Cold and wet. Grey pallid stone that is hard and exact. A glimmer, sheen, reflecting refraction of light shines off of a blade.

He is a king. No, a boy. Not yet a king. Not a man.

Men, tall, strong, mean, powerful. Grip and pull with commanding force.

Nothing. Silent resistance. Unwayvering stillness punches into their ego and its face.

Boy, short, thin, polite, innocent. Reaches out and accepts the blade. The hilt vibrates in his hand.

A kind tug unearths it. A gentle smile of delight. Disbelief marks those who see this.

Now a king, still kind and polite. But, not cruel, not mean.

Powerful, but not unjust.

A king.

A king.

A king.

Arthur.