265. What did you dream about last night?
The blood sings a metronomic path down his face; I turn and run as fast as I can, but it’s sluggish and slow and God forgive me, I’m too late. Lancelot falls gracefully, musically, his body sliding through the air as if he’s running his fingers down a harp or some bard’s instrument.
Things speed up and I reach him just as his darkly curled head hits the frozen ground, and I scream my anger and loss to the sky, his lips moving just barely, his eyes already freezing open - dead and empty, as he never was in life.
My mother is ashen grey, her mouth in a grim line as my father bids her farewell from atop his horse. She crosses her arms, and turns from him, entering the house with the unhappy gait I’m very familiar with, even as a boy.
He touches the top of my head gently, and wheels his animal about. The arrows that protrude from his back somehow haven’t killed him, but he leaks copious red liquid as he rides away, the horse skeletal and white.
My knights surround me, the new table gleaming and golden red in the light from the brazier. They raise their glasses of ale or wine, and we shout to their ancient gods and my one true Savior - our thanks that we survived another day, another winter, another year on our service.
They all look at me, and each one is … melting. Flesh moves down their faces, like the ice that drips off the trees when spring comes.
Bors turns wet, brown eyes on me, and says but I loved you, Artos.
My wife walks next to me in the corridors of our palace. She is blonde, and small, and smiles gently as we travel slowly hand in hand. Her belly is swollen, and as I reach out my thick fingers - only used to a sword’s hilt - her stomach spasms and she collapses on the floor. I call desperately for a medicus, for her midwife, for anyone, but the last thing I see before the blackness is her face, shining and contorted in a rictus of pain.
Your future, my King.
Slick tiles, the sounds of feet running, hushed voices, and all is -
Empty.
My lip is worried enough to bleed sluggishly as I shoot upright in my bed. I am coated in sweat, and my tunic is too oppressive and confining, so I tug it over my head, tearing it in the process. It lands somewhere on the ground, and I hug my knees to my chest as I sit, bare skinned, in my bed, as I think about jumbled images and what the future could possibly have in store for me.
The body next to mine moves, the voice slurred and unintelligible, and I spare a glance for the pale shoulder that can be seen as the furs shift. Reaching out an uncaring hand, I pull the pelt back over the tender flesh, and go back to my musing.
My eyes slide shut at last, and my chin jerks a few times as I try and nod off while sitting up.
His dark eyes, empty and frozen, are the only image I remember from my mixed dreams, and they do not go away with the coming of sleep at last.
Rather, they imprint themselves in my conscience, and despite his warmth next to mine, I cannot help but feel the chill of death and see the white of bone that is not there.
Not yet.
Soon?
My mouth moves as I sleep, in quiet and desperate prayer.
~
Things speed up and I reach him just as his darkly curled head hits the frozen ground, and I scream my anger and loss to the sky, his lips moving just barely, his eyes already freezing open - dead and empty, as he never was in life.
My mother is ashen grey, her mouth in a grim line as my father bids her farewell from atop his horse. She crosses her arms, and turns from him, entering the house with the unhappy gait I’m very familiar with, even as a boy.
He touches the top of my head gently, and wheels his animal about. The arrows that protrude from his back somehow haven’t killed him, but he leaks copious red liquid as he rides away, the horse skeletal and white.
My knights surround me, the new table gleaming and golden red in the light from the brazier. They raise their glasses of ale or wine, and we shout to their ancient gods and my one true Savior - our thanks that we survived another day, another winter, another year on our service.
They all look at me, and each one is … melting. Flesh moves down their faces, like the ice that drips off the trees when spring comes.
Bors turns wet, brown eyes on me, and says but I loved you, Artos.
My wife walks next to me in the corridors of our palace. She is blonde, and small, and smiles gently as we travel slowly hand in hand. Her belly is swollen, and as I reach out my thick fingers - only used to a sword’s hilt - her stomach spasms and she collapses on the floor. I call desperately for a medicus, for her midwife, for anyone, but the last thing I see before the blackness is her face, shining and contorted in a rictus of pain.
Your future, my King.
Slick tiles, the sounds of feet running, hushed voices, and all is -
Empty.
My lip is worried enough to bleed sluggishly as I shoot upright in my bed. I am coated in sweat, and my tunic is too oppressive and confining, so I tug it over my head, tearing it in the process. It lands somewhere on the ground, and I hug my knees to my chest as I sit, bare skinned, in my bed, as I think about jumbled images and what the future could possibly have in store for me.
The body next to mine moves, the voice slurred and unintelligible, and I spare a glance for the pale shoulder that can be seen as the furs shift. Reaching out an uncaring hand, I pull the pelt back over the tender flesh, and go back to my musing.
My eyes slide shut at last, and my chin jerks a few times as I try and nod off while sitting up.
His dark eyes, empty and frozen, are the only image I remember from my mixed dreams, and they do not go away with the coming of sleep at last.
Rather, they imprint themselves in my conscience, and despite his warmth next to mine, I cannot help but feel the chill of death and see the white of bone that is not there.
Not yet.
Soon?
My mouth moves as I sleep, in quiet and desperate prayer.
~