ARTHUR-IN-THE-STONE GAZES AT THE RUINS OF NAMES inscribed on the Round Table. So much of the gold leaf has flaked away.
G HE IS He is—whom? G
ARE Are? Are what?
Gaheris…Gareth…
Letters. No more than a litter of characters, half-gone, wholly gone.
O NCE
LOVE
Florence…Lovel…
Yes, they loved once, Sir Gawain’s sons, and they were well loved. But their eager faces and shining eyes have turned to dust.
The king leans over the Round Table. He spreads his hands over its face. Moving now as an old man moves.
This sphere. This whole world of rock crystal.
The air of it still gleams. Planet-eyes, seething stars, leaping golden comets. The sea of it still twirls its whirligig holes, and spins its silver threads. The fire of it shoots arrow-rays. But the earth of it is splitting—one crack is widening into a chasm. A ravening dark mouth.
King Arthur closes his eyes. His body looks slack as a sack full of slops.
“Divided in itself,” he says. “The Round Table is wrecked.”
The finest fellowship…All that was, and almost was…All that now cannot be.