The Forging Of Excalibur

In tonight’s Arthurian sleep story, you witness the creation of a powerful sword, meant for the new high king of Britain. You oversee its forging, discover its name, and imagine the kind of king who will wield it. You create a magical scabbard to hold the great sword, imbuing it with protective enchantments. At last, you meet the king destined to hold Excalibur: Arthur, and present him with his gifts.

If you’re still awake at the end of the story, I’ll guide you through a relaxing visualization and sleep countdown.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon, Crystal Castle by Flouw, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Forge a legendary sword and weave the threads of history in tonight's Arthurian Sleep 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.

I'm here to help you fall asleep.

Listen to my voice for as long as it serves you,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and make your way into sleep.

If you are still awake at the end of the story,

I'll guide you through a relaxing visualization and sleep countdown.

In tonight's story,

You witness the creation of a powerful sword meant for the new High King of Britain.

You oversee its forging,

Discover its name,

And imagine the kind of king who will wield it.

You create a magical scabbard to hold the great sword,

Imbuing it with protective enchantments.

At last,

You meet the king destined to hold Excalibur,

Arthur,

And you present him with his gifts.

And then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might,

And there came an arm and a hand above the water,

And met it,

And caught it,

And so shook it thrice and brandished,

And then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water,

Sir Thomas Mallory.

Far-seeing as the one who waits beneath the water,

Water holds memory.

It moves,

Invisibly changing shape and course.

When the rain falls and the country floods,

Down come the messages and whispers of a hundred million drops,

A hundred million memories.

A river is never the same river twice,

But even a lake,

Sitting still and tranquil in the heart of the hills,

Has its movements.

It hears the glad tidings,

And the sorrowful ones,

Too.

The nose of the death of kings,

The desolation of lands,

The migration of peoples.

It is only too happy to share its knowledge,

But water can also conceal.

Much more lies below the surface than is often realized.

Entire palaces of crystal shimmer beneath ocean tides,

Home to spirits and dragons.

And in the most unassuming places,

The ponds,

The pools,

The lakes that lie beneath the sun,

There flowers such sweet enchantment as to not be believed.

The surface of your lake,

Starry in the night and glistening at dawn,

Is a veil,

An illusion.

Should a traveler pass through by boat when the water gathers,

Brackish and deep enough to make all the hills of the region into islands,

He might skate across the rooftops of your citadel and never know of your presence,

But stumble through the curtain,

And the traveler would discover a whole world beneath the water,

A whole enchanted isle of mystery and magic,

Not submerged,

But subsumed,

Rather,

In the shifting mist.

This is the place where your story began,

Where it lingers lately,

And where,

Very likely,

It will end.

You belong beneath the lake.

It is your domain.

As the old songs and stories slowly fade from dry land,

Kept alive by your harp and by the bards in your employ,

Fewer and fewer know the way to the seat of your duchy.

Merlin the Enchanter,

With his words of power,

Can still open the doors.

You sensed his arrival before today,

A message brought to you on the crystals of dew shaken from the hazel trees on the shore.

He comes at midday,

Brown cloak drawn about his shoulders and oaken staff in his hand.

Though you know very little of his purpose,

You have long known of his friendship with the late king,

Uther Pendragon,

Whose throne has sat empty these many years.

You regard him with a sort of grave curiosity.

What could a wizard of such high a station want from you?

After a few pleasantries,

He accepts a seat at the hearth.

He's traveled a great distance and is grateful for your offer of food and water to be brought from the kitchens.

It's been some time since you saw one another,

But the bonds of friendship do not easily break once forged.

And it's not long before you are conversing easily with the famed Enchanter.

He comes to the purpose of his visit with his characteristic dance,

Slowly spiraling round the subject in a daze of words.

He weaves recent history like poetry,

Making images come alive in your head.

In the wake of the Pendragon's death,

The sorcerer drove into a stone a sword which could never be pulled except by the true king of the land.

Knights and nobles have come for years to the site,

Proud and certain in their abilities,

Only for the sword not to budge an inch.

Conflict stirs on every shore and within the realm itself,

But vines and weeds grow thick upon the throne.

Even with a weaker spirit might slink along Merlin's stories as if asleep,

Unconsciously agreeing to more and more extravagant proposals.

Then wake with no memory of what it is they've agreed to.

It's a good thing you know his mind and know some of his magic,

So you're not so easily spellbound by him.

You can see a few steps ahead,

Matching his charms with your own.

You learn through Merlin's conversation of the coming of a boy to court,

This hapless child,

Fostered in relative obscurity by one of Uther's vassals,

Never trained except as a squire for his foster brother,

Has evidently pulled the sword from the stone.

The boy is young,

But has great heart and sensitivity,

Merlin claims.

If he can be steered right,

He might one day bring all the disparate kingdoms together under one banner,

As his father tried once in vain to do.

He is,

Merlin insists,

The true-born son of Uther,

But in response to his emergence and unexpected claiming of the throne,

This unknown son of the High King now faces an uprising.

Nearly every baron and petty lord of the lesser kingdoms has taken up arms against the child,

And this in addition to threats of Saxon invasions.

Save for his confidence in Merlin,

The boy is alone.

You try to summon him in your mind's eye,

The king's obscure son,

Raised in hiding all these years,

A child against the world,

Destined for the throne of a proud land,

But now you come to the heart of it.

The reason for the wizard's coming,

The balance of power is delicate,

And a strange fate awaits the youth.

He cannot hope to succeed,

Merlin indicates,

Without a show of faith and a symbol of unified sovereignty.

But surely,

You muse,

He has such a symbol already,

The sword he carries,

That which he slid from the stone when no other could shift it,

Is proof of his sole inheritance.

What more could anyone need,

Who had witnessed its retrieval?

That,

The enchanter explains,

The devilish sparkle in his eye,

Is why he comes to you now.

It's not enough,

He says,

To pull sword from stone,

And not enough to have the hand of Uther's own advisor.

The barons of this land are proud and loathe to accept change,

They have fought for generations for this glittering isle at the ends of the earth,

And now they've lived long without a high king,

So their only allegiance is to the realm,

To the land,

The sky,

And the waters.

The boy may be right-wise king,

According to land,

He has made his claim by stones and earth and blood,

He has at his side a Merlin,

Who like the bird his namesake has his domain in the sky,

But to convince the lords who stand against them,

He will need the waters.

Just your conscious effort,

You feel your cheeks suddenly flush,

It only now dawns on you that Merlin,

By rights the most powerful man of the isle,

Advisor to kings and worker of impressive magics,

Has come in deference,

Needing something that he doesn't have,

He needs you,

Guardian of the sacred waters,

At this moment,

You are the balance in which the world hangs,

This must have been what it was like in the days long past,

You think,

When mankind honored the sublime creation all around him,

Instead of losing themselves in petty conflicts and war over territory,

In those days,

Your predecessors were the most beloved,

Most invoked stewards of the sacred,

Now,

The soul and memory of man have degraded such that many know nothing of your existence,

Whole rivers have dried up under their hands,

And the sea remains a harsh risk rather than a praised partner,

What remains of you and your ilk is song and superstition,

You are no more a channel for the divine,

But a fairy tale told to children by the fireside,

So to have the enchanter make such a genuine plea is a thrill,

For the first time you feel the empowerment that should have come with your position,

You feel yourself compelled to rise,

To stand above the sorcerer in height and station,

As you come to your feet,

You seem to stretch to the ceiling,

Drawn up with wisdom and purpose,

What would you ask,

Merlin,

Of the sovereign of the lake,

He makes his intention known,

The boy,

Arthur is his name,

Has a sword,

But it will not command armies,

You employ the most gifted smiths in any world,

They languish here,

Merlin laughs,

Casting only jewels and diadems for your ladies-in-waiting,

But should they forge a mighty sword,

One that could cut steel,

One so bright as to catch the rays of the sun like the lake at dawn,

And should the boy king carry that blade,

A symbol of the sacred waters,

Into battle against the Saxons,

Then might his barons rise to the occasion of a unified Britain,

You can see it,

A vision of glinting metal on the glimmer of rippled water,

In your mind,

A sword forged in the waters of the lake,

Your otherworldly abode,

Might Merlin only be planting such visions to feed your ego,

No,

You've steeled your mind against his tricks,

This is true insight,

Branching from the flash of light on the blade,

Into a spectrum of possible futures,

If the young king carried such a sword,

It might remind his people of their commitment to the waters,

It might awaken their sleeping devotion to the natural and unseen worlds,

Deeply,

Though you do not say it aloud,

You are touched by Merlin's coming to you for this task,

Instead of claiming it for himself,

His magic is that of the sky,

He has brilliant command of prophecy,

Like the sun and its all-seeing rays,

He has mastered dragons and built castles and monuments,

From crumbling ruins to cloudward triumphs,

He can change men's minds through glamour and trickery,

Your magic is different,

Quieter,

More fluid,

It is water magic,

The magic of memory and dreams,

Of misty visions and protective enchantments,

You do not change minds or trick souls,

But you can sway hearts,

As gently as the lake sways the lilies on its surface,

The king will carry a sword,

Forged in water magic,

Only one thing holds you back,

Why has Merlin not brought the youth hither,

How are you to place your faith and a sword into the hands of this unknown boy,

How can you trust him with the word of the lake,

You close your eyes,

Softening your awareness of the room in which you and the great enchanter negotiate,

You feel the tiny unseen droplets of mist in the air,

The moisture that escapes on exhales and mingles with your environment,

Those drops once swam in the sea and also fell as rain on the lake's surface,

The very water in your body has traveled for thousands of years,

Across incalculable distances,

Retaining shapes and memories along the way,

You look inward to the water in you,

To find faith in this new king,

At last,

He takes fuzzy form in your mind,

His appearance matters little,

It's his heart you hope to know,

Will it sway,

You breathe,

Conscious of the water's exchange within and without your body,

And you open your eyes,

Softly,

Sweetly,

You agree to Merlin's request,

You'll send for the best of your smiths on the morrow to set about the task,

Merlin departs,

Pleased,

And you retire to your bedchambers to dream and to wonder if indeed he worked his wiliest charms upon you,

It's three nights before the forging begins,

The intervening time bought up with careful planning and endless proposals,

A king's sword must be light enough to carry with ease,

But it must also impress and intimidate his enemies,

It must be simple in design,

And yet invoke the pedigree of the holder,

The sacred domains of land,

Sky,

And water,

It must cut steel and shine in the light of truth and honor,

One by one,

Your smiths come forward with designs,

Some extravagant and some austere,

But none is the sword you imagine,

The sword of the lake,

Until,

At length,

An apprentice comes forward,

He presents a vision well beyond his level of training,

A slender blade affixed so seamlessly to golden hilt,

That they should appear almost as one,

Unified,

Like the hopes for Britain,

Gold melting to silver,

And back again,

For decoration he proposes two chimeras set in the hilt,

That when the sword is unsheathed,

Should be seen almost to expel two flames of fire,

The picture this youthful apprentice paints,

Strikes fire in the mind and heart,

Forged in fire and lake water,

This is the sword of a king,

You think,

Rich is the soil with metals in this low-lying country,

And you have no want for precious materials,

Iron and even gold are held in abundance beneath the veil of the lake,

You see to it that the forged fires are lit,

Before the dark moon,

A traveler through your lands on such a night,

Unaided by moonlight,

Might,

If he had the wisdom of the water,

Perceive the pulsing glow of amber,

Beneath the glassy surface of the lake,

His only beacon through the shadow of evening,

And the only indication to the whereabouts of your magical realm,

Your smiths humble themselves to work under the newly elevated apprentice,

Pounding and pulling the iron,

And pouring the gold,

Radiant heat ignites the droplets of water in the air,

Which shiver and condense,

The mist muddled realm sways for now,

To the music of the grindstone,

You visit the forge frequently to observe their progress,

Each day a dozen shattered blades fall,

Another broken hilt,

At times you find yourself in a kind of trance,

Hypnotized by the ritual dance of the smiths,

Your eyes slide out of focus to soften the harsh light of the molten metals,

Your mind swims across the folds of the material,

Each iteration is a ceremony in itself,

From beginning to incomplete end,

Each unfinished attempt at the sword carries the passion and precision of a master swordsmith,

You are not a smith,

You can only come close to understanding their efforts,

The beads of sweat upon each brow convey deep thought and sacred duty,

As much as their profession is one of strength and conditioned labor,

It also requires a mastery of delicacy and fine art,

You find yourself in the heat of the forge,

Enthralled and faintly envious of such ability,

Though they work in your name and under your auspices,

You feel removed from the craft and the gift,

You long to activate your own hands toward the blessing of the new king,

To inspire his reign with a gift of your own making,

This yearning plants a seed which grows mightier with every visit you make to the forge,

An itch in your fingers to work,

To participate in the initiation of the youthful monarch,

At last,

Like the tremulation of water when the herd thunders by,

It comes to you what your contribution should be,

When you sit down at your sewing table,

Your hands follow the tide of your mind,

You envision a beautiful scabbard,

Made of fine leather and encrusted with jewels,

One that affirms the high status of the wearer and his allegiance to the three sacred realms,

If a sword is an instrument of war and a symbol of martial power,

What then is its sheath,

Would that you could cast a cloak of protection round the boy that he might never remove,

This will have to do,

Nimble and swift,

Your fingers work the leather,

Overcoming the resistance of the material,

You dress it with fragrant oils and flower essences,

With needle and thread,

Fold over fold,

You bring the pieces together,

Your movements are fluid and woven into every stitch,

Is a spell,

You weave charms of protection and preservation,

It is the magic of water,

Which is soft and skilled as it is powerful and destructive,

Onto the scabbard you stitch fragments of aquamarine,

Bloodstone,

Moonstone and ruby,

You spin golden thread with which to stitch spirals and sigils,

The motions of your hands carve the same dance as that of the smiths away in the forge,

Tracing the same ritual,

All the while,

You think of the young king,

The child destined to carry this sword,

In the hopes of a great land,

How brave he must be,

Or how foolish,

When you've sewn the last stitch on the scabbard you know,

Through the messages of water,

Breath and dreams,

That the sword too is complete,

Thrust to temper in the waters of the lake,

You can sense its sizzle and seal,

When Merlin comes again,

He brings the boy,

Their approach is heralded by an autumn rain,

Which tickles the surface of the lake and gathers in familiar shapes,

You bring together your smiths and your attendants to greet them,

All dressed in the finest silks of the secret isle,

The sword rests,

Safe inside its scabbard,

On a pedestal before you,

The enchanter and the king ride in a small boat,

Its bow cutting a path through the reeds and widening marsh,

The fog lies heavy all around,

And they are both before and above you,

Navigating the strange landscape of the mysteries,

They cannot see you,

And might,

Without help,

Skim over the surface of the lake,

Arriving at an empty shore,

Unable to retrieve the promised boon,

The forges are dim,

And the sun clouded,

What beacon can you shine,

Curling your fingers round the golden hilt,

You pull the sword from its sheath,

On its emergence,

The twin chimeras of the hilt blaze,

And the blade glisters with diamond sparks,

Myriads of topaz lights,

And sapphire gleam,

It shines,

And also seems to sing,

A quivering note of high and elegant frequency,

You hoist the blade aloft,

Marveling at its lightness in your untrained hand,

At its ethereal glimmer,

The sword pierces the surface of the lake,

The illusory veil of mist that obscures your citadel,

Breaking through the curtain between worlds,

The travelers,

King and advisor,

Would behold only this,

An arm,

Clothed in white samite,

Rising from the midst of the lake,

And in that hand a fair sword clasped,

Bright as the dawn,

And shining,

Now Merlin stands in the boat,

With arms outstretched in devotion,

Muttering his words of power to part the mists,

Down,

Down the boat descends to dock,

In your enchanted harbor,

The boy,

A mere silhouette before,

Is revealed in the shifting of the waters,

This is Arthur,

His hair is flaxen,

And his eyes,

Kind and fair,

Here is a youth with the weight of the world on his shoulders,

He faces ceaseless invasion,

Doubt,

And infighting,

And yet the spark of hope is still in him,

He seems in your eyes,

To gleam like gold,

Visions haunting your gaze again,

The sight of him sways your heart,

You feel a burgeoning tenderness toward him,

And an utter faith in your efforts to protect him,

But when he steps from the boat,

Come to claim his right as High King,

He kneels to you,

As does Merlin the Enchanter,

It is a show of deference to your sovereignty here,

And to the sanctity of all the waters,

By genuflecting,

He affirms that he does not rule the sacred realms of land,

Waters,

And sky,

He serves them,

And by this action he becomes worthy of the gifts you bestow,

A sword,

Fit for a king,

A uniter,

A scabbard,

Woven and dressed with spells of protection,

The name of it,

You say,

Lowering the mighty sword,

Which balances naturally across your palms,

Is Excalibur,

That is as much to say,

As cut steel,

When presented with the regalia,

Merlin poses a question to the young king,

Which do you prize more,

Asks the magician,

His eyes aglow once more with tricksterly amusement,

The sword or the scabbard,

The youth laughs,

A charming laugh,

Like the peeling of bells,

Why,

He says,

The sword,

Of course,

No doubt that the scabbard is beautiful,

But with this sword I'll command legions,

All the tribes will unite beneath it,

And the banner of my father,

Ah,

Replies Merlin,

But it is the scabbard you should justly prize,

I know its maker well,

And the enchantments imbued within every stitch,

The wearer of this scabbard shall never suffer wounds in battle,

So long as he keeps it close,

It is the real treasure,

See to it that you should never lose it,

Arthur,

You and Merlin share a respectful nod,

As the boy's eyes widen in awe,

He caresses the sheath with more delicacy now,

It is a magical scabbard,

After all,

He looks,

At once,

Like a little child dressed up in his father's regal finery,

And,

Like the empowered monarch,

He will grow to be,

Like the harbinger of a golden age,

He's radiant,

Reminiscent of the kings and gods of long-forgotten myths,

Legendary kings who were,

Who are,

And who shall be,

You're not sure what you're seeing,

Visions of the future,

Or the here and now truth,

Or something deeper,

Hidden from most,

Arthur bows to you again,

Graciously accepting the gifts of your realm,

He promises to serve you well,

And soon,

With Merlin his advisor by his side,

He departs,

They climb into the small boat once more,

And ascend through the shimmering veil of mist,

The song of the blade,

Muted within the protective sheath,

Fades at last into silence,

In the shifting waters above,

And in the droplets of fog that cascade and play on the surface,

You see patterns,

Pooling and dissipating,

You are no Merlin,

You are no prophet,

The future is shrouded in mist,

Yet it sings through from time to time,

The blade that sails today on the hip of the once and future king,

Will return to you,

One day,

And so will he,

You will hold the sword aloft,

Once more on the shining surface of the lake,

But in the meantime,

Hope will ignite in the realms,

The sword,

The dragon,

The king will inspire,

For ages to come,

As you settle down to rest,

Slowing down your breath,

And finding stillness in the body,

You are invited to visualize the threshold of sleep as the glassy surface of a lake,

Or a pool,

Let this image come to you naturally,

Without thinking too hard about it,

And quietly observe what springs to your mind,

Imagine yourself,

Skimming the surface of the pool,

In a small boat,

Or raft,

You could reach out and touch the water,

If you wanted,

How wide is the surface of the pool,

How clear is the water,

Can you see deep underneath it,

Or is it clouded with aquatic plant life,

Or soil,

Is the water still,

Or are there ripples in the surface,

From fallen leaves,

Or raindrops,

Or expanding outward from the wake of your vessel,

What can you see in the reflection of the water,

Clouds,

Overhanging trees,

Can you see your own reflection,

What is the quality of light on the water,

Is it soft,

Diffuse,

And spread evenly across the surface,

Or does it coruscate,

And sparkle,

And shift under your gaze,

Breathe in deeply,

And exhale,

Relaxing your body as you do,

And in your mind,

Let your exhales become visible,

Either softly disturbing the water's surface,

Or manifesting as mist,

That rolls across the pool,

Feel yourself as part of the ecosystem,

As a component in the cycle this water takes,

Moving through your body and breath,

In its natural course,

Keep breathing,

Visualizing your breath,

As connected to the pool and its environment,

Moving together,

Relaxing deeply,

In a moment,

We will move closer to the surface of the water,

Preparing to pass through the veil,

The threshold of sleep,

And the unconscious,

As we do,

Become aware of the water that makes up your body,

The countless particles of water that form the physical you,

And that move through you,

In an ongoing cycle,

See this pool,

This threshold,

Not as separate from you,

But as part of you,

And feel the passing through it as a return,

A deepening,

A dissolving into yourself,

Become aware that the surface of the lake is only an illusion,

That beneath the thin veil is not a watery chamber,

But an unseen world of dream and rest.

When you are ready,

Begin to step from the boat,

Dipping your toes into the lake,

Awakening a cool,

Tingling sensation in your toes,

Plunge further into the watery veil,

Letting your feet be submerged,

Wrapped in that cool,

Comforting sensation,

Allow your lower legs to sink past the threshold,

Feeling weightless and soft,

Submerge your knees,

Your thighs,

Softening and becoming light,

Continue to lower down through the veil,

Up to your hips,

Your whole lower body now soft and effortlessly light,

Sink deeper down through the glassy surface,

Allowing the tingling sensation to meet your belly and back,

Then the chest,

Softening,

Becoming light,

Your fingertips,

Hands and arms,

Passing through the veil,

Deepening into yourself,

And also finding a sheer weightlessness,

Your shoulders passing through,

And finally,

Taking the plunge beneath the surface so that your whole body now floats in a weightless realm of tingling mist,

Breathe deeply,

Continuing to find nourishment and relaxation in the exchange of breath,

With each inhale,

Feel light,

Effortless,

Weightless,

With each exhale,

Soften,

And feel yourself descend deeper into the mist,

Inhale,

Lighten,

Exhale,

Deepen,

Inhale,

Exhale,

As I count down from 10,

10,

9,

8,

7,

6,

5,

4,

3,

2,

1,

Reviews

Wondered

Absolutely memorising sleep story. Felt like I back in Arthurian times. My kids love to listen to this as well sometimes when going to sleep. 💗