Moirai Thanatoio (original) (raw)

There were few witnesses surviving to tell the tale of the fall of King Arthur. Those that walked off the battlefield, the knights that bore their fallen king to his bier, were white-faced and solemn.

But the whispers...

The air split with a howl, they said. A primitive denial filled with anguish. And just as rapidly, the clear sky boiled with violently charcoal clouds. In echo of the rolling cry, lightening struck the field of battle.

Arthur had fallen, but no enemy combatant walked from the field that day. The husks of what had once been warriors of might and magic were quickly and solemnly buried or burned. What little remained of them, that is.

Merlin was never seen again within the Kingdom after that day, but the whispers never ceased.

How the glow of his eyes was not gold, but red after Arthur fell. How the lightening sparked from him to the clouds before striking once more to the earth below. That even after he vanished, the ground rolled in protest as splits appeared in the earth and men fought the shaking to keep to their feet.

How his bellow of rage echoed in the valley even after he was gone.

Arthur was laid to rest in a vessel, floated towards the Isle of the Blessed with all due pomp. But before the flames could embrace his corpse, even he had vanished.

Taken, they said, to Avalon.

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