Incipit Liber Primus

Chapter 1

The Sword in the Stone

England sprinted into the churchyard. The theory was that he could claim sanctuary in the church itself and be safe for the time being. But he doubted his brother would abide by such a practice. He wasn't much for chivalry.

"Where'd ye go, runt?" an uncomfortably nearby voice called. "When I get me hands on ye-!"

England let out a terrified squeak. Ever since his mum had died, he'd suffered many a beating from his elder brother, Scotland. He wasn't going to stick around and let it happen again. He threw his small body behind a tree stump.

Just in time, too, for a form with a bright red mess of hair lumbered into the yard. "I know ye wen' in here!" His gaze wandered around, finally alighting upon the tree stump behind which he hid.

England held his breath and shrank lower to the ground.

Scotland took a step towards him.

Then another.

Then another.

Then the footsteps paused. The gate to the churchyard had squeaked, signaling that another person had entered. England relaxed slightly. Maybe Scotland wouldn't hurt him or even let him go with this other being around to witness.

Scotland was quiet for a moment, then grunted. "I'll get ye' next time, brat." The sound of hastily retreating footsteps in the other direction told him that his brother had gone, at least for the time being. He dared a peek over the stump.

There, on the gravel path approaching the center of the courtyard, was a boy. He could be only a few years older than the young nation appeared. He was dressed in the clothes of a squire, simple and unassuming. At a glance, nobody would have expected anything special of him.

And yet, England felt himself being drawn towards him. He had this… familiarity… about him. Like he was an old friend that he hadn't seen in years. Only, they had never met before, he was sure of it. How strange.

The boy reached the center of the courtyard, where a peculiar item sat. A sword, wedged into a large block of stone. An inscription on the rough stone read: "Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is Rightwise King of All England."

England wasn't sure he wanted anybody to pull out the sword. The last king, Uther Pendragon, was dead, it was true. The people were looking for a new person to reign over them, as he had no known heirs. But the only thing Uther had done was ignite his brothers' anger even more, causing his life to become miserable. A new king would only make matters worse, in his opinion. Not that anybody had ever listened to what he thought.

However, the boy paid no attention to the inscription. His eyes were fixed firmly upon the fateful sword.

"Come, sword." he said. "I must cry your mercy and take you for a better cause."

England's eyes widened. Was he actually going to try to remove the sword? Surely he knew that the task was impossible. However, he didn't seem discouraged in the slightest.

He wiped sweat from his brow, then pulled his brown gloves off, to get a better grip on the hilt, he assumed. Then he placed his bare hands upon the hilt, as if it were an ordinary blade.

He gave a tug. It didn't budge. The boy backed up, dazed from strain.

England sighed softly. Guess his intuition was wrong. This boy wasn't the one.

Wait, a voice in the back of his head whispered. You may yet not be disappointed. England started. That voice… It wasn't his own. Where had he heard it before?

A determined look had come into the squire's eyes. He tried again, to no avail. But still, he refused to give up. He cocked his head, as if listening to something England couldn't hear. Then he nodded, smiling grimly. Again, he approached the sword.

He wrapped his right hand gently around the hilt, and pulled. England leaned forward with baited breath.

The sword slid out of the hilt, as smoothly as if it had been oiled yesterday, not trapped in stone for hundreds of years.

The squire smiled, happy that he had at last acquired his prize. He turned and walked away, just like that. Like nothing special had happened. Like he was nothing special.

England slowly walked up to the stone, looking strangely empty without the sword stuck in it. So that was it. That boy was the new king. What was this strange feeling in his chest? Could it be… hope? It wasn't something he had ever felt before. It felt... good. He liked the feeling.

His toe hit one of the gloves that the squire had left behind. Absently, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. It smelled like the stables, the part of his brain that wasn't completely awestruck registered.

Just once, his future didn't feel so scary and unknown.

He turned and walked out of the churchyard.

Maybe, it was something he could look forward to.

England set the glove down, chuckling. Ah, how innocent he was then. He took a sip of his tea, savoring the familiar taste. In times like this, it was important for him to maintain his usual habits. It kept him together.

After a few minutes, he picked up the next oldest item on the table, the sprig of herbs. It was a remnant of a time when such things were thought to ward off evil, or heal you of your illness. Modern science had disproven most of this. England was skeptical of this, however. He had personal experience with their properties, whether they worked or not. The belief that they worked often did more than the actual plant.

The fragrance once again took him to a time long past.

When shall I be dead and rid

Of the wrong my father did?

How long, how long, till spade and hearse

Put to sleep my mother's curse?

EXPLICIT LIBER PRIMUS