The Last Song of Excalibur

I am Excalibur
Disappointment. I will taste no blood today. The truce held while the sun threw long shadows of Mordred's pennants on Camlann's field. I felt Arthur's grip relax on my hilt.
The bushes rustled. A soldier raised a spear and shouts of 'Betrayal' filled the air.
Mordred charged, ash spear probing. I swept it contemptuously aside. The flashing downstroke bit deep, and the traitor's blood gushed, bathing me.
My powers disappeared. Not gradually, but instantly. The deep hum that united me to Arthur choked off in mid-song.
I became just a length of iron, unable to defend my king as the dying Mordred pierced his side.
King and traitor fell, fulfilling destiny. Merlin's enchantment had failed.

*
Legends of Camelot are told in countless tongues, yet none speak with mine.
I am Excalibur, once the weapon of kings, now rusting beneath the still waters of the lake. Men remember Arthur's glory, Merlin's wisdom, Lancelot's perfection. But I alone recall the truth, for I was there. I was the architect of triumphs, the silent hand that carved Britain's fate.
I made kings. Yet I rust, forgotten. Before eternal silence descends, let me tell you how Camelot's dream was won and lost.
*
Merlin's magic forged me for Britain's greatest king. My edge was sharper than the biting winter wind; my weight heavier than Ben Nevis. No shield could withstand me; no armor could keep me out. Kings believed they wielded me, but they never realized that I was the true architect of Britain's history.
Arthur's victories were mine too. When his banner rose over the battlefield, it was my hum and my flash that struck terror into the hearts of his foes. I cut through Saxon ranks like fire through dry grass. I sang in battle, a song of iron and blood, and the land trembled at my voice. Arthur's hand was steady, but it was I who gave him dominion. His enemies fell not to his strength alone, but to the enchantment that bound me to him.
Merlin, the old magician, placed me in Arthur's hand. His speech was serious and grave. I trusted him, for his enchantment breathed within my being. This imperious power could never fail me, I believed. Arthur and I were the axis upon which Britain turned.
I remember the clash of steel at Mount Badon, the cries of warriors, the torn banners fluttering in the wind. They came in waves, their shields locked, their spears bristling. I shattered their line, my edge biting through wood and iron alike. The smell of sweat and blood hung heavy, the ground grew slick beneath the feet of men. Arthur's shout, carried above the din, got an answering roar from his knights. I was living pride. The perfect sword of destiny. No mortal could stand against us.
In the years that followed, we carved Britain's peace. I gleamed at Arthur's coronation, reflecting the torches of Camelot's hall. I lay across his knees when he judged disputes, a silent reminder of his authority. I rode with him in triumph, and the people cheered. Although they cheered the man, not the blade, I believed I was the iron of fate.
*
Pride is a fragile thing. Small shadows of doubt crept upon me. Strangely, Merlin studied me more than he studied Arthur. His fingers traced my runes, his eyes searched my edge, as though seeking something hidden. He praised Arthur's skill, his courage and his wisdom. Never my part in it. I wondered why.
*
I watched Arthur's brows grow heavy with rumors of Mordred. Whispers spread through Camelot like smoke: that Mordred was not merely a knight, but Arthur's own blood, born of his half-sister's deceit. The Lady of the Lake watched us from afar, her gaze cold, her lips unsmiling. What did she foresee in the currents of fate?
Camelot sang of Arthur's victories, of Lancelot's perfection, of the quest for the Holy Grail. The halls rang with tales of knights who rode far and returned with glory. But none celebrated my perfection. Couldn't they see that as long as Arthur held me, no mortal could defeat us. Unease gnawed at me. Did Merlin's enchantment hide a weakness? Was a vulnerability known only to him?
I lay across Arthur's lap, gleaming in torchlight, listening to laughter and song. Whenever they spoke of the Lady of the Lake, I felt the weight of silence. I felt unease. I had magic in me, but I feared imperfection. My pride faltered, and doubt took root.
*
The fateful day of the Battle of Camlann dawned. It was the day destiny revealed itself.
Mordred challenged Arthur. My inner core rejoiced. The ultimate victory. The clash would be glorious; the triumph eternal. But knights intervened, and an uneasy truce was called. The air was thick with suspicion. Men stood with hands upon hilts, eyes darting, waiting for the spark. A soldier then struck an adder within the bushes. That minor act shattered the fragile peace. Treachery flared, and the two armies clashed.
I sang again, my voice ringing across the field. The clash was thunderous; the cries of men rising like storm winds. Spears broke, shields splintered, blood sprayed upon the earth. I struck at Mordred and drew blood with ease. My edge bit into his flesh, and I exulted. The taste of victory was sharp upon me.
But then … silence. My enchantment died. Not gradually, not fading like embers. Instantly. I was ordinary. My weight was heavy, my edge dull. Arthur fought with an ordinary blade, and I could not ward off Mordred's spear. It sought Arthur's side, and I was powerless.
Arthur fell with a brief cry, his blood dark upon the ground.
Only then did I understand. The safeguard in Merlin's enchantment was not against Arthur's enemies. It was against Arthur himself, lest he do self-harm. Mordred carried Arthur's blood, born of his half-sister's sin. The prophecy had spoken: Arthur would fall to his own blood. Fate had woven its thread, and I could not cut it.
Merlin had forged me to preserve destiny, not to reshape it.
The field was in chaos. Knights fell, banners toppled, and the cries of the dying filled the air. I lay heavy in Arthur's hand, powerless. I was iron, nothing more. I had believed myself eternal, yet an instant undid me. My doubts came true. I was not the master of fate. I was its servant.
*
Arthur lay dead upon the field. Camelot's glory shattered. The Lady of the Lake lifted me, her hands cold, her eyes sorrowful. I was no longer enchanted, no longer invincible. I was iron, nothing more. She whispered softly, "It is over."
Merlin had not forged me to make kings, but to preserve destiny. Even the greatest of weapons serve destiny.
And so, I rest, silent beneath the lake, my voice stilled. But my memory endures, for I am Excalibur, and I alone remember Camelot as it really was.
The End