The Darkness whirls downwards in a black tornado, sweeping towards the patch of grass where Merriman, Will and Bran stand. Bran staggers, breathless, under the weight of its proximity. He can hardly see; Will and Merriman flicker in and out of his vision, and when they are visible they seem to glow scarlet against the blackness. The air tastes of smoke, old blood, something worse. Pushed to his knees in the furor, Bran hardly knows what he has come out for. A moment later he has forgotten even his name, and only a wild roaring fills his mind. Know that when all words are said His hand, falling to his side, meets the circle quartered by a cross on the hilt of his sword. And a man is fighting mad, Bran Davies of Clwyd, son of Arthur Pendragon, son of Owen Davies, son of Guinevere, remembers what he is here to do. Something drops from eyes long blind, Taking a a breath of the acrid air, Bran pushes himself up under the weight of the Dark and draws Caliburn from its scabbard. He completes his partial mind Bran Davies raises his sword and strikes out at the place where the Dark coils thickest. For an instant stands at ease, Bran stands frozen there, erect and still, hair blowing wildly behind and around his face, holding Caliburn. He almost laughs. Laughs aloud, his heart at peace. A clap of thunder shakes the sky. The blade of the sword crackles with lightning, and Bran falls, unconscious, against the ground.
The thunder that roars almost rattles the earth with its power, and as the blue lightning crackles along the sword Caliburn, wielded by Pendragon's blood, the wild howling scream that comes from the center of the Dark seems to tear the universe apart with pain.
The black roiling mist that defines by its very nature the absence of Light splits in two on either side of the shining blade, recoiling and drawing in upon itself as it gathers its strength after such a wound.
Bran's strike has provided an opening, the moment of opportunity needed for action.
A burst of the Light's power pulses through the Dark's onslaught, as a carefully-crafted enchantment falls away -- to reveal that on Merriman's left arm is a plain golden shield, its burnished surface shimmering with magic that rises from it like heat haze on a blistering summer's day.
He can barely turn his head, not wanting to look away from the mass of the Dark anymore than he must, and his voice is hoarse from the strain as he calls out an urgent command to Will, two words in the Old Speech:
'SHIELD THEM!'
And then he moves forward, the shield half-raised, fighting every step of the way to put some kind of distance between himself and...everyone but the Dark.
Will jerks his left arm up -- it feels as if he's moving through thick syrup, as if the world is stuttering under strobe lights -- and crooks it over his head, baring the quartered circle branded into his wrist years ago. He leans into the wind, straining against it, eyes narrowed to slits. (by Pendragon's sword The Dark's power is that of one Lord only, and less than it was on a Midsummer Day five years ago, but the Light's protections here are also less. The world is a storm of madness around them: a dull sick soundless shaking in the air, black clouds and white-scorched lightning. Enough to drive a mortal man mad -- except that they are protected, just enough, for now. By the moment's pause Bran's strike has bought them, and by the powers of others around them from worlds beyond, and by the shields Will has just thrown around everyone he can. the Dark shall fall He leans into the howling gale, teeth gritted, and bends all his mind and will and power into keeping it that way.
Over a year ago, he had done a favour, and received the promise of a favour in return. And now it is time to call that favour in.
(fire to burn away the Dark)
Into the face of the Dark's maddening storm, he speaks a word of the Old Speech -- a name, one that makes the air shiver with barely-contained power as he says it. He repeats the name, louder this time, and just as a dull ache starts to settle in his temples he calls the name for a third and final time.
And braces himself as best he can for what he knows is coming.
What answers is Light: a pillar of blinding sunfire that immediately blazes up into the heavens just beside Merriman, for one brief moment illuminating everything even under the shadow of the Dark.
The radiance seems to cool and resolve itself into the form of a young man about eight or nine feet tall, so beautiful it quite literally hurts to look at him, and somehow so vividly real that everything around him looks suddenly dim and insubstantial by comparison. He wears the raiment of a Welsh prince, and white-gold light flares out behind him in the shape of wings.
"Younger brother," the apparition says to Merriman, smiling, "I'm here, but you'd still better hold on." He comes around to place his hands on Merriman's shoulders, power pouring into the Old One and all around him, and the great bright wings sweep forward to shield both of them.
And the One's Champion looks up laughing into the massive onrushing cloud of the Dark and calls, "Bring it."
He staggers under the weight of the summoning, but the power pouring into him soon eradicates any trace of the initial shock to his system. And with the One's Champion with him, sword and shield all at once, he is free to let his own power -- the power of the Light approaching high Midsummer -- blend with the magic that surrounds them both.
(there must be fire on the mountain)
One thought is in his mind now: the Dark must come to him. If it is to strike anyone, it must strike him.
(fire under the stone)
Or rather, it must strike the shield he bears, the shield that now is almost molten with the force of the magic that he has forged into it. For spells can be worked into burnished gold as easily as they can be worked into knitted wool and knotted thread, and the Oldest of the Old Ones has worked a very specific spell into the golden shield.
(fire over the sea)
The Dark whirls above him, raging overhead in its own frustrated howling malice, and he cannot help but laugh at it as well. Fierce defiance blazes in his eyes as he drops to his knees on the ground and raises the shield above him. His free right arm crosses behind his left, supporting and bracing the shield still further. At the centre of the brilliant pillar of light, his corona of wild white hair glowing like the heart of a candle's flame, he calls upon all of the power that he can muster in this single, shining moment of Time --
(fire to burn away the Dark)
-- and wills the Dark to come, and destroy, and be destroyed.
The Light blazes with a furious golden-white fire, brightening all the world with its shining power. It is a banner, a beacon, a call, and a challenge not to be denied.
All the others find themselves battling nothing but mist and fog, as well as their own memory and fear. Over everything an awful and suffocating silence falls, blotting out all other sound as the Dark draws to itself everything that it can, everything that it is, and every scrap of power that it can build.
The built malice of thousands upon thousands of years of the Dark, now free from restraint and augmented to a degree by the wild anger and hatred that the White Rider had evoked, pulls together into one tall column of malevolence, poised and waiting.
And then it moves toward them, toward Will Stanton where he stands with his arm thrown up and the crossed-circle scar burning like cold fire before the fallen form of Bran Davies, in whose hand Caliburn lies sparking still, toward the winged shining figure that stands behind Merriman Lyon, here at the last now as he had been at the first, so long ago.
It comes for them in a murderous spinning pillar of fury, towering and wild , and the promise of the destruction of all existence is clear in its existence and seething chaos--
--and it falls upon them, striking with all its power at the burning golden shield held up in the Light's defiance and absolute renunciation of the Dark.
It is said that only the Dark can destroy the Dark. That, in itself, is true.
But it is no less true that the Dark's power can be broken, and that breaking does not differ greatly from destruction. For the Dark is destruction, the all-consuming need to rend and tear and annihilate, and never is that threat of annihilation greater than when Light and Dark are in direct, open conflict...as they are now.
The spell that Merriman has worked into the golden shield is a spell specifically designed to break the power of the Dark. He has used it once before, against the White Rider's colleague. He had nearly used it on one other previous occasion against the Mordred of his own world, in a last desperate defence of his lord Arthur -- but had stayed his hand, at the last moment. Both occasions were moments of dire need.
As is this one.
The Dark strikes the shield with a force almost beyond mortal comprehension. Everything that the White Rider of the Dark was and everything that the White Rider of the Dark wished upon all of creation is focused in that single blast of power. It is the crushing weight of despair and the blind rage of murderous fury, the twisted pain of betrayal and the choking nausea of terror, seeking to consume its greatest enemy.
For a moment no longer than a heartbeat, there is a gaping sense of nothing --
the high joyous sound of many bells ringing
-- and then there is a great flash of searing Light, and the world turns in on itself in a soundless explosion.
Black mist and blinding fire: the pure burning light of star-fire, the heart of the sun and the heart of light and Light, and the horrible howling malice of the darkness beyond. Merriman is glowing with power, and the same pale half-seen light swirls around Will, but they are both obscured by the white-gold radiance of the One's Champion.
The air is thick with gathering power. For the Dark, the Dark is falling to crush them all, and the Light is rising as in the last defense it ever has and ever will.
"Get down," Will cries hoarsely, and the wind tears away his words. He has no idea whether anyone else has heard, and no attention to spare for it, because the Dark is plummeting with a pressing weight like iron, and there is a hollow feeling of free-fall, of non-existant ground rushing up to meet him--
Not the oppressive, unnatural silence of the rising Dark...but rather the exhausted yet tranquil silence that remains when a great storm has vented all of its fury, and is no more.
He is, of course, both there and not-there. An observer, only, for he feels no need to join in. The fight is a personal one, and thus, isn't his business, is none of his concern.
But even he is not expecting the results. The sudden light. The palpable absence afterwards.
Shock is an emotion he had long since done away with, and, in this moment, is like a physical blow to him. His cold, blue eyes narrow immediately; his mouth opens as if he were about to utter a curse, hastily bitten back. It cannot...
He did not know it could be done.
His lips curl in a silent snarl of malice and contempt, unseen but directed at everyone involved, and the Black Rider is gone.
Know that when all words are said
His hand, falling to his side, meets the circle quartered by a cross on the hilt of his sword.
And a man is fighting mad,
Bran Davies of Clwyd, son of Arthur Pendragon, son of Owen Davies, son of Guinevere, remembers what he is here to do.
Something drops from eyes long blind,
Taking a a breath of the acrid air, Bran pushes himself up under the weight of the Dark and draws Caliburn from its scabbard.
He completes his partial mind
Bran Davies raises his sword and strikes out at the place where the Dark coils thickest.
For an instant stands at ease,
Bran stands frozen there, erect and still, hair blowing wildly behind and around his face, holding Caliburn. He almost laughs.
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
A clap of thunder shakes the sky. The blade of the sword crackles with lightning, and Bran falls, unconscious, against the ground.
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The black roiling mist that defines by its very nature the absence of Light splits in two on either side of the shining blade, recoiling and drawing in upon itself as it gathers its strength after such a wound.
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A burst of the Light's power pulses through the Dark's onslaught, as a carefully-crafted enchantment falls away -- to reveal that on Merriman's left arm is a plain golden shield, its burnished surface shimmering with magic that rises from it like heat haze on a blistering summer's day.
He can barely turn his head, not wanting to look away from the mass of the Dark anymore than he must, and his voice is hoarse from the strain as he calls out an urgent command to Will, two words in the Old Speech:
'SHIELD THEM!'
And then he moves forward, the shield half-raised, fighting every step of the way to put some kind of distance between himself and...everyone but the Dark.
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(by Pendragon's sword
The Dark's power is that of one Lord only, and less than it was on a Midsummer Day five years ago, but the Light's protections here are also less. The world is a storm of madness around them: a dull sick soundless shaking in the air, black clouds and white-scorched lightning. Enough to drive a mortal man mad -- except that they are protected, just enough, for now. By the moment's pause Bran's strike has bought them, and by the powers of others around them from worlds beyond, and by the shields Will has just thrown around everyone he can.
the Dark shall fall
He leans into the howling gale, teeth gritted, and bends all his mind and will and power into keeping it that way.
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Almost everything in is place -- almost.
("Don't be afraid to ask for what you paid for.")
Over a year ago, he had done a favour, and received the promise of a favour in return. And now it is time to call that favour in.
(fire to burn away the Dark)
Into the face of the Dark's maddening storm, he speaks a word of the Old Speech -- a name, one that makes the air shiver with barely-contained power as he says it. He repeats the name, louder this time, and just as a dull ache starts to settle in his temples he calls the name for a third and final time.
And braces himself as best he can for what he knows is coming.
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The radiance seems to cool and resolve itself into the form of a young man about eight or nine feet tall, so beautiful it quite literally hurts to look at him, and somehow so vividly real that everything around him looks suddenly dim and insubstantial by comparison. He wears the raiment of a Welsh prince, and white-gold light flares out behind him in the shape of wings.
"Younger brother," the apparition says to Merriman, smiling, "I'm here, but you'd still better hold on." He comes around to place his hands on Merriman's shoulders, power pouring into the Old One and all around him, and the great bright wings sweep forward to shield both of them.
And the One's Champion looks up laughing into the massive onrushing cloud of the Dark and calls, "Bring it."
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(there must be fire on the mountain)
One thought is in his mind now: the Dark must come to him. If it is to strike anyone, it must strike him.
(fire under the stone)
Or rather, it must strike the shield he bears, the shield that now is almost molten with the force of the magic that he has forged into it. For spells can be worked into burnished gold as easily as they can be worked into knitted wool and knotted thread, and the Oldest of the Old Ones has worked a very specific spell into the golden shield.
(fire over the sea)
The Dark whirls above him, raging overhead in its own frustrated howling malice, and he cannot help but laugh at it as well. Fierce defiance blazes in his eyes as he drops to his knees on the ground and raises the shield above him. His free right arm crosses behind his left, supporting and bracing the shield still further. At the centre of the brilliant pillar of light, his corona of wild white hair glowing like the heart of a candle's flame, he calls upon all of the power that he can muster in this single, shining moment of Time --
(fire to burn away the Dark)
-- and wills the Dark to come, and destroy, and be destroyed.
Reply
All the others find themselves battling nothing but mist and fog, as well as their own memory and fear. Over everything an awful and suffocating silence falls, blotting out all other sound as the Dark draws to itself everything that it can, everything that it is, and every scrap of power that it can build.
The built malice of thousands upon thousands of years of the Dark, now free from restraint and augmented to a degree by the wild anger and hatred that the White Rider had evoked, pulls together into one tall column of malevolence, poised and waiting.
And then it moves toward them, toward Will Stanton where he stands with his arm thrown up and the crossed-circle scar burning like cold fire before the fallen form of Bran Davies, in whose hand Caliburn lies sparking still, toward the winged shining figure that stands behind Merriman Lyon, here at the last now as he had been at the first, so long ago.
It comes for them in a murderous spinning pillar of fury, towering and wild , and the promise of the destruction of all existence is clear in its existence and seething chaos--
--and it falls upon them, striking with all its power at the burning golden shield held up in the Light's defiance and absolute renunciation of the Dark.
Reply
But it is no less true that the Dark's power can be broken, and that breaking does not differ greatly from destruction. For the Dark is destruction, the all-consuming need to rend and tear and annihilate, and never is that threat of annihilation greater than when Light and Dark are in direct, open conflict...as they are now.
The spell that Merriman has worked into the golden shield is a spell specifically designed to break the power of the Dark. He has used it once before, against the White Rider's colleague. He had nearly used it on one other previous occasion against the Mordred of his own world, in a last desperate defence of his lord Arthur -- but had stayed his hand, at the last moment. Both occasions were moments of dire need.
As is this one.
The Dark strikes the shield with a force almost beyond mortal comprehension. Everything that the White Rider of the Dark was and everything that the White Rider of the Dark wished upon all of creation is focused in that single blast of power. It is the crushing weight of despair and the blind rage of murderous fury, the twisted pain of betrayal and the choking nausea of terror, seeking to consume its greatest enemy.
For a moment no longer than a heartbeat, there is a gaping sense of nothing --
the high joyous sound of many bells ringing
-- and then there is a great flash of searing Light, and the world turns in on itself in a soundless explosion.
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The air is thick with gathering power. For the Dark, the Dark is falling to crush them all, and the Light is rising as in the last defense it ever has and ever will.
"Get down," Will cries hoarsely, and the wind tears away his words. He has no idea whether anyone else has heard, and no attention to spare for it, because the Dark is plummeting with a pressing weight like iron, and there is a hollow feeling of free-fall, of non-existant ground rushing up to meet him--
(all shall find the Light at last)
and the world goes white.
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(lux aeterna luceat eis)
There is no sense of pain, for even that burns away in the face of the Light within and the Light without.
(et lux perpetua luceat eis)
And then, suddenly, there is no sense of impact.
(nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine,
secundum verbum tuum in pace)
But finally there is silence.
Not the oppressive, unnatural silence of the rising Dark...but rather the exhausted yet tranquil silence that remains when a great storm has vented all of its fury, and is no more.
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But even he is not expecting the results. The sudden light. The palpable absence afterwards.
Shock is an emotion he had long since done away with, and, in this moment, is like a physical blow to him. His cold, blue eyes narrow immediately; his mouth opens as if he were about to utter a curse, hastily bitten back. It cannot...
He did not know it could be done.
His lips curl in a silent snarl of malice and contempt, unseen but directed at everyone involved, and the Black Rider is gone.
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