Long ago, in the time we now call Yore, there lived a mighty king who was much troubled with insomnia. Oftentimes, as he lay restless in the darkest watches of the night, he would hear the monastery bell strike three. To his sleep-starved mind, it seemed to him as if the very hour of three was his enemy. "Who will rid me of three o'clock?" he bellowed into the dark.
His generals tried to scare away the horrors of the night, but could not do so. His bards tried to lull him with soft singing, but could not do so. The monks prayed on their knees that he would find peace, but peace and sleep continued to elude him.
"Who will rid me of three o'clock?" he whispered into his sweat-drenched pillow.
And it was this whisper that reached the ear of his mages. Laying aside the hatreds and jealousies that rived them, they came together and wrought a mighty spell. From that time hence and for ever more, the dark hour of three would cease to exist in the minds of men; more, it would be expunged from time and space itself.
And thus it became so, and the grateful king enjoyed the first night of untroubled sleep since he had acceded to his throne.
But no great act of magic is without consequences. The monks saw it first. As was their wont, they rose in the dark to sing their prayers at the third hour, but where the third hour had been, there was now nothing but a gaping void. They knew then that they had failed in their vows, and strayed from the obligations of their Rule. Disconsolate, they left their abbeys and their monasteries in their droves. Soon the sick and the dying roamed the countryside, for there was nobody in the hospitals to tend them. The sheep went untended, and weeds grew where once there had been song.
Song died, too, in the world that the spell had wrought. "Past three o'clock, on a cold and frosty morning," the singers used to sing, but their tongues could no longer utter those word. They lost faith in their songs and their memories, because if one song was broken, might not the others be? The bards fell silent. Minstrels smashed their lutes. Taverns became empty places, devoid of music and laughter.
But it was in the world of nature that the greatest evil lay. Although magic was greater than it is in our fallen, dwindled age, the accuracy of measuring time was not. The mages had aimed to rip three o'clock from the fabric of creation, but due to their primitive clocks, they had removed everything from what we would now call "ten to three, or thereabouts," to "some time after three."
The consequences were horrific. The moon skipped in her course, but she did not skip the merest microsecond, oh no. In the blinking of an eye, she disappeared, only to reappear an instant later a hand breadth across the sky. The sea rose up in protest, and the tides were in disarray. Whole villages were swept into the ocean, the sun trembled in consternation, and distant stars began to fall.
All seemed lost. The world trembled on the brink of doom. But then, at last, just before the utmost end, the king spoke again, a few quiet words. "Bring it back," he whispered, his hand twisting the fabric of his pillow. "Bring back the hour that I can no longer say. For it is better for one man suffer the torment of sleeplessness than to watch the world sink into the void. Bring it back. Bring it back."
And thus was three o'clock returned to the world, and this is why it must always remain.
I didn't get a notification of this, so the first I saw was when I got notifications of others' responses. I only had to read the first line before I knew it was yours :-)
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no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 06:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 06:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 06:50 am (UTC)I got back to sleep for about two hours, then got up to feed Molly and the hens, and make tea for us.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 10:04 am (UTC)His generals tried to scare away the horrors of the night, but could not do so. His bards tried to lull him with soft singing, but could not do so. The monks prayed on their knees that he would find peace, but peace and sleep continued to elude him.
"Who will rid me of three o'clock?" he whispered into his sweat-drenched pillow.
And it was this whisper that reached the ear of his mages. Laying aside the hatreds and jealousies that rived them, they came together and wrought a mighty spell. From that time hence and for ever more, the dark hour of three would cease to exist in the minds of men; more, it would be expunged from time and space itself.
And thus it became so, and the grateful king enjoyed the first night of untroubled sleep since he had acceded to his throne.
But no great act of magic is without consequences. The monks saw it first. As was their wont, they rose in the dark to sing their prayers at the third hour, but where the third hour had been, there was now nothing but a gaping void. They knew then that they had failed in their vows, and strayed from the obligations of their Rule. Disconsolate, they left their abbeys and their monasteries in their droves. Soon the sick and the dying roamed the countryside, for there was nobody in the hospitals to tend them. The sheep went untended, and weeds grew where once there had been song.
Song died, too, in the world that the spell had wrought. "Past three o'clock, on a cold and frosty morning," the singers used to sing, but their tongues could no longer utter those word. They lost faith in their songs and their memories, because if one song was broken, might not the others be? The bards fell silent. Minstrels smashed their lutes. Taverns became empty places, devoid of music and laughter.
But it was in the world of nature that the greatest evil lay. Although magic was greater than it is in our fallen, dwindled age, the accuracy of measuring time was not. The mages had aimed to rip three o'clock from the fabric of creation, but due to their primitive clocks, they had removed everything from what we would now call "ten to three, or thereabouts," to "some time after three."
The consequences were horrific. The moon skipped in her course, but she did not skip the merest microsecond, oh no. In the blinking of an eye, she disappeared, only to reappear an instant later a hand breadth across the sky. The sea rose up in protest, and the tides were in disarray. Whole villages were swept into the ocean, the sun trembled in consternation, and distant stars began to fall.
All seemed lost. The world trembled on the brink of doom. But then, at last, just before the utmost end, the king spoke again, a few quiet words. "Bring it back," he whispered, his hand twisting the fabric of his pillow. "Bring back the hour that I can no longer say. For it is better for one man suffer the torment of sleeplessness than to watch the world sink into the void. Bring it back. Bring it back."
And thus was three o'clock returned to the world, and this is why it must always remain.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 10:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 12:30 pm (UTC)Lovely!
I'm now earwormed with "Past three o'clock..." A good thing and I may find the recording I have of it and brighten up all the hours of the day :-)
no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 07:41 pm (UTC)I didn't get a notification of this, so the first I saw was when I got notifications of others' responses. I only had to read the first line before I knew it was yours :-)
no subject
Date: 2015-02-06 01:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-06 06:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-06 08:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 12:31 pm (UTC)I don't know. But my lovely tabby Oswald wakes me up most nights to ask about it.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-05 07:38 pm (UTC)