Rise like a fountain for me, night and day

Published: 20/01/2023

Lionheart School student O. Caitlin shares a very beautiful example of her creative writing, entitled “Rise like a fountain for me, night and day”. Caitlin loves mythology, in particular the legend of King Arthur, and enjoys writing her own renditions of stories.

At Lionheart, we put children at the centre of everything we do, so we love nothing more than showcasing their amazing work.

Rise like a fountain for me, night and day.

Staggering through the magically protected woods, Arthur’s blurred vision attempted, for a moment, to lock onto the twinkling light the faeries illuminated for him to fulfil his dying wish, returning the sword to the inky depths of the forgotten lake.

It wasn’t meant to be.

Arthur then collapsed against a tree, his crimson blood staining the bright verdant grass in messy splatters of his fleeting life. Even the daisies pristine ivory petals were painted with a hefty layer of fallen droplets of his end, the head of the daisies seemed to have bowed ever so slightly under the weight of grief, shouldering the blood of their only king.

Nature itself respected him so, that is guided and cared for him as he did her.

Nonetheless, the king rested in his blood painted silver armour against the trees sturdy trunk which was home to hiding faeries. The king, Arthur Pendragon, couldn’t even hold onto the sword he pledged to use for the good of his country, Britannia. Thus, the claymore’s once pure silver blade was now decorated in the blood of soldiers he once guided, a harrowing reminder of his mistakes for the remaining of his life.

Another man would be using this blessed Excalibur to guarantee the victory of this fight, to use all his willpower to survive, but not this king.

Arthur Pendragon had accepted this to be his fate, all he had to do was wait.

The night had fallen, the pearl moon accompanied with diamonds embedded in the navy silk of night lovingly watching the king of Camelot through the slits of the overgrown trees that acted like a shelter to comfort the king in his final moments. Slivers of the pale moonlight rested against his blood-stained cheek, the faint glisten of his golden locks stuck to his sweat covered forehead now dressed in a thick coat of scarlet and dried brown. His once star-filled hopeful blue eyes now dull, reality had ruined him; duty that dehumanised him, lies that he believed were truth and the heart-breaking betrayal of a loved one, his friends and even his people.

Arthur was exhausted.

Finally, his heavy eyes closed.

Silence.

The world mourned.

The voice that cut through the silence?

It was too late.

“Arthur?”

The voice called. Alas he was already gone.