Unlike Don Quixote, the giants in the Arthurian Legends were very much so not delusions. The Giant
of Mont Saint-Michel inhabited what was known as Brittany, France. As always, the best stories in France never had anything to do with actual Frenchmen, but wholly fictional ones.
France, whether it be in modern times or the setting of conventional fantasy, has always been filled with cryptids. The giant of Saint-Michel was hardly an exception. After years of pillaging, rampaging and destroying everything beautiful, truly brutish behavior that only a French monster could excel in, an adequate and proportional response was required.
The Knights of the Round Table were summoned, King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table would valiantly answer the call to duty and deliver swift death to the beast. Most heroically, it would be Arthur himself, armed with his famous sword - who would travel to the island the Giant resided on to slay it. But, one must ask, what of the first one to scout ahead upon the Giant’s home?
Sir Bedivere was the Marshal to King Arthur himself. Not only this, but this Knight also served as the steward of his Royal Court. While he lacked a strong martial capability, often critiqued for almost cowardly behaviors in battle and at other times, being the physically least capable Knight of the entire Round Table - Sir Bedivere would remain by King Arthur’s side, from beginning to end. As if fastened to him by some dreaded fate.
He was not as beloved as Percival, not as gallant and ambitious as Galahad, nor was he to be as famous as Lancelot. The man did not seek any Holy Grail, nor would he find it. Yet, he was among the closest, if not the truly closest, to King Arthur himself.
It was a laughable thought, that someone as capable, famous and burdened with great power and prestige as the Holy Monarch King Arthur was - that he would ever entertain the idea of a personal guard. Sir Bedivere was the brother of Sir Lucan, the cousin of Sir Griflet and truly the Knight of Cowards, some may recall.
But his determination to Arthur was true. It was enduring and real. Deep and foreboding to those who ever came to doubt his integrity. The history he shared with the King was beyond that of even Kay or Gawain. And yet, despite the fact his name was derived from the God of War of the Celts, Sir Bedivere radiated gentleness and prestigious virtue. Above all, his honour, commitment and integrity shined where his courage faltered or stumbled.
Few could ever know Arthur as intimately, as humanly, as Sir Bedivere did. It was likely that he was the only one to see the King’s true face. A face that was not carved of stone and determination, empowered by the impractical ideals that could not be fulfilled with the condition of humans being ever present. Arthur always told Sir Bedivere, that being his personal sword in his sheath - meant that the sharp blade would not dull or rust so easily. And just because a sword remained sheathed, it did not become completely pacified from its purpose. A heavy heart would weigh within Arthur’s chest, as he unfairly would force Sir Bedivere to carry a purpose that would break a man of any lesser character.
Not only was he the most human of all the knights, he was the first Knight of the Round Table himself. And doomed with eternal loyalty, he had not ever questioned the words of the King for the sake of Camelot. For most of the time, at least.
While others reveled in their status and prestige, Bedivere was humbled by the fact that he had, at some point - lost his right arm. And with the help of the Wizard Merlin, a prosthetic in the form of a knightly-gauntlet, failed to fully replace the articulation of his limb. Despite the loss, he did not lose his ability to touch, appreciate, care and remain tender to things that needed it.
Forever and truly, Bedivere was able to feel the emotions of the common man as intimately and
close as his own.
The cost of being a knight was great. For ideals alone cannot craft the utopian world they sought to create with Camelot. Modred rebelled, frustrated with the King and as Arthur became more King than man… others fell away as well. And while they still, in their hearts, loved him for his great deeds, they could not trust his oddly peaceful face. But Bedivere knew this face to be the true humanity of Arthur, that no burden could ever overcome.
The Battle of Camlann was a devastating ordeal. Often, it is the coward’s sword that is the most sharp, for he waits until the last moment to stab an ally in the back when he is most tired and fatigued. Or, often, the coward never swings at all except from the shadows. Yet, Mordred and Arthur faced one another in open battle.
Mordred would be slain in combat, giving Arthur the victory he so deserved, but his own wounds would prove to be utterly fatal. And how did an immortal man come to die? This was perhaps the most interesting part of King Arthur’s story. For often, a noble or even miserable death, was what completed the story of a chivalrous man. A true King of Knights.
While the King rested upon his own sword, Bedivere rescued him on his white horse and pilfered Arthur from the battlefield that should have been his grave, shared with friends and strangers alike. Bedivere was also wounded and yet, he was still utterly desperate in the thought that perhaps, if he brought the King to the forest - he could somehow be saved.
This was Bedivere’s own impractical delusion. The garden was no Eden and there was no flaming sword to guard it. In a way, as he brought Arthur to what he thought would be a temporary heaven, he had actually fully realized that the ‘dream’ was over. And now it was time to be humbled by the fever that was reality. That all men, even the greatest, eventually die.
Bedivere held onto the idea so firmly that Excalibur would save the King, that he was truly immortal and no wound, no matter how much it poured, could soak the final pages of such a triumphant story.
As King Arthur was laid against a tree, where he cradled his sword and his wounds as a mother would hug her child, Bedivere wished to get help. What help could there be for a man who was already a corpse? His limbs were nearly falling off of him. And even as a Knight who had known that pain before, Bedivere again denied the possibility. Denial, denial, denial…
Arthur’s army resided at the port nearby, a half a day’s ride away, but Arthur stopped him - having pulled himself out of the trance of death itself.
“I had a dream.”
“A dream, my King?”
“It was a very valuable one.” Arthur smiled. It was clear that as his eyes were closed, he was still in that dream. “It was a beautiful peace.”
“You wish to see it again?”
“Of course. Peace from all burdens.”
“What is it you desire, what can I do to bring you to that peace again?”
And with this, the tone of dreaming had become a tone of wakefulness. Arthur’s lids opened and with tired weariness, his determination sparked just enough for one more request from his marshall.
“Return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake. Then return to me and tell me your journey. As a conclusion to this story…”
“I protest, I cannot, Sire.” For Sir Bedivere believed in Excalibur, he believed it would save him. “Please, a task such as this, it will be the only time I deny you…”
“I ask you again. Lest I die by the third time I put this request upon you. I ask you again… Return my sword to the lake. As Moses was placed in the Nile…”
The indecision, the fear, the pain, the worry, the wondrous misery that Bedivere felt in that moment as he was forced to receive history’s most famous sword. He knew that with this sword, Arthur’s soul was preserved. Without it, the King would be dead by the time he returned to tell his story.
Unable to depart, Sir Bedivere spent three days by the King’s side. But his body refused to stop bleeding. No bandage or magic or herb could cease the fatal wound’s desire to embrace Arthur fully, to enshroud him and drag him to the other side. Nature itself, reality and the heavens - all conspired against the preservation of Arthur’s physical existence among his one last remaining friend.
“I ask you a third and final time, take my sword…”
“I shall.” Bedivere lied.
He took the sword and disappeared for an evening. The marshall would return, to find that Arthur still clung to life.
“I have returned the sword to the Lady of the Lake.”
“You did not.” Arthur saw through the lies. “I beg of you, take my sword…”
And for the second time, Bedivere wandered off into the woods and found where Excalibur had hidden. And reluctantly, he brought it to the Lake of the Lady. Yet, as he stood with water at his armoured feet, soon to rust his own armour - he could not cast it in. But once again, he attempted to lie to Arthur again.
“My King, I have returned the sword Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake.”
“Once again, you did not.” The King was in such a state of misery, forced to bleed endlessly from the wound that Mordred had inflicted upon him, his once gallant armour that shined nearly silver had become fully red. Red of the darkest shade, despite the bright stream that still flowed. “I cannot share this delusion with you, Bedivere. Please accept reality.”
“You tell me this, but you wish to slip into a dream that lasts forever, my King?”
“I wish for the most… peaceful sleep.”
And having recognized the suffering of his King, Bedivere retrieved the sword one last time.
With a loud sloshing, he marched into the water and the ripples that radiated from his movements felt like waves. In his head, there was nothing but silence beside the water itself. And with Excalibur balanced between his hands, one flesh and one steel, he finally lowered the blade toward the surface of the water.
And the Lady of the Lake happily took it.
By some miraculous chance, Arthur held onto life just long enough for Bedivere to return. It was there, he was able to look over the King in his final moments, although - not a word was exchanged between the two.
Instead, Bedivere watched over the King as he happily continued his peaceful dream. The one thing that Arthur had failed to obtain before and the one thing they wanted more than even the Holy Grail.
Thus, Bedivere’s gift to Arthur proved to make himself the greatest Knight of the Round Table.
Admittingly, Mati had gotten a little tired and less enthusiastic with the retelling by the end, if not just because she had also hyped herself up on it - despite knowing the ending fairly well. Regardless, it was amusing and also very enduring.
Mati and Muzhik discussed for a long hour the themes of the story, before it quickly devolved into what Muzhik, himself would have done.
With some curious thought into it, enough that he even became silent in the contemplation of it all, his conclusion was distinctively sound and surely - of his own mind.
“I would have held onto the Excalibur and hoped to meet Arthur again, one day.”
“A little selfish, hmmm?”
“Perhaps… Arthur gets his dream in all the other stories, for my own, I think it would be fine if Bedivere got to live a dream of his own. Even if it had to be a noble burden to carry, that was precisely the person he was.”
“Always carrying a sword that was not his…?”
“Or… carrying the burdens Arthur could not.”
“Hmmm. Muzhik?” Mati would ask something interesting of him. “Do you think it is selfish not to want someone to die?”
“It depends, if they are suffering, some people are best let go, but… if someone wants to live - then no dream can replace living.”