Legends - an exercise in over-writing

The night was dark.  

Golden spools of light puddled at windows and under lampposts.

I crept on deftly padded feet, through shadows stretching hungrily from stern and ominous walls and out  to mirrored moonlight.

The Lake.

Softly, softly, the lake sent waves to lap against the shore, seeking, always seeking.

But she would not find me tonight. I stood the length of a cat out of reach and laughed a silent laugh that she could not see.

The Lady.

I took my burden out, unwrapped the coarse and sullen linens and held it up. The gleaming glinting blade caught the moon’s silver before it hit the lake. 

A sound, the deepest sigh.

The Sword.

Worlds end on sounds like that, wiped out in slow and terrible eons. But not now. Now Excalibur sleeps in rough linen, soothed by liquid silver and denied the touch of the Lady, her Lake or the knights that sleep within.

The King.

I scoff at legends that call for Arthur’s return. They knew him not. A small and callow man with delusions of divinity.

The ritual complete, I stow my terrible burden and fall back again into ebony night.