The Lancelot Problem, Reforged

 

 “In summary, modernity replaces process with result and the relational with the transactional."

— Nassim Taleb, The Bed of Procrustes

Why does Lancelot fade?

I've posed this question to many people over the years—a quiet riddle from an old story that never fails to unsettle me. Most reach for complicated explanations. So far, three saw the heart of it clearly. Another came agonizingly close, with a confession that still echoes: "I don’t want to feel."

Logres once burned bright. Knights in glory. Wrongs were righted. While Arthur kept Logres, his knights kept Logres a place worth fighting for. Arthur fought and fought and fought. Nobody else could have done what he did.

Then the unraveling. People forget that Arthur slept with not one, but both half-sisters, and gat children on both of them. People seem to forget that your strengths are your weaknesses. Arthur was the fighting man. He was able to keep up a level of conflict in the service of peace that can hardly be imagined. But that has its costs. Arthur didn't sleep with Morgause and Morgan because lust was a problem, but because the same strength that let him keep Logres safe was out of balance. It's just that Mordred's the one that decided to burn it all down.

Lancelot failing with Guinevere isn't what brought Camelot down. It was going down anyway. Whether it was Mordred who brought it down or the consequences therefrom, Arthur's fire burned too bright. He was going to bring Logres down because of who he was. But Lancelot sleeping with Guinevere and then killing Gaheris and Gareth certainly looks bad, doesn't it? Lancelot going to France really doesn't help, either.

But then Gawain forgives him from his deathbed and begs for his help. The mightiest knight is needed, one last time. And Lancelot doesn't disappoint. He rises. Brings up an army from the ashes. He races.

And races. 

And races.

Too late.

The field... hushed. Bodies cold under a gray sky. 

Arthur. Gone.

Gawain. Gone.

Excalibur vanished into mist.

The mightiest knight stands alone, amid the ruin he helped forge. 

Silence.

He withdraws to

cold stone and thin prayers. Fasting until the body echoes the emptiness within. He watches as flames devour the last of the dream. Screams fade to wind. A dark age creeps in. But there's no blade lifted. No banner or roar against the night.

Just... retreat. He collapses at the tomb, wasting away actively, falling apart in a process that is incomprehensible to us.

Why? That's my question for you, the reader. Why did Lancelot, the mightiest knight, fade? And why do we refuse to undstand?

Guesses could come, like crows to carrion. I know I wondered about it a long time. Let's try going through some of them, shall we?

Can't be cold penance. Guilt had clawed him before—never quenched the fire and it hadn't shattered his faith.

It wasn't because it was too hard. Trials had scorched him and Lancelot had charged through outcomes foretold a long time ago.

It absolutely couldn't be fear. Defeat was an old shadow at his side.

These are shields. Words we clutch. Word I clutched, and still try to go back to, still. Dogs and vomit.

But in the ancient tales, not every fall is fought. Sometimes a flame gutters, without wind or cry. The blaze that once consumed worlds... extinguishes. Unseen, unresisted, unmarked, leaving only ash. A hollow where a primeval roar once lived.

Gilgamesh howls into void.

Achilles turns his back in thunder.

Gawain takes the green sash and still flinches.

Lancelot... drifts into a quiet gray.

We crave endings where heroes avenge, rebuild, defy the dark, arise from graves. But here, the mightiest... simply dims. We cannot hold easily it because to hold the situation is to feel the snuffing. That quiet, merciless crushing. The spark goes out, and the sword has to drop, because it requires the spark to keep the sword in the air, with it.

That one confession

“I don’t want to feel.”

really sticks with me. It's been awhile, but it burns through me. That confession

"I don't want to feel."

breaks into my normal thoughts, a lot more than I am comfortable with admitting, so here it is on a blog, for everyone to see.  The problem is that every time 

"I don't want to feel."

break through into my fucking skull, I am reminded that, even though I know the answer to this problem, that isn't enough. Knowing that

"I don't want to feel." 

 doesn't make me capable of facing the truth reliably. This isn't a solution, an end to the journey, but the start of a brand new one. One where I don't know the end of.

 If modernity demands a transaction—a penance paid for a sin cleared—then Lancelot’s silence is an insult to the modern mind. But in the gray light of that monastery, there was no transaction. There was only the process of existing in the ruins. I spent years looking for a riddle to solve Lancelot, only to realize I was looking for a shield to protect myself. 

"I don't want to feel."

isn’t just a key to an old story; it’s a white flag. It's a surrender to the truth without having to look at it. And that's... just... maybe the mightiest knight didn't merely fade. Maybe he just stopped lying to himself, the consequences be damned. We want Lancelot to roar against the night because if he can’t survive the feeling of total loss, what hope is there for us? 

But the tales aren't there to give us "hope"; they are there to give us company. 

Do you want it?