Britain, Late 5th Century AD
A land fractured after Rome’s retreat—where warlords rise, and legends are yet to be written.
The candle burned low, its flickering light casting long shadows over the worn map sprawled across the table. Ambrosius ran a hand over his face, exhaustion gnawing at him as he traced the rivers and roads of a fractured Britain.
A faint jingling of bells stirred the silence, so soft it might have been the wind. But when Ambrosius lifted his head, he was no longer alone. Across the table, where a moment ago there had been only shadows, a man now lounged, dressed in a way that might let him pass for a common entertainer or a wandering storyteller. Bells jingled at his wrists as he turned a sword over in his hands—Ambrosius’s sword, the steel catching the candlelight, gleaming as if it held a secret of its own.
Ambrosius didn’t startle, but his hand moved instinctively to his belt—only to find it empty. His sword lay in the fool’s hands. His jaw tightened.
"You have a moment to explain yourself," he said, voice steady, "before I decide you’re a thief and cut you down."
The Jester sighed as if disappointed. "Always with the threats. No hello, no how did you get past the guards? Just straight to murder. You warlords, no sense of poetry."
He turned the sword slightly, watching the way the candlelight slid along the blade. "Strange thing, isn’t it? How some weapons are just weapons, and others… well. Others become something more."
"You speak in riddles, fool," Ambrosius said, his gaze steady. "A sword is a sword. It cuts, it kills, and then it rusts. It is men who decide what matters, not steel."
"You talk as if you know this blade better than I do," he continued, eyes narrowing. "Tell me, then—what makes it different?"
The Jester spun the sword once in his hands before resting it flat across his lap. "Oh, I imagine it’s much like any other—sharp enough to end a life, heavy enough to feel important. But tell me, warlord—when songs are sung and tales are told, will they speak of you as you are, or as they imagine you?"
Ambrosius’s gaze flicked between the sword and the fool who held it. "And what of you? You speak as if you’ve seen the rise and fall of men like me before. Tell me, do you shape legends, or only mock them?"
The Jester laughed, tapping a bell at his wrist. "Oh, I do love a good tale! But tell me, Ambrosius—when words twist and truth bends, will the man remain, or only the story?"
He set the sword down on the table with a deliberate motion, the steel resting atop the ink-stained map, as if marking the land itself.
Ambrosius stared at it for a long moment before reaching forward. His fingers curled around the hilt, lifting the blade once more. He turned it, feeling the familiar weight of it. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Then I will make sure the story begins with truth," he said at last.
The Jester’s grin widened. He clapped his hands once, as if pleased, and with a final jingle of bells, he was gone.
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The world shifted, empires fell, and new kings rose. The name of Ambrosius faded, but his legacy grew, twisted and reshaped by the whispers of time. What was once history became legend, and the echoes of his sword—his triumphs—were woven into the tapestry of myth.
A new age began. The Romans were gone, and the Saxons had long settled in the land, yet the stories of the old kings remained, carried on the winds of bards, passed from mouth to mouth, each telling a little different, each shaping the myth into something greater.
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And so it was that, four hundred years later, as the stories of Ambrosius reached the ears of those who would hear them, the legend of King Arthur was born.
It was then that Geoffrey of Monmouth, with ink in hand and a scholar’s heart, began to stitch the pieces of the past together, crafting a new story from the old, breathing life into the myths of Britain.
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Norman England, 12th Century AD —An age of scholars and scribes, where history was no longer just remembered, but written.
History was a fickle thing, Geoffrey mused, running his fingers along the edges of his manuscript. He had spent hours debating how best to shape the tale of Ambrosius Aurelianus—warrior or king, conqueror or savior? The words felt too fluid, the truth too distant to grasp. Truth softened in the hands of storytellers. A king became a myth, a battle a legend. The candlelight wavered, ink pooling in the dips of the parchment. It was late. Too late. Perhaps that was why, for a moment, he thought he heard bells.
The sound faded, lost in the rustle of parchment. Geoffrey exhaled, shaking his head. Fatigue, nothing more. He dipped his quill once more, but then—bells, again. Clearer this time.
He looked up with a yawn, rubbing at his eyes. And froze.
A man stood by the bookshelf, idly thumbing through a scroll, the candlelight casting long shadows across his form. His clothing was finely cut, suited to a scholar or historian, though the bells at his wrists betrayed something less ordinary. He read in silence, his gloved fingers gliding over the parchment’s brittle surface.
The Jester hummed, rolling the scroll between his fingers. "Ah, Ambrosius," he said fondly, as if speaking of an old friend. "His name lingers in old stories, here and there. Some call him a warrior. Some, a king. Some say he was never more than a whisper of what came after."
He turned, offering Geoffrey a knowing look. "Strange, isn’t it? How a name drifts through time, changing hands like a well-worn coin. I wonder—when all is written, will the man remain? Or only the myth?"
Geoffrey’s grip on the desk remained firm, but his pulse slowed. "Stories don’t break into locked rooms," he muttered. "Nor do they thumb through my scrolls uninvited."
His gaze flicked to the parchment in the Jester’s hands. "So tell me, then—what exactly are you?"
The Jester’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, as if amused by the question. He tilted his head slightly, the bells at his wrists giving a soft chime.
"What am I?" he mused, rolling the scroll between his fingers. "Oh, nothing of note. Just a humble Jester who has spoken to warriors, oracles, kings… and things you find in your scrolls."
His gaze flicked toward Geoffrey’s desk, to the half-finished words inked on parchment. "And now, I find myself here, in the company of a man who shapes stories of his own."
He tapped a gloved finger against the scroll. "Tell me, then, historian—how do you see him? The choice was always yours."
Geoffrey’s fingers hovered over his quill, his mind catching on the words. "Ambrosius," he echoed. The thought had already taken root before the Jester spoke, but now it solidified. A warrior, a leader. But men do not write of mere leaders, do they? They write of kings.
The Jester tilted his head, watching Geoffrey for a moment before offering a small smile. "Ah, but history is a fickle thing, isn’t it? A man fights, a man rules… and in time, men decide which one he was."
He glanced at the parchment. "What they remember, what they forget—that is never up to the ones who lived it."
The Jester stepped away from the bookshelf, his bells giving a final jingle. "Well, historian, I leave your ink to its work." He dipped his head in something like a bow.
Geoffrey blinked. The candle flickered, the scent of parchment settling in the still air. The room was empty—had it ever been otherwise?
The candle flickered in the quiet, the scent of parchment and ink settling around him once more. Geoffrey exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the desk.
What had he just met?
The thought lingered, but only for a moment. With a slow shake of his head, he turned back to his work. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. The ink would dry all the same.
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For my father,
Before I knew history, you gave me myth.
Before I knew truth, you gave me legend.
Before I knew my gift, you gave me a push.
This story is for you, wherever you go, may you find the Round Table with a seat open for you.
