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Good to see a Green Lantern in the Ultimate One Universe again.
I think I'm stuck in the same spot where @Master Bruce has found himself.

I have a ton of ideas for Mordred, but every time I sit down to write, I can't manage to string even a single sentence together to show for those ideas.

I'm going to drop out of the RPG for the time being.
Allowed myself to get talked into playing softball with people literally half my age.

Mordred post delayed while I wait for the swelling in my hand to go down.
Mordred post coming in the next 24 hours-ish.

"Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand.
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand..."

-W. B. Yeats

"Life Is But A Dream" [ Part V ] [ Supposed To Be ]

| Sub-Roman Britain | The Year of Our Lord 535

The banners were streaming from atop the parapets.

The sounds of minstrels and the singing of bards punctuated the celebrations on this, the Feast of Stephen. The courtyards and markets brought alive by the tourney that had sprung up around the castle walls to celebrate the hallowed festival of the martyred saint.

The sound of dense wood smacking against wood beat the rhythm of the war drums of child's play. A small gathering of knights and squires surrounding where a pair of boy's sparred in the round. Of the audience, they were the legends. Gods of war in this era and every era since. Sir Galahad, the Knight of the Grail. Jason of Normandy, the Knight of the Blood. Sir Gawain, the Maiden's Knight, greatest of the Knights of the Round Table.

The larger of the boys was Anduin, squire to Sir Jason. His tunic was overlaid in a short coat that was a field embroidered with the likeness of a gold lion - the colors of his knight.

His opponent was a child of two worlds. His Welsh heritage bespoken of by the blue eyes that cast a likeness to the king himself. His tunic shifted about his body, cinched at the waist by a double-wrapped Celtic belt. His feet pressing into the moist earth, clad in a pair of caligae that - like his tunic - were largely unchanged from the days when Roman soldiers had marched upon Hadrian's Wall. A time which, for them, was but a few decades earlier. His tabard was two-toned, sewed together of equal parts of white and red.

The colors of the Silent Knight.

Anduin started forward. His size making him like a Goliath moving upon David and fueling an overhead swing that threatened to overpower the smaller page. But the Welsh bastard was fleet-footed, his movements like that of a dancer as he stepped off t the side. His wooden sword angled back as he brought it up in a watershed block that pushed Anduin's blunted blade aside.

It created an opening, into which he neatly stepped through. His wooden sword brought around and then forward, an overhead strike as he pressed the advantage. The attack drove the larger boy back, his desperate leap robbing him of balance as he careened into the audience behind him, stumbling and falling arse-over-backwards. The sight of which sparked the men to laughter.

Still clutching at his wooden sword, the Welsh page had watched the scene transpire with a kind of detachment. His throat warm as he sucked in breath, felt his heart racing inside his chest.

A hand reached out, grabbing his wrist and pulling his sword arm up into the air. As the boy's gaze turned upward, he saw his knight smiling over him as the man raised the boy's arm in a triumph that signaled the end of the match. There was a small smattering of applause, while a others helped Anduin back to his feet.

For his part, the Welsh page was confused. This was his first time taking part in a tourney such as this. Or even seeing such a thing as the Feast of Stephen on the lawn of Camelot.

The confused only deepened as he felt himself seized and lifted up, then spun around. Tankards of mead were raised, as the knights began belting aloud a song of Caedmon. Hugging onto his knight, the page saw the world turn. A merry go round of revelry and good cheer. The minstrel's ballad inciting people to dance.

Shifted around, he found himself feeling somewhat weightless as he went upward. He settled a moment later on the shoulders of the Silent Knight. A man who stood there, wordlessly, as he expressed his gratitude in a language without words for a tankard of mead.

Stood there.

The two of them.

In the shadow of Camelot. From atop the man's shoulder's, the boy looked up and saw the Kent banner flying beside all of the banners. Not least of all the standard of Pendragon.

His mother told him that he would be a king.

To be honest, there was nothing more he wanted so much as to exist in moments like this one. Sir Galahad speaking to Sir Jason. Sir Gawain regaling the maidens fair with stories that were both adventurous and bold. And the Silent Knight, a voiceful member of the company even without uttering a single word.

Maybe he should want to be a king. But to be a knight... to be a knight of the round table... that seemed a far more magnificent thing to him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

| Rutland, Vermont | Present Day

He stepped across the threshold.

A single step.

The moment that his heel connected with the dry, rotted board on the rustic front porch he knew that he had arrived. He felt some of the magic fade away, as the familiar bitterness of reality nipped at his senses.

Tears were streaming down either side of his face. Once, many centuries ago, he had been willing to die to avenge the death of his patron knight -- a better man than any he knew. Now, taking his first step into the realm of the living, Mordred faced life in a world without the Silent Knight.

Even if no one knew that name, even if no one sang of his deeds, to Mordred he was a greater knight of the round table than Arthur could have ever hoped to be. The boy knew no other father, and no better friend. That Mordred was here and Sir Brian was not, it was a thought that was instantly lonely for him.

He continued another step. The caligea wrapped around his foot and ankle pressing down on creaking planks, until the youth had passed from out of the door, across the porch, and down the steps. When his feet touched down on the ground, the boy stopped to look behind him.

It seemed an abandoned house. The front door lay off its hinges, the inside gutted and warped with exposure to the humid air. Not at all what it seemed on the other side of the open door.

Holding his head back, the child felt the breeze blowing through his dark hair. The caress of the sun on his face dried his tears, the warmth of cold world. A place he was born and condemned for it. Because of who people said that his father was. A man that Mordred knew only from afar.

Stretching out his arms, the boy braced himself for a moment. An intricate series of movements occupied his fingers, as the child uttered something in ancient Gaelic. "Benthyg dros amser..."

The breeze picked up, leaves swirling around where the young sorcerer's apprentice uttered aloud the will and word. "...byr yw popeth..." he continued, centering himself as he tried to understand how the energies moved in this reality. It was quite different than in the Dreaming.

The magic flowed so seamless there, so effortlessly. Here, he could feel the resistance. "...a geir yn y byd hwn," the boy said, the last syllable slipping from his lips as his eyes seemed to radiate with a luminous energy as the incantation was completed.

The breeze passed him by, as the boy's form was transfigured amid the swirling leaves. In place of the tunic and tabard, the boy was dressed in a pair of jeans. A white, A-frame shirt was dressed with a red hoodie that had white accents.

Holding up two fingers and his thumb, the boy used his other hand to make a circular motion. There was a spark in the air, as a teleportation circle opened a portal in front of him.

As his arms dropped by his side, the boy crossed through the portal, as the path closed behind him.

It was a timeless piece of knowledge as old as civilization. Everything in this world that one might possess was merely borrowed for a short time.

A man's life.

A wizard's magic.

Mordred post arriving today.

If we're including Eastern comics, I would love to see a live action Astro Boy adaption worth a damn. It exists in comic form (Pluto is god damn amazing). There have been attempts at a live action based on Pluto, but that's fallen through just like the attempts at an anime adaptation.

On the Western front... Sam Alexander, in a series connected to the MCU's Guardians of the Galaxy.

"Life Is But A Dream" [ Part IV ] [ In The End ]

| The House of Mystery | Present Day

Carefully, the young squire helped the Caretaker to his feet.

Overhead, the boy heard Morpheus give a low growl. Craning his head back, as he watched, the Lord of Dreams made a gesture with one arm. After which, the interior of the great hall seemed to become blur. Almost like a haze of smoke. Then everything snapped back into focus, with everything back where it ought to have been.

Except one thing that was out of place.

Mordred would have easily missed it, except that Morpheus passed between the bookshelves, pausing precisely where there was a gap between the tomes on the shelf.

"What..." the boy began, only to stop short as Morpheus turned to face him. A plume of smoke shot out toward the boy, taking the form of a grimoire hovering in the air.

"The Libellus Sanguinus," the Lord of Dreams intoned gruffly. The elder god seemed lost in thought for a moment. The illusionary fabrication flipped open, several pages fluttering as the Lord of Dreams continued. "A 'Book of Blood.' It was said to have been authored in the Twelfth Century by Mary, Queen of Blood. It contains some of most horrible writings ever conceived of a deranged mind."

A deranged mind.

The red eyes of the satyr-like figure immediately came to mind. "Who was that?" Mordred asked, reaching out to close the illusionary tome. The fabrication vanished in a puff of smoke.

"Some people are kept alive through the stories that people tell of them," Morpheus remarked cryptically, turning to regard Mordred with a gaze that made the boy immediately question whether the elder god referred to him. "Others are brought to life through the stories. Spring-Heeled Jack is fear and paranoia given form," Morpheus explained. The description did nothing to put the boy's mind at ease as to the chaotic nature of the devish figure. Morpheus, however, seemed to continue his brooding. "What possible use could he have for the book? It seems an odd choice for an imp such as he..."

The Lord of Dreams seemed to speak out loud, pausing for a time, before he finally looked back up. Flashing a wan smile, the man offered only, "Perhaps we are fortunate. He may have merely grabbed an object at random and know not what it is that he now possess."

The elder god stretched out his hand. As he did, a column of smoke seemed to rise up and swirl up around the young Pendragon. As he looked down over his body, Mordred found his clothing transfigured. The familiar red and white tabard, emblazoned with the golden Roman aquila hung off his form. The colors of the Silent Knight. A leather twin-belt replaced the length of soft rope. A rondel dagger was sheathed at his hip.

"You must recover the book," Morpheus' voice remarked, though when Mordred had looked up, the elder god was no where to be found.

"I cannot depart this realm. And none here now are better equipped for this task."

Making his way through the bookshelves, the boy passed through the familiar labyrinth that was the House of Mystery. Even as he watched, the shelves and books all recognized themselves. The walls shifted. The stairs moved. It was as though the House was alive. Always in motion. Always changing.

As he stepped forward, two bookshelves pulled apart to reveal a doorway. A different exit than the one he had entered through.

There were many portals that passed through the Dreaming. The House was no different. Reaching out a hand, the child's hand hovered near the doorknob that would open to a world full of weeping than he dared to recall.

"Son of Pendragon, this quest is yours."

Son of Pendragon.

A single tear slipped down the side of the boy's face. In mind, he saw a man. And it wasn't Arthur of Camelot. "My name is Mordred of Kent," the boy declared, pushing open the door. Steeling himself there, the child said only, "Arthur is my king. But he is no father of mine."

That was Sir Brian.

He was the squire to the Silent Knight. And in his name, the boy took just one step forward, into a brave new world.
There is a Mordred post coming. The writer's block is just real at the moment.
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