Striving for Nothing
Prologue: A Shattering of Glass
My dearest Sir Lancelot,
I thought my heart was made of stone, but it is all too clearly made of ice—ice that melted the moment I saw your face. I was the maiden in the marble tower, the Lady of Shallot. By day and night I wove all that I saw in my magick mirror, never looking to Camelot. I saw lovers, mourners, friends, foes—then I see you, most peerless Sir Lancelot, and my soul soars among the clouds. Your face alone is enough to melt my heart of ice.
The sun gleams off your flawless armor, burnishes your golden crown of curls, and gives your eyes a sheen unmatched by the brightest of flames. The way you ride on your horse, the easy grace with which you move… my fingers freeze upon the loom and can weave no more.
Why? Why do you fill my mind when things of far greater magnitude mean nothing to me? Oh, cruel, bitter love! I cannot look upon Camelot; the curse forbids it…
You ride alone, Sir Lancelot. There is gravity in your manner, a sorrow in your shining being. My hands tremble and my eyes- treacherous eyes!-are drawn to the window, hoping for a glimpse of my heart's dearest wish. The mirror shatters as I turn my head towards the window, towards Camelot, pieces of glass showering the room. It is a jarring disconance, heralding the end. The glass draws blood. I scream. My broken vows echo endlessly in the tower; winds of doom unwind my life's work, the woven tapestry that goes back to the birth of the world. It is now so many tattered pieces of string. A cold sets in, chilling to the bone. Death is the price for looking upon Camelot; the price for turning my back on the forces that I pledged my life too. I know that now.
Still, you do not know I exist. My heart, flooded with these strange—no, human, after all these years, still human— emotions, quivers. Even now, I cannot bear that. I have set myself in a boat, to drift to Camelot, to drift to you. Both are my downfall, both are my saviors.
You have never known me in life, but you will see me in death. If you had known me, would you have loved me? Perhaps it is better this way. This way, you can never answer "no" to that question, never shatter my heart like my mirror. That would be worse than death.
My time grows short. There is much I do not know, but this I do: On the other side of the River of Life, I will wait for you…because…because I love you. Even if you do not love me.
Elaine
The Lady of Shallot
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
This is the (supposed) letter Elaine had clutched in her hands. Written for a school assignment last year. Sort of a cross over between King Arthur (book) and The Lady of Shallot (poem). Freakishly sappy (for me), so I'm pretending it's Valentine's day. Right. Happy April Fool's Day. I'm putting it down as a one-shot, but it could become a story. Sooner or later it's going to make me do something with it. Stories are alive, you know, and they like to beat authors over the head with fish..
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Gracias. Merci. Danke. Thanks. Whichever you prefer.