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In the summers of their youth, Arthur and Morgana would evade their tutors by scampering off into the verdant woods and fields to play at knights and ladies and finally arrive down to the Lake of Avalon where it was rumored magic still thrummed beneath the water’s surface.
There, they would converse in the sun on those rare heady days of cloudless skies, so blue as the lake itself—iridescent and shimmering with light, with hope.
Neither had reason to believe then that they would each die moments from each other near that once serene lake in a conflict they had inherited and not of their own making.
That their deaths would bring peace to a dynasty whose only language was blood and war.
Maybe they would have known better to have foreseen this in the way they had combatted one another in their (then) silly children’s games, each boasting and attempting to outwit the other as they sparred with their wooden swords, laughing as they maimed each other, thinking it no more than a game of pretend.
After all, they had vowed to be friends until the end.