DISCLAIMER: IDNOM(BIWID)
This is a continuation from Drabbles from Camelot, so if you read that and came here, then thank you! If not, then welcome! (and why not go check it out?) Enjoy!
And did those feet in ancient time.
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
He remembered the first time he'd heard it.
In the midst of the pain and the anguish, in the thick ooze, it rose like the sun - a thin, steady, strong voice. The song of a dying man.
Others joined it. The melody flew through the air, dampening the blasts of the shells and the rat-at-at of the guns.
And in the middle of a battle, in the middle of a war, Merlin stopped, and turned, and remembered.
He knew the poem, of course, but he hadn't heard the song. He must have been away whilst it was composed. Away, fighting the people who threatened everything he believed in.
Centuries had passed, and yet there were still those who seeked to destroy. Morgana might have been gone, but there were still others.
When the war had started, Merlin had ignored it. He'd spent years - decades - millennia almost - keeping his distance, never getting involved. But it had continued and soon the whole world was at war. The whole world, burning in the fire that was fuelled by hatred and greed. But still no Arthur. England's need, Albion's need was great, and yet he still didn't come. Would he ever? Or was there something worse to come?
And so Merlin joined the fight, picking his side carefully, killing only those he had to. Fighting to rebuild Camelot, or Jerusalem, or whatever the people of England wanted to call it. It was all the same place. It was a hope, an idea, a golden city built on solid principles. Love. Fairness. Equality. Justice.
They had been so close, so close to achieving it before, but it had all gone wrong. Arthur had died and Merlin hadn't been able to stop it. But this time would be different. Like the song promised, he would not stop until Camelot was rebuilt and Arthur sat upon the throne again.
The song fell like the men singing it, plummeting to the ground, cut short by the harsh chatter of metal upon metal. The sick thuds of wet flesh punctuated the music like a full stop in the middle of the sentence. The dying notes hung in the bloodstained air, slowly dribbling away, sinking into the mud.
And one man, one brave, remarkable man, trudged slowly across no mans land, back to the rat-infested trenches, an echo of a melody carved into his mind forever.
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land.
Review?