"...by the power of the Avatar of Albion, by his might and grace, by the power of Excalibur and of Britain and by right of my stature, I dub thee Sir Knight, sworn to the defence of Albion and her people til death take you and beyond."
Dubbing ceremony of the Holy Order of Albion.

Cornwall, 2028.

When he was twenty one, Eric Smith found himself in a desperate situation, so desperate in fact that he was certain he was going to die.

He had joined the Defence Force when he was nineteen, convinced that it was better to fight, to try to do something, than it was to not do anything. He would likely die either way, and at least this way he would be able to exact some level of vengeance before the end.

So it was that he found himself on a beach in Newquay, Cornwall. He was facing down a massive horde of ponies: the beaches of Cornwall full of them, coming from assault craft thathad made it past the blockade. Bullets and spells flew thickly from the defenders side of the battlefield, but despite horrific casualties, nothing seemed to stop the horde.

"Keep firing!" his Sergeant yelled. Eric felt no need to stop: he wondered briefly whether his Sarge was yelling that more to keep himself from panicking than to tell anyone what to do. Unfortunately, he would never get an answer, for a moment later a spell impacted near him, splash damage sending waves of magical electricity arching through the Sergeant's body. He convulsed for a moment, before collapsing.

"Shit!" Eric swore, reloading his rifle, an old BAR rescued from storage somewhere: this was how it was. Men with archaic equipment held the line,mthe very latest equipment mostly lost or useless by now, save for those who were lucky enough to be given it.

"Right then," he heard someone say. Suddenly, a man started walking out towards the Equestrian lines.

"Hey!" someone yelled. "Get back here!"

"Hey you idiot, get down!" Eric found himself screaming, "you'll get yourself killed!"

"I don't think so," a vaguely Liverpudlian accent spoke. Eric turned, finding himself facing a yellow a Earth Pony in a shirt, tie and ill-fitting trenchcoat. "You might want to watch this."

"All troopers, cease fire!" a voice came in on Eric's personal radio. Confused, he looked at the yellow pony.

"What's going on?!" he asked.

The pony gave him a grin, before taking a cigarette out of his jacket and lighting up (did ponies smoke?).

"Just watch, kid," he said. "You might learn something."

Eric turned his eyes out to face the figure, who had his back to the entire defence line. Suddenly, the figure began glowing softly, a faint golden light emanating from him. Suddenly, he screamed, and there was a mighty golden flash - and then standing in place of the man was a giant knight, clad in silver armour and holding in his hand a massive, ornate Zweihander.

"Jesus," Eric heard someone say softly. "It can't be..."

"Warriors of Equestria," a deep, echoing voice called out towards the approaching Equestrian forces, "Thou hast come to make war on the sovereign land of Albion and the human race. Turn thy army back or die."

There was an echoing, mighty silence, and then another echoing voice, at once louder and at the same time less powerful than his, spoke.

"Who are you to halt the advance of Solamina's armies?!" the voice of Commander Twilight Sparkle spoke, scoffing slightly. "You're one man."

The answer the man gave was simple, and yet the depth of finality and feeling in the words was such that Eric felt a sudden tingle, like a surge of electricity surging through his body and up his spine.

"I am the Avatar of Albion."

The Equestrian forces didn't halt, and Sparkle's reply was full of condescension. "So you're the one who killed Rarity: you might have killed one skilled pony, but do you really think you can stand against an entire army?!"

In response, the Avatar raised the Zweihander. Eric could have sworn it glowed slightly, but he couldn't be sure whether it was a glint of sunlight or some inner power...

And then the Avatar smashed the blade tip first into the ground.

A wave of power emanated from the blade, blasting aside Equestrian forces like dust in the wind. The power was mostly directed at the Equestrian side, but there was enough of a backblow to reach Eric, and he blinked. The pony dropped his cigarette, cursing softly.

Ponies were thrown aside like rag dolls before the power of the Avatar's shock wave, until nearly the entire attack force was decimated. And then it was over, leaving nothing but a man standing in the middle of the field, and the disoriented remains of the Equestrian attack force, less than a few dozen ponies.

And the man, the Avatar of Albion, fell to one knee, barely keeping himself up with the ornate blade. As if in response to this, the handful of ponies still on the field started heading towards him,mmurderous gleams in their eyes.

Eric would never be able to tell you why he did what he did next, though he told this story a hundred times, but upon seeing that man, that hero, fall to his knee, he felt a surge of something in him - the need to not simply cower here in a trench and wait for the end, but to charge, to meet the enemy head on as this man had, to defend him if he could. Without waiting for an order, he got up out of his trench, and started running. He fired his BAR until the hammer hit empty, and then simply dropped the thing, drawing his World War One issue bayonet and screaming as he ran.

Just as an Earth Pony reached the Avatar, Eric arrived, ramming into the pony before stabbing him.

"No!" he yelled angrily. "No! No more! You won't touch another person, not while I'm here!"

He charged another pony, bashing him in the face with the hilt of his weapon before slicing his throat. He kicked out, sending a third pony reeling, before stabbing a fourth.

And the broken hilt of his blade came off in his hand, the blade lodged in the pony's throat still.

He turned, to see the Avatar still crouched in place, and himself near surrounded. Without thinking, he raced to the Avatar and made to grab the Zweihander: if he was going to die, he'd take as many of the bastards with him as he could.

His hand touched the blade's hilt...

...and he could see.

This man was not just a mighty warrior: he was the culmination of all the Avatars - not just of Albion, but of light itself. Of Arthur, of Excalibur, of all that had ever stood for good in the world. This being had been here before in other forms, hosted by other men, and had returned because he was called for, because Britain - the world - needed him.

And in that moment, Eric thought his life would be well forfeit, if it would buy this man even one moment more.

He grasped the hilt of Excalibur, feeling the weight of history, but not the weight of the blade, for it felt light as a feather. The Avatar released the blade silently, not looking up, and Eric span around, facing the ponies that surrounded him. He grinned, removing his gas mask as he did so - if he'd die at these bastards' hooves, he'd die showing his face. Black hair and dark brown skin glinted in the sun.

"Step aside, boy," one of the ponies said his hoof clearly edging towards a potion bottle.

"No," Eric replied. "Never."

A potion bottle was thrown at him, splashing him in the face...

... and he turned, grinning at the pony who had splashed him.

"What?!" the pony said, shocked. "How?!"

He didn't have a chance to say anything else, for Eric lashed out with the Zweihander, cutting the front of the pony open.

"Go back to where you came from!" Eric yelled to the surrounding ponies. "Or by Albion, I'll kill you all!"

"You're one man," another pony said angrily. "There's nothing you can do to stop us!"

"I am a warrior of Albion!" Eric yelled. "And this beach is mine, and the man behind me is under my protection. You can send as many ponies as you like, all at once or one at a time. I don't give a shit." He raised the blade, and grinned. "None shall pass."

There was a moment while this pronouncement sank in, before the ponies charged him.

The first pony fell to a downward chop. The second was slain by a slash. The third by a stab. Another downward hack sliced a fourth in half, before an arching spin killed three in one blow. He raised the blade over his head and hacked downward again, killing another pony...

And then a giant fireball swept past him, incinerating dozens of ponies and forcing the rest to retreat.

"Jesus, David!" Eric heard a Liverpudlian accent speak. He turned, breathing heavily, to see the yellow pony standing beside the kneeling Avatar. Slowly, the Avatar looked up, his eyes meeting Eric's. He stood, every move slow and painful, his eyes never leaving Eric's. Overcome with awe at this figure, Eric knelt, and proferred the blade hilt first to the warrior, bowing his head. He felt a sudden rising shame at having dared touch the blade of this mighty warrior, unworthy as he felt.

A hand reached out and grasped the hilt, raising the blade slightly, before resting it on Eric's shoulder.

"By Albion," that deep voice spoke, "and by all the Gods of humankind, I dub the Sir Knight."

Eric looked up in shock. The Avatar was smiling.

"Few could touch Excalibur," he said quietly. "Fewer still wield her in battle. You have shown rare courage - and she has rewarded you with her protection."

The Avatar pointed to the little patch of potion still on Eric's cheek. He wiped it off, shocked.

"I... I..."

"If Albion is to survive," the Avatar continued, "she will need heroes such as yourself. Be proud, Eric Smith. You have more than proved your mettle."

With that, the Avatar glowed again, until he had transformed back into the figure of David Elliot, who promptly collapsed. Of Excalibur, there was nothing to be seen.

Eric watched as men and ponies carried Elliot off, his mind turning over the words the Abatar had spoken. If Albion was to survive it would need heroes. Eric clenched a fist.

There were others, of that he was certain. Other warriors whose destiny was to fight alongside Albion as he had. Others who had been touched by that power in some way, or were capable - and worthy - of wielding it.

Eric - Sir Eric, he supposed now - swore to himself that he would seek them out. Together, he vowed, they would be such a fellowship as to stand where no others could, to stand with Albion himself through all darkness, through hell and back, right up to the final conflict with Solamina herself.

He did not know how right he would be.

***