For Stephy-Lou Clark-Weasly. Due to your enjoyment of my review of your 100th chapter of The Stupidity of Camelot, I wrote this for you, based on that review. Hope it suits!
The Tomb of All Feels.
The Tower of Rumdon.
The Bathhouse on Avalon.
There have been several nicknames for Arthur’s resting place over the years...
Hells, he’s coined most of them.
Little old him.
It’s in the distance, sauntering across the skyline of the Lake like the Lady of Shallot, all mud and boat dock and boards and grass clinging in clumps to the side like creeping barnacles.
The Boat of All Beer.
That’s what Merlin calls it, anyway. He favours the Holman-Hunt version.
As he picks his way along the jutting shore-side rocks for the humpteenth billionth time, he adds a few lines to the little ditty he’s been humming.
“Whoo-EEEE-whoooo! WHOOO-ooo-WHOOO! WHOOOO-oo-WHOOO-WHOOO-oo-WHOOO! And a bottle of ginger beer!”
He sticks his middle finger up at the sepulcher across the waves, flipping the big bird to the Boy Who Couldn’t Wait... to get Killed By His Sister’s Doe-Eyed Pekingese.
The Once And Future Pen Stealer.
“You toad!” he squawks, wiping a greasy hand on his rough grey rags, “...your handwriting was always impossible to read!”
He blinks, puffing the sticky white mass of his formidable beard hair out of his nose by way of an upward curling lip and a downward curling mood.
A vision of a red snake comes to him from across the wide sea, spanning his vision in a trancelike float of rather sanguine nature down his left eye... a squiggly bug, perhaps? Oh god, is it another of those centipedes that got in his favorite garbage bin last Christmas?
As he stares at this new sight, a small ufo arcs above him, candidly moving in half-ring toward his face from the general direction of his ungrateful charge’s tidy middle-of-the-lake-side hideaway.