The Cauldon of Rebirth
In the legends of my people there is tale told of a King named Bendigeid Vran, and he was the son of Llyr, and there came a time when his sister Branwen was given in marriage to the King of Erin. And that marriage was a cause of more hate than love for strife followed blows and hard words, and hardest of all was the fate surrounding a cauldron of dark bronze and shimmering ruby jewels and this, the cauldron of rebirth. And the property of this cauldron was that if a man might be slain today, and cast into the cauldron therein on the morrow, he might be as well as ever he was before, and stronger yet, except his eyes alone would be dead and he might never regain the power of speech thereafter.
To my sorrow I have drunk from the blessing of this cauldron, and for a time I knew strength beyond my mortal arms, and fury, and prowess unmatched in the lands of Albion, but with the gift came a dreadful price for my tongue was robbed of the power of speech when ever the need for words was foremost. I watched brave men die and could say nothing, I cursed the fates in words unknown by those who listened, I wept tears that I looked down upon the stricken body of Benedict Karlennon and could say no words to ease the passing of a valorous full-noble soul. And when other voices rose in celebration of sacrifice I remained silent. Well did I regret the kindness of faerie and never again will I forget the lessons of stories past.
But this tale is not mine alone for it belongs to Albion and her dream; my own sorrow is nothing to the passing of the years and the turning of the ancient seasons. To Marchwood came heroes of name and spirit and matched their dreams to the needs of their home. At Marchwood deeds were done that demand retelling that we may learn from hard example and bitter weeping quest. In faith I will not embellish this tale with Bardic gloss, my heart will not allow the words to contain any but stark truth therein.
And as I speak these things I gaze beyond the hall to the forest without and I hear the sound of life returning, I smile sadly and look to my wife whose beauty is marred yet with the tracks of bitter tears, and then I begin, for here is the story of Marchwood and the Heart of Darkness and the Wounded Hart; a telling of how the dream of Albion was mended and made whole.
To my sorrow I have drunk from the blessing of this cauldron, and for a time I knew strength beyond my mortal arms, and fury, and prowess unmatched in the lands of Albion, but with the gift came a dreadful price for my tongue was robbed of the power of speech when ever the need for words was foremost. I watched brave men die and could say nothing, I cursed the fates in words unknown by those who listened, I wept tears that I looked down upon the stricken body of Benedict Karlennon and could say no words to ease the passing of a valorous full-noble soul. And when other voices rose in celebration of sacrifice I remained silent. Well did I regret the kindness of faerie and never again will I forget the lessons of stories past.
But this tale is not mine alone for it belongs to Albion and her dream; my own sorrow is nothing to the passing of the years and the turning of the ancient seasons. To Marchwood came heroes of name and spirit and matched their dreams to the needs of their home. At Marchwood deeds were done that demand retelling that we may learn from hard example and bitter weeping quest. In faith I will not embellish this tale with Bardic gloss, my heart will not allow the words to contain any but stark truth therein.
And as I speak these things I gaze beyond the hall to the forest without and I hear the sound of life returning, I smile sadly and look to my wife whose beauty is marred yet with the tracks of bitter tears, and then I begin, for here is the story of Marchwood and the Heart of Darkness and the Wounded Hart; a telling of how the dream of Albion was mended and made whole.