Arthurian
Romances...
With lesbians.
It smelt like rain. Over the moors, you could see thunderheads gathering in the distance. It was a summer rainstorm, which meant it promised torrential downpours, and head-splitting lightning displays. The air felt charged, as if the very energy of the lightning was harnessed by the air all around. The armies stood, facing each other. Banners, torn and soiled with dirt, blood, and mud hung limp, all but tattered remains of their former shining glory. It was Sunday. The day of rest. But there was no rest for us. No rest for the wicked. You could see their warlord, proud, tall, erect, and flanked by his personal bodyguard. He wore nothing more than ceremonial armour and pants. He was, as they all were, covered in their brutish, sick war paint, or more like clay if you were to ask any civilized Briton. The warlord opened his mouth, and we knew the customary shriek which would signal the charge of the first line was approaching. But as he let loose (what I am told) was the most savage, piercing, eerie call to arms of the Picts, I heard nothing. I saw her instead. I heard her voice in the place of the raging barbarian horde rushing into meet us. The first ringing of shields, axes, claymores, daggers, flails, maces, and cleavers only dully reached my ears. They were filled with the sound of us, together.
=====================================--------------------========================
It wasn't always like this. There was a time when I was this land's shining pinnacle. I had been the absolute standard others were held against. I was entrusted with everything. Perhaps that was where my downfall had sprouted from. I'm most certain that's the only place I can think of. Perhaps the king's trust in me, his absolute unwaivering faith and belief in me tripped the dangerous trap I fell into. Though by blaming my liege, all I do is take the blame and shoulder it to another. The simple fact of the matter was that it never meant to happen. Yet it did. It was my fault, and perhaps her fault as well, though, true to how I was always raised, I took the blame in the end, not her. I couldn't let it happen, not to her. It reminds me of the tales of Lancelot du Loc I heard as a child. How could you not know of the story? A faithful, and perhaps the most trusted and loved knight of all, whisked away King Arthur's one true, pure, and beautiful treasure. I feel much as Lancelot must have felt. So I cannot complain when I was given the lead to the already doomed charge against the encroaching Pict menace. I deserved the blade. Or perhaps the fire. They all said I did. They also said she did as well. But I would never let that happen, never to her.
I stood in front of court, that black day in Winter's deadest sleep, and, never leaving her gaze, I lied to my sworn and sovereign lord. I spun a whole tale of deception, trickery, seduction, and un-consented love. I did this all the while staring right into those deep, dark pools of blue. I imagine when I am skewered upon a Pict spear that as my soul flies down to hell, it will be the shade of blue that her eyes were. She said nothing, and did nothing. I could not have asked her to. I'm not even entirely sure that she would have, if given the opportunity to. I could not lie and put down that I was beyond all reasonable doubts, beyond all signs sure enough to lay down my life, that she really loved me. But I know, beyond all reasonable doubts, and signs, and omens, and logics, that I loved her. And that I love her, to this day. I fell from the highest graces of heaven, much as Lucifer did, the monks tell me on the way to the Wall. I was tempted with something that I should never have partaken in, much as Adam and Eve, the monks tell me in the mire of mud that we become trapped in. I represent the destruction of the true moral and Christian values that the king, and our people have come to hold above our old customs. I cannot say how I feel about this. I cannot quite pin down the exact feeling I get when I hear words whispered in venomous, low whispers. It is...almost no feeling at all, and yet, it is a powerful feeling, encroaching upon my very soul. If I even posses a soul. Or so the monks hint to me on the eve of battle.
I know I will die on this black day. But I cannot find fear within myself. I cannot find regret, anger, or penance for what I have done. I have searched my soul, far and wide, in this country and in others, and I can find no fault in myself. Except, perhaps, not spending enough time with her. Does this make much difference to her, or how she's living now? No, of course not. I joke with myself to ever even think that she spares me a thought. I am a fallen angel. A broken holy vessel. I channeled the very Lord and God Almighty within me. And I threw it away. Not for pride, or for vanity. I threw it away on a lady. I know what I should feel, and that when my sentence was passed, I should have fallen upon his feet and kissed his robes as I had kissed her. I should have thanked him for his insurmountable wisdom and charity. His generousness and his grace that he gave to me. But I could do nothing but stare at her. How could I take my eyes off of her? The absolute core of my ruin, the seed of my destruction, the forbidden fruit in my garden of Eden. I could find no fault in that flawless skin, nor in those deep pits that stared straight ahead. She kept my gaze, but never did I see a flicker of the woman I love. I suppose she never existed. Or maybe, she just couldn't survive in this world.
I feel certain that I was not destined to long live in this world. I am only twenty four, but I feel like this is the end of this leg of my journey. Perhaps the love we found was not supposed to exist here, at this given time, with these given people, and our given circumstances. Perhaps. I find these answers and more swimming in my weary and sore head. I find my heart tightening at all of these conclusions. But I still feel happy when she skips into my mind. Much as I felt when she skipped into my life. The tale is long and winding, and there is no real moral for what I have to say, but I feel that, much as is my nature, she needs a tribute to her. She needs a record of her exquisite beauty and goodness. She needs a testament that will outlive her and I. A tablet of the purest love I ever knew, even if no one else thought as much. She will never read this, and this will probably be looted, barely read, if at all, and destroyed once the Picts conquer us anew.
You shouldn't be reading this if you are. It's only the account of a fallen knight. A defeated lover. A tale of a love that should never have been. But was. And lives on in eternity, even if no one cares to remember it existed. I remember. I love her.
--Theres ALL sorts of issues with this one. It's ill conceived, not thought out, inconsistent in terms of words, time frame, story, all of it. I like it though. We'll see if my muses visit me again in the night to continue this on. Either way, I like it.
