by Ines Johnson
“I wish Arthur and I could just elope,” Morgan sighed.
“Morgan, don’t you dare.” Gwin came over and perched on the edge of her desk. “The whole town is looking forward to this celebration.”
“The town can have the wedding. I just want my relationship with my man. I didn’t realize how much I’d be signing up for when I agreed to marry him.”
Gwin squeezed her sister’s shoulder. Morgan was as tense as a rock. “I’ll be here to help. Not with the marriage obviously. But with the wedding and all your duties after.”
“Gwin, we already talked about this. You’ll still be LOC. You’re still married to the eldest Pendragon, and even when he passes away, the role will still be yours.”
“That’s not tradition.”
Gwin had been married to Merlin for years after his father died. It wasn’t until the passing of Lady Merylin that Gwin picked up the mantle of LOC, though she’d been doing the job for years.
“Nothing like this has ever happened before with the Lord of Camelot turning evil. Well, not unless you count Hugo de Payens. But he wasn’t in line for the Lordship. We’re making it up now, and what we want matters.”
Gwin decided not to argue. It was wisest not to fight with a bride before her wedding. Gwin had never argued as a bride. Not during her engagement to Merlin. Not during her marriage. Not now, as her ailing husband-turned-notorious-villain lay dying.
She’d always done what was asked of her. She often went above and beyond. Because that’s what she was called to do. Her duty.
Duty would dictate that she comfort her sister. Duty would insist that Gwin go and see to her husband; the man who had caused utter devastation on the town last year.
She’d do it not out of love. She’d never loved Merlin. Not in the way she knew that other couples loved. She hadn’t been taught what that kind of love was, not until it was too late.
She knew there were other types of love. There was the familial love that she showed to her parents and relatives. There was sisterly love that she showed to Morgan and to their cousin, Loren, who was like a sister to them both. There was love of community that she doled out in spades to the people of her town.
And there was love of duty. That is what she reserved for Merlin. It was her duty to tend to her husband. There was no one else to perform the task as he transitioned.
The other type of love, the romantic type, the all-consuming type, the type that kept you up at night with fevered dreams that made your undergarments damp with want type. Well, that type was not for Gwin. Her heart was filled enough with the myriad of other ways and other people that she welcomed into her big heart.
“Come on.” Gwin ushered Morgan up and toward the door. “Let’s go and choose some silverware.”
Morgan groaned, but she allowed herself to be dragged.
This was a good sign. If Morgan didn’t truly want to do something, she could not be moved. The bride to be slumped into her sister as they trudged down the hall toward the stairs that led to the Great Hall.
“What if,” said Gwin, “instead of silver, we chose a different metal from the Periodic Table of Elements.”
That piqued Morgan’s attention.
“What about nickel or zinc?”
Before Morgan could answer, a commotion sounded in the Throne Room. The two sisters looked to one another and then hurried down the grand staircase. In an unladylike fashion that would give their mother palpitations.
Gwin knew that there had been a quest this morning. Morgan had been the one to send Lance and Percy off while Gwin had tended to her duties. It sounded like they were back now.
Gwin felt the burst of energy from the ley line as she rushed through the entryway of the Throne Room.
Her feet pumped to a stop before going too far. Arthur didn’t like witches to come into potential harm. Morgan kept going until she was at her betrothed’s back. Arthur scowled at her before encasing her in the protection of his arms.
Constance Bors opened the ley line doorway and Percy and Lance rushed in. Percy walked through untouched, but there was a gash on Lance’s shoulder.
Gwin gasped at the sight. She lived in a castle filled with knights and squires. The sight of blood was a common enough occurrence. But any time that blood was from Sir Lancelot, her heartbeat tapped out a specific pattern.
Lance looked up at the sound of her gasp. Their eyes caught and held. And held.
“Go get that looked at in the infirmary.” Arthur’s voice boomed loud enough to break Lance and Gwin’s gaze. “We can debrief after you’re healed.”
“I’ll help,” said Lady Constance. She reached out to Lance, touching his injured shoulder carefully.
Lance’s jaw tensed at her touch. He looked down. Disappointment clear on his face.
“Actually, Lady Constance,” said Morgan, “I was hoping you would help me with some wedding details? I hear you have excellent taste in silverware.”
Gwin could’ve kissed her sister. By the look he gave her, Lance felt the same about Morgan’s interference.
“I can see to Sir Lancelot,” said Gwin. “And I can do it here. No need to go to the infirmary.”
The same infirmary where her husband lay clinging by his grasping hands to life. No, there was no need to take the man who held her heart in there. The room cleared until there was only Lance and Gwin left.
3
The sun tracked her like always. Lance had been to many theatrical showings in his lifetime. He had an affinity for musicals, poetry, and things that sounded pleasing to the ear. In these productions, light always shone brightest on the star of the show. Spotlights, floodlights, backlights painted the stages with illumination.
But nothing held a candle to her. The sun shone differently when its rays touched her. The particles looked bigger, brighter. They twinkled in the air around her as they fell from the sky.
The first time Lance had seen Gwin, the sun had framed her. He’d been looking for a wayward arrow. He’d been lead straight to her. Everything always came back to her.
She was a rainbow shining brightly after a storm. The treasure his heart sought to make his life worth living. And, like a rainbow’s treasure, she was always just beyond reach.
Gwin came closer. Her rays warmed him through. Lance closed his eyes and basked in the warmth he could never touch.
“Are you in pain?” she asked him.
Every day I cannot kiss you. “It’s manageable.”
He opened his eyes. Their gazes connected. Had she heard his inner yearning? At times, he was sure she did. But he’d been sure that first moment a century ago, when his heart took its last beat on its on just before saying, That’s her.
From then, his heart beat solely for Gwin. Had room only for Gwin. Broke when Gwin made vows to that sickly sycophant.
Lance was not in attendance on that fateful day. Up until her wedding day, they hadn’t had another moment alone again. He had been whisked up into his new duties as a knight. He’d become distracted by the new friends he’d made in the other initiates.
Still, she was never far from his mind, though she remained entirely out of his reach.
It was laughable. His father, in particular, had laughed a lot. A genteel lady and an illegitimate bastard?
Stranger things had happened, like that same bastard finding his deadbeat dad, learning he was from magical royalty, and then being named heir all in the same week.
Lance vowed he’d make himself worthy of Gwin. He pledged that his heart would only ever be hers. He committed his mind, body, and soul to the pursuit of her happiness and well-being. As he made these solemn promises, she made vows to another.
Another man would’ve freed himself from such an untenuous situation. Not Lance. Lance took vows seriously, likely because his life was the result of a man’s broken vow.
He kept the promise he’d made in his heart to his lady. He made it formal on the day she bound herself to another. Lance’s devotion to Lady Gwin was unconditional,
noble, and pure.
His love for his lady was morally beyond reproach. It was transcendentally beyond the human or magical experience. It was physically a swift and accurate kick to the blue brooches between his legs each time he beheld what he could not behold on the arm of the undeserving ingrate that was her husband.
“I can make it better,” Gwin said.
Lance had forgotten about the pain in his arm from his encounter with the Templars. One had gotten in a lucky riposte. Or Lance had lowered his guard to allow the flesh wound. Or whatever.
Offering Gwin his arm, he wondered if she could see his heart pound out of his chest to get to her? Surely she could feel his pulse race as the pad of her thumb hit his skin. He tried and failed to divert his gaze from her. It was so rare that he was this close to his heart’s desire.
He was so alert, so attuned, that he had long ago memorized the grooves of her fingerprint. He knew without looking that her more narrow index finger wrapped around his bicep. She didn’t land the last four in order. He felt her pinkie, then her middle finger. Last was her ring finger. As always, she was careful not to let the band touch his skin.
It was enough. Lance took what he could get of her. He’d lived his life as a thirsty man in the desert for a century. He was joyful of each drop and savored it. Each taste made his exile bearable.
“You’re the greatest warrior in Camelot next to Uther Pendragon, but you keep getting hurt.” Her smile teased as her fingers held him. “Didn’t they teach you to avoid the sharp end of the sword in knight school?”
He would take a thousand lashes for a few stolen moments such as these. “It’s just a scratch, milady. Not truly worth the gift of your magic.”
Gwin lifted her gaze. Her clear blue eyes told him she knew he didn’t mean those words. They both knew she lived for these healing moments as much as he did. The sessions soothed more than Lance’s surface wounds.
Longing gazes and furtive touches were all that were allowed of them. It was enough. Just as when they first met, a whole conversation played out between them in the blink of an eye. These conversations always began the same with those long, soul-searching gazes. It was the most comfortable, natural thing to gaze into Gwin’s eyes. She allowed him to see into her soul.
In the chatty silence, Lance checked for cues of her health in the whiteness of her gaze. He peered down at the amount of darkness in the circles beneath her eyes. He inspected the lift of her brow to tell him whether she was in good spirits this day. The pull of her lips told him …
Honestly, he never got any messages from her lips. Every time his gaze fell to her perfect mouth, his desire stole all good intentions away. In the last century, they never once got carried away.
His gaze dipped lower to allow him to refocus. Gwin knit his skin slowly. The pulse of energy from her hands fueled him until the next time he could afford this nearness.
Lance was in love with Gwin. His love was pure, chaste. The definition of chivalry. He would never hold her close. He would never taste her lips. He would never soothe the ache of his body with hers. That was not how their story would end.
Lance knew Gwin did not love Merlin. He’d known it the moment he’d seen the two together. There was no passion in her gaze, only duty. Their marriage had been a business transaction, like so many during that time period in which they were all born. Love was a luxury that most couldn’t afford. The union between Gwin Galahad and Merlin Pendragon was an effort to seal a power alliance, and it did the trick, sacrificing three hearts in the process.
No. Two hearts. Lance didn’t believe the eldest Pendragon had such an organ. The man couldn’t lift a finger to protect his wife. Merlin had never gazed on Gwin with love, only with greed for her healing powers.
It was Lance who protected her. Lance who would slay dragons for her. Lance who would bleed for her.
She was an unattainable queen married to a wicked king. She was the untouchable Virgin Mary he devoutly worshiped. She was a dream he could never possess.
He knew he wasn’t worthy of a physical love between them. Not with his base origins into this physical world. Lance loved Gwin on a higher level. A level that did not require the physical.
It was enough to know that she felt the same. It was the fact that she held him in such high regard that she would never think to ask him to break their vows. That pure devotion made him love her even more. Gwin had always looked at him, spoken to him, and treated him as the noblest of men. He would do nothing to cast shade on that great opinion of himself.
“There,” she said. “You’re healed.”
Lance looked down at his arm. Damn. He’d thought that cut was a bit deeper. Fool fencing blade.
“You promise to be more careful on your next quest?”
It’s what she always said to him after she healed his wounds. Lance never made such a promise to her. He would never lie to her.
“The town rests easy knowing you are on guard, Sir Lancelot.”
“The town has my heart and my sword, milady.”
“The town would be lost without you. You mean so much to us.” She still had her hand on his bicep.
The energy pulsing between them was magic, but of a different kind. It would take nothing for him to lean in and capture her lips. It would cost him everything to do it.
He’d break his vow. He’d ruin his reputation. Even worse, he’d drag this noble lady down with him.
Still, neither could he lean entirely away from her. His entire being was entrenched in her.
Lance took a deep breath, making sure to take in a healthy dose of her floral scent. Then he took the first step in the process of moving away from her. It was an arduous, tiring task. But it was necessary. The two of them knew what was between them. Still, they had to keep up appearances with the rest of the town.
Gwin’s fingers slowly, reluctantly released their hold on Lance’s arm. As her thumb took lift off, the door to the Throne Room was thrown wide open. A beautiful blonde woman darkened the doorway.
“Mother?” Gwin yanked her fingers from Lance as though his rough skin burned her delicate hands.
Lady Galahad’s shrewd gaze took in the ornate furnishings, the majestic Round Table. She squinted her eyes as though she found the decor wanting. Then she zeroed in on her daughter.
Gwin’s proud shoulders hunched under her mother’s assault. Her chin dipped. Her hands pressed together, her fingers wringing as they folded into her palms.
“I arrived twenty minutes ago,” said Gwynfhar. “The Lady of the Castle wasn’t there to greet me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Gwin. “I had other duties to tend to.”
“Other duties.” Gwynfhar didn’t give Lance her notice. She didn’t have to. Her tone spoke volumes. “Your husband needs you.”
Gwin’s shoulders dropped in earnest now. Her eyes rolled, and her words came out on a weary sigh. “What is the matter now?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Gwynfhar’s tone was clipped and precise. Her words finely honed weapons whose sharp points she aimed at her daughter. “I’m not the man’s wife.”
Gwin’s throat worked as though she had trouble swallowing her mother’s words. After a moment, she lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward the door. But not before giving Lance an apologetic glance over her shoulder.
Lance lifted the corner of his mouth to tell her that he was okay. With that assurance, Gwin continued out of the Throne Room. Unfortunately, her mother remained.
Lance was not surprised when the older woman didn’t follow her daughter out. Lance’s father hadn’t been the only one vocal about his shortcomings when it came to Gwin. His father passed shortly after the sword abandoned him.
Gwynfhar stood silent and stoic in the doorway. Lance tried to pretend that her silence didn’t bother him. That lasted all of five seconds.
“I was wounded.” Lance waved at the healed skin.
“What’s broken inside of you, my daughter cannot heal.”
>
And with that final warning shot, Gwynfhar left the room. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to see that her aim had been perfect. She’d hit her target dead on in the vulnerable part of him that was Lance’s sense of worth.
Even after all these years, after all his great deeds, after he bled for this town, still he wasn’t good enough.
4
Night had fallen in the town of Camelot. Gwin walked past a window and saw the dotting lights of fireflies. Their sparkling tails were clear to see in the dimming light of the day. The creatures loved the long grasses of the moat surrounding the castle.
She remembered catching the illuminating bugs as a child. They’d flown over her head. Their wings beating to move their small bodies just beyond her reach.
Gwin couldn’t use magic to catch them. They’d hide from any light but their own. So witch fire drove them away. The little witch and wizard children had to catch them the human way.
It had taken her hours but Gwin had managed to catch a jarful and bring them inside. Her mother had shrieked in abject horror and disgust and made her throw them out.
She’d never touched one again. But she remained fascinated by their light. Even now, as a woman grown, they flew above her head. Their light sparkling even as the last few shards of daylight dimmed as they flew about freely.
“What did I tell you about being near that boy,” said Gwynfhar.
“He’s not a boy, mother. He’s a knight. The best knight in all of Camelot.”
“He’s a bastard.”
Lance stepped out of the Throne Room. Just in time to hear the insult. He lifted his head high and walked proudly down the hall.
Gwin tried to catch his eye, to communicate her apology for her mother’s words. She and Lance never needed words between them. He knew that wasn’t how she felt about him. But a man’s pride was a fragile thing. And so, he wouldn’t look at her.
They’d been so close just a few moments ago. His gaze had shone down on her, making her twinkle under its brilliance. She’d felt like she could fly. She’d felt so full of light that it burst out of her.
