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


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.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.