The Sword in the Stone Dec 27, 2011 23:34:37 GMT -5
Post by Arthur Pendragon on Dec 27, 2011 23:34:37 GMT -5
Many years ago before the birth of the five kingdoms, this land was in an endless cycle of bloodshed and war. One man was determined to end all that. He gathered together the elders of each tribe and drew up plans for their lands to be divided. Each would respect the others boundaries and rule over the land as they saw fit. That man was Camelot's first king, ancestor to all that followed: Bruta.
When Bruta was on his death bed, he asked to be taken deep into the forest. There, with the last of his strength, he thrust his sword into a rock. If his lineage was ever questioned this would form a test. Only a true king of Camelot could pull the weapon free.
The rock was lost many years ago during the great purge but, it has managed to be found.
When the sword was thrust into the stone, the Ancient King foretold that one day it would be freed again; at a time when Camelot needed it most. The man who freed it would unite the land of Albion and rule over the greatest kingdom the world has ever known.
That man is King Arthur Pendragon . . .
Arthur couldn't believe Merlin had talked him into this. He was going to look like a fool in front of all these people. And yet . . . there was something about the way Merlin had told him he could do this. Something about the man's unwavering confident and faith in Arthur and that was what had caused the former king to slowly approach the sword in the stone. There was something practically majestic about the blade. The way the gold on it shone in the morning light. The way it was meant to look centuries old yet . . . looked as if it was in prime condition. Perfect condition. Arthur paused in front of the sword, his eyes rising to the massive crowd of people that had gathered. Ones who all came witness to . . . see their former king make a complete fool of himself. They all looked so, expectant. So calm. Their presence alone showed their support. And Arthur knew he was highly undeserving of it. He had caused them to lose their homes, their lands to be destroyed . . . yet they all stood here, awaiting his action that would be nothing less of a miracle. For it would take more than a bit of strength and a hefty pull to remove that sword from its firm resting place, embedded in the stone.
Never the less, the people were here to see him do something other than sulk of course. They saw him as their leader, and if this was the last thing he would do to prove himself unworthy . . . then so be it. He would put on a pathetic show as the last of his people's faith in him would diminish. He looked at the weapon, wondering if there was a technique to it that would make him look less . . . idiotic. He put one gloved hand on the top of the handle of the sword, and his other hand underneath. His eyes raised to the crowd again, suppressing his nervousness that he felt in this moment. All eyes were on him, and he knew he would be nothing but a disappointment to them all. Taking a deep breath he tried to pull the sword. Using what strength he could. It hardly even shifted . . . and Arthur was -- as predicted -- looking like a fool. He was using both hands, as much strength as he could in this angle, and it was to not avail. The sword was not budging! Arthur made a mental note to beat Merlin the second this pathetic attempt was over. For it was only making him appear weaker and more helpless in front of the people. The last shred of faith in Arthur that they had, and the last shred of dignity Arthur possessed, was fast diminishing.You have to believe Arthur.
That was just it. Arthur didn't believe. He did not believe himself to be a worthy king. He did not believe that he was destined for any sort of greatness. He was normal. Beneath normal. He was not worthy nor was he grand. He had failed everyone. Yet . . . he still kept trying to pull it out. He was desperate; desperate to find something -- anything -- to add truth to Merlin's words, even though his mind could not accept them. His gaze averted upward, as he slightly trembled in a fruitless attempt to pull the sword out. He was using as much power as he could but it was not moving even an inch. It was far too deeply placed in the stone . . . and it was not going to come out. Arthur's efforts began to decline, as he looked back at the people in front of him. His eyes darted through the crowd. Unsure of what was on their minds . . . though he could imagine. They were looking at a weak king, and an even weaker man. Not just physically, but emotionally and in spirit. They'd all gathered to see him do the impossible, and he was not succeeding.You're destined to be Albion's greatest king.
Arthur didn't feel like that. He continued to pull but it was clear that he was not trying his hardest anymore. That he had given up, perhaps even before he tried to pull it out. He left one hand on the hilt of the sword, his other drawing back to his side as he stopped pulling. This was ridiculous. What was he doing. Why was he trying to further show his people what a poor king he was? That they had bestowed their trust and faith in the wrong man. Granted, this was an impossible situation for anyone really . . . to pull a blade from hard stone. But, they had all come. They were all here to show their support . . . to him. To a man who let the kingdom fall once again. If his father was alive, he never would have allowed this to happen. Not a second time. Arthur had. He'd let Morgana burn their crops, destroy the city . . . yet they fled. To be here, with him. To show that they still remained loyal to him, though he did not sit on the throne. There was something strongly encouraging about that. Something that filled Arthur with the greatest honor; an honor that he could never express in words. This was why he knew that Morgana would never succeed; people she did not have the people's faith nor loyalty. And a kingdom was nothing without its people.Nothing not even this stone can stand in your way.
Arthur looked at the stone. A strange burst of confidence entering his heart. Perhaps it was from the people's presence. Or perhaps it was from Merlin's words. Either way, he just looked at the sword. Focusing on it. Channeling all of his concentration on it. It wasn't about strength. It was something more than that. Something inside him told him that it was not about the technique of pulling the sword out nor the amount of force he used to do it. His actions had to come from the heart rather than the mind. Suddenly, determination washed over him. No longer did he feel helpless and a fool. He felt as if he could quite possibly do this. He just needed to believe. Believe in Albion; believe in Camelot; believe in himself. He slightly shifted his body to the side, once again putting all his focus into the sword. This time, he brought a single hand to place around the whole hilt of the blade, holding it from the side, rather than trying to pull it straight up.
He closed his eyes. Blocking out everything and everyone else. If he looked at the people, it would only make him more nervous. He needed to concentrate. He needed to believe. So he blocked out everything else. Every sight. Every sound. His breathing calmed from its strain from the previous failed attempt. He just . . . felt the sword. Gripping it firmly, his hand around the handle of it. In some strange indescribable way, he felt drawn to it. As if . . . it was meant for him. Not in an arrogant sense, but a way that caused his faith to strengthen. A sense of how he was meant to do this. How, every step he had take his entire life led him right here. To this rock. To this sword. To this moment. He could not explain it in words, nor was there any need to. He only allowed himself to feel; to believe. Keeping his eyes closed he took deep breathes, just to further calm himself. To immerse himself in what he was about to do. Rather than look at everyone else's expression, occupying his mind with what they were thinking, and consuming his heart with fears. He cleared everything. His mind. His thoughts . . . everything.Have faith.
Faith. That was what he so desperately needed, and what he knew he had been lacking. He needed to believe in this, in everything that Merlin spoke about. He was no longer concerning himself with all the eyes that were on him, but rather what he was meant to do; what he was apparently destined to do. He was not sure how long he had been standing with his hand on the sword, though not attempting to pull. Not yet. As he previously recognized, he needed to pull with the strength of his heart, not the physical nor mental strength. But an emotional kind. This was it. The moment had come. After several minutes of silence, he finally began to pull it. But not with such intense power. Instead, he just lifted it up effortlessly, as if he was pulling it from his sheath rather than stone. Much to his surprise and utter shock . . . it came out. He had opened his eyes just in time to see the sparks from the impact of the metal blade being dragged from the stone. Arthur held it up at a side angle, suddenly in awe of what he'd just done. The impossible; a miracle! He looked at the blade in all its extreme magnificence.
Even after so many years of its neglect, it was the most incredible weapon he had ever laid eyes on. The most incredible sword he had ever held. Slowly moving it from a side angle to an upward one, so that it was straight up in the air as he gazed upon it. His awe had not diminished, nor would it ever. He could not even look at the people right now, for his entire attention rest on the remarkable sword. He could look at it . . . wondering how he had done this. Wondering . . . how this had even been possible. All the emotions he felt prior to this seemed to vanish. He suddenly felt . . . hope. Strength. Faith. Confidence. So many other things that he never thought he would experience again. The motivation he felt in this moment, was indescribable. The way his faith was restored to him was . . . well, it was just as much of a miracle as pulling a sword from stone. He slowly lowered it so that he was not holding it so much above his head, but right out in front of him. The awed silence was suddenly broken by the recognizable voice of Leon.Long Live the King! Love Live the King! Long Live the King!
Everyone followed suit, chanting these words. Arthur did not yet look at them. He was entirely fixated on the sword in his hand, a stronger determination coming over him than before. And this time, in a different way. He watched as it shone in the sunlight, the reflection of it causing it to shimmer more than any other sword. It had been here for so long, yet it looked unaged. It looked anything but dull and worn. It looked . . . as if it was meant to be Arthur's. He could not say this for he could not describe the emotion he felt while holding such a magnificent sword. It was meant for him. He was fulfilling his destiny for he was destined to be king. To lead this kingdom to prosperity. To rid it of its threats and right now, its greatest threat was Morgana. She was not meant to rule nor would she ever be. She ruled through corruption, fear and intimidation. Such was not the fate of Camelot. It was meant to be a peaceful kingdom . . . one where its people would prosper and feel safe. One where its people were of the most loyal of any other kingdom. For they had all come to see him because they had faith in him. Arthur could feel it, just as he felt so many things emanating from this one blade that felt majestic and magical. His actions had just proved his destiny: was indeed the True King of Camelot.