Chapter 4

Mordred was lost within himself. Wandering the hallways of his mind, the endless twisting nether of his memories. He could not decide which was worse—revisiting unwanted memories or the nothingness that filled the space in between.

He could not say how much time had passed.

A day? A century? A single breath? An eon?

It did not matter.

For he was still here.

And here, with his power echoing back at himself endlessly, it did not matter. It was destroying him. Chipping away at his mind—his soul.

There would be nothing left of him when he emerged. He mourned for Gwendolyn. He wished her to find happiness with another. For what would come out of the Crystal after he served his time would be a broken thing. A husk.

Let them all forget about me. Let me rot in this place. Let me unravel my mind and spend eternity in this place. Gwendolyn. Oh, Gwendolyn. How he loved her—how he would cling to the thought of her. The memory of her touch, of her presence, of her laughter. Of her kindness, of her humor. Of the way she smiled at him. The taste of her lips on his.

This, too, would be taken from him someday, like all the rest of his mind. Ripped apart in the storm of the Crystal. But he hoped it would go last. So that he could hold onto her, shelter in her, and remember her long after he had forgotten even his own self.

When a hand gently rested on his shoulder, he was certain it was another memory. He had willed her into being.

"Mordred?"

Her voice. He dared not turn around.

"Are you all right? That…that's a stupid question, I'm sorry. Of course you're not. Where are we?" She paused. "Another stupid question." Her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and he felt the warmth of her cheek press against his back.

That was not a memory. This had never happened before. Turning, he could not believe what he saw. Yes—saw—he was corporeal. Standing in the middle of an emptiness that stretched out in all directions. The ground was discernible only by the slight shine of its surface, like obsidian or polished steel.

But none of it mattered. There, in front of him, was Gwendolyn. Hair like the colors of fire, her wings unfurled but relaxed behind her. Those eyes that flickered like embers—his Gwendolyn.

"H—how?" He reached up, hesitantly, almost afraid that his hand would pass straight through her, before placing his palm to her cheek. He had no iron gauntlets here. And he was fine without them—he preferred to feel her skin against his.

"What's the good in being a witch if I can't use it for shit?" She smiled up at him, but it was clear she was fighting through tears. "Oh, God—Mordred—are?—"

"No. Do not ask again." He folded her into his embrace, clutching her close as if a gust of wind might pull her away. "Tell me this is not a figment of my madness."

"I'm here. I'm really here." She wrapped her arms around him again and squeezed him as tightly as she could. "And I'm coming to save you."

Pulling his head back, he met her gaze. "You know what that will mean."

"Total war. I don't—I don't care. I don't want to be here without you. I don't want—I can't—" She looked around the emptiness. "Shit, Mordred, is this where you're stuck?"

"No. It is far worse than this." He smirked faintly. "You seem to have grounded my mind enough that I can take my own shape. It is…blissfully quiet, with you here."

"Quiet?"

"My mind is so very loud." He knew he was not speaking sense. He could tell it by the concerned look on her face. "The memories batter at me like hail upon a windowpane. It will only be so long before the window shatters and the cold takes me." Taking her hands in his, he lifted them to his lips and kissed her fingers. "Leave me here. Forget about me. If you release me?—"

She cut him off. "I don't give a shit, Mordred. Let them come for us. The villagers—they're raising an army. They're on my side. I am going to save you."

He could not help but smile.

She narrowed her eyes. "What's that look for?"

"I was wondering when it would happen. And it is glorious to see."

"When what would happen?"

"When you reached your breaking point and decided this world was yours to burn." He crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up toward him. "And by the Ancients, you are beautiful."

"I—"

It was his turn to cut her off, this time with a kiss. It never quite felt the same in a dream. But he would take whatever he could get. She wrapped an arm behind his neck, pulling herself closer and deepening the embrace.

When they finally parted, he felt a peace he had not known since his imprisonment began. Though he was afraid to know the answer, he had to ask. "How long has it been?"

"Only a few weeks."

The laugh that left him was not a pleasant one. His mind was doomed.

"I'm going to save you. I am. I just don't know where you are."She let out a breath. "Do you have any clue?"

"None. But I…will try to discern what I can." Running his knuckles over her cheek, he studied her features. Tried to recommit everything about her to his memory in hopes that it might linger. "Galahad will know."

"I doubt he'll tell me, but it's a start."

"When in doubt, torture him." When she stared at him in shock, he chuckled, and kissed her forehead. "I am not that far gone. Yet. I am simply teasing."

"Right. Sure." She hugged him and rested her head on his chest. "I promise I'm going to save you."

There were no words he could summon that would do him any good. He simply let out a quiet grunt in reply.

"I love you, Mordred. And—and when you're free?—"

"If."

"When," she insisted.

Yes, he truly did enjoy her with her newfound backbone. He had always suspected that she would be a force of nature when she came into herself. And she had only just begun.

"When you're free," she continued as if he hadn't interrupted her, "I—I'd like if we could talk about—I mean, you and I, maybe—more permanently—I mean, officially?—"

"Shush." He chuckled, listening to her awkwardly and obviously dance around the subject of marriage. "Now is not the time, and this is certainly not the place." He stroked a hand through her hair, combing the strands. "I would rather I propose to you somewhere a bit more romantic than the depths of my own quickly burgeoning madness."

"That's fair."

Mordred was uncertain when she disappeared. Perhaps she simply faded away. Perhaps she woke up. Did their conversation end there? Or had it continued, and he simply could not recall? Madness was a troublesome thing—elusive like a gnat flitting in and out of his line of sight. Never quite fully somehow present but always distracting.

It was destroying his mind.

Piece by piece.

Bit by bit.

One memory at a time.

"There you are, boy." Morgana glowered at him from over her gathered herbs. "Useless thing you are, you were meant to be back by dark."

"There were lights in the woods." He walked forward, shyly placing his bundle of herbs on the table next to the others. "I tried to follow them, but?—"

"Fool!" Morgana's rage was instant and unstoppable. His mother stormed over to him, and smacked him with the back of her hand, sending him reeling. He was only a child. "Never follow the lights. Not unless you wish to be taken to Tir n'Aill and fed to some Unseelie beast. You know better than that."

"But the lights looked like home—I—" He refused to cry. He knew that would only earn him more shouting and admonishment.

"The lights always look like home. That is how the darkness takes you. It shows you peace. It shows you what you want, what you love—and it uses it to lure you in. Anything the darkness shows you is a lie, boy. Remember that. Take that to your grave."

"Y—yes, Mother."

Had Gwendolyn been a lie?

Or had she been real?

It was so difficult to tell…

Perhaps it did not matter.

The darkness already had him, after all.