Well, I definitely thought that I posted this a while ago... oops, well here is my final draft! Enjoy!
The soft glow of the candlelight wavered in the foggy glass window of the Dining Hall. The Knights of King Arthur’s Court were celebrating their latest success as the jovial cheers and infectious laughter spread throughout the hall. It all fell quiet and King Arthur stood up, wavering on unstable, drunken legs. He raised his glass and the noble men and ladies followed suit.
A shadow moved, unbeknownst to the celebrating court, into the wavering light outside one of the lofty windows. A cloak disguised her appearance, shadowing her face and distorting her features. A small knife, glinting with malice, hung uncovered at her side. A hand stretched out from under the folds of the deep purple covering, palm upwards. A glowing blue orb appeared, resting inches from the open hand, showing an image of the feast that lay inside the castle. Soft whispers emanated from under the cloak, nearly visible in the stagnant fog covering Camelot. The ball of light pulsated, changing from blue to red, mirroring the harvest moon, then shattered, leaving nothing behind. With a quiet gathering of the deep purple fabric, the shadow left, leaving the knife behind. In the reflection of the glinting knife, the stars and moon hung perpetually suspended, waiting.
Inside the hall, the air was warmer and less sinister than that of the outside world, where the uninvited shadow stood whispering in the cold fog, mere yards from the King himself. King Arthur stood up, raising his ornate glass in a visibly shaken hand, undoubtedly drunker than half the hall.
“Here we go,” mumbled Lancelot, bringing his full wine glass to his lips and tipping it far back before bringing it up with the rest of the Dining Hall.
“I would like to make a toasht,” said the King, attempting to over-enunciate his words to compensate for his underlying drunken slur, “to shuccess and to onshe again driving out the evil forshez from Camelot,” he said, with an unmistakable glance out the window, “I am immenshely proud of eash and every one of my knightsh. To my equalsh of the Round Table.”
“To the Round Table,” echoed throughout the hall, their voices falling flat.
“And let us hope that our gracious King will fall over drunk and spare us from further ‘toashts’,” said Sir Nathen, laughing heartily.
“Excuse me a moment,” muttered Lancelot, picking up his goblet and weaving his way to King Arthur.
“Ah, Lancelot!” he said, over-enthusiastic about Lancelot’s appearance, “How are you?”
“I am well my king, but there is a dire matter that I must discuss with you tonight.”
“What is it? Speak Lancelot, the night is old and the morning is pressing in,” King Arthur said, sobered by the severity in Lancelot’s voice.
“Not here, my lord, but now. Outside this hall.”
“Of course.”
Arthur in turn, picked up his own wine glass and quietly made his way out of the hall, following Lancelot into the hall between the room containing the Round Table and the Dining Hall.
“Speak quickly and silently,” murmured King Arthur, his tone lowered so as not to be overheard, “for the night is cool and the Dining Hall calls me with its warmth and festivities.”
“Yes indeed Arthur, it is cool in the night, and it has been for quite some time. And that is exactly what I wish to speak to you about,” Lancelot grabbed onto Arthur’s arm, “this weather has not been getting better, it as been getting worse and you and I both know why.”
“The very idea is absurd,” King Arthur said, roughly shaking Lancelot’s arm off his own and heading back into the Dining Hall, “And it would fare you well to forget that this conversation ever happened.”
Lancelot turned and walked into the hall, rejoining the celebration. He turned and downed the entire glass of wine, gazing out the window. He was about to walk away, when a shine caught his eye. He looked out the window again and saw a small blade, lying outside on the ground. He turned and swept his gaze around the room, making sure he was not being watched as he slipped out the doors and into the foggy, late night air.
The lovely Queen Guinevere wept, her shoulders shaking violently and nothing could be done or said to cease the crying. Her maids offered her hot tea and crumpets but nothing could console the distraught Queen.
“It was real!” she cried, her voice cracking, “He was dead. He killed him.”
Guinevere picked up the tray of food and drink and threw it across her room, the hand-painted China tea set, a wedding gift, shattered. Guinevere threw herself back onto her bed, weeping uncontrollably.
“Who was dead, my Lady?” asked Lancelot as he walked through her doorway and sat on the bed beside her.
“You,” she whispered, “You traitor!” she screamed, throwing the nearest pillow into his face.
“I never want to see you again,” Guinevere said, meeting his gaze.
“Arthur, may I have a word with you,” said Sir Lancelot, his face carefully blank.
“Again? My dear Lancelot, what a lot of thinking you have been doing as of lately. Something must truly be amiss in your life,” Arthur said, once again his former self after the absence of wine.
“Well, maybe not so much my life,” Lancelot began, choking on his next words, “but, well, perhaps your life, my dear King.” Lancelot explained his encounter with Guinevere and the story that her maidservants had related to him.
“So you can understand why I am concerned, not for me, pillows are not very lethal weapons, but for the Lady Guinevere,” Lancelot said, concern in his eyes, “something is terribly wrong. I believe that no one has ever seen her like this.”
“Well then, it is best we keep it that way, is it not?” said Arthur, his manner growing cool, “I trust
you never to speak of this to anyone.”
“Do you not think that something must be done about it? Do you not care?” furiously whispered Lancelot.
“Keep your boundaries, Sir Lancelot and do not ever question my loyalty to my wife and Queen,” Arthur said, his tone icy as he walked away. He paused and turned back around.
“And just to make things very clear, “your boundaries” do not include my wife’s bedchamber. Do not go questioning loyalties, Sir Lancelot.”
The fog had grown heavier, resting on Camelot like a thick blanket, suffocating the crops and weighing heavily on Sir Lancelot’s heart. He paced his bedchamber, his boots tapping on the cold, stone floors. With an outraged cry, he picked up a vase of pure white lilies and threw them at the wall. He walked over to the fragmented vase and kicked aside the sharp pieces of tinted blue glass. Lancelot strode over to his bed and slid his hand under the cool pillow. His fingers latched around the knife, pulling it out from it’s hiding place.
He examined the intricate handle, the precious gems forming a dragon wrapping itself around the hilt. Lancelot felt his body grow warm and his heart cold. Arthur, it was all because of Arthur, hissed the blade, gleaming, reflecting Lancelot’s green eyes. Instead of placing it back under his pillow, he concealed it under his shirt. Lancelot swung open the door to his bedchamber and left in search of King Arthur, crushing the white lilies with the heel of his boot.
Sir Lancelot found King Arthur in Round Table room, standing with his hands braced on the table. He looked up as Lancelot entered, waiting for him to speak.
“My Lord,” said Lancelot bowing, his eyes never leaving King Arthur’s, “the fog is getting denser. Do you not think something ought to be done about it? It is your duty as King,” challenged Lancelot,
his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“What do you suggest I do about this, Lancelot?” King Arthur said, his own voice as cold as the weather outside the castle. Without waiting for an answer from Lancelot, he continued; “That is right, Sir Lancelot. Nothing can be done to remedy this situation.” Arthur strode over and stood in front of Lancelot, staring at him.
“The witch, Morgause,” said Lancelot, noticing how Arthur flinched at her very name, “placed the spell on you; as long as you are alive, Camelot will die,” he whispered, “You know that this grieves me more than you, but it is the truth, my Lord.”
“Camelot would die...” King Arthur began.
“Camelot is dying Arthur!” yelled Lancelot, “Can you not see that? The crops are dead and the townspeople are starving. The water has dried up, there is nothing left of your kingdom.”
“Do you think I not know that?” retorted Arthur, his anger rising up his throat, itching to escape, “Do you think I do not care for my kingdom? Do you not know who the King of this kingdom is? It is me, Sir Lancelot, not you, and it would do you well to never forget again,” he said, his voice harsh.
“You are not the King Arthur I know,” Sir Lancelot murmured, speaking the very words that had been weighing on his heart.
“Lancelot... do you truly believe Camelot would be better off without me? I have no heir, there would be no one to take over and then my kingdom would fall into ruin,” despaired Arthur.
“What are you talking about? You have a fine young man that would make an excellent king. You have been training him since he was a lad for this very time,” Lancelot said, his brow knit together.
“I only know of one other person besides my son that has such strikingly green eyes,” whispered King Arthur, staring down at Lancelot.
“What are you suggesting, Arthur?” Sir Lancelot said defensively.
“I have no son.”
Sir Lancelot drew his sword, nights of anger and rage boiling over, pressing it up against King Arthur. Arthur shoved him backward, drawing Excalibur and circling around to face him.
“You forget your place, Sir Lancelot,” snapped Arthur, holding his sword in front of him.
“You have forgotten you kingdom, your friendship,” he said, striking against Arthur with each accusation, “and your wife,” Lancelot finished, pressing him up against the Round Table.
Lancelot pulled out the dagger, the dragon pulsating with an energy that seemed almost alive. He struck Arthur’s fighting hand, forcing him to drop Excalibur. Arthur struggled against Lancelot’s grip, but it was no use. Anger and the magic of the knife allowed Lancelot to hold King Arthur in his death grip.
“How I have longed for this moment. You speak of justice, well this is your justice. How many have died for you! How many have you killed and been killed in your name! Too many,” hissed Lancelot, his eyes gleaming with malice.
“What has done this to you? Lancelot, I do not know what you are speaking of!” King Arthur yelled, fearful for his life. Only too late did he see the dragon on the knife.
“Morgause...” whispered Arthur, his face bleached of color, “No, no the witch has taken hold of you, you do not know what you are doing, Lancelot! Listen to me, please my friend,” the King said, begging for his life.
“Oh but I do know what I am doing. I am saving this kingdom,” he said, leaning in, “And let us hope that my son will be a better king than you have ever been,” he finished, driving the knife into Arthur. Lancelot stepped back, letting Arthur crumple to the ground. He yanked the knife out of him, letting the blood flow freely from his open wound.
Arthur looked up into the eyes of his friend, pain lacing his voice as he uttered his final breath;
“You are forgiven.”
Lancelot wiped the stained blade with the cloak of the dead King’s robe and strode out of the room. He walked up to the bell tower and pulled the chord once, twice, three then four times. The whole kingdom knew that the king was dead.
Guinevere sat on her bed, sitting motionless as tears spilled from her overflowing eyes. Her king, her husband was dead and she had known for days, but could not, did not try to save him. Now nearly all of her visions had come to pass as she had seen them. Her husband dead, his kingdom destroyed, her lover a killer. Herself, an adulterous betrayer. She fingered the lily on the hilt of the dagger, nothing like her corrupted heart.
Only one vision remained and her life prevented it’s truth. She held the dagger, given to her for protection. She never thought it would be used to protect herself from herself. She held it up, examining her face in it’s reflection.
She closed her eyes and brought the blade down into her stomach. She gasped but did not cry out, pulling the blade out, the blood flowing freely. She lay back onto her bed and held the flowers, the last gift from her beloved king, and held them to her chest. She felt her life seeping away, her breathing becoming shallow. Her eyes closed, knowing that no one would be there to close them for her, as she slipped away to find Arthur.
Lancelot knocked on Guinevere’s door for the fifth time, his impatience growing as he paced in the hallway. He finally gave up and pushed the door open, stopping in the doorway. There lay Guinevere, his Guinevere, in her wedding dress, holding a bouquet of flowers surrounded by a pool of dark blood. The guilty blade lay on her bedside table, soaked with her royal blood. There was no
one around, but there could only be one explanation; the lovely Guinevere had killed herself. Lancelot
walked over to her bed and placed a hand onto her ashen face, cold as stone.
The love of his life had killed herself from the sorrow of losing Arthur, and it was purely because
of his own actions. He had killed the lovely Guinevere.
“Oh my Guinevere what have I done. How much misery have I caused you?” Lancelot wailed, his heart breaking.
He traced the intricate craftsmanship on the handle of the blade. He looked out the window, the sun streaming in, turning Guinevere’s hair to gold. He kissed her hair and he too held up the blade. Camelot had no hope, Lancelot had killed his best friend;his king, and now his love was dead. There was nothing left for Lancelot in this world.
“Let me leave this world the way my loves did and my dear God let my son forgive me,” he said, striking his broken heart, severing his life’s chord. He fell to the floor, the blade falling from his hand, clattering to the ground.
The fog lifted from the valleys of the mighty kingdom of Camelot, drifting away from the castle where the fallen lay. The shadow walked into the Round Table room over to King Arthur. The hood was lifted and long black locks spilled out, revealing a beautiful woman. She took the crown off his head, gently placing the ring of gold onto the Round Table. She bent down and kissed the dead king, murmuring gentle words into his un-hearing ear; “Goodnight my son and rest well, for we shall meet again.”
She walked up the stairs, her rich purple cloak trailing behind her. Morgause walked through the open door of the former Queen Guinevere’s bedchamber. She stepped over Lancelot and made her way to the lady. She removed the golden crown from Guinevere’s head and placed in onto her own, bending down to whisper into her ear; “Justice, my beauty, will come to all. For your justice is death and mine to serve.”
She bent down to Lancelot and retrieved her knife from him, picking up the lady Guinevere’s dagger as well. The dragon and the lily. She fingered the intricate carvings, her eyes softening just the slightest bit.
“All beauty fades and the mighty will always fall, for this is justice.”
