Yes, fifteen years have come and gone since that first council. Fifteen years of darkness and unceasing strife, of dissent, disappointment and defeat. Fifteen years in which the Saecsens have grown strong once more. Fifteen years for a boy to grow to manhood.

A young man now, he stands grim-faced gazing at the sword thrust deep into the stone… hesitant, uncertain.

'Take it, Arthur,' Merlin tells him. 'It is your right.'

Arthur reaches slowly for the bronze hilt. His hand shakes. Cold? Fear? A little of both, perhaps.

He grasps the hilt and glances at Merlin, who nods silently. He drops his eyes and draws a breath, taking courage, steeling himself for whatever will happen.

Arthur's fingers tighten on the silver-braided hilt: see how naturally it fits his hand! He pulls.

The Sword of Britain slides from its stone sheath. The ease with which this is accomplished shines in the wonder in Arthur's eyes. He truly cannot believe what he has done. Nor can he comprehend what it means.

'Well done, Arthur.' Merlin steps to the stone beside him, and Arthur, without thinking, offers the sword to him. 'No, son,' he says gently, 'truly, it is yours.'

'What should I do?' Arthur's voice is unsteady, rising. 'Myrddin, you must tell me what to do! Else I am lost.'

Merlin places a calming hand on Arthur's shoulder. 'Why do you fear, my son? I have ever been with you. God willing, it will always be so.' They turn together and walk into the church.

Yes, we have ever been with him, it is true. I cannot remember a day when we were not. Even so, it is difficult… difficult to believe that the young man standing on the threshold of the church has not simply stepped full-grown from out of a hollow hill, or an enchanted pool in Celyddon Forest.

That Arthur has not always existed seems odd to me. Like the wind on the moors and the wild winter stars, surely he has always lived… and always will.