The morning of the tenth year , I had to give it away . I am no widow ; I did not beg or plead . I waited until noon . I wore white that day . Samite cloak , woven from pearl-shavings by my own hand . I swam to the surface like an imprisoned spirit , The skin of the water shattered at Excalibur ’ s touch . The moon tells me that my arm looked like some god ’ s wayward arrow that day : Proud and stark and bright as bone . When the king rowed across . his boat cast a shadow like a tomb . And then , the weight was gone .
But each enchantress has a way with the world , And what use does a king have for a sword that will outlive him ? So I did not weep when my hand was empty , Nor did I seek vengeance . I waited on my throne , In my kingdom of bones and water . My lake was still and silent and awful , the carcass of a god .
It will be years later when I hear that sound , like the sharp intake of a breath And that fiery gleam arches over the lake , ready to pierce the surface once again . But this time , it is my fist which will rise first to catch Excalibur one-handed .
I will brandish my sword . Bedivere calls me a lonely maiden , the fool . I am not alone . When I spill blood in my lake , the nymphs will come for you .
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