He staggers under the weight of the summoning, but the power pouring into him soon eradicates any trace of the initial shock to his system. And with the One's Champion with him, sword and shield all at once, he is free to let his own power -- the power of the Light approaching high Midsummer -- blend with the magic that surrounds them both.
(there must be fire on the mountain)
One thought is in his mind now: the Dark must come to him. If it is to strike anyone, it must strike him.
(fire under the stone)
Or rather, it must strike the shield he bears, the shield that now is almost molten with the force of the magic that he has forged into it. For spells can be worked into burnished gold as easily as they can be worked into knitted wool and knotted thread, and the Oldest of the Old Ones has worked a very specific spell into the golden shield.
(fire over the sea)
The Dark whirls above him, raging overhead in its own frustrated howling malice, and he cannot help but laugh at it as well. Fierce defiance blazes in his eyes as he drops to his knees on the ground and raises the shield above him. His free right arm crosses behind his left, supporting and bracing the shield still further. At the centre of the brilliant pillar of light, his corona of wild white hair glowing like the heart of a candle's flame, he calls upon all of the power that he can muster in this single, shining moment of Time --
(fire to burn away the Dark)
-- and wills the Dark to come, and destroy, and be destroyed.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 06:26 am (UTC)(there must be fire on the mountain)
One thought is in his mind now: the Dark must come to him. If it is to strike anyone, it must strike him.
(fire under the stone)
Or rather, it must strike the shield he bears, the shield that now is almost molten with the force of the magic that he has forged into it. For spells can be worked into burnished gold as easily as they can be worked into knitted wool and knotted thread, and the Oldest of the Old Ones has worked a very specific spell into the golden shield.
(fire over the sea)
The Dark whirls above him, raging overhead in its own frustrated howling malice, and he cannot help but laugh at it as well. Fierce defiance blazes in his eyes as he drops to his knees on the ground and raises the shield above him. His free right arm crosses behind his left, supporting and bracing the shield still further. At the centre of the brilliant pillar of light, his corona of wild white hair glowing like the heart of a candle's flame, he calls upon all of the power that he can muster in this single, shining moment of Time --
(fire to burn away the Dark)
-- and wills the Dark to come, and destroy, and be destroyed.