My fey Lady - who would have thought that when thy lips kissed me into this prolonged slumber I would awake in a time such as this. Noble Arthur has fallen into myth and the tales of my companions are all couched in glorified prose; legends told as bed time stories to the innocent babe. We have fallen from remembrance as our time has drifted into the past and I am feeling much like a ship cast adrift. If I had to guess at thy purpose for me I would imagine the return of the round table; or to perchance to evoke some memory of honour in humanity. Tis a confusing puzzle thee have laid before me; one I must unravel. But even now I can hear thy voice counseling patience; one of the few virtues my tempestuous heart has yet to master. As always though, even the memory of thy dulcet tones will calm the savage beating of my heart. And how it has beaten! How it has beaten. Today is truely a tale that must be told.T'was early eve and I found myself feeling the first pangs of night-time hunger. Thy gift of sustenance and water has proved a boon despite the peculiarity of the fruit. Though the apple carries a thousand years without a wrinkle it stilled the rumbling from my belly in an admirable way and the water was as fresh as when it had first been poured. With the memory of thy gift still fresh upon my lips I was resting and enjoying the early evening birdsong amongst the trees. My repose and their natural music was disturbed by a maniacal song. Through the trees I could hear a lumbering step that felt foul of leaf and bough. But there was no thought of ill intent as it seemed that whomever was making this raucous noise was also singing in a slurred tone that had simply frightened our feathered friends into their nests. Twas a hurried scramble as I hid my belongings and found a sheltered vantage from which to observe. Shortly a figure staggered into the glade, clutching at the trees for support. Even with distance between us there was the undisputed sour taste of wine upon his breath and his general appearance was of a ne'er do well; wrapped in tattered rags with creases of dirt lining his craggy face. And lo, the figure swigged thirstily from a bottle before wiping a strand of spittle from his lips and carrying on with his bawdy song. With shaky steps he stumbled against the sleeping stone and there collapsed into a legless puddle. There he rapidly quaffed the remaining liquor; his song losing it's volume and comprehension of word and rhyme with each draught 'til the only noise in the clearing was his rather raspy snore. Twas only when he'd been asleep in a sprawl of limbs for an hour or more that I unentangled myself to investigate.
Thus is is that I find myself perched on the stone looking down upon this odious figure with no whit as to what to do. He seems content to sleep and methinks he would need some time to restore himself to consciousness. But then? My thoughts are that I must bend myself to the unpleasant task of carrying him far beyond the glade; but I suspect he was drawn to it's warmth and I am loathe to leave a fellow man asleep in the cold woods. And perhaps with a selfish interest at heart I long to hear a voice other than my own adressed towards me. He has the look of a stick figure of angles and bitterly thin limbs like a tree that has shed it's summer rainment. My thought is that he poses little threat so - for now - I will be content to simply watch him sleep and perchance, when he awakens, reason with his fuddled mind. In the meantime I will bend my mind and prayers to this task as I'm sure the Lord will show me the correct path.
Now, as always, your thoughtful servant