The Lady of the Lake

The Lady of the Lake waits at the bottom of her waters, waits and worries that the king will come too late. Already, it is winter.

Her wounded land has weathered the wild barbarians and withstood the weight of warring princes. But now? The wanderers on her shores leave crisp packets and candy wrappers, not tokens of devotion.

The cold steel in her hands grows cracked and bitter.

And so she waits, wearily, and wonders where the time has gone. The white snows fall and the ice hardens over her head, entombing her within. Perhaps next year, he will come.

Perhaps next year.