my gates.

Arthur followed him, said, Not cowed by me? Then why step away? Because you are declaring yourself against me for no reason other than your lust to take my place. It will not happen, Cynfarch Oer. You have no reason to fight against me, for my father is gone from this land, as is my uncle; the land is yours, and there’s no reason to join your Ravens against me. I am returning to my own lands, and from there, you need fear nothing from me.

And with that, Arthur turned back for his horse to leave.

And with that, I stood my ground against Cynfarch, and said, You are of the Black Blight that now rots under Britain’s soil. Stupid to your core, all of you. There is no reason for this, boy. Arthur’s friendship would empower you, not his stand as your enemy. Stupid to your core. And I spat on the ground at his feet. This place was always blighted; it rots and corrupts those who take it, as you sit here thinking the whole land is beneath you. You will not be King of this realm.

He held my gaze for only a moment, bowed his head to me, and said, There are forces greater than me pushing me to rebel. I am caught between the dark of the North, and the need for Arthur’s friendship. But I cannot give it to him; the North will destroy me if I refuse to make Rheged the power that it should be, and that will come only when Arthur is gone. I regret this, but it is the Way of the Warrior.

He turned then and marched back to his cold and rotten hall; he closed the gates and barred them. And I knew he was trembling in terror to do this to Arthur, and yet he did, for it was true; there were forces on the rise that would destroy us all with darkness.

I turned after Arthur and Gawain; rode in blind rage back to our men, feeling the utter insult we had been dealt. A black blow of unreason. A sinking feeling inside me, and as I went, I saw the soil here was worn away by wind and rain, and was lifeless beneath. No sun here. No breath of clear air. Only the long black night of the Ravens wings, and I remembered suddenly the very first battle I had ever fought, where Arthur had gone missing on the field at age fifteen, and I had searched and searched for him over the ground of the dead and dying. I believed him dead that long-ago day, while over me, clouds of carrion crows had already flocked to pick out the eyes of the dead.

I dreamt this now, over and over. I had seen those black carrion clouds, I had seen the Morgen, the Goddess of War, as I saw her now. She had returned. She had once lived as the wife of Lot in woman-form, and now, she was settled all around the walls of