The Darkness whirls downwards in a black tornado, sweeping towards the patch of grass where Merriman, Will and Bran stand. Bran staggers, breathless, under the weight of its proximity. He can hardly see; Will and Merriman flicker in and out of his vision, and when they are visible they seem to glow scarlet against the blackness. The air tastes of smoke, old blood, something worse. Pushed to his knees in the furor, Bran hardly knows what he has come out for. A moment later he has forgotten even his name, and only a wild roaring fills his mind.
Know that when all words are said
His hand, falling to his side, meets the circle quartered by a cross on the hilt of his sword.
And a man is fighting mad,
Bran Davies of Clwyd, son of Arthur Pendragon, son of Owen Davies, son of Guinevere, remembers what he is here to do.
Something drops from eyes long blind,
Taking a a breath of the acrid air, Bran pushes himself up under the weight of the Dark and draws Caliburn from its scabbard.
He completes his partial mind
Bran Davies raises his sword and strikes out at the place where the Dark coils thickest.
For an instant stands at ease,
Bran stands frozen there, erect and still, hair blowing wildly behind and around his face, holding Caliburn. He almost laughs.
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
A clap of thunder shakes the sky. The blade of the sword crackles with lightning, and Bran falls, unconscious, against the ground.