msmithbooks Chapter 47 The Island Seal
Chapter 47 The Island Seal
How long we waited, we don't know. The gods didn't return; it was humanity that returned, generation after generation.
Fields, forests, castles, stone formations, lights, phosphorescence—humanity lives on the land of Britain, while the island's will huddles deep underground, burying itself ever deeper.
Its body began to rot, and the product of the rot was gray mist. Its heart began to harden, and the result of the hardening was a pure black core.
Its will began to twist, and the end of that twist was Vortigern, not the white dragon, not the embodiment of the island, but "unwillingness to see" itself.
Arthur's sword stopped.
He saw it.
That deeper thing, that core that is "blacker than black," is not the will of Vortigern, not the curse of the island, not any kind of "evil."
It is sadness, pure, ancient, unspoken sadness.
When the Age of Gods ended, the island's will did not cry; it simply refused to watch.
I don't want to watch it, because I'll cry if I do.
Arthur gripped the sword with both hands, the tip pressed against that point. He didn't speak, but pushed his memories along the tip of the sword.
At dusk before the sword was pulled from the stone, Meryl stood in the shadows of the trees and said, "You are the human boy I have chosen."
In the trial grounds of the Land of Shadows, Scáthach's spear tip stopped half an inch from his throat, a faint hint of surprise flashing in her wine-red eyes.
On the walls of Camelot, Guinevere said, "No one has ever asked me."
In the round table room, Kai said, "I'll protect this kid's back."
Gao Wen said, "When you let me sit at the round table, you didn't ask me who my father was."
Tristan plucked the strings, and Lancelot, standing by the lake, said, "I will not kill the spirits."
Bedwell pressed his silver prosthetic arm against his back.
Morgan stood by the tower window, the icy blue light reflecting on her face. Mordred opened his eyes and saw her smile.
Everyone's face, everyone he chose to protect, everyone who chose to stand with him.
The tip of the sword trembled; it did not flee, it wanted to listen.
Arthur opened his mouth, but no sound came out; only his lips moved.
"You can look now."
"..."
That point remained still, and then, it shattered.
It wasn't chopped up; it broke on its own.
Like a pebble held for far too long, the fingers loosen, and the pebble falls onto the beach with a very soft sound. There is no hatred, no anger, no resentment in that sound.
Only one extremely ancient being finally opened its eyes.
From the point where Vortigern's pure black core shattered, cracks spread outwards, and the pure black surface peeled off like an eggshell.
The center of the nucleus is empty.
After that "blacker than black" thing shattered, there was nothing inside, because it was originally "unwilling to look" itself.
Because they don't want to look, they can't see it; because they can't see it, they think it's full inside, when in fact it's always been empty.
The grayish-white body began to transform into particles of light, starting from where the six chains pierced through, from the ends of the roots, and from the edge of the core.
The grayish-white tissue peeled off piece by piece, broke free of the chains, floated in the air, and then turned into extremely faint particles of light.
No longer grayish-white, but the true color revealed after the gray has faded: a very pale gold, a very pale silver, a very pale transparency.
Like dust dancing in the sunlight, like the morning mist over Lake Avalon, like a wisp of cloud occasionally drifting across the eternal deep purple sky of the Land of Shadows.
The light particles did not dissipate; they rose upwards, passing over the light barrier of the sealing array, over the dilapidated foundation of the watchtower, and over the wilderness.
Then they dispersed, spreading to every corner of Britain.
It spreads to the frozen ground north of Hadrian's Wall, to the cliffs of the west coast, to the hills and fields to the south, and to the walls of Camelot.
Morgan looked up, her icy blue eyes reflecting the particles of light. She was the true inheritor of the island's power, and she could sense where each particle of light fell.
What fell on the frozen ground turned into moss, what fell on the cliffs turned into sea breeze, and what fell in the fields turned into the green of the first batch of wheat seedlings this spring.
It landed on the walls of Camelot, on the windowsill of the east tower, where a golden-haired, blue-eyed baby had just loosened a strand of his mother's silver hair and fallen into a deep sleep.
The light particles landed on his forehead and disappeared.
Morgan's eyes reddened.
The sealing array began to crumble, and the six chains turned into specks of light and disappeared one after another.
The crimson node beneath Kai's feet went out, he swayed, knelt on one knee, and gasped for breath.
Gawain braced his hands on the Sun Sword, the golden light on its blade slowly receding. He looked up at Arthur, grinned, and smiled—he was tired, but his smile was bright.
Tristan removed his fingers from the strings, his fingertips raw and bleeding, dripping onto the dark green nodes. He didn't wipe them away, but simply looked down at his hands.
The sword wall surrounding Lancelot turned into lake-blue light spots and dissipated. He did not move, standing in the center of the dissipating light spots, as if standing in the middle of a lake.
Bedivere opened his eyes; the silvery-white mist receded from around him. He looked down at his prosthetic arm.
On the silver metal finger, there was an extremely fine, golden line, a mark of "approval".
Morgan stood there, the giant ice-blue net had dissipated, her right hand was still in the hand seal position, the wound on her index finger had stopped bleeding, but the scar remained.
The old scars left by the thorns of the crown of thorns overlapped with the new wounds she had bitten herself.
Arthur put down the sword from the lake.
The eleven rays of light on the sword had receded, and the blade had returned to its lake-blue color, lying quietly in his hand.
The sword in the stone was stuck in the very center of the sealing array. The sapphire on the sword was still shimmering with a faint light. He bent down, grasped the hilt, and gently pulled it out.
As the sword was pulled from the ground, it brought with it a last wisp of grayish-white light. The light lingered on the tip of the sword for a moment before drifting into the sky.
The Northern Lord squatted on the rubble, the fourth piece of dry bread lying at his feet. He didn't pick it up; his pale gray eyes were fixed on the sky, on the direction in which the particles of light dispersed.
He opened his mouth, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing against dry wood.
"It's gone."
Arthur sheathed the sword in the stone at his waist.
"I'm gone."
The lord of the North remained silent for a long time, then he bent down, picked up the dry bread that had fallen to the ground, dusted it off, and stuffed it into his pocket.
I didn't eat it; I just put it away.
Arthur walked toward Morgan.
She stood at the northern node of the sealing array, a few strands of her silver-white braids framing in the wind, her icy blue eyes watching him approach without moving.
"Your hand," Arthur said.
Morgan looked down at the wound on his right index finger, where the old and new scars overlapped to form a tiny, irregular cross.
"It doesn't hurt."
Arthur didn't reply. He tore a piece of fabric from his collar, took her right hand, and wrapped it around her index finger gently.
Morgan didn't pull her hand away; she just stood there and let him bandage her.
As the cloth was wrapped around her for the last time, Arthur's fingertips touched the crescent-shaped nail mark on her palm, a mark left from when she clenched her fist in the throne room.
"You said it," Morgan said softly, "you'll come back."
Arthur tucked the end of the cloth strip in.
"I'm back."
Morgan looked down at the crooked strip of cloth around his right index finger.
The color of the strip of cloth was reflected in her icy blue eyes; it was torn from his collar, a deep blue, almost identical to her robe.
"Mmm," she said.
Kai got up from the eastern node, dusted off his knees, and walked behind Arthur.
Gawain sheathed the Sun Sword, Tristan hugged his harp, Lancelot sheathed his sword, and Bedivere was the last to leave the node, his silver prosthetic limb flashing in the twilight.
Five people stood in a row, and no one spoke.
The Northern Lord stood up from the rubble and dusted himself off.
As dusk settled in from the east, the grooves of the sealing array remained on the wilderness, but the icy blue magic had dissipated, leaving only faint marks on the ground.
The watchtower's dilapidated foundation was cracked in two, with rubble scattered all over the ground. The crack was slowly closing, as if the earth itself was healing.
The grayish-white roots all turned into particles of light, and the underground cavities were naturally filled back by soil and gravel.
Three hundred feet deep, the last traces of Voodoo's existence are disappearing.
Arthur stood at the edge of the rift, looking down at the earth that was closing in. In his dragon eyes, the direction of the earth's veins was changing.
The old scar that runs through Britain, the greyish-white dotted line that cuts the earth's veins in half from the east coast to the west coast, is fading.
"No longer needed to exist," Vortigern disappeared, and the traces it left behind naturally dissipated, allowing the ley lines to reconnect.
From the permafrost of the north to the hills of the south, from the cliffs of the east coast to the mountains of the west coast,
The magic flowed again, like blood flowing back into a vein that had been suppressed for too long.
The Age of Gods has ended, and Britain is no longer an isolated island.
Arthur placed his hand on his chest. The four beats of the Dragon's Furnace remained steady as usual. The slight chill in the Dragon Power River disappeared, as did the pure black mark.
Instead, there was a very faint, warm light.
That was what Vortigern left behind after he "recognized" the red dragon at the last moment.
It wasn't a curse, it wasn't power, it wasn't anything usable.
It was a silent message, but Arthur heard it clearly now.
"Thanks."
He turned around, and Morgan, Kay, Gawain, Tristan, Lancelot, Bedivere, and the Lord of the North were still standing there.
"Go home," Arthur said.
Kai patted his shoulder, his hand heavy, just as heavy as when he patted the back of his head.
"Walk."
The group crossed the twilight-shrouded wilderness, heading south towards Camelot.
Morgan walked beside Arthur, a dark blue cloth strip wrapped around the index finger of her right hand, her silver-white braid completely undone and draped over her shoulders.
As dusk deepened, the marks on the sealing array in the wilderness were slowly filled by the sand and dust blown by the wind, the cracks were completely closed, and the rubble sank into the soil.
The watchtower's dilapidated foundation is now just a few scattered square stones, just as it was when we arrived.
The grayish-white fog disappeared, and the cold of the North was still there, but it was only the cold of winter, no longer the cold of "death".
Arthur, mounted on his horse, glanced back; the abandoned watchtower shrank to a tiny black dot on the horizon.
Above the black dot, the last wisp of grayish-white light is dissipating.
It rose very high, higher than the clouds, higher than the wind, to a place he could not see.
Then they dispersed.