The field stretched endlessly into the distance, accompanied by the pungent smells of adventure and recklessness. My studies in archaeology had brought me here for that sole tale. A British lad such as I was always drenched in stories of these knights, especially of the one my heart was set on finding the truth of: Sir Lancelot. My grandfather stacked the novels of their travels in a small dresser outside his bedroom. Each day he would pick up a different book and engross himself in their stories. With his death, and my fathers, these treasures reached my possession, and my destiny was inclined for their truth. His famed knights of the round table brought glee to everyone of England in their tales of heroism, yet in tales they remained fictional. Past the verdant field which surrounded the area, an isolated castle stood waiting for my arrival. It was his own if my research was not mistaken. I trudged through the long stems of grass, their prickly surface brushing against my palms. My legs began to grow weary and a nervous frown began to envelop my face. Soon enough, I reached the desolate area, sweat dripping from my brow. 

Vines striped the castle walls, and a small hole was present between the weathered bricks. I stepped through the opening, greeted by a dark gloomy room. The room was filled with critters which roamed along the walls, and dust covered the crumbling surfaces. As I peered across the room, a glimpse of light caught my eye from behind a worn curtain. I slowly slid the curtain to the side, and a hidden passageway murkily stood awaiting behind it. As I tentatively poked my head through the opening, I could hear the shrill shriek of rodents crawling through the walls, and bats fluttering from the roof. I cautiously traversed the corridor, the floorboards creaking with every step I took. Across the passageway lay a small cabinet, dosed with scratch marks. Of the markings, the date was the only one which caught my eye. 1437 was engraved slightly above the frail door knob loosely attached to the structure. I grasped the knob of the cabinet and turned, yet the rusted material did not bother to move. I tugged forcefully once more, but the wooden structure remained impregnable. Suddenly, in a final effort, a nail popped from the upper drawer, and the cabinet instantly fell apart. As the dust slowly settled, atop lay a paper, carefully placed among the rubble. I picked up the flimsy sheet, blowing the dirt from its surface. The inked writing looked fresh, yet the date of the paper said otherwise, matching what was engraved on the cabinet. The title read, My Final Confession, with Sir Lancelot’s seal and signature draped in the bottom corner. I skimmed through the paper, noting the poetic structure reflective of the knight's eloquence. My final confession?, I thought, struck with curiosity by my discovery. Slowly, I began to read it:

I confess to my crime,

My story at its demise,

I know not what my path will be

As with love comes its plight.

With distraught I plore to all

With what pride I still maintain,

Will be lost at first sight of her,

To betrayal of the saint

I fain receive such opportunity,

To rejoice with his royal grace

My king of late knows his power,

When he pulled the dagger from its place

Of the knights twelve they be,

With mettle coursing in their maw. 

Naught could stop me from being.

A man conjoined with law. 

The scoth of my potential

Increased with my ability

Whence I gained this power

The answer evaded me.

A knight of the twelve 

The summit of my peak

Withal endowed to myself

Ere love chose to deprive me.

I married a maiden 

With lust a child hath sprought

Yet her trust was never my goal

But that of another woman 

Her beauty level with her soul.

And to not betray I tell me

I would thou couldst

But the smile blazing in the stars

My identity evaporates in mist.

Anon he figured my truth

Thrice he bid me not

He quoth of what may occur

Yet I ignored what he thought.

The news then reached me

My companies life had vanished in battle

His legacy to be remembered

Yet my ill intention is what I scowl

I achieved what I sought

But with pride comes its cost

I was stripped of my life

And to my child my power got.

My love I hath conquered

But I was distraught with what had come

My heart was immense

Yet my legacy was done.

I slowly crumpled the paper in shock. It was all true. The myths, legends, ancient tales, all led to this one paper. As I inserted the crumpled paper into my pocket, a rumble commenced from the cracked flooring. Dust started pouring out of the crevices in the ceiling. The walls even started shrinking to encapsulate me in the defined room. I sprinted out the door, patting my pocket to make sure the sacred paper had stayed in its place. The dust soon settled, allowing me to peer over the crumbled castle. When time destroys the entails of a story, it had been one artifact that gave reason to its truth. And I had discovered that truth. The tale of Sir Lancelot can now live on in glory. For now we know it had been true.