Kim's shivering now, and not just from the chill and the breeze. She's been waiting so long for this moment, all of them have, waiting for her to know the time and the place and to finally come to do what must be done, but this, this--
--oh, this.
She's under no illusions, not here and not now, and with the Warstone dark on her hand and her Seer's sight gone from her, Kim Ford feels not a little overwhelmed at the horrible weight of the ancient curse that she's about to invoke, as so many have before, in time of darkest need.
But there is that need, for once there had been a mountain, and now there is not, and with the Unraveller freed and everything at risk, there's no room to turn away. Not now. She thinks, briefly, of Jennifer in Starkhadh. Of Bran Davies, and his anger, and his fear, and his love for his father.
And then Kim Ford draws herself up and cries aloud into the night the single awful word, the summoning name of the Warrior:
With that word, the whole of Somerset Plain begins to tremble. A bell clangs, low and heavy, from the old monastery: a death-knell, for the children and for love, and for the endless cycle that wakes Arthur Pendragon from his rest to suffer the same penalties for the same murders, over and over.
The low bell is not the only sound, now; Kim Ford, with her summoning name and her Warstone, has awakened more than she knew. A higher music lilts, chimes, ripples in the wind. The scent of ocean, faint before, grows stronger, and the stars brighten, outshining the thin moonlight.
The man who is, all at once, beside Kim on Glastonbury Tor, is leaning on his long sword as if it is the only thing he knows. He cannot remember why he has been called here, and then he does remember, and he cannot make any sense of it. She has the right. I killed the children, Arthur Pendragon thinks, but another voice, just as much true, just as much his own, is thinking, Never. I never did.
Kim stands with her eyes closed, waiting, while the ground shivers under her feet and the wind rises, carrying the scent of an ancient sea.
She will have to face it soon enough, but for now she has closed her eyes, forcing back the tears that threaten-- but how could one not weep? He had been young, then, young and afraid of what prophecy bore, and so he had given the order and the children had been slain.
All the children had died, save the one he sought to have killed, save for Mordred-- innocent they had been, entrusted to him and betrayed.
Childslayer.
Kim opens her eyes, looking up at the bright stars above-- and then realizes that she is not alone.
In the world where Kim Ford stands, Merlin raised the warning and Arthur gave the order. In that world, all the infants born on May Day were murdered -- all but the one, Mordred, who escaped to trouble Camelot another day.
In another world, Merlion looked down his beaky nose in dry disapproval, but said nothing else. Although tempted to erase the memory of his indiscretion, Arthur gave no order, and a generation lived.
Two sets of memories, two sets of lives, are tangling with each other in the Warrior's mind. He looks at the woman before him with dazed brown eyes (But my eyes are blue!).
The man on Glastonbury Tor gathers all that he can remember and rises to his feet. He says, quietly, but with the dignity of a king, "I was Arthur here, my lady, was I not?"
Comments 23
--oh, this.
She's under no illusions, not here and not now, and with the Warstone dark on her hand and her Seer's sight gone from her, Kim Ford feels not a little overwhelmed at the horrible weight of the ancient curse that she's about to invoke, as so many have before, in time of darkest need.
But there is that need, for once there had been a mountain, and now there is not, and with the Unraveller freed and everything at risk, there's no room to turn away. Not now. She thinks, briefly, of Jennifer in Starkhadh. Of Bran Davies, and his anger, and his fear, and his love for his father.
And then Kim Ford draws herself up and cries aloud into the night the single awful word, the summoning name of the Warrior:
"Childslayer!"
Reply
The low bell is not the only sound, now; Kim Ford, with her summoning name and her Warstone, has awakened more than she knew. A higher music lilts, chimes, ripples in the wind. The scent of ocean, faint before, grows stronger, and the stars brighten, outshining the thin moonlight.
The man who is, all at once, beside Kim on Glastonbury Tor, is leaning on his long sword as if it is the only thing he knows. He cannot remember why he has been called here, and then he does remember, and he cannot make any sense of it. She has the right. I killed the children, Arthur Pendragon thinks, but another voice, just as much true, just as much his own, is thinking, Never. I never did.
Reply
She will have to face it soon enough, but for now she has closed her eyes, forcing back the tears that threaten-- but how could one not weep? He had been young, then, young and afraid of what prophecy bore, and so he had given the order and the children had been slain.
All the children had died, save the one he sought to have killed, save for Mordred-- innocent they had been, entrusted to him and betrayed.
Childslayer.
Kim opens her eyes, looking up at the bright stars above-- and then realizes that she is not alone.
Reply
In another world, Merlion looked down his beaky nose in dry disapproval, but said nothing else. Although tempted to erase the memory of his indiscretion, Arthur gave no order, and a generation lived.
Two sets of memories, two sets of lives, are tangling with each other in the Warrior's mind. He looks at the woman before him with dazed brown eyes (But my eyes are blue!).
The man on Glastonbury Tor gathers all that he can remember and rises to his feet. He says, quietly, but with the dignity of a king, "I was Arthur here, my lady, was I not?"
Reply
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