RRTV PODCAST - ANDREY ROSTOVSKY "Chapter...The Order of the Sword and Stone"

RRTV - PODCAST

Andrey Rostovsky,10 Chapter...The Order of the Sword and the Stone. The historical scenario. (5th century. Britain) Through theeyes of the ancient gods, the stars of the night sky contemplated the sanctuary of the Stanheg druids. The day of the Winter Solstice gathered the wise priests and noble knights of glorious Albion at the temple. Huge stone menhirs towered in a circle and resembled the gateway to the realm of the Celtic mysteries. They, like gigantic guards, guarded the centuries-old secret of the ancients. In the center, near the massive megalith altar, stood an old man with long gray hair and an even longer gray beard. He was dressed in a white canvas robe to the ground and leaned on a carved oak staff. A wreath of mistletoe branches hung from his chest. He was the high priest of the Druids of the Celtic temple of Sword and Stone. His name was Mirdin. This druid knew the secret knowledge of ancient magicians. He could control the mighty forces of the elements and the power of the spirits of the surrounding world. No one knew how old he was. There were rumors among the peoples of Albion that the bards, the storytellers of ballads, had long been praising him in their poetic sagas. He was given different names, depending on the place and time of creation of the songs. He stood by the fire and the flames flickered in the glare on his gray hair. Thirty druid priests stood around him, dressed in long white cloaks like Myrdin's, with hoods thrown over their heads. The megalith altar stone made of green mica sandstone was of enormous size and resembled the sarcophagus of a giant. This altar was striking not for its size, but for the fact that among the mistletoe branches, a knight's sword was thrust into a crack in the very center of the megalith. It was a legendary relic, which, as far as I can remember, and not only me, has always been here-in the heart of the altar. According to legend, the one who will be destined to free this sword from stone captivity.... He will become the king of Britain. All attempts to pull the blade out of the stone by numerous pretenders to the throne were in vain. This ritual was traditionally held on the day of the winter Solstice. Just on my birthday. The rest of the year, the sword was covered with an oak pyramid decorated with silver plates with sacred runes engraved on them. The priests kept vigil day and night around the altar, guarding this blade, whose name was Clarent. It had a handle made of silver and gold of elaborate workmanship, the crosspiece was decorated with winged dragons spewing flames, and the upper apple was massive and had a square shape. A golden lion decorated with sapphires was depicted on the pommel. The visible part of the blade protruding from the stone glittered in the glare of the bright fire and was polished like a mirror. There was no rust, as if this sword had not been captured by stone for many years, but had only recently been made by a skilled, fabulously elven blacksmith. Every year, on the day of the Winter Solstice, three... and only three noble knights claiming the royal throne were allowed to participate in the ritual at this druid sanctuary. But year after year, century after century, the applicants' efforts to pull the blade out of the stone were in vain. The Clarent was as if it had been poured into the altar, as if it were one with the stone. According to the rules of the rite, it was necessary to pull the blade straight up and only with the right hand. But some participants of this competition, annoyed by the inflexible sword, pulled it with both hands, tried to loosen it and even leaned on with their whole body wanting to break the blade. But the sacred Clarent, tempered by the miracle blacksmith, did not give in. The applicant who violated the rules was ignominiously expelled , and the sword was covered over and over again , for a whole year , with a pyramid dome. It was said that in ancient times, long before the Romans came to the land of Britain, one of the kings of the north, the Aryan Rus, smashed a rock with a hammer at this sacred place and this blade, forged in prehistoric times by a skilled craftsman, appeared to his eyes.The northern king did not pull out the sword, but bequeathed to the druids to keep it as the apple of their eye until the coming of the legitimate king of Albion. And now my time has come. The term of the sacred test. We stood by the fire in the center of the circle of priests. Through the megalith at the head of the altar, Myrdin towered and sang ancient Celtic prayers. Behind the rows of druids, invited guests-chieftains, knights and other noble Britons-crowded the distant stones. Besides me, the knights participated in the ritual - Sir Kay and Sir Bedivere. First, they invited Sir Kay to try his luck. He took off his shoes and walked barefoot up the wooden steps to the altar strewn with mistletoe branches. Grabbing the long hilt of the sword, he pulled it towards him with all his mighty strength. The sword wouldn't budge. And try again. And again, no result. Annoyed, Sir Kay came down from the altar. Sir Bedivere followed Kay up the megalith. Also the story itself. It was my turn. There was a deathly silence. The priests stopped saying prayers. The chanting stopped. It seemed to me that the flames of the campfire flared up more strongly, and the stars in the night sky shone brighter. I stepped onto the megalith and my bare feet felt the dew on the mistletoe branches. I've been waiting for this moment for so long. My hand touched the hilt of the sacred sword and I felt the chilling cold of the metal. It was as if the legendary sword had greeted me in its steel tongue. I met Mirdin's gaze for a moment. He looked at me attentively and somehow solemnly. The powerful energy of the magic of the old times was boiling in his gaze. He looked at me with a magical gaze, which, from under his gray, overhanging eyebrows, chilled to the very bones. His lips whispered, "Pull"...and I pulled. Time seemed to have stopped. There was a barely audible click...the sword responded with a palpable vibrationand ... flew out of the stone! I dreamed and hoped for a miracle.... but I didn't expect it. And it was a miracle! The sword released from the stone captivity almost knocked me off balance, but I barely kept my feet and raised the legendary ancestral weapon above my head. The numerous exclamations merged into a single hum and echoed among the giant boulders. Admiring the flames reflected in the mirrored surface of the blade, I did not fully realize what had happened. And how is it possible to realize this? I was simply sure that Clarent would never be pulled out of the stone by anyone. Everyone has long considered this tradition to be a sacred, beautiful legend in the history of my people. And the sword and the stone are one, inseparable. One monolith. I hoped, but I was still sure that I couldn't pull out the Sword altar without splitting it! My head was spinning from what had happened. My heart was pounding and pounding like a hammer on an anvil. Breathing raggedly and deeply at the same time, I looked around at the people around me. Their faces expressed deep surprise. They were numb from what they saw. Only one face was calm. As if nothing wonderful had happened. It was as if Clarent was still stuck in the stone. This face was confident and unflappable. Not a single muscle on him twitched. It was the face of the high priest of the Temple of the Sword and Stone, Mirdin, my mentor and teacher, who raised me from early childhood. Hearing the thud of drums from the druids, I, still not fully understanding what had happened, lowered my sword and rested its tip against the altar on which I was standing. A dull silence enveloped the circle of spectators gathered around again, their eyes seemed to say: Did this really happen? But they continued to stand in tense expectation, as if the world they had lived in up to that moment had suddenly become less real. Then Mirdin took a step forward, coming very close to me. His face was covered with shadows from the fire, but his eyes shone with magic and knowledge, which he always amazed me with. You are destined to lead our people, he said in his deep and authoritative voice. — You have the fire of our ancestors in you, you are the chosen one! And it will bring light to these dark times. Accept this sword as a sign of your destiny and responsibility.My hand closed even tighter around the hilt of the sword, and I felt as if it had become a part of me. The attention of all those present was now entirely directed at me, and their expectation became incomparably painful. Mirdin's voice rang out again, but this time he pronounced a strange spell loudly and clearly in the ancient language of the Rus, as if marking the end of one era and the beginning of a new one.— Become a king and bring light to our people!At that moment, the crowd burst into cheers. I stood there, feeling only the rush of responsibility and strength that flowed through me like the flow of a stormy river. Knights, chieftains and druids spread their ranks to make way for the new king. Sir Kay, my old friend and loyal guard, came over and respectfully knelt down. I swear allegiance to the new king, he said, and his voice reflected sincerity and respect. — May your rule be wise and just. Bodiver, Merdir, and the druids followed suit. Other knights and noble chiefs knelt after him.