Good morrow again. I might start to think that these visits might become a regularity. To what do I owe the unique honor of your company? Who among the shining host of Camelot do you want me to ruin entirely for you?
Ah. My fears.
Being bold, aren’t we? That is generally not a thing to be revealed after only two meetings. You must think that because I am so open about everything else that I must, naturally, be open about myself as well.
To own the truth, I’m not entirely sure I think about my fears often. They get in the way of me getting what I want and, seeing as I already know my destiny, they are a rather pointless diversion, aren’t they? A single ill-timed blow from an opponent and, suddenly, Camelot is saved from the wicked Sir Mordred. That would be quite the thing, but not how I understand prophecies to work, though I must one day ask Aunt Morgan about it. Philosophy was hardly my best subject growing up, seeing as they would not let me study it without it being bridled with Theology. Sometimes, when I struggle to sleep, I close my eyes, think of Father Benedictus’s Philosophy class, and then am promptly cured of what ails me. I would ask Merlin, of course, but he has not been of particular help on that score in the past and I like to think that I am not so stupid as to repeat the mistakes of old. One day, I will meet my father on the battlefield and, on that day, I will kill him. That much is going to happen regardless of anything else, so it stands to reason that I shan’t die until that happens, ergo my life, such as it is, is safe.
What is fear to me? Nothing. Nothing at all. And nothing comes from nothing.
My foster-brother, Sir Sagramore, might tell a story of when I was a boy and ran away at the sight of a tub of water one bath day, but that was…nothing, the kind of thing a boy finds frightening before experiencing real fear. These days, I take baths on the regular, as I’m sure you must appreciate. I am not the sort of man to wake up in the middle of the night with the roar of the ocean still ringing in my ears. I only travel on horseback most of the time because he’s far, far easier to handle than the average boat’s captain and because most of the places I would travel to are land-locked. It is through no personal reason. The other knights are all so very eager to latch onto the idea of Sir Mordred of Orkney cowering at the sight of water, but…what can be expected, really, from that lot? My own brother, the dauntless, gallant Sir Gawain, once clung onto a lady’s silken garment when he thought it would save him from death. What do they know of the matter?
It is rather unsettling, though. The water. Particularly the sea. All people are equal in front of it, king’s sons, knights, cabin boys, unbaptized babes-They are all taken underneath, leaving nothing but bones and tattered clothing, and yet, the next day, it will look as if nothing at all’s happened. The waves go in, the waves go out again, and life continues on and on and on, like it has from the beginning and will until the bitter, bitter end. It takes and it takes and there’s no reasoning with it, there’s no making sense of it, it just is.
I have sometimes had cause to imagine drowning, my voice gone as my lungs filled with water and my throat burned, unable to do anything but struggle against the tide. And, you know, it could affect you at any time. At one moment, you are enjoying water from a spring, the next, you are laying on the ground, choking. You might be in your bath, your body betrays you, and the next morning a servant discovers your bloated corpse. And, I might add, as one well acquainted with the look of a corpse after it has been in water for a day or so, it is far from a pretty sight.
But, of course, this is little more than idle fantasy. What do I care of such things? I have my destiny. I must own that I have been much in the presence of Gawain as of late, and he has been telling some of his spawn legends of water horses and mermaids. I think the wretched things have entirely affected my mind, and, I might add, the ongoing presence of the Lady of the Lake in court draws the mind to water and…deadly things.
What is the old phrase? In mari magno pisces capiuntur? I can scarcely remember such things, it is of no account anyway. A flight of fancy. Nothing more.
Now then, I think this has been a heavy enough talk, so, if you don’t want to find yourself at the bottom of Camelot’s moat, I would recommend you leave now.
Until our next discussion.
