(10 Downing Street, London, England, Earth, Present Day)
Trying not to be intimidated by the millions of dollars’ worth of paintings and furnishings in the Green Drawing Room of #10 Downing Street—a place he never hoped to find himself for fear of it being the end of his career—Michael Day busied himself, looking up at the magnificently ornate ceiling medallion centered around a priceless Tiffany and Co.® chandelier. Standing on the room’s rug, beside one of the two royal-blue opposing sofas, Michael tried not to stand too close to Elise, though she had a habit of getting uncomfortably close to him.
Quincy Arthur Billings and Terry Goodwin stood side-by-side in front of the sofa opposing Michael and Elise as the door from the inner hall opened. The Prime Minister walked in, followed by David Wright…and the King of England.
SHIT, Michael thought. My career is over! He wished his father was here. Maybe his political ties might have saved him, but it was too late for that.
“All right then, let’s get on with it shall we,” the Prime Minister chided, looking at Billings.
“Right, sir. Terry if you would, please.” Billings motioned to Terry Goodwin, who held the sword they just pulled from Baschurch Lake, as he began unwrapping the plain matte-white cloth to reveal the remarkable hand-and-a-half sword that was not a sword.
“My God,” The Prime Minister gasped, taking another step towards the relic. “Has there been any analysis of it yet? Any authentication? Carbon dating?”
“Sir,” Billings interjected, “…they pulled this from Baschurch Lake just over three hours ago. There hasn’t been time for any of that yet, but I can assure you it’s already been ordered and is being set up as we speak.”
“That won’t be necessary,” King Harold proclaimed, never taking his eyes off the sword as he read its inscription from a far position, close to the doorway, “…it’s Excalibur.”
“Your Majesty, we can’t make hasty proclamations like that. We need to run tests,” the Prime Minister protested, now reaching out to take the sword that was not a sword into his own hands. Taking the sword from Terry, the Prime Minister felt it humming in his hands; it felt light, not too light, just perfectly balanced. A swing via the flick of his wrist, and it whooshed through the air, still humming in his hands. “Whatever it’s made of, it’s magnificent. And you found this in the water?”
“Yes, sir. Well, I didn’t,” Terry clarified, correcting himself, “Michael did.” Terry motioned to Michael innocently enough, but every eye in the room was on him now.
Boy, this was rapidly getting uncomfortable! Thanks Terry, Michael thought.
“And, sir, I believe you should allow Michael to offer a demonstration.”
Fuck you, Terry! It had only been a thought, but the way everyone looked at him he wondered if he had actually just said “fuck” in front of the most senior leadership of England. His career was over! Terry smiled innocently as he recovered the sword from the Prime Minister, offering it to Michael for a demonstration.
Reaching with his right hand, taking hold of the sword that was not a sword, it immediately glowed molten white hot like a star in the Green Room of 10 Downing Street as jaws dropped and prayers suddenly, silently mouthed.
“My God.” The Prime Minister’s mouth agape, looking at Michael Anthony Day basked in the light of the star that was the one true Excalibur. There could be little doubt, yet his analytical mind was having trouble accepting.
Almost staggering again, trying to hold his balance, Michael heard the calling—the pure-white light, the placid crystal lake and the booming voice of Creation itself off in the distance from the far side of the lake—a tall figure standing beside the voice shadow-cast in the light of a Humanoid sun. Too much for him to maintain his balance, Michael let go, handing Excalibur to Elise as it immediately cooled, allowing the room to dim in a moment of awkward silence.
The impossibly-hard-to-quash romantic stare, however brief, between Elise and Michael, caused David Wright’s attention—in the form of a scowl—to be more focused on Michael than the incredible display of the magic of Excalibur right before their very eyes.
The king stood silent, pensive, and yet knowingly—as if somehow expecting. Licking his lips in deliberation, his words came out weighty but without hesitation, “Well, I think we’ve all seen enough. I’ll abdicate,” King Harold offered, starting to walk for the door.
“But, Your Majesty,” the Prime Minister protested, chasing after the king, “you can’t.”
“Better call The Archbishop of Canterbury and have him ready Westminster Abbey for the Coronation of Michael.” The former king was nearly to the doorway now.
“He’s not even nobility,” David Wright boomed in protest, angrily approaching Michael to separate him from his precious daughter.
“He is now. So says the Sword of Kings.” With that the former King of England walked out of the Green Room, the Prime Minister hot in tow, leaving a fine faff for Billings to sort out.
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