Hello all! Been missing you. Hopefully, I'll post more Sherlock (*drools, wipes mouth, continues typing*) fanfiction once school is over, but in the meantime something else I love: King Arthur! This is a class assignment that technically IS fanfiction, but really is mostly an original piece.
WARNING TO NON-ARTHUR NERD: This piece contains references to people, places, and events that are from obscure and mainstream Arthurian legends and historical texts. It most heavily references TH White's Once and Future King. If you are having trouble, please use Wikipedia or write a review with your questions. I'll respond :D
Oh, and please review! :D
Chapter 1
While walking in the library of Glastonbury Church, I came upon this old manuscript, covered in the dust of our forefathers. Below is a most enlightening excerpt from the manuscript, The Chronicles of the Knights, that I translated from the ancient dialect. The manuscript was written by the Canterbury scribe Jonathan in the time before our father's or even our father's father, but just after the time of Arthur. Among other former members of Arthur's court, the great scribe chose to write down from dictation the life and troubles of one Sir Bedivere. I have translated this excerpt specifically for the instruction of the astounding number of young people about today, so they might learn from Sir Bedivere's example of manhood and valor.
I am a mostly unknown knight. When all is turned once again to dust, no one will remember me, but dwell on the great lighted glory of Lancelot and Arthur, as it should be. But I was there. I saw. I was the last to see.
I grew up in a fortified castle far away from the likes of Arthur or Camelot. My father, Lord Pedrawd, was that of the old ways, or at least of what became the old ways, of Uther. Harsh, brutal slaps of the armored gauntlet. I was my father's first son with Lucan after me. I had to be the role model, the better, stronger brother for Lucan to follow. This was beaten into me by sword and fist. I...didn't like it.
I had greater aptitude for gentler ways: natural history, science, and some art. I liked to observe everything and everyone: even the lowliest servants. I secretly thought that it was the quickest way to truth. When I was very young, I even liked to watch my mother weaving and making tapestries. Those tiny little lines. But then Father or Schoolmaster would find me and tear me away from my mother's skirts to the training field.
I did well there-well enough anyway-but Lucan was almost always better. As I grew older I grew frustrated. Frustrated that I couldn't do it right and be the man my father wanted me to be. I was too gentle, and it seemed like a curse. I lashed out against the ones who pointed out my failures as well as innocent others, developing slyness, false pride, and, most of all, rage. Battle-rage, as the other Round Table knights called it. Gawaine suffered from the same, as I recall. My father loved it: he thought I was at my best then. My mother was slightly horrified, but in the end, her opinion did not really matter to my father.
Father was very two-faced. Dashing at court, beast on the battlefield. I tried to mimic it exactly-that harshness and inconsequentiality of "lesser" peoples-but always failed at it constantly. On the battlefield, Father did not believe in mercy. Killing the other nobles' kerns was the testing ground to see if you could damage the real prize. But as I said, we were far off from what anyone called "civilization," and Father probably inherited his manner from his father and him from his father and so forth. They never met Arthur or the Round Table.
Or perhaps I should say he never ran into Lancelot. I met Lancelot first. Do you know the story? No, don't write that down. Wait. Oh rubbish. Well, this was the time I was married. I had a wife who I loved very much. But I was so young, so insecure then in my manhood. Not that it excuses what I did, but...I thought that it was important to include. My wife had spirit. A tongue quicker than her head. She'd dazzle you with tales and talk until the day you died. My secret side, the one that did not want to kill and dominate as Father did, loved her truly. To listen to her. To talk. To just sit with her in the spring garden for hours and name the birds that flitted through the trees and flowers. But of course, my father had almost never heard of sitting in gardens and treating a woman like a proper person, so my notions were ridiculous. But my wife could see through me and understood so all was well until...until I committed a grievous sin.
I was feeling rather hot that day. Literary and figuratively. The summer was burning down, and the past three months of training had been a failure according to my father. We had recently had a war with a neighboring baron, and I had taken twenty noble prisoners. My father had killed them all afterwards, not trusting any ransom or other deal. The twenty knights that had cried for mercy, forgiveness, salvation were slain by my father's sword. I can still see it: the blood stained in armor, the scarlet oozing down the steel plates. I had to watch, you see. As a lesson. And the scraping and polishing and trying to get the blood out! I thought it would never end! I was nearly mad in my brains with the agony. I was supposed to revile them, hate them, but I simply couldn't. They were still men to me.
But I began with my wife. My father hated her. Not openly no, but behind his eyes you could tell. He wanted to cut off her tongue just as he did those knights' heads. He thought I loved her too much; that she was making a woman out of me with her wiles and wit. She was not too fond of him either, and perhaps he resented her intelligence. In any case, he started a rumor. My Lord, what a rumor. A rumor that I had been cuckolded. It was more than I could bear. I already felt like I was different, worthless, and impotent as a man. I couldn't kill so what else was there to do?
When I heard the rumor on the day I finished polishing the dead prisoners' armor, all I could see was red. I flew to our chamber and shouted to my dear little wife that she had a ten minute start before I would cut off her head. She didn't believe me at first. I remember seeing her sitting on the bed in her maroon dress, her face pale, so pale. Her blonde hair cascading down. Her brown eyes widened like shields. She came to me, touched my face, stroked my brow, whispered that it was a untrue and I just needed to calm down. But I was gone. So far gone I was at the level of an animal. No: even animals don't kill their mates. I was a demon. I grabbed her arm and threw her towards the staircase, yelling at her to go, run, ride away. She burst into tears.
Next I remember she was on a horse with her face dry. I was riding after her, and she was riding for her life. She was angry now, her eyes flashed like stars at me, like burning mud. Her jaw was set, her hair seemed to reach back to slap my face. Lancelot, though neither of us knew it was Lancelot, was ahead and she cried for his aid. If only...but I only have what happened. He got between us, and I suppose I said something coherent back to his inquiries. I don't really remember. I only knew I was blocked from my goal. But then an idea hit, a simple little distraction for the block. I told him other knights were on the way, and he moved the fraction of an inch I needed to ride closer to her and slice off her head. And it was easy. Why was it so easy?
I suppose it was quick for her. Lancelot turned dark purple with rage and beat me to the ground. I deserved to go lower. As we fought, what I had done began to sink in, the rage skulking away. I couldn't tell if the blood on my face was my own or my wife's. I was floating suspended just above myself, all of me wriggling just above its proper place. It was hard to reach any part of me, all the signals getting delayed. And everything was heavy amidst all the floating. So odd. By the time I was on the ground, I wanted to die. I had killed the one I had sworn to cherish, protect, love forever and beyond. But Lancelot wouldn't kill me. I still have no idea why.
My wife's name was Felicia. "Felicia" means happiness. I had killed my happiness forever.
Bit of a grim start, but it gets better! Truly! And please review especially if you DON'T like all or part of it. The story is actually all finished but if no one demonstrates interest, then I don't want to use up webspace to post it...