They’ve divided the chaos with

  blood and steel

  imagining a promised land

  that spans the breadth

  of mighty Logres,

  the Kingdom of Angels,

  and we take one more breath

  before we reach our peak,

  gathered as we are,

  in this solemn hall.

  We choose to hear nothing

  of the dreaded creak of aged bones

  the slip and snap of worn-out muscles,

  lives shuddering in unison

  in the somber silence.

  He stands there, proud,

  his knights mighty,

  glorious, noble and true.

  Arthur glances at me,

  the question

  lingering unspoken

  in this hallowed chamber.

  Mighty are his knights

  and true,

  Yet none so true

  as to take this seat.

  Siege Perilous

  they named me,

  for none may take me

  save for the best knight

  in all the world.

  Should the unworthy

  attempt it, they will burn,

  and thus I cast confusion

  on their faith.

  For if they are the best

  and the truest of all,

  why then,

  is no one worthy?

  As ever, whenever they look at me

  they look at him,

  brave Lancelot,

  mighty of arm

  and strong of heart,

  yet he never looks at me.

  I am his shame,

  the acknowledgement

  that he could be greater,

  but for

  the chiding rattle of chains

  that holds his heart captive.

  For best must also be

  the pure of spirit,

  and his soul

  is shackled yet with

  a thousand betrayals:

  the weakness of a covetous love,

  a lust born from

  souls weakened with time.

  The dusk of life

  settles on them,

  brown, gold and black

  yielding to grey,

  yet they feel it,

  when they look at me,

  that their story

  is not yet complete.

  Our distinguished Round Table

  a circle pure,

  is the anvil

  where ideals are beaten

  into truth,

  with the hammer, the sword

  and the axe by

  the heroes of the age.

  Long has the day been

  and the night that led to

  such tales.

  But no sun rises in the east.

  The horizon we see

  does not belong to us

  but to the enemies of our forbearance,

  whilst we cling to the sanctimony

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  of our beliefs, whispered again

  and again in silence

  as we seal our fallen in halls of stone.

  Empty seats are soon filled,

  yet never me.

  They worshipped gods of war

  by slaying their brothers,

  cold steel bursting through warm bodies,

  and they made blood holy,

  yet spilled it with impunity.

  Could purity remain?

  Or is my purpose

  to scorch and to maim,

  to be the executioner

  of the frailties of man?

  The hall goes dark,

  every candle and sconce

  extinguished

  and we see it,

  floating above us

  at the center of the table:

  A vision of gold,

  a goblet, most holy,

  dripping blood

  upon our Table.

  Where the blood falls,

  it scorches and cracks.

  We hear the voices of angels

  promising a quest

  to crown Logres

  as the flower of

  honour and purity:

  The Holy Grail

  beckons, drawing us

  like a lodestone,

  to cure the Fisher King.

  The vision fades,

  and they all fall silent.

  The doors of Camelot burst open

  and light enters the hall once more,

  and in he strides,

  young, golden-haired

  blue-eyed, confident in purpose.

  Immediately,

  they look at Lancelot

  for he is the spitting image of him

  in his younger days,

  yet there is a purity

  to this younger knight

  that holds them all spellbound.

  To their shock,

  and mine

  he takes his seat,

  taking me,

  before anyone

  can say a word.

  Strength has now come again,

  if there is sickness, he is the cure,

  his might is as the strength of ten,

  Because his soul is pure.

  Unrivalled now, he stands apart

  from a world that is yet dark at heart:

  Galahad, glory-bound

  now takes his place

  at Arthur's court.

  The Siege Perilous is filled

  Our Company is complete,

  and tears fill

  our great king's eyes.

  His work is done,

  and his heart fills

  at last, even as it breaks.

  For this is their resplendence,

  the final eminence

  of their mighty fellowship.

  “We shall never be greater

  than we are now.

  We shall never be more

  than this moment.

  If only Merlin were

  here to see this day.”

  Yet his mentor departed

  long ago,

  sealed in stone and water,

  himself a prisoner

  of love.

  The Holy Grail calls

  the flower of knighthood,

  and they all see

  the truth reflected

  in young Galahad's eyes:

  One last quest for eternal honour,

  a final task, befitting legends

  ere darkness falls,

  the last and greatest quest

  of the mighty Round Table

  at the height of its power

  when all is golden and good.

  Our greatest glory...

  and the beginning of the end.