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There is a god in Camelot.
It’s mumbled by the water in the wells, heard by the daughters who gather there. It’s hidden in fine scrawls on leaves settled on flung-wide windowsills beside cooling bread. It’s pounded into horseshoes with every strike of iron hammer, the pealing notes certain in their knowledge.
There is a god in Camelot because meat does not rot.
There is a god in Camelot because winter passes swift and kindly.
There is a god in Camelot because paving stones never split in two.
There is a god in Camelot because the old king has gone mad.
Audrey passes over the broad tray for his majesty’s dinner and cares not if the plates are cold. She prayed for such ice when her brother burned. Margaret tosses silk sheets in the wash with little care for what may mix and stain. She prayed for such consideration when her mother was thrown under the hunting dogs. George leaves the candles unpolished and dull. He prayed for such blind eyes when his cousin fled the town.
There is a god in Camelot because crops grow high and strong.
There is a god in Camelot because the wall is smooth and sturdy.
There is a god in Camelot because kindness is rewarded.
There is a god in Camelot because all blood has been made equal.
Leon drills the knights in calm sets, testing each one and growing proud of their skill. He cares not young Owain fights just as well with a pitchfork as a spear. Gwaine tips back his chair and his head, falling into his tavern tales of grand quests and romances for the ages. He cares not for a pure reputation. Lance drills a thousand sets and smiles grimly through each one. He cares not for the muttering of aging men.
There is a god in Camelot because all children are born healthy with clear crying voices.
There is a god in Camelot because music flows through skipping winds.
There is a god in Camelot because flowers bloom in the late summer heat.
There is a god in Camelot because the healer’s tonics never fail.
Gaius distills, muttering over properties and dosage and squinting over his measurements. His nephew grins impossibly wide, winking as he rummages through his bag and passes over a vial as if at random, as if it’s funny to pretend he’s guessing. The old physician labors through the lower town, lost in his own mind, lost in old dreams, lost in the grey fog of a nightmare he’s not allowed to wake from. But his potions work, so nothing need be said.
There is a god in Camelot because a serving girl is queen.
There is a god in Camelot because a white dragon sleeps around its highest tower.
There is a god in Camelot because magic winds in girls’ hair like ribbons and taps at men’s fingers like rings.
There is a god in Camelot because the king’s son rules justly.
Arthur turns his council papers over, but the words swim out of his head when his eyes settle on them. It matters little. His signature is already written. He thinks around the warning ache to wonder of his father, but it’s not yet time to see the man. No, no. Not quite time to see him. Later he’ll wander down to the caves and touch the old dragon shackles and feel again their tormenting pain. Tomorrow he will lead his knights on a grand hunt for a beast he will not be allowed to kill. Tonight he will sleep on silk sheets and feel a grief deeper than he can put name to in his limbs, as though something has been lost to him, as though his heart were bound in iron.
There is a god in Camelot because a smile plays about his mouth and his eyes burn ever gold.
There is a god in Camelot because he speaks in strange and haunting tongue.
There is a god in Camelot because his spindle frame stands watching behind the throne.
There is a god in Camelot simply because he decided to stay.
The young man who has never been a man stares out his small window at the speckled lights of the town. They never go out, hovering, watching, knowing all. His fist tightens on the tall shaft of wood he’s taken as a tool for his power, a mark of his strength, and lets his gaze drift down to the courtyard below, where he witnessed a man’s life taken. Now, the stones are scrubbed clean, and penance is being made. He smiles softly, thinking of Uther under the weighted blankets of his bed, of Gaius, mumbling out names of the men he let die, of Arthur, so forgetful and lost without his guiding hand. Gwen too would need his touch soon, if she refused to stop flinching at his voice, but no matter. It would cost nothing of him. He had to think of Camelot.
Always, first, of Camelot.
There is a god in Camelot because gleaming eyes peer out from street corners.
There is a god in Camelot because peace is wound too thick to break.
There is a god in Camelot because he laughs from inside thunder and strikes down like lightning on wicked men.
There is a god in Camelot, and no one will ever again be burned.