For the most part, the United Kingdom had fared relatively well after the Black Sun. In the initial weeks after the Black Sun large portions of the country were gripped with fear. This was due to the invasion of Britain by the Irish god of drought and desolation, Balor, in late March.
Balor was one of the earlier gods to return to the world. Strangely, rather than returning to Ireland directly, he descended to the mortal plane in north-western France. Perhaps he wished to return home in triumph after leaving a path of conquest and destruction behind him, perhaps he was searching for something he wished to claim.
The one-eyed god had appeared near a small coastal town and had wasted no time in laying waste to all that opposed him, then seized a leisure cruiser for his use and set out north in an attempt to sail to his homeland. Though he had not been focused upon slaughter, he still left more than a hundred corpses in his wake, and the body count would no doubt have been higher had he not been more intent upon stealing a ship than he had been upon killing mortals.
It was later learnt that he had never chosen to take a mortal form during the times of the Exile due to his pride. The thought of being reduced to a mere mortal, to be without his size and power, had been unthinkable to him. But with his power he needed no knowledge of modern vessels to use his prize, conjured winds and waves serving to carry him across the channel to England.
And as soon as he set foot upon British soil he was met by a large division of the Royal Army.
Balor had been unaware of the advances in communications technology. He did not know that the French government had alerted Britain to the impending arrival of one of the mysterious superhumans that had been appearing, and he had not expected them to use aircraft surveillance to determine where he would land and make preparations to be ready for him.
The thing was that back in those early days nobody really understood how powerful the beings of myth could be. The soldiers and commanders that were deployed on that beach must have thought that they were facing . . . I don’t know, some sort of freak or mutant. To them, he was a dangerous man, but still just flesh and blood. They had orders to try to take him alive if they could but were permitted to kill him if needed. Given what had happened in France they thought they had some sort of idea of what he was capable of and had been confident that with heavy firepower and armoured tanks they could deal with him.
Oh, how wrong they were.
Balor wasn’t just a twenty-foot-tall giant with a laser eye; he was a god of drought, desolation and destruction! Weapons that could have demolished buildings or cracked tanks open were mere annoyances to him. Body armour, riot shields or the steel armour of tanks was likewise no concern to him either. More than a thousand men were dispatched to fight him; of them, the number that survived the battle didn’t even enter double digits. Those soldiers had faced an immortal, a being of legend they were utterly unequipped for it. In the end, all they managed to do was provoke the returned god.
Balor might have originally been willing to simply pass through Britain on his way back to his homeland, but the attack upon him had managed to seriously provoke him. The mortals of this land had challenged him, and most of the gods weren’t willing to endure such disrespect from the races of man. The old god chose to answer the challenge, and he did not hold back. A civilian with more bravery than sense was able to catch what happened on his cell phone; though the action turned out to be his last one. Balor had gestured to the burnt and desiccated bodies of the soldiers he’d killed, and one by one the dead stood up at his command.
Except they were no longer dead, that much was clear, despite the shaking of the hand that was making the recording. The corpses that rose were healed from their terrible burns, but what they became was not human. Rather they were twisted mockeries, distorted parodies that moaned and gibbered without any sign of intelligence or independent thought. The video lasted until some of these creatures found the one recording it. Then there were only some short screams followed by the camera falling to the ground. The only reason the video survived was that the phone was found by further troops that were sent to investigate the battle site after Balor moved on. Eventually, the video was uploaded onto the internet, quite possibly against ‘official’ orders, where it soon became one of the many records of the god’s activities in the early days of their return.
At first, though, the disaster had been kept under wraps, for fear of the ensuing panic if the information was released. So, the government concentrated on trying to stop the one-eyed god and his growing horde of Fomorians, as the creatures serving him were designated.
Trying and failing.
The details of what exactly took place were kept classified, even after the whole thing became public knowledge. It is well known that the lives of many soldiers were lost, but the exact number was never revealed. What did become known was that no fewer than three attempts were made by the military to destroy Balor and his forces, each time the efforts meeting with failure. Some of his servants could be slain, but the god himself remained immortal and continued to advance, rebuilding his forces from the bodies of those that he slew.
The attacks must have provoked him further though because he changed his route so that he was now heading straight for London, something that caused panic in the halls of power. So far, they had been able to limit how much he’d been able to swell his forces by staging evacuations of all the population along his path. Fortunately, even with his great size Balor did not move at great speeds compared to modern vehicles, and as such, it had been possible to get potential victims out of his way. How they were able to keep the matter out of the press or off the internet for those two days can be attributed to the truly Herculean efforts of the various intelligence agencies of the country, but by the third day, it was all beyond them.
Until then the government had tried to evacuate the populated areas he passed through and keep civilians away from him. There’d been some hastily concocted cover story, something about a contaminated raincloud. It wouldn’t have stood up to too much scrutiny, but in the short term, it had been sufficient. But as Balor drew closer to London too many people saw him and his horde for it to remain a secret. There were cell phone cameras, security cameras, even reporters and news teams, it was all just too much.
There seemed to be nothing available that could stop the one-eyed giant. The army had already thrown everything they reasonably could at him, and there were rumours that, had Balor not been so close to London, then the use of a nuclear weapon might well have been authorized against him. That was how desperate everyone was getting. People were dying, order was breaking down, and a god was rampaging ever closer to the capital. Had things deteriorated further, then who knows what could have happened. At the time the nation, or at least those so inclined, were praying for a miracle.
And they got one.
It was just before Balor and his horde had reached the outskirts of London proper, that the Thames had flooded with mist. The deep thick kind that was normally only seen in the depths of winter. More panic spread as it was thought that the mist must be of Balor’s making, but as it extended and washed over the area the fear and foreboding slowly settled down and dispersed. Later people would say that when the mist rolled over them they suddenly had a feeling that everything would be alright, that they didn't have to fear any more.
The mist boiled over the ground, spreading everywhere it could in a tide, but when it encountered Balor it was driven back by the searing gaze of his single eye. The Irish deity blasted the mists back as though they had themselves been enemies, then he set about ordering his horde to form up around him. His efforts stopped the advance of the mist, but it didn’t disperse, instead, it just hung there, like a wall of light grey waiting for a chance to surge onwards.
By this point most of the onlookers had fled, sensibly seeking shelter or escape; however, a number remained at the scene, recording the events out of some crazed curiosity, a desire for fame, or just reckless stupidity. Regardless, they were able to record what would become an iconic moment in the new world that followed the Black Sun.
The mist condensed, shrinking down until it ceased to be vapour and had thickened into liquid. Before the disbelieving eyes of all that watched the liquid flowed through the air, gaining form and definition until the mounted forms of seventy-two knights and their horses stood upon the battlefield, like statues made of water. Then they shuddered, and in the blink of an eye, water became flesh and steel. What had been form became reality, and seventy-two knights drew their weapons as one and bellowed a single sentence that shook the nation.
“BEHOLD, THE RETURN OF THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING!”
And before the massed group the mist gathered at a single spot once more. However, this time it didn’t condense, instead it seemed to wrap around the area, obscuring it from all sight. Then it dissipated to reveal another figure clad in armour and mounted upon a warhorse.
The rider was a big man, though it was hard to tell given his mounted position and the lack of anyone normal nearby, but there was something about him that radiated a sense of him being larger than life. He was clad in armour that was meant for battle. It wasn’t polished or shiny; it wasn’t golden or overly adorned. Instead, it was thick, heavy plate, some of it even scarred by small grooves or dents that hinted that this was armour that had seen battle. The only decorations upon it were the pauldrons, each of which had an image worked upon them in remarkably cunning detail and decorated with gemstones. Upon the right was the golden head of a lion, the eyes picked out in emeralds and the teeth with diamonds. On the left was a dragon its scales enamelled in red, and its eyes cast in rubies.
About his shoulders and running down his back and sides was one of those thick capes or cloaks called mantles. The main part of it was almost blood red while a thick tan fur adorned the collar and shoulders. On his head was a golden crown, not a heavy one like the British Crown Jewels, but a simpler circlet of gold that seemed to be devoid of gems or enamelling. Instead, the gold was worked into intricate spikes, giving the impression that the crown was made of a collection of golden blades fitted into a circle.
His hair was a dark brown, and his face was framed by a neatly cut beard of the same colour. His eyes were also brown, though they were of lighter colour with flecks of green mixed in. He was unquestionably handsome, the sort of natural rugged good looks that could have sparked envy or been intimidating, but instead radiated charisma and drew people in. Everything about him seemed to scream controlled power, even just the way he held the reins of his horse.
And, of course, there was the sword.
How could there not be? ‘The Once and Future King’, how could he be who he was and not have the sword? The angle of the recording was such that it could be seen, the sword in its scabbard hanging from his left hip. The scabbard itself was beautiful, golden with a vine-like pattern picked out on it in red enamel and further decorated with a dozen small rubies. The hilt of the sword was as golden as the sheath but less adorned, less elaborate. It was a simple cross guard, that was an arc of gold, with no jewels, no engraving, no sculpting.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Excalibur.
With a single motion, the rider reached across and drew the sword. The picture became unclear at that point, a dull roar taking up the background noise, and the hands holding the camera becoming unsteady. Still, even through the shuddering picture, you could see the sword shining as though with some internal light. It was just a glimpse, the cell phone camera unable to stay on track long enough for more, but even so, there was something about it that came across even through a fuzzy paused picture on a computer screen. There was a sense of . . . pride, of determination that came from more than just what was seen with your eyes.
It was a phenomenon that was commented upon by others that saw the clip and focused on the sword. All of them said that they felt more motivated, energized as though they could take on any challenge.
The rest of the clip was almost all shuddering pictures of the ground or the inside of the man’s pocket as they all ran around. Apparently, at that point, Balor had ceased to hold back and had unleashed his full might against his enemies. At the same time the King had called upon his own power and the ground had heaved and shuddered. The person taking the clip had been forced to run to escape ruined buildings that came crashing down like children’s toys. It was almost a full ten minutes of bricks and plaster falling about them.
The first clear picture they got though, had become something of an internet meme. Balor was lying on the ground, one leg completely cut off, an arm visibly broken and the other seemingly nailed to the ground by three spears impaling it. The King was standing on his chest, one hand holding his sword while the other gripped his sheath where it hung at his belt. The cyclopean god was not helpless though, his sole eye was focused upon the figure on his chest, his burning sight releasing a stream of baleful light that sought to sear his foe from existence. This was a gaze that had reduced soldiers to burnt husks, tanks to melted slag, barricades to charred ruins.
And the King stood against it, forcing his way through it as though it were a gale rather than the burning force of an angry deity.
The hands that held the camera shook once more, but they remained steady enough to see what came next. The King took another step forward, then, in a single savage movement, drove the glowing length of Excalibur into the eye that was trying to burn him from existence. There was a cry that went up through the air, something so massive that it momentarily drowned out every other sound, then the form of Balor went limp. It was later confirmed that it wasn’t a true death, Balor still lived in the divine realm. It had been his earthbound manifestation that had died. The death had hurt him though, costing him in pain and power, and barring him from the mortal realm for a time. None of this was known at the time though, all that was known was that everyone could see a returned hero victorious over an impossible enemy.
The camera kept recording as the King stood upon the defeated form of his foe, an image that I would see endlessly repeated in the near future, then the clip ended.
That was how King Arthur Pendragon returned to protect Britain in what could be called its direst hour.
It is difficult to explain just how great an impact the event had upon the nation. On the one hand, national pride pretty much soared up into the stratosphere. That was easy enough to understand, where other countries were dealing with gods showing up and trying to carve out their little kingdoms, setting up cults or just causing general mayhem, Britain was a special little snowflake. When gods showed up to cause trouble in this country they didn’t get to rampage freely, they were put down like rabid dogs by a national hero.
More than that though, the return of the King had brought other benefits with it. The land grew more productive to the point where farms were churning out produce at an unprecedented rate. Mines that had been thought to be running low were suddenly rich in metals and minerals. Even the scars of pollution were fading, plastic breaking down on its own, dirty rivers running clear, smog-tainted air growing clean. Stillbirths had fallen to almost nothing, an entire generation of children seemingly born without complications or birth defects. The list went on and on. It was hardly a surprise that a patriotic pride emerged almost everywhere.
Of course, there were always the downsides, the bad that inevitably came with the good. In some that pride went even further into arrogance, and many groups formed that felt that only the ‘true Britons’ should be allowed to enjoy the blessings that the King’s return offered. Racism gained a worrying level of traction in several quarters, nothing official, nothing overt, but news of people from other ethnicities being subjected to muggings and beatings grew more frequent.
Then there was a sense of nationalism bordering on the militant, a notion that both Wales and Scotland should be completely absorbed into the greater country, that the British Isles should be a single country without any division. The quarters that talked about it wanted nothing less than to completely subsume them and replace their cultural identity with that of the ‘Blessed Albion’. It wasn’t something that seemed to be gaining much momentum, but the fact that it was there at all was enough to be worrying.
There was also the King’s Men movement weighing in, not something to be taken lightly.
In the wake of his return many groups had appeared for and against him. they ran the scale from those that felt the King should submit himself to the authority of the legal government, to those that felt he should take the throne and rule as an absolute monarch immediately. After he made a public address informing us all that he had no intention of taking any sort of power by force things had died down a bit. Unfortunately, there are always those that will persist, even in the face of reality.
The King’s Men were that kind of group, well, more of a cult. They revered Arthur to the point of regarding him as a god. It was a fanatical cult, those that did not worship Arthur were regarded as traitors, servants of the enemy. They seemed to ignore that Arthurian legend marked him as a Christian, and that and his more recent words all spoke of tolerance of other religions.
This cult performed several attacks on places of worship not deemed to be of the ¨true religion¨. More than that though, they believed that Arthur should assume total control of the entire UK immediately and that his failure to do so was either a test of his subjects’ loyalty or the result of a conspiracy in the government to have him killed and surrender the nation to some foreign god.
It would have almost been laughable, were it not for the seriousness with which these men and women took their task. There had already been an assassination attempt on the Prime Minister, and assault attempts on several members of Parliament. There had also been several protests that had turned into riots, riots that had led to a number of deaths. Even Arthur himself, publicly condemning the actions being taken in his name hadn’t been able to get the movement to abate. It seemed they simply saw his words as another test.
There were other supernatural sightings about the country, of course, though few of them could be directly connected to Arthur. There had been reports of faeries being sighted in parts of Gloucestershire, faeries that had apparently played with babies and infants. Sea serpents had been spotted off the eastern coast of the country, sightings reaching from Norfolk to Kent. There had even been reports of a tower appearing one day, only to be gone the next. All of these only served to fascinate and frighten people more, to make some of them crave some sort of supernatural protection.
A talkative and excitable Greek god passing through France had been enticed into giving an interview by a brave and reckless journalist after enjoying some top class French style hospitality. Several questions were asked, but among them had been details about King Arthur and his sword. Surprisingly, the god had been willing to talk about both, and his answers had been sensational.
According to him, the King was an Ascended Soul, a mortal spirit that had become the focus of such belief and importance that it had transcended mortal limitations and grown into a pseudo-divine existence. He was clear that such beings were not on par with true gods, but they could be considered comparable to demigods, and powerful demigods at that.
Not just any soul from myth and legend could come back in this manner though. They also had to possess a link to considerable power to fuel the transition from a dead mortal to a living spirit. Robin Hood, for example, could not return despite being a popular figure in English legend, nor could the likes of Richard the Lionheart, despite having reigned as king. For Arthur, it was possible due to him having been carried off to Avalon after his death. The fabled isle existed as a pseudo afterlife world just for him, one that had funnelled enormous power into him over the centuries since his death. As a result, he had returned to the living world shortly after the Black Sun opened the world up to the Legends, and he had found himself in possession of a number of divine powers tied to the land that he had once ruled.
More than that though, he once more wielded Excalibur, a weapon forged by the hands of mortals, Fey, and gods working in unison to create something unique. Excalibur was one of the Great Swords of the world, a weapon that no one could ever replicate, even with all the power of a god. The exact details of what the sword could do were still mysterious, but it was known that it could pierce the immortality of a god, giving them wounds that would persist even if they fled to the divine realm. It was known that it couldn’t inflict a deadly wound, but that it could make the true body of a god bleed was amazing enough on its own.
In addition to the sword, we learnt the King also possessed the scabbard that had been lost to him in his mortal life. That had been a subject of some interest. It seemed that owning the famous scabbard imparted both immortality and invulnerability upon the owner. It wasn’t perfect, of course. Powerful though it was, the scabbard couldn’t absolutely negate all harm. However, it provided great resistance to injury, and it allowed the King to recover from what harm he did take at a superhuman rate.
Arthur also had the Knights of the Round Table to serve him, which was an advantage on a par with being armed with Excalibur. Unlike him, the Knights were not reborn as living beings but were instead spirits that were linked to him through his bond with the realm of Avalon. Through the rule of his past sovereignty, he could call upon them again, providing them with temporary bodies manifested through the mists of the island afterlife to which he was linked.
Each of these knights was on a par with a strong Legacy, with powers and legendary weapons of their own, and even if they fell in battle, it was of little meaning to them as their spirits would return to Avalon and rest for a time before they were ready to be called upon again.
All of this was published in the French newspapers and was quickly reprinted all across the world. As the weeks passed, we learnt more about Arthur, and what he was doing to safeguard his country.
We learnt that his power allowed him to not simply slay the god that had preyed upon the lands of his country, but also let him negotiate agreements and alliances with gods where the legitimate governments of a country could not. The Celtic war goddess called the Morrigan had entered into an alliance with him, offering her aid in return for his assurance that he would help her protect her small community of mages. Likewise, the divine enchantress Viviane, also known as Nimue the Lady of the Lake, had offered her alliance to Arthur, promising to aid him and to provide weapons and armour for new knights that might join him.
On top of that, the returned King had been publicly acknowledged by no less than three angels as a force for good, something that gave him almost unmatched credibility with the general public. Christianity, as well as the other branches of the Abrahamic faith such as Judaism and Islam, were solidly behind him. Additionally, his general acceptance of people worshipping other gods, bought him points with most of the other factions that were springing up. The end result was that he commanded the sort of popularity and respect that transcended many of the barriers that others were restricted by.
All in all, the situation in Britain was a good deal better than many other countries. The stability and security we had were valued, but it was also the source of considerable friction as it encouraged a sort of nationalistic pride that had ugly tinges at the edges. It wasn’t anything overt, but even someone like me, someone who was only peripherally aware of the political and social landscape, could notice it.
It was lots of little things that added up only if you paid attention. Things like slightly derogatory jokes about the citizens of other nations becoming more popular. Restaurants serving ‘foreign’ food became much less popular, certain styles of clothing suddenly being all the rage, there was even an increase in how many houses were now displaying flags somewhere on their property. None of it was worrying on its own, but all together . . .
Still, for all of that, it didn’t change the fact that Britain was now one of the safest countries in the world to live in. Though given my future situation with the divinities of the world, that wasn’t going to be something I would enjoy for too much longer.