Work Text:
Divine Intervention (No Choir) – Two Steps From Hell
We were afraid that day.
I don't think we had ever been afraid before. Arthur was blessed – everyone knew it – and he had the golden sword Caliburn whose touch no Saxon bastard survived. He was a warrior beyond compare and the Britons' greatest king since before Caesar had come.
But that day was the first battle after Caliburn had been shattered, and the new blade had a different look. It was plainer than Caliburn, its traceries of gold less elaborate, its hilt undecorated with Caliburn's shining red gems. Magical without a doubt; even if it was rare for chieftains and warlords to carry weapons of power any more, no king yet went into battle without them. But surely this one could not match up to the Golden Sword of Assured Victory?
So we stood there in our lines, facing the Saxon shield-wall across the valley and muttering to each other, and our fears growing by the minute. I think the sword was just something for us to focus on, looking back. We'd been waiting for two hours now, watching the sun creep over the sky. Neither side could afford to retreat and give up the land we were defending, but neither wanted to attack up a valley's slope. The stalemate dragged and dragged, far more than in any other battle I can remember. We'd had our fill of jeering and spitting at the invaders long ago, and now all that was left were the quiet mutters of nervous soldiers, wondering if Arthur could see us through this one.
Eventually, though, they'd had enough. The Saxons came on at us, dashing down their side of the valley and its floor. They were quick down there, too quick. Probably a spell of speed, something of the sort. There they reformed, pulling back into a steady formation that could stop the arrows and spears we were sure to be sending their way.
As it turned out, on that day their shields wouldn't have to face any such test. Instead, Arthur led his horse out in front of us, into the thirty yards or so which divided us from the slope's edge. He was small – he hadn't grown since Caliburn had left its stone sheath, and he seemed all the smaller when he dismounted.
But when he drew back that blade and let it shine, everyone there forgot about his size. He was holding a golden star in his hands, bright enough that it cast new shadows just as if the Sun had come down to that miserable valley.
And then he unleashed the light. It's not something I can really describe, because it wasn't something that came to your senses. There was a flash, to be sure, a column of light that cut through the hillside and then through the Saxons' front ranks. And I remember a roar, as if an ancient dragon approved of his strength and wanted to acknowledge it. But there was a feeling to it, beyond sight and sound, a feeling of power bursting out. It made even us tremble, and I'm sure any Saxon who survived would just about piss himself trying to talk about this.
Of course, they didn't survive. Arthur had cut the hillside in front of him for a reason. Even as their back ranks scrambled back, trampled over each other to reach the river and climb away, a landslide crashed over them, the hillside falling away to bury the whole lot. They screamed and they wept, but earth and stone have no mercy.
Ten thousand Saxons died that day, and no Briton but Arthur even had to raise a sword in anger. We bashed our shields in celebration, we cheered him, we sang his name to the high heavens. He sheathed his sword and mounted his horse again, and turned to us. He waved, acknowledging us, and the cheers doubled. But I could still see his face. It didn't change. Never changed from that stony expression he'd had when he'd gone out for the fight.
I wasn't the only one to see it that day. And in the days to come, more and more saw beyond our king and saw a man whose face and whose heart were made from stone.