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You already know this story.
Once upon a time, there was a lake. And what is a lake without a rock in the middle? A rock-less lake, and that simply would not do. And what is a rock without a sword inside it? A sword-less rock, and that simply would not do.
And so, once upon a time, there was a lake with a rock in its midst, and this rock held a sword within it, but not just any sword. It was a great and famed sword, an enchanted sword, a holy sword, even. Once upon a time, there was a lake with a rock in its midst that held Excalibur.
Michel's role was simple. The worthy wielder would take the sword from the rock, and she would imbue it with its holy enchantments, or whatever it was that made the sword so special beyond the notorious difficulty of removing it from its rock confines. Michel wasn't quite clear on the specifics of the job description, but it hardly mattered. Magic simply was. Or something like that.
Michel had been dormant a long time, simply drifting within the lake, as part of the lake. It had been a peaceful few millennia or centuries or decades— time had no true meaning or passage as water— and Michel did not feel particularly inclined to be roused from it.
The problem with pesky little knights was that they did not care what faeries of the lake wanted.
Michel had risen, blearily, and eyed the knight somewhat sceptically. She was not the usual ilk, her hair far wilder, her eyes brighter, and the smile on her lips was certainly far more wolfish. The knight's eyebrows raised as she scanned Michel, the sharp golden hue of her eyes piercing, and Michel could see the fighter within her, buried deep down.
"Damn," the knight had said, and she had actually whistled. "I hadn't expected that to work."
Michel stared blankly. The knight's hair dripped from the swim. Water clung to her eyelashes, glided down her face like tears. Her smile did not falter for a second. The usual ilk did not tend to be quite so accidental; Michel had become accustomed to the taste of desperate wishes, wide and awed gazes, reverence in every motion. Excalibur tended to inspire that in mortals.
"Chosen knight," Michel had intoned, ignoring her. "Speak your name and lay your claim."
The knight had tilted her head as she considered the sword. "Hey, how much d'you think this'd be worth if I pawned it?"
Not in this mortal, evidently.
Michel had stared blankly once more. Excalibur would make its way back to the rock upon the knight's death, anyhow. She supposed the sword was the knight's to do with as she pleased until then, but she'd never heard of a chosen knight quite so brazen and feckless. "Your claim, knight," she had reminded her.
The knight had flashed her a long and indulgent grin. "You could just ask me for my name, y'know." Michel waited her out in silence, until the knight sighed in mock-disappointment. "Tough crowd, huh? The name's Eurydice Knight, but you can call me Eury. Easier, don'tcha think?"
To Michel's utter dismay, the sword lit up with recognition, magic alighting upon the blade in smooth arcs. Standards had truly lowered over the years.
"And how about yours, lady?"
Michel ignored her. "Excalibur has chosen you—"
"Excalibur," Eurydice repeated, as though testing the sound. "Nah. Too long." She tapped at the hilt of her sword. "Hey, Burt. You're stuck with me now."
Michel hadn't quite known what to say to that. She was having a hard time reconciling this image with those of the past. Chosen knights used to have some… class, decorum, respect. They knew the weight of the sword they wielded. This knight did not seem she would know the weight of a boulder if it crushed her flat.
"C'mon, then, lady. What shall we call you?"
Michel wished, violently, that she could return to the depths of the lake, but she was bound to Excalibur's wakening. She would not be allowed dormancy again until Excalibur, too, was returned. She wished briefly that she were allowed to kill the wielder, that the currents would spit and turn and hollow around Eurydice Knight and fill her feeble mortal lungs until they burst if Michel commanded it. The wish lasted longer than the brief moment she was allowed to ruminate upon it.
"Nothing?" said Eurydice, waving a hand in front of Michel. Michel fixed her with an unimpressed glare. "Loosen up a bit, would you? Not sure if faeries can wrinkle, but damn, all that scowling can't be good for you."
It could be more than perfectly good. It could be therapeutic, in fact, and would be more so if Michel could wrap her hands around Eurydice's frail throat and press down until she forgot the taste of air, better still if she could pluck Excalibur from her grasp and run it through her, revel in the rivulets of blood that would spill, swill into pink in the depths of the lake, so she could luxuriate in the tainted water for the next century until someone truly worthy came along.
Eurydice had offered Michel a crooked smile for her continued silence. "I'll get you to talk one of these days, lady."
Michel had assumed it to be an idle threat.
She couldn't have been more wrong.
If Michel had thought that the most infuriating experience of her existence was Eurydice Knight laying careless claim to Excalibur, she was wrong. So, so very wrong.
The most infuriating experience of her existence was, without a doubt, Eurydice Knight returning every single day to the edge of her lake for no apparent reason other than to try and drag a single syllable from her tongue.
"Hello, fair lady," Eurydice crooned now, sword in tow. "How're you doing today?"
Michel glared quietly from within the lake, only the top of her head visible to the knight, the inky black of her hair streaming seamlessly behind her with the water.
"Charming as always," Eurydice commented lightly. She waved her sword— Excalibur— in the air irreverently. "Burt's here to say hi, too."
Michel's eyes narrowed on Eurydice. This did not seem to deter the knight in the slightest. Gritting her teeth, Michel lifted herself higher above the water, just enough that she may speak and be heard by the fool. "You must have better ways to use your time," she said, at long last, her voice raspy, and it was more a cry for help than anything else.
Her cry for help went unanswered.
Eurydice's eyes lit up, and Michel watched how her spine straightened, how her smile sharpened, how she leaned further forwards, almost tipping into the water. Do it, she thought, viciously. It wouldn't be under her control, wouldn't be her fault, if the fool of a knight died of her own carelessness. "Hey, lady. Knew I'd crack you soon enough. So, about your name…?"
Michel looked up at the sky as though for guidance. The sun was high and bright and blinding. Never once before, in all the times Michel had seen, had there ever been a chosen knight quite so infuriating.