Beneath the lake's surface what little moonlight makes it through the mist is quickly swallowed up, leaving only darkness. A single fish stirs up the sand at the bottom of the lake, searching for food. Thousands of tiny particles are sent billowing up through the water, further obscuring vision.
The Lady does not need her eyes to see. Her magic comes from Britain and nothing in Britain is beyond her sight. She has waited and watched for fifteen-hundred years, but every time she thinks the end has come the Britons rise up and drive their enemies back into the sea.
This time is different.
With a thought the Lady begins to rise up through the dark water of the lake.
It is not yet six o'clock in the evening, but London is silent. In normal times the streets would be full of shoppers bustling about beneath the Christmas lights, but the lights are switched off and the shoppers are hiding in their homes, doors locked and curtains drawn. A military motorcade prowls through the streets, vehicles peeling off down every side street. Wary-eyed soldiers man machinegun turrets loaded with live ammunition.
The convoy advances down The Mall. Two tanks stop beside the Victoria Memorial, their main guns sweeping a full three-hundred-and-sixty degree arc. A silent all-clear is given and an armoured limousine pulls up outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.
A soldier hops down from an armoured truck and opens the rear door of the limousine. Out steps the Conqueror, dressed in an immaculate military dress-uniform, his chest covered in a dozen medals he never earned.
The Conqueror looks up at the palace. He remembers the previous time he came here to attend a state banquet and the lies he told about peace, prosperity and friendship. His true colours were never well hidden, but now even the most determined fool could not fail to see them.
With his honour guard surrounding him, the Conqueror strides out towards Buckingham Palace.
The evening mist parts and the light of the full moon reveals an island that does not appear on any map.
The Lady does not create a single ripple as she breaks through the surface of the lake. Her long hair shimmers in the moonlight, its true colour impossible to determine. Her dress is sown from lily petals, so delicate and thin it should be unseemly but the Lady wears it with such grace than no other garment seems appropriate
In the Lady's hand she carries a longsword. The hilt is gilded and a large round ruby sits in the pommel. Inscribed on the blade are the words "Take me up"and "Cast me away". This sword will be a banner to rally to in the dark days to come.
The Lady continues up the stony shore and onto the island. Destiny awaits.
Inside the palace the Conqueror comes to a door guarded by two Life Guards in full ceremonial uniform. Their dedication is admirable. They have been stripped of their weapons and their dignity, and yet here they still stand, defending their monarch until the end.
All pointless of course. The Conqueror has permission to enter this room. He collects a briefcase from an aide and with a single word commands his retinue to wait outside. He strides past the Life Guards and enters the room.
It is far less ostentatious than he expected. The room's grandness is refined; steeped in the accumulated wealth of a thousand years of monarchy. The Conqueror notices that everything in the room is carefully positioned to point towards the desk and the person sitting there.
The Last Scion of the House of Windsor.
The Windsors have worn the crown for over a hundred years and never has it weighed heavier upon the shoulders. With privilege comes power and with power comes responsibility. The Last Windsor knows this all too well.
The Conqueror advances towards the desk. He places the briefcase down onto the polished glass surface and opens it. He withdraws a single document and hands it to the Last Windsor.
"The terms of surrender, as agreed by your government."
The Last Windsor reads the document carefully. The conditions are civilised enough, but the Last Windsor has been fully briefed by the government and the intelligence agencies. They know exactly what the Conqueror intends to do with this country once it is his and they know that none of the promises written on this piece of paper hold any power at all.
A high-pitched ting interrupts this train of thought. The Last Windsor looks up to see the Conqueror inspecting a set of antique wine glasses set out along the mantelpiece.
"Those were given to George IV by Francis I of Austria in 1822. He was an Emperor twice: first of the Holy Roman Empire, then of Austria."
"A man after my own heart."
The Last Windsor smiles humourlessly and returns to the document. He barely recognises the signature of the Prime Minister at the bottom; the poor man has only been in office for a matter of days. His predecessor made it all the way to Bolivia before finally being captured. He was going to be extradited to face charges of treason, but that doesn't seem very likely given the recent turn of events. The Conqueror will probably want to give him his old job back.
As the Conqueror moves from the wine glasses to the portrait of George VI and his daughters the Last Windsor holds the pen hesitantly above the paper. They know the cost of surrender and they know the cost of defiance. They know they are only a figurehead and that the Prime Minister's signature is sufficient for the Conqueror's purposes, but they also know the esteem with which the Conqueror holds the British monarchy. The decision the Last Windsor makes now will ripple out into every corner of Britain.
The Last Windsor opens their mouth and out pour words they memorised as a child, long since thought forgotten:
"Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown."
The Conqueror smiles. "Shakespeare. Richard the Second," he says.
"Henry the Fourth, Part Two," murmurs the Last Windsor. Decision made, they carefully place the pen onto the desk and rise from their chair. "I can't sign this."
Smile unchanged, the Conqueror draws two pistols from holsters around his waist. He points the right-hand one towards the Last Windsor. "I urge you to reconsider."
"No," says the Last Windsor.
The Conqueror fires. Without even looking he turns one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and fires the left-hand pistol blindly, tearing a huge chunk from some priceless painting. With that done the Conqueror turns back around and inspects his handiwork.
The Last Windsor lies dead; half on the desk and half on the chair. The Conqueror places the second pistol on the desk beside the Last Windsor's outstretched hand. He scoops up the terms of surrender and the briefcase. As he walks away from the desk towards the door he can already hear gunshots as his men begin to massacre every Briton in Buckingham Palace.
The Conqueror is still smiling.
In the centre of the island stands a wooden boat placed atop a shallow mound of rounded stones. Within the boat lies the Once and Future King. He still wears the armour he wore at Camlann but the battle damage has been repaired and the moonlight reflects brightly from the unblemished metalwork.
The Lady draws closer and sees his face for the first time in one-and-a-half thousand years. He has not aged a day – in fact the pain of his final months has melted away, leaving behind a more youthful and gentle visage. Looks can be deceiving, however. The king will do whatever he must for the good of his people.
It is with an air of finality that the Lady prepares herself for what is to come. She knows that this is the last part she will play in this story. What happens next is beyond her sight.
The Lady places the sword onto the king's chest and draws his hands onto the hilt. She smiles sadly. The still calm of the night is broken by a single gust of wind and the Lady is gone.
Arthur awakens.