I will die on the hills of Camlan in the early eve,
late in the day as the sun fades and the battle rages,
a battle like the battles I remember,
a day known only to Morgan and a day to be remembered only by her.
And the waning light will shimmer against the steel of his sword,
and the armors of my knights,
and off the shields of their surviving squires
while they do battle around us in the muck of the bloody fields,
distanced from their king and his would be usurper, out of respect.
I think it will be a cold day like today,
except that the sun will be out and the rain will have stopped,
the rain that today made the grass first glisten with dew and then drown;
and I think it will be a cold day because today,
when I glanced out my window and saw my kingdom,
never before had I felt such foreboding;
the life I had built, the land I had fought for, it all seemed on the verge of collapse.
And my brothers-in-arms, restless because of the storm,
look to me now, not understanding my fears,
and my bastard schemes behind my back, and my barren wife weeps.
King Arthur Pendragon is dying. The sun has faded over the age of Camelot,
the sun has faded over the white stone from whence the first sword came.
The knights move upriver, slowly, so many,
trudging on foot despite the distance.
And after a while, Sir Bedivere with Excalibur
walked to the lake through the dying day,
put his own blade in its sheath
to lift the mighty blade, toss it,
and watch the samite clothed hand reclaim it,
and he crossed himself, fearful,
and bowed his head, out of respect.