The Birth of Arthur.

The land lay hushed beneath a thick blanket of snow, the air crisp and still as December drew to a close. Winter’s grip brought with it a rare peace, for no enemy dared raid by land or sea in the biting cold and relentless rain. It was a time of quiet anticipation, a time when the world seemed to hold its breath. And it was in this stillness that Queen Onbrawst prepared to bring new life into the world.

As Christmas Day approached, the holiest bishop of the kingdom, Dyfrig, journeyed forty-five miles through the snow-clad countryside, accompanied by two monks. His mission was to baptize the royal child, should it be born in time. Bishop Dyfrig, a cousin to King Maurice, was welcomed warmly as he arrived at the castle.

“Cousin, you are most welcome,” King Maurice greeted him, his voice filled with relief. “I am glad you braved the cold to join us.”

“May God bless you and your family,” Dyfrig replied, embracing the king. “How fares your father, the High King Theoderic? I had the pleasure of hosting him at my monastery last month.”

“He is well,” Maurice answered, his thoughts turning to his wife. “And the queen? She is strong, though the child could come at any moment, or so the wise women say. We pray for a son.”

The bishop warmed his hands by the roaring fire, his eyes twinkling with purpose. “If God grants you a son, you must name him Arthur.”

Maurice raised an eyebrow, surprised by the suggestion. “Arthur? No British king has borne that name since Arthur I, my ancestor over two centuries past. Why do you suggest it?”
Dyfrig leaned in, his forefinger raised as if imparting ancient wisdom. “The name Arthur carries the weight of legend. Long before the birth of Christ, our bards and druids spoke of life beyond death, of spirits reborn to fulfill great destinies. Arthur is a name that stirs the hearts of men. It speaks of strength, of leadership, of victory. Your son, should he be born, could unite the people under a banner of hope and courage.”

The king pondered this, his brow furrowed. “‘Arth’ means bear, and ‘ur’ means man. A bear-like man. But what if my son is gentle, more dove than bear? Should we not wait to name him until his character is known?”

Dyfrig chuckled, his voice rich with conviction. “Arthur is a name of nobility and valor. It is a name that commands respect. And let us not forget, the bear is a symbol of strength—fierce and unyielding in the face of adversity. We need such strength to defend our lands against the Saxons, who threaten our faith and our way of life.”

Maurice nodded slowly, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Very well. If it is a son, we shall name him Arthur. But if it is a daughter, she shall be Elizabeth.”

That evening, the castle was alive with celebration. Feasts were held, and the halls echoed with laughter and song. For three days, the kingdom waited, the snow falling steadily outside the castle walls.

On Christmas Day, as King Maurice and Bishop Dyfrig inspected the royal stables, a servant came running through the snow, his breath visible in the frosty air. “My king! The queen has given birth! You have a son!”

The two men exchanged smiles, their joy palpable. Maurice clapped the servant on the shoulder, his heart swelling with pride, while Dyfrig offered his congratulations. “A son born on Christmas Day—a blessed omen indeed,” the bishop said.

As they made their way to the queen’s chambers, the castle erupted in celebration. Servants, soldiers, and courtiers alike gathered to offer their congratulations, their voices rising in a chorus of goodwill.

Queen Onbrawst awaited them, cradling her newborn son in her arms. She handed the child to Maurice, who gazed down at the tiny face illuminated by the flickering light of a servant’s candle. The baby’s head was crowned with thick, dark hair, a sign of his robust health.

“A future king,” Maurice whispered, his voice filled with awe.

“A future king,” Dyfrig echoed, his tone reverent.

That evening, the people of the town gathered at the castle gates, their voices raised in celebration. In accordance with tradition, the infant was baptized in the small chapel by the river. A procession of figures, wrapped tightly against the cold, made their way through the snow. King Maurice carried his son, flanked by Bishop Dyfrig and the king’s bodyguard, their torches casting golden light on the pristine snow.

And so, on Christmas Day in the year 503 AD, Arthur was born and christened. His father, the king of Glamorgan and Gwent, the thirty-sixth ruler of his dynasty, carried him back to the warmth of the queen’s chamber, the weight of destiny resting lightly on the child’s shoulders.

The following day, messengers were sent to the High King Theoderic, bearing news of the birth. Across the land, the word spread: a new king had been born, a child of promise and hope. And in the hearts of the people, the name Arthur began to stir something ancient and powerful—a belief in a brighter future, forged by the hands of a bear-like man.

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