The Hand, the Hilt and the Heart.
Dusk shrouded the world in her indigo cloak
And Nature rested her brow.
The air hung thick with circumstance;
The perfect time was now.
He took one last fleeting moment
To study every last detail:
‘The hand, the hilt, the heart,’ he breathed,
And so he went, face gaunt and pale.
The key clicked softly, the boy trod lightly
Gone from his crime-induced cage,
But still, in the corner of his dank, dark cell,
Lay a body, set out on its stage.
He took the stairs by three, chanting as he went:
‘Hand, hilt, heart. Hand, hilt, heart.’
With every step, every pace through the courtyard,
His strength flourished within. Hand. Hilt. Heart.
In the dead of night he stole through the castle,
No noise but silence; he kept a wary eye.
He looked upon the resting villages
And long up into the deep, star laden sky:
‘O, what great a Kingdom Camelot,
It shall be truly mine,
As from my Lord’s timely passing,
The deed will have me to sign.’
He stepped through the kingly arch,
Inhaling the sweet scent of sleep,
And made gallant strides to the noble bed
With crisp linen, where blood soon would seep.
‘Hand,’ he breathed, taking the limp palm of his kin
And stroking it around the sword.
‘For your identity, your power and authority.
Soon the crowds for me will hoard.’
‘Hilt,’ he said, guiding the sword ‘til it glinted,
Every ruby, in the moonlight.
‘For your wealth, your strength and bloodshed,
They shall be mine before the end of night.’
‘Heart,’ he cried, and plunged the sword
Deep through the King’s chest. Blood spit and spat.
‘For the humility, love, and respect for war
That a King needs, dear brother, but you do lack.’
He crept back, silent as he came,
And waited in his cell for day to unfold:
Their shock, their mourning, then the key turned,
‘Your brother has killed himself,’ he was told.
Despite being surrounded by sorrow and grief,
The boy could not supress a sly smile,
As the cold crown was placed upon his head,
He took great Kingdom Camelot, forever in denial.