Of Legends And Lions

In tonight’s medieval fantasy sleep story, you are the heir apparent to the throne of a powerful kingdom. However, on the day of your planned coronation, you learned of another claimant to the crown – you fled the capitol in search of answers. Now, you venture through unknown wilds, following every clue to the whereabouts of your supposed rival.

When your journey winds through a small village, you encounter a legendary sword and a mysterious beast. But the creature the townsfolk fear is not, you find, an enemy – it is a lion, the symbol of your royal house. If you’re still awake as the story comes to an end, I’ll guide you through a meditation to invite courage.

Transcript

Tap into the strength of the lion in tonight's medieval fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep.

If you are still awake as the story comes to an end,

I'll guide you through a meditation to invite courage.

In tonight's story,

You are the heir apparent to the throne of a powerful kingdom.

However,

On the day of your planned coronation,

You learned of another claimant to the throne.

You fled the capital in search of answers.

Now you venture through unknown wilds,

Following every clue to the whereabouts of your supposed rival.

When your journey winds through a small village,

You encounter a legendary sword and a mysterious beast.

But the creature the townsfolk fear is not,

You find,

An enemy.

It is a lion,

The symbol of your royal house.

This story is connected to the Dragonrider and Tavern Tales world in other episodes of Sleep and Sorcery.

You don't need to have heard those stories to understand or enjoy this one,

But you may recognize some of the characters and threads woven throughout.

I am nothing,

Yes.

I am air and darkness,

A word,

A promise.

I watch in the crystal and I wait in the hollow hills.

But out there in the light,

I have a young king and a bright sword to do my work for me and build what will stand when my name is only a word for forgotten songs and outworn wisdom.

Mary Stewart,

The Hollow Hills How fiercely the sun burned when it set upon the water,

Sailing into its liquid light was an act of defiance,

Bravery,

Quiet revolution.

How noble you felt then,

How singular,

Bobbing over the river in the little boat.

All those nights ago when you took that courageous step,

You envisioned something different.

Rugged adventuring,

Perhaps,

Like the heroes in romances.

You pictured yourself rising to meet challenges with the confidence and intuition of a daring knight.

Instead,

You've discovered rather rapidly that a life within castle walls,

A life of sheltered luxury,

Has not,

In fact,

Prepared you to set out on your own into the world.

You've got a fire going at last,

After many tries,

And for this you're grateful as darkness falls in the depths of the forest.

You warm your hands by the crackling flame and sigh heavily as you sit,

Allowing your body to relax for the first time today.

You've been on your feet since the sun rose,

Following its movement across the sky,

Eyes upward all the while,

Peering through the trees for signs.

How funny to think as you huddle for warmth among the wild roots that only days ago you were set to ascend to the high throne of the realm.

You feasted on the finest foods in the kingdom,

Seasoned with spices imported from the south,

And tonight you pick through foraged berries,

Grateful you've read enough to know which are safe to eat.

And while a part of you,

The part accustomed to a hot meal,

A warm bed,

And fresh clothes laid out by the servants of the castle,

Longs to turn tail and go back to your father's keep,

Your beating heart remembers the reason for your departure and clings to determination.

Can you resolve not to be the villain in this story if and when it's told a thousand years from now?

Perhaps you won't be its hero either,

But if you can help it,

You'll be remembered for doing what was right.

You never could see yourself on the throne despite being raised for it.

Power has always seemed to you this impossibly unsavory thing,

Something that once won must be clung to at all costs.

You watched your father's furrowed brow etch permanent lines into his face,

Saw how fearful he was of losing control of the realm despite what seemed to you like a secure reign.

But his rule is,

After all,

A regency.

He never claimed the title of monarch.

That was reserved for you.

You were called upon to cement your family's legacy as the true rulers of the realm.

And for a time,

Loyalty to your house overrode your distaste for power.

But on the day your ascendancy was set to be declared,

You made a choice that changed your life forever and set you on the path toward your current misadventure.

On that fateful day,

You stepped beyond the walls of the keep to walk among the people of the capital.

Unsupervised and in commoners' clothing,

You spoke with people from all over the realm,

Learning of their fears and struggles,

And hearing stories of the strange magic waking across the land.

You've long known that your father came to be regent after the old king was deposed by his army.

But for the first time in the company of the common folk,

You learned of the existence of the old king's child.

Though they were thought long gone,

Rumors have surfaced that the youth recently came of age and now gathers support in the West.

Rather than igniting a sense of jealousy or defensiveness,

However,

This revelation of someone with potentially a more legitimate claim to the throne has sparked a feeling of uncanny lightness,

Of liberation,

As if a great weight has been lifted and you've been absolved of the responsibility to rule.

It's never so simple,

Though,

Is it?

Through your interactions with the common people,

You came to truly empathize with the challenges faced by those outside the castle walls.

And with that understanding came deep resolve,

A sense of clear responsibility.

When you feel compelled to help the people of the realm,

To advocate for those without a voice,

To serve all,

Whether you do so from the throne or not,

It isn't power you're interested in,

But stewardship.

And so to simply step aside in favor of this other claimant would be a disservice to the people.

You owe it to them,

And yourself,

To discover whether this lost heir will rule with their best interests at heart or whether they only seek power and revenge for their own sake.

For all these reasons,

For the conflict and care in your heart,

And for the sake of the people,

You stepped into a small boat and followed the river westward.

And westward you've continued to travel,

On nothing more than an inkling that your quarry lies somewhere in the vicinity of the western mountains.

You've heard whispers that a dragon was spotted there not long ago,

The first dragon sighting in decades.

You know the symbol of the old king's house was the dragon,

So such a rumor can hardly be a coincidence.

Certainly the thought of facing a dragon,

And perhaps its rider,

Strikes fear in your heart,

But you believe you're motivated by something higher than fear.

You move forward in trust and in love.

A chorus of crickets sends you softly to sleep,

The distant songs of nightbirds never penetrating your deep slumber.

Muscles exhausted from walking at last relax,

Repair,

And restore themselves in rest.

And soon you are visited,

As you are every night now,

By the dream.

In it you glide through a forest,

Perhaps this forest,

With a sword at your side,

And the mist rolls in about the trees with a mirror-like shine,

Reflecting back to you a face you've never seen in the waking world,

But one so familiar it almost aches.

You rise with the sun and waste no time continuing your journey.

Surely you think there must soon be an end to this forest.

As you go,

You amuse yourself with remembrances of the books you've read,

The lays and romances told by court troubadours,

Stories of enchanted forests,

Landscapes of adventure.

What if,

Round the next tree,

You discover someone in need of rescuing?

Fight with merry thieves,

Or encounter questing beasts?

It's a pleasant enough way to pass the time,

Even as your eyes nervously flick upward now and then,

Searching the skies for a real beast out of the storybooks.

So you do not regret your decision to leave the city,

And you firmly believe you are on a path to doing what's right.

You do have one regret.

It was,

You realize,

Impulsive to jump into a boat with no provisions and no sword.

All your years of training in swordplay amount to little when you walk alone and unarmed in the wood.

So while you think on myths and monsters,

You silently hope you encounter no one in the trees,

Whether friend or foe.

The sun is just beginning to weep westerly when the trees become less dense,

And for the first time you can see where the forest ends.

It's a relief to leave the woods,

But open country comes with its own feeling of exposure.

As you emerge from the trees and meet a great expanse of shallow hills,

You realize,

Maybe for the first time,

How enclosed your life has always been.

You're not sure you've ever stood in such vast,

Uncultivated space.

It's strange,

And you meet it with something like awe.

Over the hills you travel on,

Until,

In the late afternoon light,

You crest a knoll to come upon a village,

Nestled there between the rolling hills.

It is idyllic and charming,

Like the little towns of storybooks.

From one establishment you can see smoke rising from the chimney,

And even from your place a short distance away,

You catch the scent of food,

Real food.

Your stomach growls,

Unsated by the foraged berries of the wood,

And you yearn to sit in comfort and eat what you will.

Before you know it,

You are practically bounding toward the establishment,

Hunger and hope giving you renewed energy.

It's a public house you find on approach,

The stag's head.

As the door swings open and a rambunctious duo exit,

With them come the tantalizing aromas of home-cooked meals.

Before you step inside,

However,

You stop the merry fellows leaving the establishment.

Begging your pardon,

Friends,

You say,

Could you tell me the name of this town?

Ah,

A traveler,

Says the taller of the two.

Merry meet.

A charming greeting.

In your head rings the old song that's often sung at midwinter in the capital.

Merry meet and merry part,

And merry meet again.

Merry meet indeed,

You respond,

And the two men chortle,

Clap you jovially on the back,

And depart.

You watch them go,

Bewildered,

But assume they've simply overindulged in ale.

In you go,

Your mouth watering at the scent of real,

Fresh food.

The frenzied barmaid greets you and points to a small table in the corner.

The place is nearly full,

And abuzz with laughter and conversation.

This would seem a happy,

Energetic place.

When a short time later,

You're fed and content,

And the tavern's denizens slowly trickle out,

You catch the barmaid's attention.

When you inform her that you're passing through from other lands,

She gives you an amused expression,

Suggesting that she already knows.

She must know everyone in town,

You think.

And you pose to her the same question you asked the men outside.

What is the name of this town?

Marrymeat?

She smiles.

Marrymeat to you,

You respond,

Then reiterate your question.

The barmaid chuckles.

My friend,

She says,

This is the town of Marrymeat.

And she scurries back toward the kitchen,

Still chuckling under her breath at your ignorance.

Now the middle-aged man and woman at the next table lean toward you.

Where are you coming from?

The man says,

Good-naturedly.

You know better than to give too much information.

After all,

The heir to the throne,

Discovered unarmed in unfamiliar territory,

Is a recipe for more than mischief.

So you simply respond,

East.

The strangers nod.

Have you got some place to stay?

Asks the woman.

I'd hope to find an inn,

If you can tell me where to go,

You answer.

You'll want to get in before sundown,

She says.

You give her a puzzled look.

The man,

Her husband,

You presume,

Jumps in.

We've a room to let,

He says.

We don't live far,

And we'll charge a fair price.

After some negotiation,

You shake the hands of your new landlords,

William and Rose.

They strike you as generous,

Playful folk.

They settle up with the barmaid,

And together you depart the stag's head.

The journey to their little house is short,

As they explained,

But it does take you across the village square.

It's a sort of effortlessly charming,

You find,

And as pleasant as it is to pass through,

You're surprised to see it so empty of people.

But the sun sags,

And the few folk who still loiter in the square are quickly packing up to go.

You can't help but notice the centerpiece of the square,

Though,

And despite your host's eagerness to get home,

You stop them to inquire about it.

Surrounded by iron fencing and a small garden,

At the center of the square there is a colossal stone,

Rough and jagged around its edges.

It's nearly as tall as you are,

And just as wide as it is high.

But what makes the thing,

This unassuming boulder,

So eye-catching,

Is the blade protruding from it,

Which catches the last of the light and glints so bright you must shield your eyes.

The blade is silver steel,

And the hilt a gleaming gold.

Wedged at an angle into the very heart of the rock,

Its strange appearance sends something of a shiver through you.

In the soft haze of waning sun,

The sword sparkles and hums.

Rose and William say little,

Only that it was here before the town of Merrymeat was ever built around it,

That it's a curiosity which inspires many local legends.

They'll tell you more,

Whatever they know,

But it really is time to get inside.

Why the haste,

You wonder aloud,

Stepping over the threshold of your host's modest home,

A townhouse close to the village square.

The spare room's up there,

William says,

Then gestures to another chamber.

You can wash up in there whenever you like,

Surely you're tired from the journey.

But you continue to press the couple's reticence,

Asking again why there is such urgency to be inside before sundown.

It hasn't always been this way,

Says Rose.

Merrymeat was as safe as safe can be,

Till recently,

When the beast came.

The beast,

You ask?

Every night,

William picks up where his wife left off.

It comes out of the woods and walks the streets of the town,

Like it's looking for something,

Or prowling for food.

And then by morning,

It's gone.

But we're a town that looks after people.

Everyone's inside before dark now,

And we won't let travelers like yourself be caught unawares.

What is this beast,

You ask?

Have you ever seen it?

William chuckles.

Wouldn't be here if I had.

Has anyone seen it,

Then?

Has it harmed anyone?

In your mind,

You picture a wolf,

Or even a bear,

Lumbering out of the forest.

The same forest you so recently passed through,

Even camped in,

Untouched by beasts of any kind.

Well,

No,

Says Rose.

But the blacksmith heard it sniffing round his door one evening,

And the butcher's stores were raided not long ago.

You can sense that both your hosts are unnerved.

You certainly didn't intend to take advantage of their hospitality,

And then question their worries and experience.

The people of Merrymeet would,

After all,

Be among your subjects,

Should you assume the crown one day.

It occurs to you that this presents a unique opportunity to practice empathy and understanding without the trappings of court.

I'm sorry,

You say.

I don't mean to cast any doubt.

I understand how you feel,

And I wish I knew how to help.

As William brings tea and nightcaps,

You turn to the other subject that piques your curiosity.

The sword,

You say.

Can you tell me more about it?

This subject seems to lift the spirits of your company,

As the sun finally sets outside the little townhouse.

It turns out there are countless local legends that have sprung from the blade wedged in the stone.

As you heard before,

The whole town was built around it,

And no one seems to know how long it was there before the square was constructed.

Many believe it was put there by an ancient warrior,

One of the great proto-kings of myth,

Who drove his own sword into the rock as a symbolic gesture to profess that peace would now reign in the realm.

And some say that only when the hero is reborn or reawakened from centuries-long slumber will the blade be reclaimed.

Others believe any worthy hero or leader might one day pull the sword from the stone.

In fact,

Each year,

On the longest day of summer,

The folk of Merrymeet gather in the village square to play games,

Dance and sing,

Serve a great feast,

And test their strength.

One by one,

Every person in the town who wishes can take their turn and try to pull the sword from the rock.

It's all good fun and nothing more,

William insists,

For no one has the strength to dislodge the thing from its place.

At this,

Rose laughs and informs you that her husband tries and fails every year.

The conversation warms you.

You've never spent this kind of dedicated time with honest,

Working people.

Their fears,

Their joys,

These are somehow infinitely more interesting and endearing than the goings-on of the aristocracy and courtiers.

You imagine the atmosphere at this summer festival,

The laughter,

The good-natured competition.

You find yourself longing for such a community,

And for a moment,

You entertain the notion of casting everything off,

Abandoning your quest,

And finding work here in the village of Merrymead.

You can easily see yourself fulfilled here,

Working as an apprentice,

Or selling food,

Doing something to serve the community,

But still there nags the reminder of your higher purpose,

To find the lost heir to the throne,

The reminder of your role in the fate of an entire kingdom.

All the while you converse with William and Rose,

You listen and look to the windows.

Something about the townsfolk's fear of this supposed beast doesn't sit right with you.

You aim not to distress your hosts any longer about it,

But you long to know more.

When cups are empty and eyelids heavy,

You bid goodnight to William and Rose.

You wash up and step into clothes they've left for you to borrow,

While yours,

Freshly washed,

Hang to dry overnight.

After several nights sleeping on knotted roots and damp soil,

The bed in the spare room feels fit for royalty.

As you climb beneath the covers,

Gratitude sinks in sweetly.

Now,

More than once,

You've seen firsthand the kindness of common people,

Strangers,

The willingness of your would-be subjects to extend themselves for others.

You are determined to depart Merrymead in the morning and continue your journey westward.

But there's a cozy part of you that already feels very much at home,

And feels an attachment and responsibility to the townsfolk.

Should you choose to take the crown when all is said and done,

The first thing you'll do is send someone to investigate this mysterious night visitor to the village and free them from the fear.

Sleep comes over you quickly as you relish the comfort of a real bed in the enclosed space.

But it doesn't stay long.

You aren't even asleep long enough for the dream to come.

You wake,

Awash in moonlight,

And for a moment you wonder if you're back in the woods.

But here you are,

Snug beneath blankets in a warm chamber.

Through the window there streams the glow of a bright,

Full moon.

You stand rubbing your eyes and go to the window to close the drapes,

But first you look outside at the quiet,

Sleepy village of Merrymead.

In the flood of moonlight you can see quite well the hills that surround the town,

Even the tops of the trees in that wild forest beyond.

You've got a view of a corner of the square,

And just a few of the intersecting,

Winding alleys that branch off from it.

It's so serene,

So quaint,

This peaceful and idyllic counterpoint to your charmed existence.

You wonder what might it have been like to grow up in a place like this.

What kind of person would you be?

Soon the sleepiness resumes,

Softening your face and eyelids.

As you let loose the drape and turn to go back to bed,

Though,

Something catches your eye.

You gaze downward at the darkened street,

And as your eyes acclimate to the dimness,

You can make out something,

A shadow,

Large and vague,

Moving through the alley below.

What is that,

You wonder?

You track its movements till it leaves your line of sight.

It's almost mesmerizing to watch the shadow go,

Like it draws your attention in.

Is this the mysterious creature,

Then,

Whose nightly presence forces the residents of Merrymeet to hide in their homes?

And if it is,

Then why do you feel transfixed by it?

Not with fear,

But with aching curiosity.

Is it courage or delusion that decides what you do next?

You hardly spare time for a second thought before you're out the door of the chamber and tiptoeing down the stairs,

Aiming not to disturb your hosts if you can help it.

You silently step out the front door and onto the dim alley,

Lit only by the pale glow of the moon.

There's something quietly thrilling about being here,

The only soul with the streets to yourself,

Well,

You and the curious,

Vague shadow.

Somehow you feel no fear,

Only a strong desire to uncover the mystery.

So you go along the alleyway in the direction you saw the shadow pass.

You keep your footfalls soft,

Moving with the stealth you've mastered from training in swordplay.

There's a whisper of a chill in the night,

And it meets your lungs with invigorating freshness.

The scent of the forest pines carries,

Even here,

Throughout the valley.

By the low light,

The townhouses might be looming trees,

And the streets a winding forest path,

The village an enchanted wood,

The landscape of adventure.

The alleys twist and turn,

And you seem to cover the whole of the town by its darkened corridors.

Round and back,

And through and back again,

You move as if through a maze.

The night ages with each curve you round,

Before eventually you find yourself back in the town square.

It's sublimely serene here,

And you've found no trace of the shadow you're tracking,

This unknown beast.

A thin cloud scuds across the full moon,

Augmenting the light.

It's a subtle change,

But somehow it seems to shift the whole world around you,

Changing the direction and perspective of the shadows around.

You find your gaze drawn to the sword at the center of the plaza.

Even now,

In the dead of night,

It appears lit from within.

You imagine this land the way it was before the first stones were laid for the town hall,

When the valley blended seamlessly with the hills.

You can see in your mind the shape of an ancient hero,

A warrior who laid down his sword,

Drove it into the very rock in pursuit of peace.

Is this truly a relic of the mythic past before you?

Did such leaders ever exist,

Those willing to put an end to conflict,

Even if it meant relinquishing power?

So many questions,

So many mysteries just in this single,

Small town.

How much have you missed all these years hiding behind the walls of your father's keep?

You take a few steps toward the sword embedded in the stone,

And the light shifts again as the moon emerges from behind its veil of clouds.

All is once again bathed in its glow,

And from behind you,

There comes the near imperceptible sound of movement,

A rustle,

A footfall.

You turn around,

Facing the mouth of the alley from which you came,

And at once,

You can see two green eyes glittering in the darkness.

Slowly you take a step backward,

And another,

Backing away from those eyes and moving closer to the center of the square.

Then it steps into the moonglow,

One padded paw at a time,

Matching your cautious pace.

Even before you see its face,

You're strangely reminded of the scullery cat at the castle servants keep around to handle pests in the kitchen.

The way the cat slowly stalks mice,

Moving with intense focus and deliberation.

And this creature,

Stepping now toward you in rhythm with your footfalls,

Is,

You recognize,

A cat,

But not the kind you'd keep in the home for mousing.

This is,

In no uncertain terms,

A beast,

Great and majestic,

Muscular and broad,

With a wild mane of hair,

Framing its grave and glorious face.

You've never seen this kind of creature face to face before,

But you know it well.

Its image dons the heraldry of your royal house,

Graces the capital and the keep in tapestry,

Statuary,

And clothing.

This beast is a lion.

Is it ridiculous to think,

Even as you back away,

That this creature is beautiful?

You ought to be more afraid,

Oughtn't you?

This ought to feel like the movements of predator and prey.

So why does it feel,

To you,

More like a dance?

The echoing waltz of time and destiny,

Myth and memory.

Soon you realize you've come up against the gate that surrounds the monument and the sword.

The lion advances,

Still.

Without thinking,

You hoist yourself up and over the shallow gate.

The lion comes sniffing toward it,

Pacing back and forth,

As if assessing the iron for weaknesses,

Or trying to find a way through the barrier.

You reach for a crag in the massive stone and climb,

Putting more distance between yourself and the animal.

It circles you pensively and you can faintly hear a low rumble in its belly.

This is some conundrum you've gotten yourself into.

What happens next relies very much on what the lion does.

Perhaps it will lose interest in you and stalk its way back to the forest.

That,

However,

Could take all night,

And you don't fancy spending all these chilly hours huddled atop a rock.

Then there's the possibility that the lion could find a way through the gate,

Either by leaping over it,

Or even chewing its way through.

Once again you chastise yourself for leaving the capital in such haste,

With no weapon or means of defense.

No sword.

But then,

Here you are,

Atop the monumental rock,

In which is driven a sword out of legend.

About you circles a wild beast,

The symbol of your house.

The moon bears witness,

And the trees,

And the hills.

All of this feels very much like a dream,

Or a myth,

Or a song.

There is only one way forward,

And whatever the outcome,

You are poised to learn something about yourself.

Are you worthy?

Are you a hero?

Are you fit to bear the burdens of leadership,

Wielding power in service of something bigger than yourself?

Or are you better suited to the modest life,

To serve in quieter ways,

In smaller communities,

And ultimately,

Can a sword even answer these questions for you?

The breeze,

The whisper of the forest beyond the hills,

The beads of moonlight,

And the rumble of the circling lion,

All these collapse to a gentle hum,

Like a harp string plucked and sustained,

A buzzing in your ears,

And a ringing clarity,

A presence of mind.

Your dominant hand,

As if moved by a force beyond you,

Reaches and clasps round the hilt of the unclaimable sword,

And the cold steel warms to you,

All but instantly.

You tighten your grip,

While the world seems to wait,

With bated breath,

Solemn and still,

As you activate the muscles in your arm.

Your other hand comes to meet the one already grasping,

And with one swift heave,

You pull.

There's a momentary,

Dizzy dissonance,

The expectation of an immovable object,

Confronted with the reality of an effortless recoil.

You are nearly thrown back with the thrust of your own strength,

As the sword,

So long lodged in stone,

Comes sliding out,

Like a knife from butter.

The blade glistens in the moonlight,

And the sound of it slipping from the rock joins with the hum of the hills.

Dazed and disbelieving,

You marvel at the sword in your hands,

This symbol of worth,

Of heroism,

Of war and peace.

It's surprisingly light for a blade of its size,

With a balance unmatched by any you've trained with.

And yet it feels remarkably at home in your hands,

Like you've always known its lines and curves,

Its heft and flexibility.

This blade,

You must believe,

Is yours,

Has been waiting for you all these ages.

But there will be time,

You think,

To admire,

To ponder the meaning of the sword and your claiming of it.

Now is the time to confront the beast who stalks you,

To show strength and courage,

And drive it,

You hope,

From the happy village of Merrymead.

With caution,

But also a lightness to your step that was not there before,

You leap down from the rock.

The lion regards you with a glint in his eyes.

He stops his circling,

Conscious,

It seems,

Of the outstretched blade and the danger it poses.

As you approach the garden gate,

Stepping between the primroses,

The lion perceptibly flinches.

Yes,

You realize,

There is fear in those eyes.

Or if not fear,

A kind of awesome reverence.

With this boost of confidence,

You hoist yourself up and over the iron gate once more.

So the only thing between you and the lion is the sword.

There's a strange sense of calm that settles over you now,

A feeling of surrender to circumstance.

There is no roadmap for what you are doing,

Or indeed for any choice you've made since that fateful day you left the castle.

Every step you've taken has been a wild leap of faith.

So in the same way you've put your trust in the world,

The path,

The river,

To guide you right,

You now put your trust in the extraordinary blade you carry.

You take a slow step forward toward the lion,

Thinking you can drive him back,

Intimidate him enough to send him for the hills,

Without doing any harm to the beast,

An ideal outcome,

Certainly.

You take another step,

And now the blade nearly touches the nose of the majestic animal.

But just when you expect the lion to begin backing away,

Something else happens,

Something entirely unexpected.

The lion lowers his heavy,

Maned head,

Then sits backward on his haunches.

With front paws outstretched,

He turns his face toward the ground and stills.

The gesture is unmistakable.

The lion is bowing before you.

It's only now that you realize how close it is to morning,

As a glimmer of rosy warmth tints the sky in the east.

Dawn approaches,

And a great lion,

The symbol of your house,

Kneels at your feet.

With only a moment's hesitation,

You slowly lower your blade.

With one hand outstretched,

Your heart thumping away in your chest,

But your breathing steady,

A wave of serenity within,

Without.

You step forward once more,

A little at a time,

Until the lion lifts his eyes the slightest bit,

And uncannily,

Like a house cat angling for attention,

Pushes his head into your hand.

At the contact,

Your breath catches in your throat.

It's such an impossible thing,

But here you are.

Between you,

Something sparkles.

Crimson rays of emergent sunlight begin to dapple the humming hills,

And a kingly beast nuzzles your hand.

There is something wondrous at work here,

You recognize.

Does it come from the sword,

Or from you?

Do you wield some unfathomable instrument of peace?

Whatever the course,

You understand one thing clearly in this moment.

You were meant to come here,

To meet the folk of this town,

To find the sword,

And to encounter the beast.

He is no harmful creature to be feared,

But a boon.

And beyond any doubt,

You know that the lion will become your closest,

Most loyal companion in this adventure.

It's all there,

In the palpable connection between you.

He was waiting for you,

Stalking the streets each night,

Hoping to pull out your scent.

Now the sun is rising,

Round and golden over the trees.

The same sun rises over the waters of the capital,

And the hiding place of your supposed rival for the crown.

The sun rises over Merrymead,

And with it the people are rising,

Coming out of their homes to begin the work of another day,

To ring the bells,

And put out the washing,

To open the businesses,

And sell their wares.

First they trickle,

And then they flood into the square,

And with them rise shouts of disbelief,

And awe at what they see.

A stranger,

A traveler,

Bearing the sword of legend,

Subduing a wild and wondersome beast.

With this new companion,

And this sword of power,

He will depart the village.

He will find the lost heir to the kingdom,

And the answers to all the questions that haunt you still.

But this will not be the last time you set foot in Merrymead.

These are your people.

These are folk who sheltered you,

And welcomed you as a stranger,

And you would repay that kindness.

You will,

At length,

Return.

For in your mind,

An old song echoes.

It skips along the shining aura of sunrise,

And through the palm of your hand,

And your fingers twined in the lion's mane.

Merrymead,

And Merrypart,

And Merrymead again.

Start to notice the rhythm of your breath.

Take a deep breath in,

And release.

Softening.

Let go of any physical tension,

Anything racing through your mind,

And simply trust that you are exactly where you need to be,

And there's nothing you need to do right now.

But relax,

And settle in for sleep.

Relax into the sensations of the body.

Is there any place you're still tensing,

And can you let that go,

Allowing yourself to soften deeper?

Maybe it's letting the feet and the ankles roll outward.

The forehead or jaw soften.

The tongue come away from the roof of the mouth.

The shoulders release.

As you relax deeply in the body,

And work to empty the mind of all cares or concerns,

We'll create a safe,

Supported space to nourish your inner strength and courage.

Breathe deeply,

Feeling the support of the surface beneath you,

Trusting the earth as your foundation for courage.

In your mind's eye,

Start to imagine a gentle,

Warm light glowing at the center of your chest.

This light represents your strength,

Your resilience,

Your bravery.

With each breath in,

Feel the light growing a little brighter,

A little warmer,

Radiating a calm,

Comforting energy,

Filling your chest with warmth and power.

It's steady and constant,

Always present.

Whether you see it or not.

As you breathe,

Let this warm light expand outward,

Sending waves of strength through your arms,

Down to your hands,

Through your legs,

Down to your feet.

It reaches every part of the body,

Infusing you with courage and calm.

Trust that there is strength in peace.

There is courage in composure.

In fact,

Your bravery shines brightest when you are able to slow down,

Take a breath,

And fully and deeply accept yourself.

Trust yourself.

Even the face of things that worry or concern you.

Remember that courage isn't always a battle cry.

Sometimes it's a light,

A lantern to guide you on your journey,

And to clear the path for others to follow suit.

Let your light shine,

Warming you throughout the body and clearing your mind.

If it feels right,

You can repeat the following phrases in your mind,

Planting them like seeds in your subconscious,

Sowing them in your sleep.

I am strong.

I shine with courage.

I am brave,

Even in stillness.

I inspire others,

Even at rest.

I am strong.

Let that go,

And settle deeper into the surface beneath you.

Breathe.

Good night.

Reviews

Great story! Love your voice! Thanks for sharing with us!

Amazing 💤🤍

This teacher has such a calming voice that I always fall asleep. I never make it to the end of the story that she narrates. It’s like being a child again.

Thank you, Laurel🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻When listening in November, I never quite got to the end of it. Now, suddenly, this popped up again, and it looked like it was going the same way, yet finally, I “discovered” the full story. Love(d) where myth, and legend, and the magical met, all signs of the magnificent storyteller that you truly are🙏🏻🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🙏🏻

Beautiful and soothing sleep stories. I love the adaptations and references to classical literature! Thank you.

Keeps putting me right in sleep 😴

Love 💕 this so much. Thank you 🙏

Such amazing tales, fabulously narrated, love them all. My go to sleep stories are always from Sleep & Sourcery. Can we please have some more school of sourcery and Surrey alley stories, they are always excellent. ♥️

I always love your beautiful stories and look forward to the next one.

Amazing, Laurel! I love this latest installment and can’t wait for the next as this plot weaves new and beautiful tapestry… so appreciate your skills🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼❤️❤️

Brilliant story!

Wonderful story and beautiful reading. Thank you. Blessings