Chapter 31: Wisdom of the king

The Great Old Miracle of Death

The wind whispered through the towering branches of the Great Tree, carrying with it the scent of ancient bark and the distant echoes of forgotten battles. Beneath its vast shadow, seated atop a boulder weathered by time, Uhtem watched the world with eyes that had seen centuries pass like fleeting moments. His golden gaze, sharp yet unreadable, settled on the distant treetops, observing the harmony of life that thrived in the wake of his presence.

At his side, Excalibur remained sheathed, its hilt gleaming faintly in the filtered sunlight. Though countless warriors had sought to wield the legendary blade, none but him could grasp its true weight—not just the steel, but the burden of fate it carried.

Then, the stillness of the forest was broken by a single, tragic sound.

The sharp twang of a bowstring.

A quiet gasp.

The rustling of wings in distress.

Uhtem's gaze flickered to the side, following the arc of a wounded dove as it plummeted from the sky. The white-feathered creature struck the earth with a soft thud, its fragile body trembling as it lay on the forest floor. A crimson stain spread across its wing, vivid against the purity of its plumage.

A few paces away, a young boy stood frozen, his small hands still gripping the bow that had loosed the fatal shot. His breath was uneven, his expression caught between shock and guilt. He had not meant to kill—not like this.

Uhtem's form shimmered, his towering figure shifting, compressing. The great guardian of battle, the embodiment of strife and honor, was now a man—a mortal, clad in simple yet regal garments, a cloak draped over his broad shoulders.

King Arthur Pendragon.

Without a word, he stepped forward, his boots silent against the earth. The boy stiffened as the knight approached, unsure whether to flee or remain. But Arthur's expression was neither stern nor unkind.

He knelt beside the fallen bird, his movements deliberate, reverent. With a touch as gentle as the wind, he scooped the dove into his hands, feeling the rapid, weakening heartbeat beneath his fingers. The creature's eyes were wide, glassy, filled with the silent fear of approaching death.

Arthur turned his gaze to the boy. Golden. Piercing. Timeless.

"Come here," he said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of wisdom rather than reprimand.

The boy hesitated, then took cautious steps forward, his grip tightening around his bow. His clothes were worn, his face thin—he was not out here for sport. Arthur could see it in his eyes, the quiet, desperate resolve of one who had been forced to grow up too soon.

The boy swallowed hard. "I—I didn't mean to," he stammered. "I was just—"

Arthur held up a hand, silencing him—not out of dismissal, but to give him a moment to collect his thoughts. Then, the knight spoke.

"Tell me, child. Why do you hunt?"

The boy lowered his gaze. "My family is poor," he admitted. "My father… he died last week. I need to bring food home."

Arthur studied him, his expression unreadable. He understood. This was not the cruelty of sport, nor the arrogance of those who killed without reason. This was necessity. A boy not yet old enough to wield the burden he carried, yet carrying it nonetheless.

"You hunt to survive," Arthur said at last. "Not for pleasure."

The boy nodded, his small fingers gripping the bow tighter, as if afraid that he would still be condemned for his actions.

Arthur exhaled softly, shifting his gaze back to the wounded dove in his hands. "Hunting is neither good nor evil," he said, his voice calm, as though speaking to the forest itself. "To take life is to bear responsibility for it. If one kills for sport, they do so in arrogance. If one kills for survival, they must do so with honor."

The boy blinked, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed the words.

Arthur let the silence settle between them before he continued. "You shot down this dove by accident," he said. "Yet, in your eyes, I see regret. That is good."

He glanced down at the bird, whose breaths were slowing, its delicate body growing limp. Then, with a quiet reverence, Arthur clasped his hands around it.

The air shifted. The boy felt it, though he did not understand. A presence—something ancient, something greater than kings or knights or men. A power that had denied gods and slain horrors.

Arthur's fingers glowed faintly, as if embers of a long-forgotten miracle had reignited in his grasp. He exhaled, slow and steady, and when he opened his hands, the dove remained there—alive.

The crimson stain on its wing faded. Its feathers, once ruffled and marred by pain, became smooth once more. And then, with a single, powerful flap, it rose.

The boy watched in silent awe as the dove ascended into the sky, disappearing into the endless blue.

Arthur stood, brushing the dust from his cloak. He turned to the boy, his expression softer now, though his golden eyes still held their ancient depth.

"You hunt for your family," he said, "and that is not wrong. But never take more than you need. Life, once taken, cannot be returned so easily."

The boy nodded slowly, his grip on his bow loosening. He had come seeking food for his family. He left with something greater.

Arthur watched him go, his gaze lingering on the spot where the dove had vanished.

Then, he turned, walking back toward the Great Tree, toward the eternal duty that he bore.

As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the forest floor, Uhtem, in his guise as Arthur Pendragon, remained standing at the edge of the boulder. His golden eyes, reflective and distant, followed the path the young boy had taken. He had imparted wisdom to the child, and though Arthur did not expect it, he felt a sense of satisfaction that something more than just a lesson had been passed. The boy's heart had been touched, and the ripple of that moment would reach further than any blade ever could.

Still, Arthur's duty was not complete. The boy had spoken of his hardship, of the burden placed upon him far too early in life. Arthur, ever the protector, knew that compassion must be more than just words—it had to be action. And so, the wheels of Camelot turned once more, as Arthur called upon his knights, those stalwart souls bound to his service.

"Sir Percival, Sir Galahad," Arthur called, his voice unwavering but kind. The knights, clad in the simple yet noble garb of Camelot, appeared before him, awaiting orders with the discipline of those who had sworn an oath to something greater than themselves. "Find where the boy lives," Arthur commanded, his voice as steady as it ever was when commanding armies in battle. "Find his family. Feed them. Ensure they are taken care of. Bring them food, water, and warmth. Let them know they will not go without."

The knights nodded, their faces serious, as if they had been entrusted with a sacred duty. They knew that to serve Arthur was to serve the ideals of Camelot—justice, compassion, and protection. With a simple salute, they rode off into the forest, their horses' hooves steady and purposeful, carrying them toward the boy's humble dwelling.

Hours passed as the sun sank lower, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold, when the familiar sound of footsteps broke the stillness of the evening air. Arthur stood as he saw the boy running toward him, his small form rushing through the forest, his face streaked with tears. The boy's breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude.

"Sir Arthur! Sir Arthur!" the boy cried, his voice quivering as he approached. He stumbled to a halt before Arthur, his knees buckling slightly from exhaustion, yet his spirit remained unwavering. His hands, trembling, clutched a small bundle of wildflowers he had likely picked along the way, a meager gift to offer in return for the knight's kindness.

Arthur knelt down, his golden gaze softening as he saw the boy's tear-streaked face. He could feel the boy's heart—overcome with emotion, gratitude, and a sense of wonder.

"Do not cry, child," Arthur said gently, his voice deep and resonant, yet laced with the tenderness that only the king of Camelot could convey. "It is no hardship to help those in need. You've shown me a heart of honor in your actions. I only do what is right."

The boy, overwhelmed by the sheer kindness that had been shown to him, shook his head vehemently. "No, Sir Arthur," he managed to say, his voice thick with emotion. "I—I don't know how to thank you. My family, they… they don't know what we've been given. You've saved us. My father would have been so proud… so proud that you cared."

Arthur's expression softened further, the weight of his eternal duty not burdening him in this moment, but rather giving him strength. "It is not I who should be thanked, child. It is Camelot and the ideals of honor that you must thank. You are the one who has shown courage and heart."

Just as Arthur rose to his feet, the sound of the knights returning echoed through the forest, their horses' hooves steady and triumphant. They arrived with sacks of food and barrels of water, enough to sustain the boy's family for many weeks.

"You have done well," Arthur said to the knights as they dismounted, carrying the provisions toward the boy. "Go now, and make sure his family is settled. Ensure that they know they will not face hunger again."

The knights nodded and moved swiftly to deliver the food to the boy, who was now standing in awe. His face beamed with joy as he looked from Arthur to the knights, then to the humble bundle of food that was now being carefully placed in front of him. It was more than he had ever hoped for—it was a chance to live, to breathe without fear.

The boy dropped to his knees, the wildflowers still clasped tightly in his hands. "I will never forget this, Sir Arthur," he whispered, tears still falling, but this time they were tears of hope, not sorrow. "You are a great king… a true miracle. You've saved my family. You've saved me."

Arthur looked down at the boy, his heart swelling with something close to pride, yet devoid of ego. He was no king of selfish glory. His legacy was not one of power for the sake of power, but of compassion, and protecting the innocent, no matter the cost.

"No thanks are needed," Arthur said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, steadying him. "You've already done what is most important—you've cared for those who need it most. It is in such hearts that the true greatness of the world is born."

As the boy stood, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, Arthur gave him one final piece of advice, a sentiment that would guide him for the rest of his life.

"Remember this, child: Your heart will always be your greatest weapon. It will lead you through dark times, and guide you to light. But it will only do so if you protect it, if you nourish it. Never let bitterness or hate steal it from you."

The boy nodded solemnly, understanding more than just the words spoken to him. He had been given a chance, an opportunity to change not just his life, but his destiny.

And as the knights departed, Arthur stayed for a moment longer, watching the boy leave with his arms full of provisions. The boy's back straightened with newfound hope as he walked toward his home, his family, the promise of a better future now within reach.

King Arthur Pendragon, once known as the great warrior of Camelot, now known as the protector of the multiverse, sat down upon the boulder once more. His role was clear. His duty was everlasting. But in moments like this, where hearts were mended and lives were restored, he knew that the true miracle lay not in Excalibur, nor in the Wheel of Fate, but in the kindness he gave freely.

Uhtem stood at the heart of Avalon, the great tree whose branches stretched across the multiverse like the very veins of existence itself. The air around him hummed with a quiet energy, as if the tree itself breathed in rhythm with his thoughts. He could feel the pulse of Avalon deep within his bones, the pulse of life and death, of beginnings and endings. The tree, known to some as the Tree of Avalon, was not merely a tree—it was the foundation of the multiverse, the cornerstone of creation and destruction alike. Its roots dug deep into the fabric of reality, while its branches reached into infinite realms, sheltering them under the protective canopy of its ancient boughs. And, of course, it held the Wheel of Fate, the artifact that guided and redirected destiny itself, shifting the path of those who dared challenge it.

As Uhtem's gaze drifted toward the horizon, he could feel the weight of his title, the King of Swords, pressing upon his shoulders like the heavens themselves. His fingers brushed against the hilt of Excalibur, the Sword of Eternity, whose edge had tasted both the blood of gods and men alike. Excalibur had always been a symbol of his honor—a symbol of protection, but also a symbol of the inescapable weight of death. The sword, imbued with the very essence of Avalon, was more than just a weapon—it was the hand of fate itself, wielded by a king who had long since crossed the boundaries of mortality.

And yet, in his heart, Uhtem—Arthur Pendragon, as he had once been known—knew that no one could escape the truth of death. Even he, the immortal protector, was bound to it. The immortality granted by Avalon was not freedom from death; it was merely a reprieve, a chance to serve, to protect, and to ensure that the cycle of life and death continued, as it always would.

He stepped away from the edge of the great tree and took a deep breath, letting the cool air of the multiverse fill his lungs. His thoughts turned inward, and he found himself contemplating the nature of honor and death—two concepts that had defined his existence for so long. He had seen countless lives pass before his eyes, both noble and ignoble, both filled with purpose and with folly. But through it all, honor remained a constant, an anchor in the ever-changing tides of the universe. And death—death was the price of that honor, the inevitable consequence of every life, no matter how long it endured.

With a solemn expression, Uhtem began to speak, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom and experience.

"Honor is not the glory of the battlefield, nor the accolades of kings and queens. Honor is a vow—a vow to those who cannot protect themselves, to those whose voices are silenced by the passage of time. Honor is the steady hand that raises the sword not for victory, but for justice. It is the shield that defends not the body, but the spirit. And it is the understanding that death is not an enemy, but a natural companion—a shadow that walks beside us from the moment of our birth."

He paused for a moment, his eyes looking deep into the heart of Avalon. "We, the immortals of Avalon, are not beyond death. We are only its guardians, its keepers. We are granted the chance to preserve balance, to protect the weak and the innocent, and to ensure that the cycles of life and death continue without interruption. But in the end, we, too, must face the final reckoning. For it is not immortality that makes us strong—it is our duty, our sacrifice, and our willingness to walk the path of honor, knowing that death waits for us all."

Arthur's gaze shifted to the Wheel of Fate, its intricate design shimmering with the light of distant stars. The Holy Grail, as it was also called, was not simply an object of power—it was a tool of great responsibility, a force that could alter the very fabric of destiny. To wield the Holy Grail was to hold the reins of fate itself, to redirect the flow of time, and to change the lives of those who crossed one's path. And yet, as powerful as it was, it was a burden. A burden that only those with true honor could bear.

"The Holy Grail redirects fate, but it is not without consequence. The future is not a tapestry to be rewritten at will—it is a river, and the river will flow according to its nature. You may change its course for a time, but in the end, it will find its way. We are all bound by the currents of fate. To tamper with them is to risk drowning in them."

He raised Excalibur, the sword glowing with an ethereal light, as he spoke, his voice becoming more resolute.

"But we, the immortals of Avalon, we do not fear the river of fate. We stand as its guardians, its sentinels. We are the protectors of the balance, the ones who ensure that it does not fall into chaos. For if the flow of time is disturbed, if the sacred cycle of life and death is broken, then all will be lost. Excalibur is my sword, yes—but it is also my symbol. It is the sword of justice, the sword of sacrifice, the sword of truth. And when it is wielded in the name of honor, it can cut through the very fabric of fate itself."

His voice softened as he lowered the sword, the gleam of Excalibur fading as the shadows of twilight stretched long across the land.

"But there is a truth that must be understood above all else—death, like honor, is inevitable. It comes to us all, no matter how great or small, no matter how many victories we achieve or how many lives we save. And when it comes, we must accept it, for in death, there is not just an end, but a beginning. The cycle continues, the world turns, and the multiverse breathes in its eternal rhythm. We, the immortals of Avalon, know this truth. And we embrace it, for in the end, it is honor that defines us, not our victories, not our defeats, but the willingness to face death with courage, with dignity, and with the knowledge that we have lived according to the highest principles of our existence."

Uhtem stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of his words settling into the air around him. The great tree, Avalon, seemed to whisper in the wind, as if in agreement with the eternal truths he had just spoken. Excalibur, the Holy Grail, the Wheel of Fate—all were part of the same cycle, the same eternal dance of life and death.

And as the night settled around him, Uhtem—Arthur Pendragon—remained at the heart of Avalon, a king, a protector, and a witness to the eternal flow of time.