“I had reckoned that we would see some sign of the battle by now, even from out this far, my lord.”

Lancelot could only nod his head to the quartermaster in assent, his hands tight against the gunnel's edge, steadying himself against the constant rocking of the vessel. The white cliffs looked as imposing as they always had, but of battle, there was little sign. They were still too far from shore to have a clear view of the beach at the base, but Lancelot thought that he could see the wreckage of vessels. Remnants of Arthur's fleet, perhaps? It was impossible to tell, with his imagination presuming to fill the gaps from his vision in the limited light.

Stepping back from the rail, he looked again at the crumpled letter in his hand. He had kept it with him since receiving it from his castellan. Gawain's letter, written on his deathbed. Oh, how damned fate laughs at us all in the end, he thought, as he read it for the hundredth time that day.

“Sir Lancelot, for all the love that ever was between us, make no tarrying, but come over the sea in all the goodly haste that thou may have, with knights, and rescue that noble King who made thee knight, for he is full straitly bestead by a false traitor who is my half brother, Mordred.”

“I never hated you, brother,” Lancelot whispered. “Never.”

“Pardon, my lord?” came a voice over his shoulder.

Lancelot glanced up to see one of the mates looking at him expectantly. The crew was in awe of the legendary knight, eager to address his every need or want of comfort. Like so many others, they saw only the shine, and never the tarnish, of knighthood.

“Nothing, good man. Please, carry on.”

“Aye, my lord. Captain says we'll make land by dawn.”

“My thanks, then. Please, don't let me keep you from your duties,” said the knight, but the man was already moving on to his station at the foredeck.

Turning back to look at the cliffs, Lancelot prayed that his fears were mistaken.

 

 

The water was frigid as Lancelot waded to shore. The small boats among them were prevented from landing on the beach by the wrecked fleet that barred its path. Hundreds of ships were battered to little more than kindling, with the stench from the dead thinly veiled by the constant spray of salted waves breaking against the crippled hulks.

The fact that the dead remained here, in their watery graves, was a poor sign. Regardless of whom the this battle's victor had been, the bodies here would have been recovered, yet livery from both sides adorned the wreckage. Lancelot prayed this to mean that the battle was continuing further inland. Upon sight of Bedevere alone on the beach, staring out at the waves, he knew that all had been lost.

“Bedevere!” he called. “Here, man! It's Lancelot! Where's Arthur? How stands Camelot?”

Sir Bedevere, the Mighty Marshall of Camelot, wielder of the Magic Lance who fought the Giant at Mont Michel, sat still, saying nothing. If he even noticed Lancelot splash up onto the beach, he gave no sign. His face slack, he stared at the open sea, still seeing something long since disappeared.

“Bedevere,” said Lancelot softly, as he approached his old friend. “What happened here, man? Where is Arthur?”

At the mention of his liege, Bedevere finally acknowledged his former comrade. He looked up at Lancelot. His face was ashen, still encrusted with sand and salt and blood. Gaunt with starving, his throat dry with thirst, he could give only a feeble moan as he pointed out towards the sea.

“Is he drowned? No, Bedevere, I don't believe that! Arthur's fate was stronger than these tides. Where is he? What happened here?”

Bedevere opened his mouth to speak. His voice-the voice that once commanded the most powerful army in the world-was now scarcely a whisper. “The women came for him, took him away.”

“The women?” questioned Lancelot. “What women? Jenny? Did Jenny come?”

As if burned, the wounded knight pulled away with a hiss a the mention of Guinevere’s name. His eyes hardened, and a small strength returned to his voice. “No.”

On his knees now, Lancelot took Bedevere by the shoulders, looking squarely into his eyes. “It's me, brother. Lancelot. Please, tell me what has happened. Did we take the field? Did Arthur prevail?”

Slowly, like dawn light burning away a heavy fog, Lancelot saw his old friend return from the gentle realm of his reverie to this unforgiving world of sand and salt. “That's it, Bedevere. Come back to me. We're here at Dover, down at the beach. You landed here, yes?”

“Yes,” whispered Bedevere. “We landed here, and we battled that black bastard all the way up to the plain.”

“So Arthur lived? He prevailed?”

“No,” said the broken knight. “He died. He died, and then the ladies came and took him away.”

It was then that this reality finally overtook him, and Bedevere was wracked with giant sobs. He cried for his brothers, his kingdom, and his king, as Lancelot held him close. For quite some time, the two men held each other-the only survivors of Camelot's dark demise.

They stayed on the beach for a day more, in order for Bedevere to regain his strength. Lancelot created a shelter to house the large man, and offered to feed him with whatever provisions he had brought. After eating a small bit of the cheese and wine, Bedevere finally slept, and Lancelot waved off the vessel-ordering its men both to return to France and to inform his staff at Joyous Gard that he would remain in Camelot.

Throughout that day, Bedevere would moan and flail in his sleep, fighting a battle in his dreams, and Lancelot would rush to his side with a gentle hand and comforting words. As he sat outside tending the fire, Lancelot would listen to the man relive the battle. The muttering and wailing of his friend only deepened his discomfort. He was afraid of what he would see when they climbed the cliffs.

At dawn the second day, as the knights broke their fast on the last of Lancelot's rations, Bedevere looked across at his friend. “He didn't hold you responsible. At the end. He didn't. Neither of them.”

“Thank you, my friend. But their feelings matter not. I failed them. I was created and placed on this Earth to preserve Arthur and Camelot. It was my purpose, and I failed.” Lancelot looked out at the shattered fleet, up at the white cliffs, and then back at his friend. “I dared to try and carve a piece of this world out for myself, and in doing so, I destroyed it all. How did this all get so out of hand? I never wanted this. Never...”

“That may very well be, Lance, but things are rarely how we wish them.”

“No, they rarely are,” Lancelot said. Coming to his feet, he looked towards the path up the cliffs. “Are you ready?”

“No,” said Bedevere with a mirthless grin. “But I'll come with you.”

The way up the cliffs was a slow one, but the two men were in no hurry. As Bedevere grew tired, Lancelot helped him on. Neither of them thought to call a halt. While grueling, their climb was less a physical journey than a spiritual one-as if that stretch of beach was more than just the transition between the stone and the sea, but a resting point between the worlds of fantasy and reality. At the beach, the world appeared to have stopped still. One could pretend that just over the ridge, the walls of Camelot stood intact, Arthur's colors flying on the post. Yet, as they gained on the ridge, the reality of war encroached upon their senses to dispel any fantasy. The carrion birds cawed; the smell of death eclipsing that of the sea's brine. By the time the two men reached the top of the ridge, they were ready.

Lancelot was no stranger to battle, but even so, he was shocked at the state of the field. Thousands dead, with the mud their last embrace, and the carrion birds as their only attendants. Horses and men piled atop one another, the stench of shit and rot covering it all like death's blanket. The old warrior felt the sheer devastation in his gut as his mind still struggled to catalog and comprehend the destruction. Surely, this was the battle that destroyed the shining jewel of civilization. Nothing less could extinguish Camelot's bright light.

Turning away, Lancelot looked to Bedevere. “Show me where he died.”

“Aye,” said the battered knight, stepping over a young page's body as he crossed the field.

Lancelot followed his friend across the wretched ground. At first, he looked constantly and carefully about, trying to see what had become of old friends. Searching in vain for someone still alive. But soon, after seeing the body of Bor, pierced by a spear and pinned by arrows, he could bear it no longer. He looked only at Bedevere's back as the two made their way across the unkept graveyard.

Finally, Bedevere stopped and pointed down at the earth. There was what remained of Sir Lucan, whom Bedevere claimed had borne Arthur's colors at the end, but there was no Arthur. “Where is Arthur, then?” Lancelot blurted out, his grief overcoming his breeding.

“I told you,” Bedevere growled, “ the ladies came and got Arthur and took him out to sea. This is where he took his death fighting that damn bastard.”

Lancelot's eyes followed Bedevere's finger out to a patch of blackened grass where Mordred lay. Unlike the rest of the dead, Mordred was almost perfectly preserved. Never looted, his armor remained intact, the spear that killed him still thrusting upward into the sky.

“Not even the crows want a piece of that one.”

Lancelot nodded, remembering the day that Mordred had first come to court. Morgause's get, he was an arrogant little thing with a vicious streak. From the first, Lancelot had disliked the boy, and the more time spent, the worse his feelings toward him became. To look at him now, surrounded by the destruction he craved, Lancelot was overcome by remorse for not killing the child when he first came to court. The act would surely have sullied his honor, possibly even banished him from Camelot, but seeing all of the destruction he had caused, it surely would have been worth it.

“I should have killed him,” said Bedevere. “When you were out with that little French girl, he arranged a charge against our Queen's honor. No one else would defend her, so I stood for the challenge.”

Lancelot looked to his old friend. “Thank you, brother.”

“Don't thank me, Lance!” he exclaimed, extending his arms toward the ruined field. “This is what that challenge brought! For the King's sake, don't thank me!” Angry now, Bedevere turned on his friend, his voice rising. “I knew damn well the Queen was guilty of the charges. We all knew what the two of you were doing. Hell, I think even Arthur knew! But as long as you were discreet and no one brought it to the fore, we all were willing to cover it up. For the good of the King and Camelot.”

Bedevere turned away, no longer willing to look upon the man that he once called a brother. “I should have let her die, is what I should have done. She was finally caught, and her betrayal was out in the open. It could have ended there. It would have been painful, certainly. Despite it all, each one of us loved Jenny, but that would have been the end. Instead...”

Bedevere knelt down to put his hand on Sir Lucan's helm and look the dead knight in his empty eyes. “Instead, everything was destroyed.”

“I don't believe that,” Lancelot declared. “Nothing would have satisfied Mordred's lust. He needed to destroy like we need to breathe. Had it not been Jenny, it would have been something else. He would never have stopped.”

“Maybe so,” Bedevere agreed. “But no one else gave him the opening that he wanted. You did. You and her. Mordred was a right knave, there was no denying it. But you were the 'Greatest Knight in the World!' What was your excuse, Lance? How could you have let this happen?”

Surrounded by death, Lancelot could not meet Bedevere's gaze. His heart broken, he turned away. “We tried to stop. Many times. When I could bear it no longer, I would beg Arthur for a quest. But it mattered not how long I was gone, for as soon as I returned, the fire was there. In the end, we just could not resist it anymore. We thought that we were so careful, but Mordred's petty little eyes saw.”

“One night! One damn night with me, and you were all going to burn her at the stake? Jenny! Our Jenny!” Now it was Lancelot's turn to anger. “You would defend her honor but still let her be burned for treason? Treason! Why was I the only one who rode to her rescue? Why did I have to ride at all? She was our Queen, not some village harlot! She could have been put in a tower! She could have been banished! Why the stake?”

“Because...” Bedevere faltered.

“Because that black bastard of a shit over there pulled you all along on his string!” Lancelot cried, pointing to the pristine corpse on its bed of black grass.

Then, in his fury, Lancelot ran to Mordred's body and grabbed it by the chest piece. His arms, strengthened by a lifetime of fighting, yanked the corpse into the air with ease. “You won't come out of this so damn clean, you piece of Orkney trash!” Then, he slammed Mordred's body to the ground, its arms cracking from the impact. “You brought this!” he screamed, kicking the remains with such ferocity that the chestplate tore away. He landed another blow as he yelled, “All this death!” He kicked again, his boot tearing the flesh of the villain's face. “All this destruction!”

“Lance!” Bedevere cried, as he grabbed hold of his friend. “He's dead, Lance! This is not the way.” Lance turned to his friend, as tears of rage and shame began streaming down his cheeks. “Damn it, brother. Damn him and damn me and damn us all.” Then, as the great man sank to the bloodstained ground, his grief finally burst forth.

 

 

They spent the next week laying to rest their fellow members of the Round Table; once they finished, they went back for their squires and pages. It was grisly work, but neither man could leave his fallen brothers in such squalor.

With each knight, they held a small funeral, with both men remembering how each of the fallen had come to court, been knighted, and fared in this tournament or that battle. They recalled teaching the squires and pages, remarking about one's arm, or the other's speed. While such remembrance was far from the honor that these men deserved, it was all that they could give to them. In many ways, it was best, for these last two old knights knew each man better than their families ever had. They had fought and feasted together, they were as close as brothers, and they were the only knights of the Round Table there would now ever be.

Neither man had the slightest concern about disrupting a family's wishes. They knew that no family would be coming to claim any of the remains. With the fall of Camelot, nobility was destroyed, and houses were fortifying their arms. There would be war and strife for decades, as every petty duke or baron fought for scraps from Arthur's rich table. There was no time to waste, as those who moved most hastily would have the greatest advantage. There was more work to do tending to the living than providing for the dead.

When the last page had been to rest, Bedevere looked to Lancelot. “What will we do now, brother? Wade into the Succession War? We could influence the outcome-try and preserve as much of the Table's ideals as we can.”

Lancelot turned back to him. “No. I don't think I can do that.” Looking down to the freshly dug grave at their feet, he said, “I don't think that I can make war again, brother. The skill is there, but the heart is no longer willing.”

“Return to Joyous Gard?”

Lancelot looked out across the Channel to France. “No,” he said softly. “I don't think so.”

“Find Jenny?” Bedevere prompted.

“I love Jenny, Bedevere. I always have done, and I always will do. But this is what our love has wrought, “ Lancelot said, as his arm swept across their impromptu graveyard. “I see now that that is all it was ever meant to do. We were fate's instrument, Mordred's tool. No, I will never see Jenny again.”

“What then, Lance?” Bedevere asked again. “You can't stay here.”

Lancelot looked over at his friend. Together, they had created a kingdom for Arthur. Bedevere, the Marshall of Arthur's armies. Lancelot, the invincible champion. They had civilized a land that had known only chaos, and built a kingdom whose legend would span the ages. And here, in this place, on this land, standing over this lowly grave, he saw Bedevere anew. Without his king, Bedevere was lost. He needed something to believe and someone to follow. He had hoped for Lancelot, the greatest knight living, to fulfill that need-so that the legend might have some plan to salvage their life's purpose.

But Lancelot had no plan. He had no vision, no path to glory. He was just another tired old man, covered in mud, standing over the graves of his friends.

“Listen to me, Bedevere,” he said. “Our friends are dead, Camelot is destroyed, and our King is no more. All that we have sought to defend is in ruin. Others may look upon this and say that we must keep fighting, to challenge fate, to reclaim what is lost. But I say no. Camelot is gone, and we cannot bring it back. The only thing that it would do is kill more good men and women. Our villain was cast out of Hell, and his body was left to rot over there. Who will we fight? We can't kill him again.”

Lancelot looked again to the edge of the cliffs. “I think I shall go home. I've not been home since I first came to Arthur's court. It was always peaceful there. Yes,” he said, his voice growing firm with the decision. “I will go home, for now. After that, it rests in God's hands.”

Lancelot turned to his friend. “And you, brother? Will you return to the battlefield?”

Bedevere kicked an errant stone at his feet. “Not I. Like you, I am weary of combat. After thirty years of fighting, I think I have done enough for any man.” Grinning, he added, “I should have stopped with that Giant, truth be told. Never fought anything since then that amounted to a challenge. Maybe I peaked a bit early, eh?”

It was a good moment to smile, and Lancelot let the power of doing so wash over him. “Hell, Bedevere, you fought that thing when you were but twenty! What would you have done all these years since, if you had stopped then?”

“I don't know, Lance. Started a family, maybe? Raised a couple giant killers of my own, eh? Who knows?”

“You, with children?” Lancelot laughed. “Even in fantasy, I pity your wife!”

“Ha! Maybe you're right at that. Never fancied myself a family man. Looking back, that was probably a mistake. I could be home with my children and grandchildren now, with a warm fire and a horn of ale. Instead, I'm in this wretched place.”

“I wish that things had been different with my own son.” Lancelot whispered. “Galahad was all that I could ever have wished for, but he didn't know me. Even worse, he hated me for my weakness. When I saw him take the Grail... no man was ever prouder, or more ashamed, than I was at that moment. It had been my sin that brought him to this world, but it also was my sin that kept me apart from him. If I could change anything, it would be that. I wish that I had known him better.”

At that, Bedevere picked up the shovels and started walking to their small camp. “Come on, Lance. Standing out in these graves isn't doing us any favors. The past is past. No use dwelling on it. It's the future we need to have our eyes on.”

“Agreed,” said Lancelot, falling in step behind his friend.

The next morning, the two knights shared the last of their rabbit and broke camp in complete silence. While both men were used to field conditions, neither had slept well the previous night. Whether this had resulted from poor dreams, the cold ground, or a concern for the future, neither said. They both knew that this would be the last time they would see each other, and they chose the comfort of their simple task to process their farewell.

As Bedevere was harnessing his horse-an old charger they found wandering the edge of the battlefield whose owner was long dead-and without looking up, he finally voiced his question. “Have you decided which way you'll go, Lance?”

Lancelot, busy extinguishing the coals from their small fire with handfuls of dirt, looked up at his friend and answered. “I'll be going back home.”

Bedevere stopped his preparations to focus on his friend. “I know that, Lance. You said as much last night. What I wanted to know was which direction you'd be heading, and how you planned to get there. As you can see, I have this nice horse here, but you have only your boots. It's not like you to be so ill-prepared for a journey, so I ask you what you plan to do to get to your home. And, while we're at it, since you're not returning to Joyous Gard, where in the kingdom and beyond is your home, exactly?”

“I'll be traveling by sea, you nosy old bastard. Other than that, my journey is my affair,” snapped Lancelot.

“Suit yourself, then!” replied Bedevere. “God, but you always were a moody one, Lancelot! Can't you see we are all that's left? I'd just like to know how you'll be getting on.”

At this, Lancelot stood up from the extinguished fire. “You're right, Bedevere, and I'm sorry. We are all that is left, and perhaps that is what has got my back up. Never have I been good with farewells. My home is across the sea. I was planning to make my way up the coastline and see what ships were available. If memory suits me, there's a small port not too far from here from which I might be able to find passage across the channel. And, you? Where are you headed, good man?”

“Ah,” said Bedevere, as he resumed securing his gear to the harness. “I think I shall go and become a monk. Try and find some peace. Must be much like being a knight-the discipline, I mean. I always thought that the monks seemed so content when I would stop at a monastery while on quest. Regardless, I thought I'd give it a go and see how I like it. Hopefully, it will be quiet and none of them robed monks'll snore too loud. Hate to have to thump one, seeing that they're God's men and all that.”

“A monk, eh? Well, I hear that they do brew good beer, so perhaps you'll fit in better than you expect,” Lancelot remarked, gathered what remained of his equipment.

“Beer! Ha! I didn't think of that, Lance. Maybe a monk's life is for me!” laughed Bedevere, tightening his last strap. “Are you sure that you don't want me to travel with you, Lance? At least until you find that port?”

“No, my friend. I'll be fine. My next quest will find me, I've no doubt. We knew that we would have to part ways eventually, Bedevere, and I would prefer that it happen here. I should think that there be nothing worse than your last memory of Lancelot have me knee deep in mud in some backwater fishing village. This way is much better.”

“I suppose so,” replied Bedevere, swinging up into his saddle. “Peace be with you, Lance. May our Lord watch over you on your journey home.”

Lancelot came over to his friend and held out his hand. “Same to you, Sir Bedevere of the Magic Lance, Marshal of the Army of Camelot, and killer of giants. Be kind to those poor monks, and may you finally find rest.”

“Aye, brother,” said Bedevere as he took the knight's hand.

Lancelot stayed and stood in their camp as he watched Bedevere depart to the North. Once Bedevere could no longer be seen, Lancelot turned and grabbed his sword belt from his gear, fastening it about his waist. Then, he reached for his scabbarded sword and slung it from the belt. Checking again to ensure that Bedevere had gone from view, Lancelot headed South to the cliff's edge and the path down the small beach where he had landed, leaving the rest of his belongings where they lay.

Just as ascending the cliffs had been a spiritual preparation for the horrific aftermath of the final battle, the journey back to the water amounted to a cleansing of Lancelot's spirit. Each step that he took was a step toward forgetting this world and preparing himself for the next one. By the time that he arrived at the beach, he was ready to return to the only mother he'd ever known.

Approaching the water's edge, he grabbed hold of the hilt of his sword. He took one last look at land, and walked out into the waves.

The water was shockingly cold, but he marched on. The waves battered him as they threatened to hurl him into the wreckage, he leaned into them and continued forward. Each wave appeared as an attempt to push him back toward the shore, as though the sea itself was desperate to change his course. But Lancelot would not be deterred. He walked out past the last of the shattered fleet and started to swim, his powerful arms pulling him out into the water. He knew that it wouldn't be much farther. Soon, he would see his mother again.

Lancelot looked down. Seeing the faint light beneath his feet, he heard and felt the call of home. Smiling, he ceased his resistance to the waves, stilled his arms, and sank beneath the surface.