From the Great Deep to the Great Deep

[Voshkod]

From the Great Deep to the Great Deep

A Pendragon Cycle

Starring:

Rachel Lorelei as Owain ap Alain of Escavalon

MandibleBones as Griffin of Cameliard

H Savvy as Maelfannon of Tintagel

But when that moan had past for evermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him and he groaned, 'The King is gone.'
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
'From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'

[Voshkod]

Chapter One

The New Sun Rose

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
Even to the highest he could climb, and saw,
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

And a long hard trip it was, that long late December march through the rainy winter of Britain. They came from across the island, from far-off Orkney and the ends of Cornwall, from the shining towers of Escalavon and war-torn Cameliard, to the ruins of Verulamium, the ancient Roman city, where in tourney the next King of the Britons would be chosen. For there the last King had fallen in battle with the Saxons, there Uther Pendragon had driven his sword into the very stones of the Earth at the moment of his death, leaving it for his true heir. But yet, no man had come forth to draw that sword, to claim that crown, so lesser men would squabble over the throne on the field of mock battle.

From Orkney came Lot, King of that winter land, massive and dark and cruel. From Escalavon came the wealthy King Alain, with his sons, Owain and David, and the archbishop of Carlion and Prelate of Britain, Dubrecis. From Cameliard came good king Leodegrance, keeper of Uther's round table, with his son Griffin and his daughter, Guinevere. The Centurion King of Malahaut, from the north, with his daughter Flora. And from Cornwall, King Felix, escorting Uther's wife, the High Queen Ygraine and her daughter Morgan. Ygraine's other daughter, Margawse, was there with her husband, Lot.

And thus it was, on the eve of the year 510 of our Lord, did the great nobles of Britain assemble in camp at Verulamium. After a mass before the sword in the stone, they assembled for a great feast for, upon the rising of the first sun of the new year, they would choose a King.

[Voshkod]

" . . . . and may the Lord protect all those that fight on the field of honor tomorrow, and may He guide the hand of he that shall be our King, so that when the sun sets upon that field, a right and just man wears the Crown. Amen." Archbishop Dubrecis' voice roars through the vast tent. He's a massive man, son of a blacksmith who went into the Church. He rode with Uther Pendragon on the battlefield, and buried the High King here, at Verulamium. "Amen," the assembled crowd shouts back, and the food is served.

The tent is hot, great fires burning in the corners, and smells of men and the perfume of ladies, honey pastries and almond milk pie, crab and vinegar, stuffed stomach of porpoise, peas porridge with onions, chicken in wine sauce, rabbit pie, lamb in sage and parsley, and wine, mulled wine, and beer. The four Kings are at their own tables in each corner. The King of Malahaut, who holds the old Roman ways in Eberacum, still in the garb of a Centurion, sits with his daughter Flora, who looks as if she just stepped off a Roman coin. Lot of Orkney, surrounded by men that are but a step removed from the Saxons and sea raiders, tears at a chicken while his beautiful wife Margawse, daughter of the High Queen, laughs at someone's joke. Alain of Escavalon smiles with his knights, as his young son and page David scurries about. An empty seat at his side, a reminder of his Queen, just passed but months ago. Leodegrance of Cameliard exchanges a toast with one of his knights, while his daughter, Guinevere, seems to pull every eye to her long black hair. At the center of the tent is the High Queen's table, where Ygraine, still a beauty after these years, sits with her younger daughter, Morgan, whose coppery hair reflects a touch of another world (or so the gossips would say).

Around the four great tables are the Dukes and Earls and their men, then the knights errant. The food is passed from the tables of the Kings to them, and from them to the squires, who sit at tables scattered about the tent. And so it is that at your table, the food arrives, picked over by your betters, but still enough to eat. The wine and beer flow freely enough. There are six of you at this table. A smaller man, Cai, from Orkneys, who seems to be enjoying his drink, squire to Lot. A tall, dark-haired man named Bedevere, squire to a local knight. And Arthur, brown-haired and dark-eyed, who's sipping his wine and looking off sort of dreamily, squire of Sir Kay of Cameliard.

Bedevere puts down his mug. "Kings. They can eat, can't they?," he mutters with a laugh, picking at a chicken carcass. "Pity the poor pages, who come after us. No one eats like a squire."

Cai frowns. "Lot, he can eat. I've seen him devour an entire pig at a sitting. Then ask for another one."

[Rachel Lorelei]

Owain ap Alain

"Ha! Back when I was a page, I would have asked for a third. Come, don't you remember being fourteen and always hungry?" Owain takes a bite of the drumstick in his hand and washes it down with beer.
"I remember days I came near to eating my horse, and that after dinner! Be generous, friends--leave some for the pages."

Owain, King Alain's son, is the largest of the squires in most ways: tallest, at over six feet, and broadest of shoulder. His eyes are leaf-green and his hair is golden, coming down to his shoulders. His cheekbones are prominent, and his face narrows to a nevertheless squared-off chin. Setting down his beer, he clasps a hand to Arthur's shoulder.

"What's got you all entranced, Art? The Lady Guinevere, or the Lady Morgan?"

[Voshkod]

Arthur blushes, smiles. "Actually, I was looking at the High Queen. I've heard of her in so many stories, but I've never seen her before."

Bedevere laughs. "She's a little old for you, Arthur." Everyone chuckles. Suddenly, a plate of wine-braised short ribs appears at the tables. The page whispers, "From the table of the King of Escavalon, with his compliments." Owain sees his father raise his glass in a toast.

Maelfannon notices that Morgan stands, whispers something to her mother, the Queen, then slips out, unremarked by most.

[Rachel Lorelei]

Owain laughs with the rest, murmurs a comment about certain qualities of older women, and hefts his mug in his father's direction with a smile.
Taking the plate of ribs from the page, the big squire shifts about a third of the contents onto an emptied plate, and hands that to the youth who brought the ribs.
"Bring that to the pages' table, and have some yourself, lad. From the table of the Prince of Escavalon, with his compliments!"

[H Savvy]

Maelfannon of Tintagel

Maelfannon drums his fingers idly and sips mulled wine. He has drifted in and out of the conversation, but there is nigh on to naught in this discussion to hold his focus. The vices of royalty, to Maelfannon, are no more interesting than the vices of common folk, which is to say, not very. A glutton is a glutton, who cares how famous he is. Why choose to discuss that glutton, and not another?

Maelfannon of Tintagel, squire to the Commander of the Queen's Guard, is not known among the squires for the size of his body nor the strength of his arm, but the mind that guides them both. Slight and wiry, he is known as being both fleet of foot and quick of tongue. His hair is black and straight, and occasionally covers his pale grey eyes. He is surprisingly clean and well-groomed; a small pointed beard adorns the chin of his otherwise smooth face. There are some who consider him unfriendly or a bit gruff, but he has a rough charisma that many find charming and a kind, if mischievous, demeanor.

Glancing about in his ennui, he notes Morgan, daughter of Ygraine, slip out of the tent. Maelfannon tries as best he can to slip away from the drudgery of the conversation and the crowd of squires at the table, preparing to follow her, and see what she is up to.

[Voshkod]

Morgan shoots Maelfannon, one he recognizes from long nights in Tintagel. She's in one of her black moods, and is seeking solitude. As she's heading out, she runs in to a tall, thin man entering. He's carrying a lyre. They look at each other for a moment in recognition, and the older man looks away first as Morgan pushes by.

"The Merlin," Arthur says. "He's a storyteller and singer. My father used to host him." The Merlin makes his way to the center of the room, where he kneels before the High Queen, who greets him with naught more than a nasty scowl. He rises.

"My dear High Queen, Kings, Earls, Dukes, and noble knights, squires, pages, and all others, I've been asked for a song. So I shall sing about Uther Pendragon and the course of his life. A King's life is like the daily course of the sun, which rises from the Eastern Sea and falls into the Western Sea. A bright fire at dawn, a struggle toward zenith, a spectacular noon, and a long slow descent into darkness. Mark it well, you who would be Kings, for your reign shall follow this course." He's looking right at your table when he says this.

He beings to sing. His voice is rich and low, like the waves of the sea. He sings of the dawn, of Uther's bloody birth in the dying hours of the Roman presence in Britain, the morning of Uther's rise, his battles against Saxons, kings, and warlords. He sings of Uther's glorious noon, the crown of the High King upon his brow. He sings of afternoon, of Uther's fatal love of Ygraine, and his betray of Duke Golorios of Tintagel. And then he sings of dusk, Uther's betrayal and murder near this very tent. And then a few lines on the night that followed.

He holds everyone in the tent enraptured during the song, and when he ends, the High Queen is quietly weeping.

[MandibleBones]

Griffin of Camaliard

"My lord Maelfannon," murmurs the clean-shaven young prince from Calmaliard, "Whatever could stir you from your food?" The other wiry young man eats sparingly, savoring each bite. Clearly, despite his thin frame, this is a man who enjoys a good meal.

Then, as Merlin enters, Griffin draws silent again. A song, the sandy-haired squire thinks, should be interrupted for no man, nor, he muses, following Maelfannon's gaze, for no Morgan.

Griffen's brown eyes seek his family, then he quickly turns away, back to his food and back to this table.

[H Savvy]

As he stands, Maelfannon catches a glimpse of Morgan's expression, and begins to sit back down. They say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but in truth, a woman scorned hath no fury like Morgan le Fay. He had no intention of disturbing the girl when she was in such a volatile mood. Maelfannon was no fool.

"Lord Maelfannon? Is that what they're calling me these days, Prince Griffin? I had no idea I'd become a landed noble. As for pulling me away from these oh-so-fine table scraps, I needed but to stretch. I doubt I would be able to stay myself during the Merlin's performance without first working the stiffness from my body."

[MandibleBones]

Prince Griffin

"I meant no offense," Griffin murmurs, his attention still on the Merlin's song. "My mind was, as it often is, elsewhere." He smiles thinly. "I have," he muses, "no idea what people are calling you these days, Maelfannon. Perhaps I should pay more attention."

[H Savvy]

"Such thin skin and prim manners you have, Prince Griffin! I never dreamed you were so dainty. Ah, well, no offense taken, no offense meant. Drink and be more merry, man, lest your sour thoughts pickle your brain rotten. Ha."

With that, Maelfannon turns and addresses his attention to the words of the the murlynd, drinking deeply of the old man's story.

[Voshkod]

King Leodegrance raises his glass when Griffin looks his way, a small salute to his son. Griffin's sister, Guinevere, looks over as well, her gaze lingering on Arthur for a moment.

Arthur raises a hand. "Come now, my friends, this is not the time and place for such talk. Look, the Kings have come here in peace to decide which of them should rule Britain. Surely we can keep the peace at a squires' table?"

"Indeed," Bedevere says, putting down his wine. "It's getting hot in here. Listen, have you all seen Uther's sword? It's only a few yards away. Everyone should get a chance to pull the sword from the stone. Who knows? Maybe the next King isn't up there, he's right at our table."

Cai snorts derisively. "Maybe the next archbishop as well. But I'm game. I've heard too much about that sword not to see it."

[MandibleBones]

Griffin

The young prince raises his glass in respect to his father, then turns to speak quietly to the others. "Not a poor interest, to be sure, Cai. I, for one, would be interested in seeing this blade of which many have spoken, though I've no intention of pulling it myself."

[H Savvy]

"Afraid of what it means if you can't, Griffin?"Maelfannon grins. "I, for one, will give it a try. Though I suspect it to be impossible, a cruel joke for the amusement of Uther's ghost. I bet he'd just love to see everyone straining to fill his vacancy."

He reaches for a honey pastry and begins to eat it, pulling off small pieces and sipping on his mulled wine.

"So when shall we go investigate this sword? I must admit I wish to see the so-called miracle of the Sword in the Stone."

[MandibleBones]

Griffin

"Not hardly. I just have no desire to rule over all the land. Cameliard, in service to the High King, will be enough - and that not for many years," he says.

[Voshkod]

"Well then," says Bedevere, "let's go!" You all step out of the overheated tent into the chill of midnight. The sudden rush of cold drives out the lethargy of drink and heat and food, leaving behind a knife's sharpness.

The sky has cleared, and the moon hangs heavy in the sky. There's a gossamer ring around it, and a million stars. Your breath puffs out in front of you.

"God's wounds," Cai curses. "I didn't think it got this cold outside of Orkney." You make your way through the ruins of Verulamium, past old walls, toward an collapsed arch. As you pass through, you can feel the weight of history here, of Uther, ambushed, outnumbered, driven back with his guard, to here, surrounded by the walls, no way out. A last desperate battle against an overwhelming number of Saxons, the smells of blood and sweat, the High King, crippled, crawling through the muck, to the stone, and in his last moment of rage, driving the sword into the bones of the earth itself.

His sword. There, in the moonlight, the sword in the stone. And kneeling on the frozen ground before it, Morgan. She almost appears to be praying. She doesn't appear to have heard you coming.

[H Savvy]

There's a bit of ill fortune for you. Morgan in one of her "dark moods" seeking solitude, and by coincidence, Maelfannon and the others seeking just the opposite in the same locale.

He calls out the kneeling girl, his voice calm and gentle. "Our pardon, dear sister. We had no desire to disturb you amidst your meditations, but you have chosen a most interesting spot in which to carry them out. We have come to see it, Uther's sword, the fabled Sword in the Stone."

Despite his earlier cynicism, there is a note of awe and reverence in his voice as he mentions the sword. There is some magic in the weight of this place's history, and it has clearly had its impact on the dark-haired young man.

[Voshkod]

"So you've come here to see Uther's sword," she says, standing gracefully. Alarms start ringing in Maelfannon's head when he hears her tone. "Excellent timing, as Uther is here to see it as well." She turns, her hair spinning out in a fan behind her. Her eyes almost seem to glow greenly in the moonlight. She lacks Guinevere nearly etheral beauty, or the classical looks of Flora; she has instead a dangerous allure, earthy, and very real.

"Uther is here, released from the cauldron for a night, but I don't know why. And he is here with those that died with him." She points, wildly, to her left. "Yes, I can see you, you murderous, lecherous, traitorous rapist!," she screams at the air. "Tell me why you're here, you dog!" The wind whips around her, gusting coldly.

She stops, cocking her head slightly, as if listening to a far off noise. "He says he's here to watch. They're all here to watch. Can't any of you see them?" There is nothing here but you all, Morgan, the sword, and the leaves twisting around her legs.

[MandibleBones]

Griffin

"Perhaps we're all blind," he says, "For I can see neither Uther nor his foes." He pauses, shivering ever-so-slightly. "Still, there is something more than worldly in tonight's air. Excitement, perhaps - or perhaps not. But what does a squire know?" he asks, somewhat rhetorically. He pulls his clothes a little tighter.

[H Savvy]

This was bad. Things were deviating rather drastically from their original simple plan of viewing the Sword, and maybe giving it a pull.

He is cautious, but always, his voice is calm and polite. "We are simply here to observe the sword, sister. We do not wish to disturb or intrude. We seek trouble nor from you, neither from those beyond the veil.

"You say Uther is here to observe. Observe what? Who? We are neither knights nor peoples of particularly great significance. What cause is it that brings Uther into the world this night?"

[Voshkod]

"I don't know why he's here, Maelfannon, but he is, with his legions." She's looking past all of you know, into the darkness. "It's wise not to keep him waiting. He's an impatient man, and I doubt ages in the cauldron have improved that. You came to just look at the sword? There it is. If you came for more, he knows. He's waiting."

"Ummm. . .," Cai starts, "is she seeing the Other Side, or is she just touched?"

"I have no idea," says Bedevere quietly, "Maelfannon, what do you think?"

"She's cold," Arthur says, stepping forward. "Morgan, I'm Arthur. Please, take my cloak." He unbuckles his cloak and wraps it around her shoulders.

[H Savvy]

"Morgan has always seen and known more than ordinary folk. It is as though she walks half in the world of fey and spirits. If it must be that she is either crazy or truthful, I know which I believe.

"As for the possibility that she is having fun with us, abolish it from your mind. My sister has never known the meaning of the word. Uther is here."

He walks forward to the Sword. He turns and speaks to the others. "I, for one, had planned to see if I could pull the Sword. To deny that to those beyond would be as hiding a latern 'neath a sheet. They know our desires better perhaps than we ourselves."

He reaches out one of his slim, pale hands. His long fingers wrap about the handle of the Sword. Simply touching it sends an electric feeling shooting through his body. There is power in this sword, and he can feel it brushing against him. He pulls. His second hand reaches out and he pulls with all his might, feeling the power seethe and surge against his palms.

It doesn't budge.

"As I thought. If there is one who can pull the sword, it was not a part of my destiny. Now," he grins as he turns to the others. He sweeps his arm up as if presenting the Sword, "who else will test their fate? Let us not tarry, the dead have little patience, and less for fools."

[Voshkod]

Morgan pulls Arthur's cloak around her and shoots Maelfannon a nasty look. "Thank you," she whispers.

Cai steps up. "Well, in Orkneys, we've always been taught to listen to witches and wise women. Or at least not to anger them," Cai says. "All right, spirits, meet the next High King." Cai grasps the sword and pulls, muscles bulging. "Come on, the spirits don't have all day," he grunts, pulling harder. Finally, he steps back. "Right. Who's next? Bedevere?"

Bedevere steps up. "Well, I've tried this before. But I'll give it another go." He takes a pull, to no avail, and shrugs. Griffin? Owain? Arthur?"

[MandibleBones]

Griffin

Griffin, having shown no desire to touch the hilt in rock before him, nevertheless thinks for a moment. "Morgan?" he asks, "Does Uther care if I try?" He seems only half serious, but then he walks up to the sword and pauses, waiting soberly for her answer.

[Voshkod]

Morgan studies Griffin for a moment, and then her eyes soften slightly. "No, I don't see him caring at all. About anything. Except himself."

[MandibleBones]

Griffin

The prince ponders that, then steps back. "Then I really do have no reason to tug at this useless piece of metal." He waves the others forward. "Someone without a kingdom of their own to inherit try it. It's not mine to pull."

[H Savvy]

"Useless piece of metal, Griffin? Never that. The sword is an item of great power and prophecy, to this I can attest. I was dubious of the Sword's power ere we came here, but truly, from the moment my finger brushed its mythic hilt I felt the strength and weight of this talisman's magic.

Indeed, if Uther cares for naught but himself, methinks that includes his Sword and his legacy. Belittle them with care, Griffin, and mind the way you speak of High Kings, even High Kings past."

[Rachel Lorelei]

Owain

Owain ap Alain leaves the tent chatting, mug still in hand, but his usual friendly demeanor fades into a thoroughly uncustomary solemnity in the chill wind's wake. He shivers for a moment, but makes no comment; his lips are pressed together as he eyes the moon, the stars, the sword.

He does not interrupt the conversation with Morgan, save to dip a short bow in greeting; his hair spills down onto his tunic's shoulders, and he watches unblinking as the others take their turns and try to tug the sword free.

"Do you know," the elder Prince of Escavalon says, tone conversational but voice low, "I was going to wait until every man with the desire had tried it, loosened it up a bit, maybe? I'd go last now, but I rather think I'd never forgive myself if I waited and another wound up pulling it before I'd even made the attempt."

He is tall, Owain, wide of shoulder and arm; he could tower over a man Maelfannon's size were he to play up his stature in an attempt to be imposing. He draws himself up to his full height, now, and spreads his arms wide, pushing back in a stretch. Then he approaches the sword, and falls upon it like a wrestler on an opponent: with both arms under the cross-piece, legs parted, Owain pulls.
The moon's corona is straight above him in the sky, and the moon's light falls white on his golden hair. White, too, are his knuckles as he pulls with every ounce of strength he posses, every sinew--the kind of effort one might use to lift a horse clear off the ground.
His teeth grit, the muscles in his neck stand out like the ropes of a ship's rigging, and he lets out a low groan of exertion. Owain is strong, any who've sparred with him know, stronger than most grown men: he bares the truth of this, without shame but not in pride; holds nothing back here on the field with Uther's ghost and Uther's sword.
It avails him not.
The massive white stone in which the sword rests lets out a grinding sound as it shifts a scant fingersbreadth, but the sword itself does not budge. Owain releases it, then, muscles slackening, and falls back, breathing as hard as a man who's just run a race.

[Voshkod]

Arthur looks around. "Well, I guess it's to me, then." He steps up to the sword. "I don't fear these spirits," he says quietly. "They mean me no harm." He puts one hand on the hilt and pulls.

The sword of Uther Pendragon comes free of the stone as if it were kept in an oiled hilt. There's a ring of metal on stone, and it cuts an arc of light across the night sky like a comet. Arthur is standing there, a look of shock on his face, Uther's sword, sharp as the day it was forged, held tight in his right hand. The tip seems to be carving the very face of the moon.