What is this strange world I have awoken into? The last I knew before my accident, I was a real estate agent in Toronto named Bradley Evans. I remember celebrating at the King Eddy with some friends, then heading home and falling in front of a streetcar. It nearly tore my head off, which may explain why I’ve been in a coma since 1974, but not why I have recovered the memories of so many lives.
What is your name?
My name is Other Pendragon. (Not to be confused with my older brother Uther Pendragon. I get that a lot.)
What part of the world were you born in?
I was born in a small village in the Principality of Gwynedd, as it became known.
What year was that?
I don’t know in what year of the Jesus calendar. I can only tell you that I had already lived several centuries by the time I sailed with Prince Madoc to the Lands in the West. It was considered by my people to be unlucky to count the years of our lives. Things never changed much, anyway. The older folk spoke of it as the year the dragons were so bad, and thereby hangs a tale.
Indeed, a small dragon got into our cottage and attacked me in my cradle, and would have carried me off if my mother had not heard me cry and thrown a poker at it, then beaten it to death with an iron pot. (Thus earning the nickname “Little Saucepan”, which she carried proudly the rest of her life.) It was fortunate for me that she did. As is well known, only the blood of a dragon can heal the bite of a dragon.
What badass sword do you have in your hand right now?
This one:
And thereby hangs a tale, which I shall recount in a moment. There have been those who called me “Saxon” for it, though never twice, but I no longer let such insults bother me. I carry it to remember a worthy foe, for all that he was a smelly Saxon. Thirteen centuries or so is too long to hold a grudge.
Which band will eventually be tapped to do your soundtrack?
Either these gentlemen:
Or possibly this group, in memory of Sylvia (not her real name), the last woman I loved and lost (I blame her mother).
Tell us about the moment in which you discovered or realized that you were counted among the immortals.
I promised a tale about my sword, so here goes. As a youth, in our endless regional squabbles and cattle raids, I never could afford any weapon but whatever pitchfork or billhook came to hand. When Cole the Thrice-Endowed gained power, I fought in his army in his quest to unify the land, and learned the skills of axe and sword. I rose through the ranks,and after he was crowned Cole the First, he named me as his justice minister. As a symbol of my authority, he gave me a fine longsword to wear on my judicial rounds. To remind myself of my responsibility to the King’s justice, I named it Cole’s Law.
Those were peaceful times, and often years would pass with no need to unsheathe my sword. But when the Saxons invaded, it served me well, and I acquired something of a reputation for my ability to fight boldly and tirelessly despite suffering grievous wounds. (As yet I had no idea that I might be immortal.) It was the poet Blodwen of Llangollen who described me, in her extended metaphor, as cutting down Saxons “as a cook shreds vegetables”. Soon our men were attributing my survival to my sword, and took to shouting the battle cry “Cole’s Law!” as they charged.
Things began to settle down as the Saxons were pushed back, but on a scouting mission in the forest one day, I had gone behind a tree to relieve myself when a Saxon knight sprang from cover and thrust his halberd deep into my chest. With no time to think, I drew my sword, slashed away the trews entangling my ankles, and attacked. The Saxon had a little of the True Tongue, albeit with an atrocious accent, and mocked me, saying that he could not be killed. I was the better swordsman, but even after I cut off his arm he fought on, merely commenting that he had suffered worse. Finally I cut off his leg and he tripped backwards over a large rock, at which point I took a mighty swing and severed his head. His last words, as his eyes stared at me in astonishment, were, “One of us!”.
It was then I realized that his halberd thrust had gone straight through my heart. Many things in my life began to make sense, and I started to wonder if the old legends were true.
I went to retrieve my sword, but my blow had driven it deep into the rock, and try as I might, I could not dislodge it. Finally I realized that it had served its purpose for me, and that I had no more taste for conflict if I could avoid it. I recited the formula releasing it from the King’s service, scratched Ex Cole Liber on the rock, and left it there. Perhaps it is there still. I have never been back. I took the Saxon’s sword in its place and began my wanderings.
