Chapter 20

Mordred was dreaming.

Or, perhaps he had already awoken.

It was hard to say. The world around him felt detached from him—a step removed. He was standing at the edge of a clearing, though it took him a long time to realize that. Where he stood was the abyss of a moonless, starless night—nothing around him but the promise of emptiness. But in front of him was Gwendolyn—though he knew it to be only a vision. There was something empty about it—his love was not truly there. She was laughing and playing with Eod, tussling over a stick. They were happy.

Joyful.

And he was not there with them. He was watching, alone in the darkness.

Behold the light your shadow casts.

Whose was that thought? Not his, surely. But no one else was around. No one but the mirage before him.

In darkness, spare the sun.

The thought was not his own, but it did not feel foreign. He shut his eyes, blotting out the dreaming world around him. He repeated the words to himself, trying to find their origin.

Like the snap of fingers, something shifted. When he blinked his eyes open, the world around him was like nothing he had ever seen. Blades of grass, blue and translucent like the purest glass, shimmered in the moonlight as they swayed around him. Everything along the edges of his vision was a blur. He was still dreaming.

But this time, he was not alone.

He could not see them, but he could sense them. Or sense it, perhaps. He could not rightfully say. This simply did not feel like the magic that he had known all his life—it was the magic. This was Avalon. The heart of it. Or, perhaps, its dreams.

"Am I dead?" It was the obvious question. The Gossamer Lady had run him through with a remade Caliburn. He was dying, last he remembered, when he saw his keep and his feet touched the ground. He had kept his word—he had not lost consciousness on the flight back to his home.

No.

A thought. His and not his. Familiar and foreign. But a relief, all the same. He let out a breath, content with the fact that he still lived. For now.

More madness? Or, perhaps the presence of the gods of Avalon.

He found no harm in entertaining the possibility of the latter, given that offending them would likely spell disaster.

"Behold the light my shadow casts." He pondered the phrase—no, the order. It had sounded like a missive. He smirked. "Ah. I understand. You were the power behind that vision of Arthur, were you not?"

Silence.

He supposed it was the right of the gods to be mysterious. Especially when his query did not matter. What difference did it make now? He was at war. "If you are attempting to convince me to become this—this monster—you needn't. I have already made up my mind. I made that choice in the Crystal."

More silence.

But perhaps he misunderstood. Perhaps it was not here to convince him—perhaps it was here to console him? "The destruction of my honor, my soul, my—my light—will mean she will be happy."

Yes.

But he had not been there in the clearing with her. He had been alone, watching from the shadows. "Without me."

A long pause. Long enough that Mordred did not believe he would receive an answer.

In the light, alone.

It was not being mysterious; it was being cryptic. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his knuckles—he had long since learned not to do that with his fingertips while wearing clawed gauntlets—and fought down a sigh. It was worse than that damnable wizard.

In the light, alone.

A comfort, a warning, a gift? He did not know. And he knew perhaps he never would.

Shaking his head, he let out a slow breath. "Thank you."

No good comes in being rude to the gods.

He blinked his eyes open, light shining in them, streaming from a nearby window. He hummed and turned his head, though it felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Ah, he knew this feeling well—waking up after being severely injured.

It was miserable every time.

His mouth tasted like blood. The room smelled of its metallic, coppery tinge and sweat. His sweat. With how much blood he knew he had lost, his heart would have begun to work in overdrive, sending him into a fever.

The wound should have been fatal, even to him. The Gossamer Lady was the only one who could heal such an injury, and there was no chance of that having happened. How was he alive? More importantly, why? Had the Ancients, had Avalon, resurrected him? For what purpose?

Behold the light your shadow casts.

And it was the light that was bothering him at the moment. Wincing, he turned his head back to the window, squinting at the bright sun. He wanted someone to draw the curtain. There was someone there in the bed beside him, and he felt the strain in his features relax at the sight of her.

Gwendolyn had been sitting at his side, holding his hand. She must have decided she needed to lay her head down for a second before she had fallen fast asleep, legs still dangling off the bed, tendrils of her firelike hair pooling around her.

She was so beautiful.

Behold the light his shadow casts,indeed. Reaching out, he gently stroked her hair with his other hand. The touch jolted her awake, and she sat up, lost for a moment.

He went to say hello, but found his throat was too dry to speak, and only managed to cough. The sound pulled Gwendolyn's attention to him. Her eyes were still red from what he assumed must have been crying.

"Mordred!" Frantically, she shifted closer to him, stroking his hair out of his face. "Oh God—Mordred." She kissed him, desperate but gentle.

How he wished he could return the gesture, far less gently. But he was in no shape to do anything of the sort. He gestured his hand at the dresser beside him where he saw a pitcher of water. Not so long ago, he had seen Arthur do the same…

"Oh! Right—right. Sorry." She filled a mug before helping him sip it slowly. Every drop of it felt like heaven. "I hope you weren't awake long without me, I just—I guess I was really tired."

He could not imagine why. "Firefly," he finally managed to say, though it felt as though he had eaten a few fistfuls of gravel for dinner.

"It's all right." Gwen stroked his hair again tenderly. She was smiling at him, but there was a deep sadness in her eyes. Something that her relief could not touch. And deep within it, a tinge of fear.

There was a cost to his recovery. There was a price to be paid for his life. What had Gwendolyn sacrificed? She had already forsaken her home. She would never see Earth again, when she could have been free.

What else would she have to surrender because she loved him?

Carefully lifting his hand to her cheek, he rested his palm there. She leaned into his touch, eyes shutting. He saw the exhaustion. Grief. He wished to ask her what had happened.

No, he should wait. His focus had to be upon healing, for their time was short. The Gossamer Lady had declared war. Though they would believe him dead, they would come for Gwendolyn in his keep.

Although he did deeply wish to know.

"You—you should rest." She sat back, gently placing his hand down. "Get some sleep. We'll talk when you're back on your feet."

Curiosity got the best of him. "What…trade?" he managed to choke out.

The flicker of pain and fear on her face looked as though he had struck her.

"I—of course, you'd know. Somehow." She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I couldn't let you die. I tried to heal you, but then…well. I'll tell you the whole story when you're up and about. If you try to throttle me, you'll pop a stitch and Mae will be livid."

That made sense, he supposed. Nodding weakly, he rested his head back into the pillow and let out a long, ragged breath. Sleep sounded wonderful, especially as breathing was currently a rather painful endeavor. The bitch must have collapsed his lung with the blade. He would have to be sure to return the favor.

"Goodnight. I love you." Standing from the edge of the bed, Gwendolyn kissed him again before she headed to the door. She was partway through shutting the door when she paused and looked back at him.

"I'll tell you this much—I finally met Merlin."

The door shut behind her.

And Mordred knew no good would come of this.

None at all.

"Explain it to me again?"

Gwen sighed and rested her forehead on the edge of the dining room table. She didn't blame Mordred for not quite getting it. She didn't get it either. It had only been a day since he insisted on walking around the keep and sitting down at the table for dinner. Part of it was the fact that he healed fast. Part of it was the fact that he was a stubborn bastard.

But he wanted dinner. At the table. She understood, honestly—Mae was a lot when she didn't have a patient to fuss over. When she felt like she had a mission, she was unstoppable.

"The young wizard was actually the old wizard, but not yet. He traveled back in time and became the old wizard you knew as Merlin."

"But it was the same man."

"Yeah." She had been dreading this conversation the entire time. It had been like walking on eggshells around him. Every moment he was awake, he was watching her, waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. And she could sense it coming.

"His future created the myth that his past was built upon." Mordred hummed. "I cannot say I am entirely surprised. He was always infuriatingly abstruse. It is suitable that his life be the same." Picking up his goblet of wine, he took a sip from it.

She had tried to keep him from drinking. That went over about as well as she'd have expected.

"I am more annoyed that I did not see it." He sat back in his chair, spinning the goblet idly between the tips of his claws on one hand. "Although I suppose it serves me right. I never paid him much mind."

Lifting her head, she decided she wasn't sober enough for this herself, either, and swallowed half the goblet of wine in one go before refilling it from the bottle.

"Will you tell me what transpired?" Mordred's molten, rust-colored eyes were boring into her. "Or, are you still frightened that I will ‘pop a stitch'?"

He learned fast. She'd give him that. "I mean, it's…It's fine." Standing from the table, she couldn't help but pace. There was no point in trying to hide her nerves. "It's going to be fine. You just can't be pissed—I had no choice."

"I feel as though you did."

"Yeah, I could've let you die. That was the other option." She rolled her eyes. "Which isn't a choice."

"Ostensibly, yes. It is."

"Well, it's a shitty one, okay?" She didn't know why she was getting frustrated. Taking a breath, she held it for a second before letting it out, trying to calm down. It mostly worked. Kind of. Maybe. A little.

"Gwendolyn." There was that tone. The disappointedvoice that made her want to throw something at his head. "Tell me."

This was not going to go well. This was not going to go well at all. Cringing, she braced herself for his outburst. "The island wants me to become queen. Doc—Merlin—whatever—he gave me the crown. Said that if I stopped pursuing it, or if I ever gave up the throne, you'd die."

Mordred was silent for a long moment. "And what happens if you try but fail to become queen?"

"I…" That was a good question. Merlin hadn't said. "I don't know. He just said I can't stop trying, or once I'm there I can't give it up."

Mordred hummed but said nothing else. Simply looked off into the distance, his expression unreadable.

When he didn't say anything for what felt like minutes, she couldn't take it anymore. "Mordred?" She could see the wheels turning, but she couldn't predict what he was thinking. It could go any direction.

"Who am I to argue with the Ancients?" He sipped his wine. "They have chosen you."

"I—I mean, let's be clear here, I don't want to be queen. I didn't want to be chosen." Shaking her head, she went back to the table, sitting in the chair next to him. "I'm going to be a shit queen."

"I do not think so. You care as deeply for this world as I do. And you are something I am not."

"What?"

He smirked. "Liked by others."

That had her slapping her hand over her eyes. "You're liked by others, just, y'know…?" Not a ton of them?

"I have your love. All other fondness paid to me is by those creatures that I created. Galahad is now my enemy. The other knights bear me no love, nor should they." Mordred shook his head. "I find myself very much alone. But do not mistake me, this suits me fine. I think I have given up this foolhardy quest to be respected or liked. I think I will finally comfort myself by settling for that which I garner best." His expression turned just a little wicked. "Fear."

"I don't think…" She paused. What good was it to argue with him? Besides, she hated to admit it—but he was right. He was really damn good at being terrifying. "But I know you want to be king, and—and this—I didn't want you to be mad."

"You said it yourself. You do not wish for this. You chose to save my life. I could hardly become king if I were dead." He reached out a hand and combed his claws through her hair, gently tucking a few strands behind her ear.

He wasn't mad. What a damn relief. "I should have trusted you not to be angry, I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you earlier because I didn't know how you'd react."

"I understand." He finished his goblet of wine before pressing up out of his chair. She didn't miss his wince as he did so. "I think it is best if I retire early. This wound seems to have at least temporarily cured me of my insomnia."

"Silver linings, I guess. Do you need a hand?"

"No. But thank you." He tipped her head so that he could bend down to kiss her, his lips lingering on hers. "Goodnight, my firefly."

"Goodnight." She smiled and watched him leave the room. If she didn't know him, she wouldn't have known anything was wrong. Dozens of wars and countless injuries would do that to a person.

The silence that followed settled over her like an unwelcome blanket. He didn't seem angry with her for needing to become queen. But he hadn't exactly been enthusiastic either. What had she expected? For him to be happy for her?

It all just left a strange feeling in her stomach. Something wasn't right.

How dare they.

How dare the Ancients subject him to this!

This humiliation. This degradation. The throne should be his. His! He loved Gwendolyn, but she had no right to the crown. None. Arthur passed Caliburn to him, and it was stolen by the Gossamer Lady. Now Gwen would steal his reign as king?

No.

This could not stand.

He loved her. He loved her more than he loved life itself. There was no harm he could bring to her—that was out of the question. But something must be done.

Pacing back and forth in his bedroom, his blood was boiling from the rage. From the indignation of it all. It was his right to rule! Not her!

Staring down at his palms, Mordred clenched his fists and forced himself to slow his breathing. His heart was pounding, and it was giving him a headache. He could not push himself too hard as he was still injured.

But he would have to act soon.

The crown would be his.