Artur gangled his way back down the path to the village. His brother would whip him for taking his sweet time at such an important moment, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
Second son. Second in standing. Always second in his own father's eyes- compounded by his elder brother's glory.
He wished there was something he could do. He wished there was a way to change his fate.
He lay awake at night and cursed this muddy little place; its chickens in the street and the way the sky never seemed more colorful than gray. When he slept he dreamt of dragons and gold and great black horses with hearts of flame. He dreamt someday he would be great, and someday he would surround himself with greater still. And when the morning's bitter light finally crept between his shuttered lids, he consoled himself with these dreams and he told himself: someday. Someday.
But none of his fancies could change the cold reality of raindrops on his face and the fleeing time beating in his ears.
"A sword," he muttered. "I must bring my brother a sword."
As he left the forest path, the hard-packed dirt beneath his boots became the half-frozen mud of the village road. He slipped and stumbled in the pocks left by plow horses' round hooves; he picked up his pace over the uneven terrain so as to provide the illusion he had hurried.
He had to get a sword.
His father's scrappy hut stood close to the middle of town, surrounded by similar homes of rough-hewn timber and mud packed into the cracks for warmth. His hands were red and chapped with cold when he extended them to the task of opening the frontmost door to his home.
No one was home; that was hardly surprising. The place was fairly deserted altogether, as most everyone had left to watch the tournament placing so close to their out-of-the-way little village in nowhere-land. As he collected one rusting sword from the leather scabbard slung across the kitchen's only chair, Artur eyed the fur-lined blankets gracing his brother's cot. They made kingly blankets compared to the bed of straw before the hearth that was Artur's given place of rest.
But his father had every right to discriminate. After all, his brother was- he was regal; tall and golden, strong of arm and sharp of eye. Artur would now; he heard it often enough from the village maids and the old crony spinsters. God willing, his brother could become a KNIGHT! And what was he? He was a rangy, unfinished bit of a boy, with unkempt brown hair and features that could grow as ugly as they could handsome. His manners were coarse, his speech was soft and his eyes were always dreamy. Often subjected to the harsh tongues of the village elders and the gossip of wicked midwives, he alone seemed to know the greatness he was capable- no, destined for.
"'Cause ain't no WAY I'm stayin' here!" Artur whispered. It was a silent promise to himself; heat to his blood and color to his cheeks. His life lay far outside this town's choking boundaries, he felt sure.
There was, literally, NO ONE in sight. He needn't have hurried a'tall. He lugged a sword far too heavy for his thin young bones and as he went, searching the surrounding streets and windows for probing eyes. NO one.
Artur stepped stealthily back into the shadow of the hut, sliding along the wall until he rounded the corner facing the town square.
He had avoided this place for a long time. It was a mocking reminder of his failure, as a man and as a son. At any given point during a normal day, this small opening would be packed with individuals, with men in their prime seeking fame and fortune and a place in history. But so far, every man who had tried- had failed. Miserably. Embarrassingly. Sickeningly.
As he was quite sure he would become, in a scant few moments.
There was no one here.
No one would see him.
Why not?
Why not? asked the oily little voice every human mind possesses. Why not try?
It behooved his humility to know his place, to stay his hand from trying for the greatness promised to any man who could complete the task. But the dreamer in Artur, the wild in his blood, forced his hand.
He dropped the sword he drew, the sword his family at the tournament waited so impatiently for. And he reached for the hilt of the Sword in the Stone. He exchanged one for another, his brother's weapon for his-
His past- for his future-
His hand closed about the cool golden hilt protruding from the rock embedded so immovably in the dirt of the Town's Square.
And his whole life changed, in the blink of an eye.
Hello, it said. Hello, wielder.
It slid so freely from the stone it could well have been butter-soft leather.
The sheen its blade bore was combated only by the sheen in the young King's eyes...
Reflected in the sword, he saw his fate. He saw his wife. He saw his son. He saw his death. This sword had magic about it.
Artur turned back to the town, the instrument of his destiny still held aloft between his clumsy hands.
And saw his father, who'd followed him back to the village to berate him for his dawdling- fall to his knees. What he saw in the man's eyes did much to soothe the years-old hurt inside of him.
"Father," he breathed. "I have to go."
And from the trees, a white-haired man on a white-coated horse smiled with white, white teeth, and congratulated old Excalibur on his choice.
Second son. Second in standing. Always second in his own father's eyes- compounded by his elder brother's glory.
He wished there was something he could do. He wished there was a way to change his fate.
He lay awake at night and cursed this muddy little place; its chickens in the street and the way the sky never seemed more colorful than gray. When he slept he dreamt of dragons and gold and great black horses with hearts of flame. He dreamt someday he would be great, and someday he would surround himself with greater still. And when the morning's bitter light finally crept between his shuttered lids, he consoled himself with these dreams and he told himself: someday. Someday.
But none of his fancies could change the cold reality of raindrops on his face and the fleeing time beating in his ears.
"A sword," he muttered. "I must bring my brother a sword."
As he left the forest path, the hard-packed dirt beneath his boots became the half-frozen mud of the village road. He slipped and stumbled in the pocks left by plow horses' round hooves; he picked up his pace over the uneven terrain so as to provide the illusion he had hurried.
He had to get a sword.
His father's scrappy hut stood close to the middle of town, surrounded by similar homes of rough-hewn timber and mud packed into the cracks for warmth. His hands were red and chapped with cold when he extended them to the task of opening the frontmost door to his home.
No one was home; that was hardly surprising. The place was fairly deserted altogether, as most everyone had left to watch the tournament placing so close to their out-of-the-way little village in nowhere-land. As he collected one rusting sword from the leather scabbard slung across the kitchen's only chair, Artur eyed the fur-lined blankets gracing his brother's cot. They made kingly blankets compared to the bed of straw before the hearth that was Artur's given place of rest.
But his father had every right to discriminate. After all, his brother was- he was regal; tall and golden, strong of arm and sharp of eye. Artur would now; he heard it often enough from the village maids and the old crony spinsters. God willing, his brother could become a KNIGHT! And what was he? He was a rangy, unfinished bit of a boy, with unkempt brown hair and features that could grow as ugly as they could handsome. His manners were coarse, his speech was soft and his eyes were always dreamy. Often subjected to the harsh tongues of the village elders and the gossip of wicked midwives, he alone seemed to know the greatness he was capable- no, destined for.
"'Cause ain't no WAY I'm stayin' here!" Artur whispered. It was a silent promise to himself; heat to his blood and color to his cheeks. His life lay far outside this town's choking boundaries, he felt sure.
There was, literally, NO ONE in sight. He needn't have hurried a'tall. He lugged a sword far too heavy for his thin young bones and as he went, searching the surrounding streets and windows for probing eyes. NO one.
Artur stepped stealthily back into the shadow of the hut, sliding along the wall until he rounded the corner facing the town square.
He had avoided this place for a long time. It was a mocking reminder of his failure, as a man and as a son. At any given point during a normal day, this small opening would be packed with individuals, with men in their prime seeking fame and fortune and a place in history. But so far, every man who had tried- had failed. Miserably. Embarrassingly. Sickeningly.
As he was quite sure he would become, in a scant few moments.
There was no one here.
No one would see him.
Why not?
Why not? asked the oily little voice every human mind possesses. Why not try?
It behooved his humility to know his place, to stay his hand from trying for the greatness promised to any man who could complete the task. But the dreamer in Artur, the wild in his blood, forced his hand.
He dropped the sword he drew, the sword his family at the tournament waited so impatiently for. And he reached for the hilt of the Sword in the Stone. He exchanged one for another, his brother's weapon for his-
His past- for his future-
His hand closed about the cool golden hilt protruding from the rock embedded so immovably in the dirt of the Town's Square.
And his whole life changed, in the blink of an eye.
Hello, it said. Hello, wielder.
It slid so freely from the stone it could well have been butter-soft leather.
The sheen its blade bore was combated only by the sheen in the young King's eyes...
Reflected in the sword, he saw his fate. He saw his wife. He saw his son. He saw his death. This sword had magic about it.
Artur turned back to the town, the instrument of his destiny still held aloft between his clumsy hands.
And saw his father, who'd followed him back to the village to berate him for his dawdling- fall to his knees. What he saw in the man's eyes did much to soothe the years-old hurt inside of him.
"Father," he breathed. "I have to go."
And from the trees, a white-haired man on a white-coated horse smiled with white, white teeth, and congratulated old Excalibur on his choice.