The Stone and the Scale
Beneath the mist-slicked peaks of Eryri in Wales, the Red Dragon slept—not dead, but dreaming, as it had since Merlin bound its spirit to the bones of Britain. Its blood was the ley lines. Its breath was the wind in the oaks of Avalon. Its heartbeat? The slow, deep pulse of the Stone of Destiny, upon which kings were crowned.
On the morning of May 6th, 2023, the Dragon stirred.
Far above its slumber, in the vaulted chill of Westminster Abbey, a man robed in gold knelt upon the Stone—the same stone Geoffrey of Monmouth swore Arthur had used. Charles, son of Elizabeth, descendant not by blood but by sacred oath to the line of Pendragon, bowed his head. The air hummed, not with cameras, but with something older. The ghosts of Vortigern’s crumbling tower watched. Uther’s comet seemed to flare in memory.
Then came the prayer, spoken not in Latin, but in the Dragon’s own tongue—Welsh:
“O Arglwydd, rho iddo gryfder y ddraig…”
(“O Lord, grant him the strength of a dragon…”)
A tremor ran through the Stone. Not a quake for seismographs, but a vibration felt in the marrow of every Celt whose ancestors had fought beneath the Red Dragon’s banner. High in the triforium, a raven tucked its head under a wing.
“…boed yn ddraig yn amddiffyn ei wlad.”
(“…may he be a dragon defending his land.”)
As the oil of chrism touched Charles’s brow, the vision struck him: Not a palace, but a cavern deep beneath Dinas Emrys. Not jewels, but scales—vast, crimson, glittering like rubies in volcanic gloom. A great eye, slit-pupilled and burning with the fire of a thousand forges, opened. It saw him. It recognized him. Not as a king of England, but as Governor of the Blood.
The Dragon did not speak in words. It spoke in the rush of the Wye River, the crackle of heather burning on a hillfort, the clash of Arthur’s cavalry at Badon. It spoke of duty: to guard the green land, to be the claw against chaos, the fire against the long night. The Pendragon was never a conqueror. He was a shield.
The crown settled heavy. Not with gold, but with scales. Charles rose. The Abbey roared with human voices, but beneath it, he heard the satisfied rumble of the Dragon settling back to watchful sleep. Its Governor stood appointed.
Its Blood—the Blood of Brutus, of Constantine, of Arthur, woven by Geoffrey’s quill into the tapestry of Britain—flowed once more through the ritual.
Outside, the Welsh Dragon standard snapped crimson and defiant against a London sky. On a ruined tower in Snowdonia, mist coiled like a sleeping serpent’s breath.
Merlin, perhaps, allowed himself a ghostly smile. Another Pendragon stood guard. The Dragon’s Blood endured.