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To the soaring eagle and the swan we must have looked like a trickle of old blood working itself across clean linen.
alluvial
inexorable
impotent
The murmur of men’s voices retreated and in its place flowed the bright sound of a lyre being plucked, its strings singing like the first spring meltwater questing over pebbles.
she rocked her body back and forth in time with it, like a boat riding the waves.
Iridescent
eddying
inexorable
indignant
gnarred
vainglory
sibilance.
And, in a way, weren’t we all there to be forged by Merlin and the gods and by a new king in the glorious death glow of the last?
But we knew we were enemies now, borne on this blood tide like leaves that have landed on a fast-flowing stream,
‘Excalibur,’ Merlin said, his eyes the brightest things down there by the dark water.
Mordred’s every emotion moulded and remoulded his face,
‘Just right for the plucking, she was. Clear skin. Bright eyes. Tits you could hang your helmet and shield on.’
‘I heard whispers,’ he admitted. ‘In the breeze of a swan’s wing. In the sigh of a salmon breaking the surface.
accoutrements.
inexorable
The past is water running in a stream. It is already long gone and you can never bring it back.
Arthur would fight for Britain. I would fight for Arthur. And Guinevere would always own my soul. The gods are cruel.
It was the heady days of early spring only barely recalled in the long winter dark.
I was the first to blood the enemy and the last to sheathe my sword.
She lies, looking up at the sky through flickering leaves. Her hair on his cloak like a raven’s wing spread in flight.
I moved like smoke weaving through a crowded hall.
I would hone Boar’s Tusk until it was sharp enough to cut bonds of blood and memory.
timeworn
He and Gawain loom above the swarming enemy, hacking and thrusting, unable to turn their mounts now for the press, the two of them shining above the sea of grey like a sunset on the edge of the western sea.
We will not yield. We are the swords of Britain. The lords of battle.
