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Riofir had been running for a while when he burst into the empty square, his blood pumping against his temples. The guards were hot on his tail, but somehow he’d managed to lose them. Crouching in a narrow gap in the crumbling walls around the open area, Riofir made himself as small as he could when the heavy boots and clunky weapons hurried next to him, shouting dirty words reeking of onion soup and soured beer. “All this for a loaf of bread”, the young man whispered to himself.

Little by little, his pursuers relented, and left the esplanade. Riofir came out of his hiding spot, worn out, and finally got a good look at where he was standing. He’d never been to this part of London, and had gotten a bit lost during the frenetic chase.

Calming his ragged breathing, he paced the cobblestone ground, taking in his surroundings. Tree branches, heavy with foliage, stopped the sun’s eye from showering this place, plunging everything into a soft but solemn obscurity. In the background, a chapel stood high despite its short height, keeping the peace. Lonely houses and vacant stalls circled the square; no one seemed to inhabit them. As empty as everything looked, Riofir didn’t feel abandoned. Quiet and calm surrounded him, soothing his erratic heartbeat.

In the centre of the square, bathed in one of the only sun-rays which pierced the thick leaves, stood a peculiar contraption, breaking the overall emptiness of the surroundings. A massive rock stood alone, bruised by time. Nothing around it indicated how it could have gotten here, but it was, and Riofir had to accept it as such. Sunk into that stone, a sword glinted in the darkness, a shiny iron blade forged by hands unknown.

“How peculiar”, Riofir thought out loud. Someone, a long time ago, had probably left it there, or carved it into the stone, for some reason. His hand brushed against the blade, cutting his pale skin; it was sharp, sharper than any old and rusty knife should’ve been. Riofir hissed, clutching his burning palm; a thin line of blood appeared, dripping down on the slippery pavements.

The rock felt heavy with the weight of its probable age. It glistened in the soft light, pearls of humidity breathing across its surface. Riofir felt the iciness of the granite through his curious and wandering fingers; had it always been there? Everything seemed eerie to him. The square, the houses, the deserted chapel, nothing was out of place, as if it was meant to be too perfect.

Riofir shook away a shiver crawling down his neck; this boulder was nothing to be afraid of, he snickered, even with a sword sticking out of it. Absent-mindedly, he brushed away the dirt covering the base of the rock, sticking out against the neatness of the blade. A sentence, carved into the hard stone, emerged through the dust: I shall bend for the Worthy in our darkest hour/Thee who wields the blade, wields the power.

Riofir mulled over the words. He’d heard them somewhere already. A couple of years ago, on a dreary and gloomy night, in the middle of autumn. The young man was sitting at the bar, his pouch full of the coins he had nicked from his victims’ pockets. On that night, he had met an old man, eyes glazed with alcohol, a sailor that wasn’t from around these parts. If you bought him a drink, he’d spin you a tale, and Riofir had spent the night with him, drowning his anxiousness in ale and stew.

“If ya ever get to the capital”, that strange old sailor had croaked, “you’ll stumble across a sword in a big stone. I saw i’ with my own eyes, I tell ya. It’s said that whoever takes i’ out of the boulder will be the new ruler of Albion, i’ was put ‘ere by a mage or somefin’, can’t remember.” The man had soon fallen asleep, and Riofir had relieved him of his belongings, disappearing into the night.

The young man felt a cold breeze come down from above the square, bringing him back to reality. There it stood, as palpable as it could get.

Stifling the rising anxiousness at the back of his throat, Riofir climbed on the small pedestal at the boulder’s foot, he wrapped his hand around the sword’s hilt.

“It’s just a legend anyways, no way it can be true”, he joked out loud, as if to give himself courage.

He lifted his arm with vigour, expecting the sword to stay stuck in its impossible prison, and was taken aback when it slid out. A crystalline screech filled the air and, for a second, Riofir was left dumbstruck, his mouth agape in disbelief.

He was surprised by the lightness of the blade in his hand, and the comfort of the leather straps around the hilt. The balance seemed perfect for his body as he tried a few clumsy hits into the air. It was as if the sword had been created just for the young man, patiently waiting for him to free it from its granite shrine.

Riofir stared at the polished metal, its surface engraved with intricate arabesques, or maybe it was letters he couldn’t decipher. He stared at it for a while, in awe of even seeing such a treasure. It was as if it hummed in solemnity in the vast emptiness of the square, filling the air with its presence.

“Oh… oh no.”

Suddenly, it dawned on him. Thee who wields the blade, wields the power. That sword opened a right to the throne, and since Riofir slid it out, that meant he also had to take responsibility for it. He would have to go up to the people of Albion, and become their ruler, guide them towards their destiny. Staring intently at his wrist, he started sweating heavily.

“I can’t do this, I just can’t do this” Riofir mumbled, frantic, pacing around the square. He was nothing short of a piece of immoral filth, thieving and beating up innocent strangers who didn’t even stand in his way. Since his most tender age, he’d only been taught to take, to hit, to fight, and he knew only that language. In his fidgety frenzy, Riofir had enough clarity to realise he maybe wasn’t the most suited person for this job.

“I can’t be king, that’s not right”, he whispered, his voice raspy and his legs quickening with his anxiety. “I can’t even control my own life, what am I meant to do? Hell”, he sneered, his hand grazing the stolen loaf of bread hanging from his side, “I can’t even feed myself honestly”. There had to be a mistake, there just had to be, he’d never even wanted to be king, prince, or even a duke, for all that mattered.

“But it slipped out for a reason, right? I mean, a whole prophecy, going on for ages, a tale that’s old as time… That sword can’t have come out on its own if it isn’t for a reason, right?”

The young man reached out to the boulder, scratching the surface in a desperate attempt to find a crack, tampering, or anything that could have indicated that he wasn’t the one that was meant to pull it out. The rock was untouched, as solid as it had ever been. It gleamed slightly, covered in sparkly dew, glowing in the surrounding darkness.

Riofir slowly came to a stop, his supposed fate dawning on him. Sword still nesting comfortably in his hand, he sat himself down against the boulder. His mind calmed down, little by little, to the patter of water drops on the rugged pavements.

“I’m gonna have to do this, don’t I”, he sighed out loud, his words echoing against the silent walls. “Damn it all, I’m gonna have to grab that sword and take responsibility, even if it’s the last thing I do!”

Time stood still around him, vibrating with the promise of destiny. He would have to fight all of his instincts, bellowing that he should run, that he should move, put the blade back into the rock for the next dimwitted onlooker to find.

His heart begging to come out of his ribcage, he still managed to stand up, his hand tightening around the leather covered hilt. For once, maybe he could stay and fight, maybe he could do the right thing. He looked around him, scanning the area. There would be so much to be done. Would people even believe him? And would he even rule? Would he be good and strong? Loved by his people? For a second, Riofir caught a glimpse of his throne room, a chair carved in stone waiting for him to sit on, a heavy crown weighing on his head. He’d never go hungry again, surrounded by riches and gold he couldn’t even dream of. He’d have everything, women, men, power and money. But he wouldn’t let it turn his head, oh no, he would stay true to himself, and honourable, as much as possible. More than he currently was, anyways.

Riofir bolted around the square, swinging the sword around, pride coursing furiously through his veins. He’d have to learn to fight, of course, to win wars and become a strategist. His detractors would never leave him be, and his court would be a nest full of hypocrites and spies. But he would show them, he would give them hope, something to aspire to after all of these years of corruption and endless intestinal bickering. Yes. He would win their respect, and live long, a rule bringing hope to the dreary kingdom Albion had become.

Distant cries of anger snapped the dazed young man back to reality. Rapid footsteps and huffed calls scrambled around him, echoing around the walls of the square. The sword became heavy in his hand, and the weight of his fate brought him to a sudden halt. The runes on the blade shone faintly in the dark, reflecting on the grimy bricks and cracks of the small houses.

For an instant, Riofir looked at his hands. The stolen bread had fallen at his feet, wrapped in rough cloth, miserable next to the steel sword. With a sigh, he kneeled to pick up the loaf, setting the blade down.

“Albion needs a king”, the young man muttered to himself, defeated, “not a thief”. He’d never be what the country needed; he’d just add his name to a long list of power-ridden fools with no sense of duty.

Slowly, he rose again, slinging the bread on his back. The voices were getting louder, angrier around him, until a kid, maybe a teenager, came in running for his life through a slimy alleyway. His darting eyes and scurrying manner brought a bittersweet smile to Riofir’s lips; he could remember himself running from guards at this age, fleeing for safety, at the cusp of a life full of picked pockets and black eyes, of prison stays and empty stomachs.

He gazed at the panic in the tiny thief, at his grimy hands and panicked stare, his bones showing through the holes of his tunic. This kid had already seen too much, done too much, been through enough. Riofir knew what he had to do.

“Hey kid!” the young man shouted, waving at his new correspondent. “Come ‘ere, I got somethin’ for ya”.

The teenager scurried towards Riofir, fear staining his eyes. The seasoned thief hinted at him to calm down, and handed him the sword.

“Here”, he said in a cool tone, “you’re safe now, calm down.” The kid’s breathing was erratic, on the verge of collapsing. “Grab this”, Riofir continued, offering up the sword. “It’ll keep you off the streets for a while, and besides, you’re probably much more suited for it than me.”

Riofir didn’t leave a chance for the kid to answer, shoving the blade into his arms and fleeing from the scene. He realised how insane he must’ve looked, coming out of the darkness to hand a mystical shining sword to a child, but he didn’t want to face anymore responsibility for the day. Relieved of his short-lived, but nonetheless tiring duties, he trotted away, hearing the surprised commotion around the boulder resonate behind his back. With a stolen purse dangling from his belt and a loaf of bread for dinner, he’d be able to survive at least another week, away from any accountability.

Hastening his pace, Riofir furthered himself from the situation, and vanished into history, keeping himself as far away from the confused stir as possible.

***

It was a gloomy and dreary night when the old man, wrapped in a thick cloak, pushed the door of the busy tavern, looking for shelter from the rain. He’d travelled on foot for a while, busy delivering goods from his small shop to the nearby town. The rowdy crowd made it easy for him to disappear into the sea of mantles and beer-stained tunics.

Approaching the bar, he ordered a pint of bitter ale, ready to settle down for a while. A drunken bystander bumped into him, nearly spilling his own lager on the weary traveller.

“Ach sorry lad”, the guest spluttered clumsily, “I didn’t see you there, what with the cape and everythin’”.

The traveller laughed gently and brushed it off; he’d seen worse. Sliding between the raucous regulars, he eventually found a spot at an empty table, save for a pensive patron, mulling over his goblet.

The old traveller sat down in silence, drinking his ale and his newfound comrade’s words. It had been thirty years since the current ruler, the honourable King Arthur, had pulled the mythical sword Excalibur from its stone prison, and had ascended to the throne. Thirty years since one of Albion’s most respected monarchs started his rule, spreading victory and justice around him.

“And let’s hope he stays at least thirty more, aye!” toasted the traveller’s neighbour.

Thirty years, huh? The old man wondered, nostalgic. Time had gone by in a flash, ever since that fateful day. After leaving that terrified kid, sword in hand, to deal with his own destiny.

“Maybe”, the old Riofir pondered playfully, “maybe the best choice a king could make at that time was delegating his own crown.”

A grin spreading his lips, the old traveller gulped his pint in a swift gesture, and got back to listening to the disjointed tales of his drinking companion. For once in his life, he had definitely made the right decision.