Death of a King

He had no time to stop. No time for tricks or for showing off his swordsmanship, no time to wipe the sweat off his brow. He grunted as his and his opponent’s broadswords met above their heads. Putting pressure on his sword, pushing his opponents’ back, he suddenly jumped back, and the younger man he fought with lost control of his sword- just for a second, but that was what counted. He cut; nearly instantaneously the younger man parried. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! One hit immediately followed the other. The men fought full out, concentrating completely on their swordplay. However, it was not play. They fought in the mountain pass, blood soaking the hills, soldiers crying out in pain, men falling all around them for their cause, for their leaders. Pausing for a tenth of a second, he met his nephew’s eyes. He would NOT give up the throne! He was the first born son, even if the couple who gave him life were not married when he was conceived. He was the first born son! He had worked so hard to make the kingdom stable, to protect it from the ever-present threat of the Saxons.

He had reflected too long. His opponent had the advantage.

It only took that tenth of a second for his nephew’s sword to find its way to his right arm, where he held his sword. Pain! So much blood! He tried to keep his concentration. The arm would be no problem; he could fight with his left arm just as well as with his right.  The swords met. Clang! Clang! Slip… and Thrust! The younger man’s sword had found its way into his belly. Searing pain, warm blood flowed everywhere. No… he couldn’t give up… he wouldn’t give up…He would not let his nephew take the throne! He wildly slashed his sword in a desperate attempt to hurt the younger man while he still retained what little strength he had, despite loss of blood. Amazingly, he slashed his nephew’s chest. A flesh wound, however, not deep. At least his opponent would have a scar… His vision blinked black, then white, and then he could see again. He tried in vain to remain standing; he could not. He collapsed to his knees. He could see his nephew smirk, raise his sword to deliver the killing blow-

Then, he saw a sword sticking from the young man’s belly. It was yanked out, and then- oh precious sight! - his nephew’s head flew past. Gone. The younger man was dead. His nephew would never get the throne. Comforted with that thought, he closed his eye, preparing himself mentally for his journey to Annwn¹. He felt a hand on his shoulder- maybe there was hope he could be healed yet. “Afallach…Avalon…”² he murmured to the blurry figure above him. The man, his adopted brother, nodded, and he felt himself being picked up and placed on a horse. But it was too late, too much blood had gone.

He saw through blurry eyes his realm laid before him, in all its beauty and mystic splendor. Far in the distance, he could swear he saw Avalon, with the sacred river on its borders. But he knew that death and Annwn, the underworld where all souls departed go, would come to him instead of a life in his own precious realm. He slipped away, and then he was gone.

 But the crown of his kingdom rested still upon his head.

Notes: (1) In Celtic mythology, Annwn is the place where souls of the dead- good and bad- go. (2) Ynys Afallach- better known as Avalon- is a real place in the landscape of Wales which was believed to be a part of- or have entrances to- Annwn. It was also a magical place of healing in some tales.