ArthurThey know my name. Though all else is lost in the darkness cast by Saxons and scriveners, still, they know my name, and my victories, here and abroad. They know I was betrayed, and did not return. I was High King. I treated with Emperors, and led twelve thousand -- a soldier commanding soldiers, taking our needs from the land to sustain a miracle that could not last: the containment of barbarism, the reprieve before eclipse. In the Saxon slaughter, how many died, dreaming of my peace, and my eventual return? Say now, which is mightier, pen, or sword? Who knows the abbey, or where the cloister, rased by the oversweeping flames? All lost, nameless, beneath fields tilled by the sons of conquerors, and those who conquered them. Who hear, across the ages, of greater than I was, of victories passed down, not in books, but in taverns and tents, and know the name of my enemy, at last, only because they know my name.