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Some sunny June day, two casual adventurers wander through the gate of an ancient castle. Very little is left of the original structure and there is nothing to tell the visitors about the people who lived, loved, suffered, and died here. They lay a picnic blanket ten paces from the remnant of a flight of stairs.
Long ago Tor jostled Lionel out of the way as they rushed up those stairs. A nick in one of the paving stones tells the history of a thrown axe when Bors’ frustration could not be contained. The top of a crumbling battlement was once a sure place to find an exhausted seneschal leaning on his elbows and gazing at the same view seen by any fool brave enough to climb to a now dangerous perch. The laughter of Gawain and Lancelot, caught during a courtyard tousle, is echoed by the wind a thousand years later while sandwiches and lemonade are spread on the exact spot where Arthur greeted dignitaries from afar.
Agravaine loved to lounge against a doorway that is nothing more than a slightly less organized pile of stone than the walls around it. Any wood is turned to dirt and the moss is making a valiant effort to force even stone to the same fate. Even the legendary round table obeys the destructive laws of nature. A section of intact wall features a hole. It’s missing piece first loosened by Galahad’s accidental kick as he slipped fleeing from an aggressive snowball fight. Percival’s habit of trailing his fingers along walls as he walks means he might be the only one capable of recognizing them in their current state. Bedivere’s office, once a haven for lost souls, is a den of wildflowers and the fearsome gatehouse is demolished by unknown means.
The picnickers are blissfully unaware of the has-beens they are frolicking amongst. To them an old castle is naught but a romantic slightly mystical place to spend an afternoon.
Who would imagine the great Camelot could disappear so quietly? A court filled with the greatest warriors in any age sits in the woods and returns to dust.