Writers competition. This episode: I just found out about this and had to write something for it.

This is a writing prompt competition.
https://steemit.com/competition/@kyrios/fiction-comp-entrants-submissions-for-judging-1-week-2
Here is the prompt:
Having seen the fall and rise of empires...the death of his loved ones...an immortal tries his best to not mingle with society by holding himself up in a cave far away from any civilization. During one stormy night...his home becomes the shelter for a stranger who is the spitting image of his grandson.:

-----------------------------------------Resonant Lost----------------------------------------

"Hello, is anybody in there?"

In the cave, Urn held his head with one hand. . . . resting his elbow on his knee.
A voice.
He awakened slowly coming to the realization that this was not a dream.
"You see the fire," he said gruffly. "No animal makes a fire."

"Can I come in?" said the young man whose face now appeared in the light.
"It's the storm." he added, "I'm cold."

"Come in and sit."
Urn's voice was unfamiliar even to himself. How long have I been here he wondered?

The young man, visibly cautious, came near the flame, and took a seat on a rock. He looked around his eyes wide. Questions needing answers.
He sat quiet for a time.
Urn, closed his eyes and placed his forehead back into his hand. Unmoving, he looked a statue.

"Are you hungry?" asked Urn suddenly, startling the young man.

"I'm lost," he said, "I haven't eaten for a week."
"Then you won't mind rodent." Said Urn, kicking a charred piece of leg to the man.

The young man hesitated, then grabbed it greedily and tore at it with his teeth, the first ravenous gulp was met with a grateful sigh.

"Lost." repeated Urn. "Only the truly lost can find this place.
Do you have a name?"

"My name is Art . . . aww, Arthur . . . people call me Art".

"Arthur. . . . King of the Britons are you?" Asked Urn.

Arthur gave a little laugh, "No . . . of course not."

"Don't be so sure, Arthur," said Urn, "you look Northern . . . . English?"

"Yes," said Arthur, "some Norwegian or so I'm told. I didn't know my real parents. They died when I was young."

Urn spoke. "They were Viking blood I'm sure; You . . . not so much. The storm would not have bothered them. Men on a journey are never lost. And seldom hungry are those who find sustenance in adventure."

Arthur sat back a little on his rock saying, "Perhaps I'm a better king."

Urn peered at him closer now, the blur from his eyes clearing. Trying to see past the week long growth of beard new to Arthur's face.
"You remind me of someone . . . someone from a long time ago." Urn said, "Someone . . . behind your eyes."
Urn noticed Arthur's backpack.
"You've been on fire."

Arthur stammered, "I think I was hit by lightning in the beginning of the storm. I don't remember."

Urn studied Arthur carefully now. Arthur looked to be in his early twenties . . . fit, intelligent of eyes and quick to the sounds of a cricket's chirp.
"Hit by lightning and it leads you here." Urn said quietly to himself, pondering events of another age.

"And what does the King of the English do these days?" Asked Urn.

"Well, like you said," Arthur replied, "I'm lost. I don't know what I'm doing. . . . I was hiking the back country looking for something . . . trying to find something I guess."
Arthur with a sudden realization added, "I didn't expect to find someone living in a cave."

Urn sensing Arthur's disbelief said, "I'm an old man, Art . . . older than you can know, older than you can imagine. What if I told you I knew Arthur, King of the Brits, and it was I who place the sword in that fabled stone."

"I'd say I'd found a crazy old man . . . living in a cave," said Arthur smiling, "Someone who has read one to many fairy tails."

Urn stared at Arthur saying, "In that legend there is a truth."

Suddenly Urn pulled a dagger from beneath his shirt. Arthur kicked back from his seat and scrambled with his back to the cave wall. It was then that he noticed that Urn had positioned himself between the entrance and where he now sprawled -- no way out -- and he didn't dare retreat into the darkness.
"I'm sorry," said Arthur ". . . I didn't mean it like that."

"This is not meant for you." Said Urn. "This is for that rock . . . that truth, twisted through the ages."
"Like this!" With that, he plunged the dagger into the rock and sayeth, "I am Merlin of Urn!"

Arthur sat frozen.

No Escape
Hauntingly, Merlin stood announcing, "I don't know what it is . . . what this is . . . our kind." He motioned with his finger back and forth between the two of them.
"It skips a few generations. And then, the lightning doesn't kill you . . . like It killed my grandson a millennium ago. Giving me a thousand years of pain and suffering. And here you are again . . . transported through time. Given back by the very lightning that took you.
My only hope is that I am a crazy old man."

Arthur's pulse pounded in his ears. He felt his heart contract and release with the rhythmic pressure in his head, neck, and face.
He was able to push a little dirt with his heel. One foot, then the other, pressing his back against the damp wall. It was the lightning Arthur thought. It had killed him. He was dead and this was his soul's way of tearing from his empty stump. "I'll wake up in heaven or hell", he promised, "but, I wont remain here."

Arthur, pushed with all of his might to move his body away from the horror:
From the old man . . . from the dagger piercing the rock.

"Go ahead," said Merlin, " . . . see if you can do it . . . pull it out of the stone."

"You are crazy!" Shouted Arthur. "No one can . . . it's a myth."

Arthur sized up Merlin . . . he was powerfully built and moved with the fluidity of a large cat. This was a man who did not eat rodents, he feeds from their life essence while they burned.
His eyes were sharp and they blazed like the fire that separated them. Merlin of Urn could have been fifty years old and a model of deities with his long silver hair and a white beard.
His voice was now deep and resonant . . . otherworldly as he spoke. Precise with meaning.
I cannot beat this man, thought Arthur, not without . . . he looked at the dagger.

The dagger's blade was buried in the rock . . . but how?

Merlin shrank back down to his seat saying, "Take your backpack and go then, leave me with my sorrow . . . and the pain of a crazy old man."
Unexpectedly, Merlin roared with the agonized call of lion.

Surprised, Arthur found himself standing, holding the dagger pointed toward Merlin of Urn.
"I'll kill you." he said, "Stay where you are."

"You're the only one who can kill me." Said Merlin showing his teeth, "We are the same; the one who can do many things. . . and give answer to the questionable."

"I'll start by taking my chances with the storm," said Arthur,
weighing the dagger in his hand. He added, "Thank you for your hospitality. I'll be going now."

"I won't be here when you come back." said Merlin.

"I won't be back." assured Arthur.

"You'll be back . . . again and again." Merlin foretold.
"You can leave this place . . . but you will never escape who you have become."

End of line.

H. G.