Rex Omnia, Rex Nihil

by Matt Nute

I had to kill my wife again this morning.

Although I don't think this one was my wife. She was still wearing that Goblin Princess outfit, and she definitely didn't recognize me as her husband. She saw me, and when I opened my arms to her, she tried to claw for my throat.

I ran her through.

Yes, I'm still carrying the sword. Although it changes, from reality to reality. Trying to bend my mind around that particular conundrum has kept me awake many a night. I had made my way to Muir Isle, but a Muir filled with nothing but the dust of long-decayed corpses. The computers were intact, undamaged. However, nothing electrical seemed to work. My compass appeared to work, so I deduced that there had been no electromagnetic pulse or any similar phenomenon. The devices had simply stopped working, as if the principles of electronics were no longer valid.

It's enough to drive a scientist mad.

I've been mad before. With magic, with the drink, with the power of the timestream. I've held enough raw energy in my hands and my body to vanquish any foe that would step foot on England's soil.

But this is not my England, and I am no longer Captain Britain.

I'm just a nomad with a sword. And, like I do every morning, I remove it from its sheath and hold it up to the dawn's light.

I don't know if it's some effect of the shift, but today it's a simple longsword, with a plain, unadorned hilt. But the blade… the blade reflects like no metal should. And it shows me things, words not written on or carved into the silver, but that simply are.

"And whosoever pulleth this sword free from the stone shall be henceforth King of England."

I didn't pull any sword, I never saw any stone. I merely walked through the doorway, and found myself in the middle of a heated battle, holding the sword. So I fought, instinctively. I battled every opponent that came at me. Some were familiar enemies, others were nightmare creatures I had only seen in my childish nightmares.

Then the battle stopped, and I stood in Trafalgar Square. The church bells rang in the distance, and I heard the children laughing. I scarce would have believed it, except that I could feel the cobblestone beneath my bare feet. I could smell the meat pies from the baker, I could hear the faraway sounds of the river.

And I could feel the sword in my hand.

Then the black airships filled the sky, and the bombs were falling, and the air raid sirens blared, and the world became fire. Fire, for so long. Forty days and nights, I like to think sometimes.

The fire cleared, some time later, and I found myself back in the field, standing by a ruined castle. A twisted wreckage that was altogether too familiar. The only structure standing was the wrought-iron spiral staircase, one that I had walked more times than I should count.

I ascended the staircase, higher and higher. Each step took me further into the clouds, but still I climbed. The ruins vanished below me, and I rose to the sky, as if in a dream.

Every day, I wish to wake from this dream, but then I hold the sword, and it reminds me that I cannot yet escape this reality. These realities. Because they're all overlapping, conflicting in chaos.

The staircase came to an end in that magnificent marble ballroom, and I stepped onto the floor. My impeccably shined boots glistened, and every seam and inch of piping on my formal dress uniform was in place. The sword was sheathed at my hip, and in the myriad mirrored surfaces, I looked every inch the regal lord in his palace.

But this was not my palace, and I needed to find its lady. I called out for her, and heard only echoes in a voice not my own. I walked through archways and corridors for weeks, only calling her name, not sleeping, not eating.

When I found her, I screamed despite myself. Like her palace above and below the clouds, she was beautiful, and ruined, like a shattered statue. Her eyes looked up at me, and I could not turn away. Whatever had turned the multiverse inward upon itself had destroyed its guardian entirely.

I buried her there, in the clouds. No headstone or monument marked Roma's gravesite, for it would be unique enough. In all the multiverses, she was unique, because she was outside them all. Only here could she be laid to a proper rest.

Standing in that ballroom again, I drew the sword. Stains of old blood were etched into the blade, yet those words burned themselves into my brain. In whatever reality lay before me, 616, 612, 686, whichever of them - I still had my duty.

There would always be England.

And so, with fear and honor and grief in my heart, I descended that staircase, and felt it crumble behind me with each step. Once on the ground, in the middle of the desert, I looked behind me to see nothing but dunes, and the burning orange sky. Like Lawrence of Arabia, I tied my shirt around my head to shield me from the blazing sun's anger, and walked.

It was a month before I saw another human being. He led me to his tribe, I would suppose they were. I spoke none of his language, and he none of mine. Their culture seemed more primitive than any I had ever known, but their hospitality was welcome. I slept in their home, and in the morning, they were gone.

Months, years, centuries now, I have walked. Time has ceased to have meaning for me anymore. Some days I am Captain Britain again, with the strength of a hundred men and magic coursing through my veins. Other days, like now, I am merely Brian Braddock.

A man with a sword.

I am here again, at Muir Isle. After some time, I have discovered that if I stay on the island, and learn when these 'shifts' approach, I can preserve some things. The older they are, the more permanent, it seems. My clothes change, my surroundings, but the land stays the same.

The sword always remains. In some way. And those words cry out to me.

I am the king of England. A king alone, on an island where the only other living souls appear to tempt me, or dethrone me, or drag me screaming into madness.

King of everything, king of nothing.

For the past week, I have used the sword, not to fight, but to build. From my youth, I have always been a builder.

I have made a boat.

And as dawn rises tomorrow, I will push this boat into the surf, and I will lay down in it, with this sword across my chest. I will close my eyes, and if whatever God remains is willing, alight on the shores of Avalon, final resting place of kings.

Roma will be waiting there, and Merlin, and great Arthur. I will return his sword to him, and perhaps he will return my wife to me, there on that isle beyond the sea. Perhaps, like Richard from the Crusades, I will return to England when this chaos passes. But in my heart, I know the truth. With this sword, I have carved it into the wood of my boat.

"My journey ends here."

I lay myself down between the bow and stern as the sun vanishes beyond the northern horizon, and the stars above dance in constellations I never knew.

Tomorrow morning, I take my last steps on a noble journey.

The king is dead. Long live the king.

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