Midsummer is still a few days off, and the Light's power has not quite reached true ascendency. But that cannot be helped, not when there is open conflict between the Dark and the Wild Magic outside the bar where the rules against outside business do not properly apply.
Merriman is first out the door, and not half a dozen paces from the door he stops so short that he nearly overbalances. One arm goes out, a silent and unquestionable command to the others to go no further.
Raven has a legitimate right of confrontation in this. And there is also the consideration that for those of the Light to intervene now, with all of the magic that is churning around Raven and the White Rider, could do incalculable harm with no real certainty of doing good.
'Not yet,' he hisses between his teeth, his expression taut with the strain of having to check his natural response to act. 'Approach -- but do not strike.'
Behind Merriman, Bran Davies runs, trying not to let the scabbarded sword belted about his waist bump into his legs. Even now, with Wild Magic hissing and sparking against the Dark in the air, he is still Bran Davies. He holds tightly to what he knows as himself
(a small neat room in a small neat cottage just off Cadfan's Way, a hillside with John and Owen and Lluchddu guiding the sheep, a yellow rose in the gardens of the Lost Land, a king leading his queen out into a sunlit land)
as the Hunter wakes in the bottom of his mind. So it is that Bran stops short when Merriman commands it. Then, listening to the Hunter, but not letting it take control, Bran paces slowly towards the confrontation.
Will is poised like a hunting dog behind Merriman, all his senses flung wide. The icy jolt that lanced through the scar on his wrist has faded, and when Merriman moves again Will paces silently behind him, taut and fierce-eyed.
The fathomless, inhumanly ravenous hating that is the Dark presses against his mind, and all around is the sound of Raven's laughter, high and wild like the cawing of birds or the barking of dogs, far-off.
There is so much magic in flux that is it difficult to breathe properly, and every move requires conscious thought -- and then the shriek that suddenly rends the air sends all of Merriman's senses ringing with alarm. For as the Dark that was within Blodwen Rowlands loses its host, it rises from her to coalesce in the air above her, a writhing mass of ancient, ageless malevolence that has been unwillingly deprived of a physical form.
Without that physical form to hold it together, to contain and channel the hatred and the need to destroy, there is nothing to prevent it from striking out all at once, at anything within reach. And there is still enough of the mind of Blodwen Rowlands within that churning force to exert an influence over it, to direct it at her natural targets.
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 mindBran Davies raises his
( ... )
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 seaThe 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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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.
Merriman is first out the door, and not half a dozen paces from the door he stops so short that he nearly overbalances. One arm goes out, a silent and unquestionable command to the others to go no further.
Raven has a legitimate right of confrontation in this. And there is also the consideration that for those of the Light to intervene now, with all of the magic that is churning around Raven and the White Rider, could do incalculable harm with no real certainty of doing good.
'Not yet,' he hisses between his teeth, his expression taut with the strain of having to check his natural response to act. 'Approach -- but do not strike.'
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(a small neat room in a small neat cottage just off Cadfan's Way, a hillside with John and Owen and Lluchddu guiding the sheep, a yellow rose in the gardens of the Lost Land, a king leading his queen out into a sunlit land)
as the Hunter wakes in the bottom of his mind. So it is that Bran stops short when Merriman commands it. Then, listening to the Hunter, but not letting it take control, Bran paces slowly towards the confrontation.
Reply
The fathomless, inhumanly ravenous hating that is the Dark presses against his mind, and all around is the sound of Raven's laughter, high and wild like the cawing of birds or the barking of dogs, far-off.
Reply
Without that physical form to hold it together, to contain and channel the hatred and the need to destroy, there is nothing to prevent it from striking out all at once, at anything within reach. And there is still enough of the mind of Blodwen Rowlands within that churning force to exert an influence over it, to direct it at her natural targets.
Three of whom are standing well within range.
Reply
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 mindBran Davies raises his ( ... )
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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.
Reply
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.
Reply
(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.
Reply
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.
Reply
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."
Reply
(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 seaThe 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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
Reply
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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