literally stories

My father used to tell me, ‘One day, my sweet, King Arthur will return to save the kingdom from peril, and all will be right again.’ Clasping blankets up to my chin in the dim twilight of a bedroom lit only by the light in the hallway, I’d drift off to sleep, dreaming of the mighty King’s return. There was a location of his reappearance too – Cadbury Castle – though when I went there in my preteen years, I was sad to find no castle. Any evidence beyond the mounds and ditches of prehistoric civilisation had gone, and nothing sparkled enough to grasp my interest. Despite this, I hoped for his return. A wish, like believing in the tooth fairy or Father Christmas, that this being, just this one mythical being, would be real.