It was a moment that no one in the court would ever forget, and a moment that—although eternally inscribed in legend—would never be forged in anything more than the human heart.
The moment that the Lady entered.
   Her silk skirts shifted across the marble floor with a surpassing grace and the soft chestnut curls bounced with each pace upon her dark, concealing cloak that hid the cream satin from view. All eyes immediately turned to her, and a tinge of warm pink blended onto her cheeks as she curtsied before his majesty. Lowering her head in respect, she nervously waited for the king to do so as well before rising and folding her hands neatly in front of her. A picture of purity and innocence was painted over her arch-framed appearance; one that Arthur Pendragon had seen many a time and had determined that upon young lads radiated nervousness or hidden anger, or both, but upon an adolescent maiden was nothing too obscure.
   “Where do you deliver yourself from to come to my court, malady?” Pendragon asked with added affection, rising from his seat.
   Her eyes flickered sensitively back and forth from each knight seated around the mysterious table and her fingers loosened their grip on each other to fall to her sides. “The county of Shalott, your honour,” she replied hastily.
Such tenseness was unfamiliar to his eyes, and Arthur took a step closer to her, his hands on his belt, “And why do you come?” There were several murmurs from behind him at the table, and he turned swiftly to silence them before returning his attention to the young lady.
   “I come in peace,” she added, turning towards the whispering knights with an abrupt sense of authority in both her eyes and her tone, “from Shalott to offer myself as a citizen of Camelot.” Noticing the sudden glare of curiosity in the king's eyes, she figured that it would be safer to tell rather than be asked. “My people have asked more of their first lady than I can bear. It was from the suggestion of a friend that I take temporary sanctuary within your walls.”
Warning signals were blaring in the ears of young Sir Lancelot, seated at the round table near his friend’s empty seat, and he had to restrict himself from opposing immediately. Granting sanctuary to people—let alone an unaccompanied maiden—from other counties was a step towards war. Camelot’s walls may be sturdy and they may be ruled by one embodying the blood of Uther Pendragon himself, but their strength depended greatly on external support. Fifty knights could not defend an entire county, however strong, brave or wilful.
   Arthur recognised the fact that there must be some from his table that were on the brink of standing in opposition, but he hoped that his knights held more respect than that. Folding his arms slowly in thought, he took casual strides towards her. “Do you understand the nature of our associations with Shalott?” Now standing directly in front of her, he looked down into lost sapphire glaciers, sparkling in the evening sunlight. “I…” Arthur tilted his head dreamily and found a slight grin spreading over his lips, and drew back, frowning. He shook his head, “To allow you to take refuge here would be to break all connections with them. Shalott could muster a powerful force against us, in which case you would be no better off; especially if my reputation forsakes me and you are returned to their lands.” Gazing incidentally from an angle, Pendragon suddenly felt a bolt of over-bearing sympathy for her, and his contradicting facial expression was exaggerated. “Surely the best circumstances would be granted if you negotiated with your own king, rather than myself.”
   “But I can’t go back,” The lady replied, her eyes wide in despair. “but you need not be harassed by Shalott’s supposed threat. They are of no peril and shall seek me no more. I promise you.”
Arthur paused, weighing each side. Lowering his eyes to the floor and replacing his hands once again on his belt where the famous Excalibur sat with a reassuring mass at his hip. “Are you certain that Shalott’s people wish nothing but good will upon you?” he asked.
“They shall not trouble you.” The lady nodded elegantly.
   So shaking his head in dismay at his own decision, Arthur nodded in response. “Then you are free to enter Camelot as you see fit. Will you beseech a chamber?”
   Lancelot locked glances with the woman, frowning heavily at his king’s unexpected weakness, but the lady refused Pendragon’s endurance that she take a room in the main palace, finally settled for the western passage and curtsied once more before taking her leave of the court.
   Lancelot glared after her disappearing form and once he had seen her turn out of earshot, rose himself from his chair with so much heat that it fell back and a dull echo of the deep wood slamming against the floor filled the hall, making several jump. “I am confident that you understand my concerns,” he exclaimed, aiming his sudden and unpredicted anger towards the king, “and I’m more than confident that you share them.”
   “You are indeed emotional on this matter, Sir Lancelot.” Arthur began to walk back to his friend’s side with a false sense of calm held in his poise.
 Lancelot’s voice amplified, angry at not just the situation, but jealous at his king’s achieved repose, “With reason!”
 “I agree with your reasoning, but not your actions.” Arthur sighed heavily and turned his attention away from the single knight and more towards the entire table in general. “I would appreciate it if you stood down, Sir Lancelot. Your faith has granted you much, but your present display of fury will not be overlooked.” He paused heavily; “Although, I have to admit that even I do not quite understand what the lady is saying, or why she is saying it.”
Merlin’s cloak shifted with a familiar sound of crushed velvet stroking the floor and the knights acknowledged his presence for the first time in days. Straightening his beard with finger and thumb, the old wizard stepped light-heartedly over to Arthur’s side. “Shalott is a wizard’s paradise,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on where the lady had once stood, “I can see no reason for this woman to flee from where only the good roam.”
 “Maybe times have changed.” Sir Lancelot remarked sardonically, his eyes illuminated in rage.

   The messenger from Shalott took several days to reach the borders of Camelot, and when he did, he was not given the warmest welcome. The king was out riding, and only a few of the knights were staged in court at the time; Lancelot among them. When he recognised the code of arms on the gentleman’s brooch, he immediately saw to the matter himself. Although at first glance, the short but well-built herald hardly posed a threat, and peace appeared to be his main concern behind delivering the message for which he had been sent.
 Pulling the man to one side, Lancelot gave a glare to the other intrigued knights, who forthwith turned back to their duties—none the wiser. “What message do you bring?” Lancelot whispered, trying to keep his voice as deep and as bold as possible without raising a controversy.
    “I come to see my lady,” the page announced all too loudly for the other knight’s ears, “I demand that she be shown to me at once. This report is of utmost importance.”
 “Your ‘lady’ has no wish to see you, I’m sure.” Lancelot replied, his eyes darkening. “She came to us in need of sanctuary. Do you cognise what from?”
    At this question, the agent hesitated, his eyebrows lowered in thought. He seemed shocked, indeed, to hear this news; and slightly troubled. “I assure you that she had no reason to leave Shalott, sire. Clairdira explained that she wished to go on a pilgrimage to sample the righteousness of Pendragon’s court for herself. Has she not been enrolled into her ladyship?”
    Lancelot looked him in the eye; the pupils were not dilating and his vision was thus far clear from any obvious sign of betrayal. “Clairdira? Lady of Shalott? She wished to be one of the queen’s ladies?”
 “Why, sire… did she not tell you herself?” The emissary asked. His face was a depiction of  misunderstood knowledge. He couldn’t understand why this ignorant knight did not know that his lady was currently enrolled as one of the finest in England.
   Lancelot shivered, he was highly suspicious. The room had suddenly echoed of the black arts, a dramatic preservation of where the woman had tread. A shadow fell over his face, and he folded his arms after gesturing through the western arch, “You may see your lady,” pausing, his frown deepened, “but I would request an audience with the gentlewoman myself. After you.”

    “Come in.” The sweet song of innocence rang thick and sickly through Lancelot’s mind. He was sure he was right—something more than a noble lady arranged her hair in that room. He had witnessed far too often these signs of magic when Merlin was around. Now they were arising from a different direction.
 “Your eminence, I bring forth a message from your homeland.”
    At the sound of the familiar tone, the lady—having sat patiently in an old oak chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap and expecting one of Arthur’s kinsmen—rose from her diligent seat in shock. “John!” She exclaimed, startled, “Why do you interrupt my pilgrimage?”
 “Why, miss, with only matters of the most important. I have been sent upon…”
 “You should not have come!” she screamed in haste, hurrying on swift and nimble feet to the door, only to recognise Sir Lancelot hanging behind it’s heavy beams with a glint in his eye and his hands held robustly behind his back. “Oh!” Came the instantaneous cry of disturbance. “Sir Lancelot, I believe. John, follow the sire in and close the door behind you.”
   John—the messenger, presently titled—curled his long fingers about the door handle and pushed it shut, following Lancelot’s intrusion. It creaked immensely, obviously disturbing the lady further as she stood, gathering her calm and waiting for the two men to address her formally. When they failed to do so, she cleared her nervous fingers of each other and laid her arms by her sides, tilting her head. “Why do you invade my chambers at such an hour? Couldn’t it have waited until supper?”
 “I do believe on the contrary, ma’am,” John laid out blankly, “I should have travelled here with more haste… and would have, had this unpleasant mid-Spring rain not interrupted my journey. But I come with news from Shalott…” throwing a sensitive glance in the direction of Lancelot, he rolled his eyes, “…and the civil conflicts.”
    Clairdira’s eyes opened past wide, and she instantly tried to disguise her anxious moment by turning to Lancelot in midst intervals of anger, “Why do you stay to listen to my message? Surely it is courtesy in Camelot for a lady to receive a private letter in… private.”
    “You ask a lot, malady.” If he had held an evil heart, Lancelot’s face would have been decorated with a lively smirk, but he occupied no such soul and kept a straight face. “For I request an audience with you for matters concerning his presence. It would do no ill for the young man to listen to my message… and me to his.”
    Gritting her teeth, but still retaining her dignity, the Lady of Shalott balanced her manners and settled back into her chair. “Very well then. But if you are to stay, I ask nothing of you but confidentiality and an open mind.”
 “Both of which are compulsory in the court of Arthur Pendragon.” Lancelot smiled richly; ready to listen.

 The story had been both long-winded and badly told. At the end of it, Lancelot’s eyes were weighing down his hopes of ever remembering what he was supposed to say to his lady, or why he had come to her chambers in the first place. The page’s dull voice affirmed his tale. “And so, when you were discovered missing by the main groups, they blamed it on each other. The chieftains are struggling to over-bear each other; and it won’t be long before the black magic is risen again for all too poignant purposes.”
    Clairdira was still sitting. Even Lancelot had begged the other lone chair in the room somewhere through the second half, but unlike the knight, Clairdira’s eyes were not tired, but weary in another way. Weary as in the destruction of her home land was in her hands. Lowering her eyes to her hands and avoiding any other form of contact with either the agent or the knight, she sighed.
    John shuddered. “If you don’t come back with me, malady, then you won’t have anything to come home to when you change your mind.”
    A dark silence loomed around the room for several moments, and the air tightened in each of their throats, awakening Lancelot from his temporary apathy to gaze with half attention at the lady in the corner.
    Lifting her head with a sour grace, Clairdira’s lips shrank to a compressed slit in her face. “I don’t think that will happen,” she stated tartly.
 “What? That the wizards won’t attack one another?” John queried in disbelief, “Because I can assure you that their spells are only just brewing; and three maidens from nearby villages were found only recently dead in a circle on the outskirts.”
 “No,” Clairdira scolded with the harshness of winter frost, “I won’t change my mind. I’m not going back.”
 Lancelot’s eyes opened in horror. “But…”
 “Ever.”

   The prudent wizard stood as he always did these situations, only his finger and thumb were combing his moon-light silver beard with more feeling that usual. “Ah…” he muttered, “I see our problem. The powers of those of Shalott are great. If they were unleashed on the wrong side, then…” he sighed deeply, “…well, it would be a sorrowful and unfortunate end to this mire island we call Brittany.”
 “Pardon?” Arthur rose. “Unfortunate?”
   Merlin nodded with emphasis, “The Witches of Shalott especially are exceptionally powerful in the area of curses. With their society split, it would cause mass destruction of all nearby; and that’s without the Wizard’s Sphere. With that association divided it could mean the end of…”
   Unable to stand anymore of the negative attitude, Pendragon set on finding a cure. “So if the lady returns, all should be fixed?”
   The wizard remained silent.
 Arthur’s face deepened in shade, “Merlin?”
   “Yes,” Merlin finally dispersed, “but Arthur,” the young king paused in mid-stare at the older man, his hands on his hips where his sword was laid with authority. Gesturing towards the sword, Merlin shook his head, “weapons of man—not even of those as holy as the Lady of the Lake—can defeat this uprising if it occurs. It will be peace… or nothing.”
   The king held his stare, but pulled away in rage. The oath of the Round Table included mainly to help others in distress and to pay liege to the king, his queen and their kingdom. But right now he was crossed between two sides on that oath. To help Clairdira would cause the inevitable destruction of all of his kingdom as he knew it; where protecting his kingdom would mean sending the helpless to the powerful against her will. From the look on the stubborn sorcerer’s face, Merlin on his own would not be much help against a thousand of his kind and Arthur found himself in deep understanding of what he must do.
   “Bring Clairdira of Shalott to me,” he ordered a page, “and hurry.”

   There was an ear-splitting scream from the hallway; a cry of grief and pain that none of the knights could endure for they had never testified such anguish in the court of Pendragon. But of all, it was Lancelot and Arthur who turned to each other in surprise and recognition, eyes wide with scepticism and faint worry.
 “Gwenevere!”
   Close to forty knights and servants rushed all at once through the arches, sending platters and suits of armour flying, to see their devoted queen lying in torment, stretched out across the stone paving. Arthur scurried to her side, grasping her hand and looking into her eyes.
   In the astute sapphire orbs Arthur could witness nothing but pure agony; like undiluted alcohol in an emotional state. The shadows of witchcraft settled over her lashes, and in a rapid flash, the king’s pathos was transformed from immediate sorrow to immaculate fury. Laying a palm on Gwenevere’s forehead, he flinched back at the dry fire that was burning in her skull. Rising his eyes from his wife’s features, he motioned to several others, “Help me get her to her chamber…” The king slipped an appealing glance to Merlin. In vain.
   Lancelot could do nothing but look on in despair. He had beaten the king to the queen, but held not the courage to steal Pendragon’s legitimate place at her side. The pain in her eyes and abrupt fatigue in the way her arms lay limp were reflected and tripled on his own limbs, and as her rebound tears started to line his eyes, Lancelot turned away and fled from the corridor.

   “Malady!” The knight swept into the lady’s chambers with few problems created by the oak door. “Clairdira!” Twisting and turning through the different passages within the room, Lancelot finally come across the woman gathering some things at the end of her bed. “You witch!” He cursed, clasping Clairdira’s wrist and holding it firm, pulling it with him towards the door.
   “Excuse me!” She retaliated, pitifully struggling against Lancelot’s strength, “Do you treat all gentlewomen of my status like this, or am I privileged?”
   “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Lancelot stopped tugging at the woman’s arm for fear that it might break, but done worse and held eye contact. “What have you done to the Queen?”
   “I… Nothing!” The lady appeared rather shocked at the idea.
   “Then why is Gwenevere lying in the Queen’s Chambers with a skin past snow and heated by the very fires of hell and the look of the already dead?” Breathing heavily, Lancelot took a moment to settle his anger and take pleasure at being in control for once. It wasn’t going to last.
   “Oh no…” Twisting her arm backwards and dragging the knight’s with it, Clairdira struggled away from Lancelot as he winced in dull pain. Her soft slippers skidding the floor, she fled from the room, pausing momentarily outside to find her bearings before running in the direction of the low-volume cries of agony, her white skirts swirling around her legs as she ran.

   Gliding into the Queen’s Chambers, the lady of Shalott found herself most unwelcome. Arthur, bending loyally over his lady in competent sorrow, looked up to see her nearly hasten straight into Sir Kay, before regaining her poise and flinging her head back to freshen her view from the bay ringlets invading her perception. The king’s expression was not one of patience. “Do you know what amoral magic this is?” he asked flatly.
   “I know of it, but I do not know it.” Clairdira replied with just as much facial cast. Striding with a straight face and low eyes over to Gwenevere’s side, she was made to side-step Arthur. “It seems that my people are more afraid of my absence than originally perceived. They must have channelled this through me to strike down someone near...” Stroking the queen’s hair from her eyes, the witch waved a palm downwards through the air above her eminence’s heart, and muttered a couple of verses in a tongue unknown to anyone who stood nearby.
   Merlin and Lancelot entered at a similar time, the wizard’s cape colliding with the knight’s armour in a display of humour to liven the atmosphere. But Gwenevere’s weak whimpering stole any sign of happiness from their hearts, and all but Merlin watched on Clairdira’s deeds, frozen to the stone floor and unable to process her course of action.
   The old magician strode with utmost tranquillity to the bedside, examining with interest both of the women’s expressions. He shifted his cloak to the side, revealing the silvery whiskers falling softly to the round of his stomach. “You know the language of the sorceresses? Since when do such dark charms act willingly upon young maidens such as yourself?”
   Clairdira rose her head from her concentrated form over Qwenevere’s slightly more lively body, “Since Shalott’s mystery has become too much for the outside world,” she stated absently, still mumbling an unfamiliar pledge, “and since my people have sunken to the level of the devil for their enchantments.” Her tone was melancholy and depressed and the dark lines beneath her eyes opened up a new light to the wizard, who stood still in enlightenment.
 Abruptly halting the conversation, Qwenevere’s eyes snapped shut and soft wrinkles battled her skin as she frowned in discomfort, before re-opening them to the near silence of her quarters. Her delicate mouth opened, but the lips would not form any plausible speech.
   “Gwenevere?” Arthur hastened to his wife’s side, once again grasping her palm and engulfing it in his own.
 Gazing once again to Merlin, Clairdira staggered lightly before speaking. “I had no choice. Just as I had no choice to do that.” Turning her head to pay attention to Lancelot, the lady shifted away from the now cooler body of the queen to make room for Arthur, and—reserved—marched gently out of the room, all eyes following her.
   Lancelot glared back at the sight of Arthur and Gwenevere, turning his eyes to meet those of… but Merlin—the mysterious wizard as always—had disappeared also.

   His queen settled in her chambers, Arthur trudged back to the court room, ready to meet fifty or so suspicious knights and to ask their faithful advice. But none came forward; all were hushed and dormant in their responsibilities, determined to spend more of their attention nervously buffing their armour than actually thinking of a plan. Scratching his forehead in midst of the silence, the king recognised the heavy but smooth and powerful strides that were coming their way. Lancelot pranced into the room, his might gathered and his strength displayed. “Where is Merlin?” the knight demanded, scanning the room for the wizard’s presence to find none.
   “For what purpose is the sorcerer imperative?” Arthur interrogated lightly, watching as—upon his failure to find Merlin—his chief knight headed towards the western passage. “And why do you overlook the inquests of your king?” Giving up on the speaking part, Arthur followed his friend out of the room and into the corridor where only a day ago the queen had been left helpless. He was still within the earshot of the other knights. “Sir Lancelot! I demand that…” Now he realised that he  wasn’t. “Lancelot! What has come over you, man?”
   “The same that would come over you, had your vision not been clouded by her act of innocence and pleas for sanctuary.” The knight didn’t appear to pay much attention to his king, but simply kept hopping back and forth down the corridor, attempting to recall the correct path.
   “Clairdira?” Arthur couldn’t for the rest of England declare that he held any perspective on what the man was saying.
 Lancelot nodded, still moving and making it difficult for the king to read his emotions manually. “The Lady of Shalott.”
 “Why do you seek antipathy, Lancelot? What has the woman ever done to you personally? My thoughts hold that although she may become the most selfish destroyer of England; she is still a maiden in distress… and one that by the oath of my Round Table you swore to protect. Your actions are far too rash for my liking.” Arthur was a gentle man. He didn’t want to interrupt Lancelot’s motion until he saw it pre-eminently necessary. But fear and fondness of his own friend stopped him from harming the man right there.
   Lancelot’s eyes narrowed and he laughed off Arthur’s endeavours to make him see his point of view. “And yours—with all respect—are the opposite, your highness.”
   He recognised it. That door handle, the brass engraved handle and the oak beam doors. This was it. But, reaching out for the handle, an abrupt force came over Lancelot, and he recoiled back for a moment, frowning at the handle. His dark waves falling from his neck over his shoulders, he bent over and—with all of his strength—forgot the handle and forced the doors open.
   The first sign the two men encountered was a sudden rush to their senses, and all else was forgotten in a sharp instant as Arthur slammed the doors shut again, his eyes now laid upon an unconscious Lancelot. Finding the man’s essence still flowing and his life still present, Arthur frowned in horror. He had just witnessed Merlin sitting opposite Clairdira on the floor, their eyes closed and humming a distant language, the room full of scented candles and burning incense that choked any non-believer past consciousness. It proved Lancelot’s philosophy extensively.

   Merlin loomed about in the dark, shadowy corners of Lancelot’s chamber, ready to face the knight when he aroused. But unknowing to Arthur, both Merlin and Clairdira could tell that Lancelot was already awake, and fearing what might be told of his display of anger the night before.
   After seeing that the sun had risen several degrees in the sky, Clairdira could stand his silence no longer and spoke for him. “You coward,” she mumbled with emphasis over his bedside, “to hide your views from us. This world is no longer simple.”
   “When has it ever been?” Lancelot whispered back bitterly.
   Merlin turned swiftly with what would seem to be rage to the woman, but in this case wasn’t. His face, antiquated with knowledge beyond that of Arthur’s dreams, showed no expression, but his voice gave his manner away. “You may be a witch of the Witches of Shalott, malady, but I ask you… why curse young Lancelot?”
   Both of the other men in the room frowned at the lady, knowing that the bolt of feeling that had hit Lancelot the night before was actually a specific curse and not an accidental action caused by his own foolish curiosity.
   “I…” the witch couldn’t form any words in her lips for their quivering; she hadn’t thought that the crazed wizard had noticed her sudden concentration on Lancelot. “I… I didn’t curse him… it was the other witches from… the Wizard’s Sphere…”
   “That magic was too close to be summoned from so far,” Merlin echoed his mind’s eye, stepping towards her. “Tell me. If you curse… should you not be cursed yourself?”
   Clairdira shook violently, her eyes were a reflection of the pain and suffering of Gwenevere folded seven times over and her palms were damp with her tenseness. “I…” She broke down, although no tears fled her eyes. “I deserve to be punished,” she noted, lowering her head in shame, “but having halted the Wizard’s Sphere and stopping their rage for one another, I do not deserve as much as to go back. I beg of you… if you have any mercy you shall not send me back to those hell-owned territories.”
   Arthur felt strange. He may be the king, but he wasn’t controlling the moment. Merlin was doing so, and Clairdira didn’t appear to like that much. His eyes narrowed to thin slits and his brushy, silver eyebrows shimmered. “For not looking at the reality that your people need you… and the reality that life is more than the devil’s tricks… you are to be locked in the Southern tower for as along as need be; if you exit, then you shall be cursed past your thinking.”
   Arthur thought this all too harsh for a young woman of twenty, but Merlin appeared persistent and Clairdira seemed to accept it. In fact, she worsened her punishment out of her own shame. “May I have but a mirror, your honour?” She turned to the king with pathetically pitiful eyes, “For I shall never again look out of my window that isn’t sent by reflection.”
   “Done.” Arthur nodded sorrowfully.