Half Sick of Shadows

by Laura Sebastian

  “When it’s safe,” she echoes, each syllable dripping with disdain. “Was it safe when you used my magic today?”

  “It was necessary,” I say, shaking my head.

  “And when I used it in Lyonesse? That wasn’t necessary?” she asks, a question she already knows the answer to, though I give it to her anyway.

  “Yes, but you were discovered. I wasn’t, and I won’t use it again. You have my word.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, instead only looking at me with eyes that see too much.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” she asks, and I know right away that I don’t. I don’t want to know what she thinks. But she doesn’t wait for my answer. “I think the reason you can’t release our magic is because deep down, you don’t want to give it up. You want it.”

  “I don’t,” I say, but even as the words pass my lips, I know they’re a lie. I have envied Morgana and Gwen their magic in the past, just as I’ve envied everything else about them, and now I have it. But that isn’t why I can’t give it back—not the entire reason, at any rate. “The reasons for binding your magic still stand—”

  “No, not binding,” Morgana cuts in. “Binding implies that it is still mine. It isn’t. You didn’t bind my magic, you stole it. It is not the same.”

  “Because you asked it of me,” I say. “You think I forced your hand, that I orchestrated all of this? You made choices, Morgana, as much as I did. If you want to blame me, blame me. But all I have tried to do for almost half my life is—”

  “Is keep Arthur safe,” she finishes for me. “I know. How often have I heard it from you, from Nimue? Arthur must be kept safe at all costs. I’m so sick of it, sick of having to put him first every step of the way, no matter what it does to me, how it hurts me.”

  The bitterness in her voice should scare me. I should see it for what it is, a precursor to the hate from my visions, the resentment that will drive her mad. But that idea is a distant one, cast in the shadow of a much greater thought.

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say,” I tell her, my voice softening. “All I have tried to do for almost half my life is keep you safe, Morgana. From yourself. From this simmering anger that will tear you to pieces if you let it.”

  She can only stare at me, so I force myself to continue.

  “They aren’t unrelated,” I say, the words spilling forth now before I can stop them. “In protecting you, I protect Arthur, that much has always been known, since long before I came to Avalon. You will be either his bolster or his doom, Morgana. It has been foreseen, one way or another.”

  For a moment, Morgana only stares at me, and the air leaves her sails. She deflates. I shouldn’t have said that, but before I can begin to regret the words, she finds her voice.

  “Are those my choices then?” she asks quietly. “A villain or bolster? No matter what, my life is defined by his, reflected by his.”

  “Morgana,” I say, but she holds a hand up to silence me.

  “I love my brother,” she tells me, her voice low. “In spite of everything, I love him more than anyone else in this world, you included. I didn’t think there was anything I wouldn’t give up for him, not even my magic. But I was wrong. I won’t give up myself. That is my line.”

  I open my mouth to speak, to tell her she’s wrong, but no words come out.

  “I’m not returning to Camelot with you,” she says. “You have my magic, you don’t need me there. You’ll keep him safe—I trust you with that much.”

  I try not to feel the sting of the words, but the splinter of them wedges beneath my skin, and I know I’ll feel them for some time yet.

  “Where will you go?” I ask her.

  She shrugs, glancing away from me. “Avalon,” she says, as if it should be obvious. “It’s home. It’s the only place I can get power back—even if it isn’t my own power. And you Saw it, didn’t you? Me, there.”

  Us, there, I want to say, but instead I only nod. I’ve already told her too much.

  “Nimue won’t welcome you back,” I tell her.

  “I don’t intend to give her a choice,” she tells me, and for the first time, I find I fear for Nimue. “Tell the others I said goodbye. I can’t stomach it. Tell Arthur . . .” But she trails off, and her voice cracks.

  I don’t need her to finish the sentence, though.

  “I will,” I say.

  Before I can overthink it, I step toward her, arms outstretched, but she stops me short, holding both of her hands out. Like I am a spirit she is trying to ward off. I blink away my tears and wrap my arms around myself instead, as if I can keep everything together that way when it seems so determined to fall apart.

  “We’ll see each other again,” I tell her, and I’m not sure whether I mean the words as a reassurance or a threat.

  She nods, blinking rapidly, and I realize she is holding back tears as well.

  “I found my line, Elaine,” she says softly. “Where is yours?”

  She doesn’t give me a chance to answer, instead turning and walking away from me. She doesn’t walk back into the castle—I suppose there’s nothing for her there anyway. Instead she disappears into the woods, never once looking back.

  41

  BY THE TIME we start preparing for the wedding, Lancelot says he feels no pain at all, and after checking the place where his wound used to be, Gwen confirms that he is at least mostly healed. Fay blood indeed.

  Gwen’s nose is another issue, though. If she’s seen in public with her face mottled and bruised, there will be questions—questions that none of us can provide believable answers for. In the end, I heal it with her own magic and promise, again, that it will be the last time I use it. She pretends to believe me.

  As a handmaid helps me into a Shalott Blue gown that was hastily altered from one of my sister-in-laws’ wedding gowns, Gwen watches with her head resting on her arm, her eyes threatening to droop closed at any second.

  “Would a nap help?” I ask her. “The wedding won’t be for another hour—plenty of time for a bit of rest. When was the last time you slept?”

  Gwen scoffs, forcing herself to sit up straighter and blink the sleep from her eyes. “I don’t nap,” she says. “The rare occasions I do sleep, it’s difficult to rouse me for at least half a day. No, give me something to do and I’ll catch a second wind quickly enough.”

  A heavy cloak of silence falls over us, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing, missing the same person who should be here.

  When I told the others that Morgana was gone, no one was truly surprised. Arthur seemed shocked at first, but even that faded quickly.

  “I suppose I should have expected it,” he said, shaking his head. “She was never going to be happy here. Maybe now she can be.”

  I didn’t tell him that in all my visions of Morgana’s future, I’ve never seen her happy.

  But now that it’s only Gwen and me, I can’t keep Morgana’s words from echoing again and again in my mind.

  I found my line. Where’s yours?

  Where’s Gwen’s line? I wonder.

  “Gwen?” I say, my voice coming out softer than I intend, a fragile word that threatens to break as soon as it leaves my lips.

  She looks up at me, blinking the exhaustion from her eyes. “Hmm?”

  “Do you miss Lyonesse?” I ask her.

  She leans back in her chair, considering the question for a moment.

  “I do,” she says finally. “Quite horribly, actually. I’m not sure why. I spent more of my life on Avalon—you would think leaving there would have been harder, but it wasn’t. Leaving Lyonesse felt like . . . like the skin was being stripped from my bones. The feeling hasn’t gone away yet.”

  “Then why are you here?” I ask her. “Because you love Arthur more?”

  She frowns. “Maybe that’s it, at least part of it
,” she says before shaking her head. “I made a choice, Elaine. If you’re asking if I regret it like Morgana, I don’t. There’s no point in regrets like that, and pretending otherwise doesn’t do anyone any good.”

  I believe her, but that isn’t much of a balm. I believe she means it now, that she sees a future ahead of her that is wide with possibilities. But that future is an illusion—one I shoved her toward, one I convinced her was right.

  I found my line. Where’s yours?

  * * *

  LANCELOT AND I marry by the river where my mother and I used to play when I was a child. Traditionally, weddings are held indoors, but my father didn’t put up a single protest when I asked for this—he feels her presence here, too, I think.

  It is a traditional Shalott ceremony, where I walk arm in arm with my father down a path strewn with lilies, Gwen walking a few steps ahead. Lancelot approaches from the other path, running parallel to the river, walking just behind Arthur. Healed now, there is no pain in his smile when he sees me. His eyes lock on to mine, and all of a sudden, I see it—not the dozens of paths of pain that branch out from this moment, but the one glowing one, the single path that leads us to wrinkles and hair gone gray, to a house far from court where we can hear the sea each morning and fall asleep beside each other each night.

  I see happiness, and I know that I will do whatever I must to keep us on that path.

  Where is your line, Elaine?

  I try to push Morgana’s voice from my mind, but I don’t quite manage it.

  When we meet by the river, before the audience made up only of my family and Lancelot’s fellow knights, my father passes my hand to Lancelot, and he holds it tight in both of his. He holds it like he never wants to let me go, and I hold him back just as tightly.

  Arthur leaves Lancelot’s side and comes to stand between us. As a prince of the realm, he has the power to oversee a marriage, and my father has relinquished that duty to him. There are phrases he’s supposed to say, centuries-old words about marriage and duty and the joining of households, but I know before he even speaks that he will be veering far off course.

  He clears his throat, looking between us with a grin before turning his attention to our gathered friends and family.

  “It would be a lie to say that Elaine and Lancelot loved each other from the first time they met,” he says. “No, the first time they met, they clashed. They argued and insulted and fought so constantly it drove me mad.”

  I press my lips together to keep from laughing while Lancelot shoots Arthur a dirty look.

  “Really—Elaine is a very well-raised woman, sir,” Arthur adds, looking at my father. “But I once heard her call this man a gilded prat with an ego the size of the sun.”

  At that, Lancelot snorts, squeezing my hand.

  “In my defense, he deserved it,” I say.

  “He more than likely did,” Arthur allows, nudging Lancelot. “But all of that aside, I cannot truly say that I am surprised to be standing here today, celebrating them and the love that they have discovered and nurtured over the years. They have always challenged each other, and through that, they have shaped each other into the very best versions of themselves. I am so incredibly grateful to know both of them, and even more grateful that they have found each other. And so, in addition to your new land and your new titles as husband and wife, it would be my great honor to give you another title.”

  “Arthur,” I say.

  “Yes, I know, it is not done. Not by princes. But I am doing it, and if someone would like to stop me, they are welcome to try, but that is a problem for tomorrow. Today, though, I would like to pronounce you not just man and wife, but I would like to give you a family name to pass on to your children, and to their children after them. I hereby name you Sir Lancelot and Lady Elaine Du Lac, as a way to honor the lake and Avalon, the place that brought you—brought all of us—together.”

  Lancelot looks at Arthur for a moment, blinking. “Thank you,” he says finally.

  Arthur smiles. “Well, go on then. Kiss the bride before I change my mind.”

  It’s a hollow threat, but Lancelot doesn’t waste a second before pulling me toward him and sealing his mouth, his life, and his future irrevocably with mine.

  * * *

  THE TENT WILL be drafty and sparse, with only a thin bedroll, a change of clothes, a leather satchel, and a familiar sword and shield set against the side. And him, sitting on top of the bedroll and staring at me like I am a figment of a dream made real, and not a very pleasant one.

  For an eternity of a moment, Lancelot and I will only look at each other. It will almost be easy, in the dim, candlelit tent, to pretend that the last few years haven’t happened. He will almost seem twenty-five again, the way he looked when we stood beside that river and pledged ourselves to each other, when he was still hungry for a world he will never understand. But he will not be hungry for it anymore, only tired.

  I won’t know if it’s standing in front of him again or something else, but I will feel tired as well, more than I think I’ve ever been. More than I ever will be again. I will wait for anger to come back to me—I would even welcome sorrow, but I will only feel old. Impossibly old.

  Without saying a word, he will take a leather flask from his satchel, twist off the cap, and take a long swig before offering it to me. When I won’t move to take it, he will frown.

  “Can you still drink?” he will ask, before looking away, embarrassed.

  “I don’t know if it will have any effect,” I will admit, but I’ll take it anyway, careful not to touch his skin, though I will want to. I will miss how his warm, calloused hands felt against my skin; I will crave it. But I will not want him to touch me because I will not know what he will feel in turn.

  The liquid will burn down my throat, but I won’t mind it. It will be a relief to feel something.

  “I don’t suppose you came here for a friendly chat,” he’ll say after a moment.

  “There isn’t anything friendly left between us.” The words will leave my mouth before I can stop them, but I won’t be able to deny the bolt of pleasure his expression sends through me. He will look like I slapped him. He will look like he was hoping for worse.

  “You won’t see another sunset,” I’ll tell him. “But I think you already know that.”

  He will look away, staring over my shoulder with such determination it will be surprising that he doesn’t singe a hole in the tent. “A lot of men will die tomorrow. Only a fool would think himself immune. Even if Death was once a friend.”

  “Morgana had no say in it,” I’ll protest.

  He’ll give me a reproachful look. “Morgana doesn’t exist anymore, Elaine.” It will be the way he used to talk to me back when I first came to Avalon, when I was naive and stupid and he seemed to know everything. But I will not be that girl anymore, and he certainly will not be the same shining, valiant hero I fell in love with.

  “Elaine doesn’t exist anymore either,” I will tell him.

  His eyes will rake over me; his expression will harden. “No. I suppose she doesn’t. I am sorry about that.”

  I’ll take another gulp of the liquor. This will not be the conversation I wanted to have with him. I will not want his apologies. But what did I expect? He will be a man facing death, and I will be his biggest regret. Of course he will want to make amends. Of course he will want to die forgiven.

  But I won’t know if I have forgiveness left in me.

  “I came to take you home. To Avalon. It isn’t too late,” I will say.

  Surprise will knock the air from him. Whatever he will have expected me to say, it will not be that. His eyes will flicker in the candlelight, and a smile will ghost across his face, gone too quickly.

  “I have made a vow of loyalty twice in my life, El. Once to you and once to Arthur. I won’t break both of them.”

  Something painful w
ill writhe in my stomach, twisting around my chest like wild vines. I will have told myself I have come as a courtesy, because I will owe something to his mother, because even after everything, I will feel this is still a part of my duty. I might not have expected him to agree, but it won’t be until now that I will realize how badly I wanted him to.

  When I speak, my voice will be thread thin. “If you come home, we can fix things, fix our vows. I will forgive everything. Please, Lance.”

  Though he will stay upright, his body will seem to fold in on itself, shoulders sagging forward, head drooping. Green-gold eyes will finally meet mine. His hands will twitch, fighting the urge to reach out to me.

  “I don’t think you would,” he will say. “So much rot already lies between us. Would you have Arthur’s body join it?”

  “I would have you on Avalon,” I will tell him. “Safe and alive. I cannot save Arthur, but I can save you.”

  He will shake his head, but before he can protest again, I will interrupt.

  “Morgana once asked me where my line was, the line I wouldn’t cross, even for Arthur,” I will tell him. “I didn’t know how to answer her then. Where’s your line, Lancelot?”

  Lancelot will hold my gaze. “I haven’t found it yet,” he will tell me, his voice soft. “I don’t think I’ll find it tomorrow, either, not even in death. I’m not sure that line exists for me, Elaine.”

  A cry will strangle me, coming out mangled and not quite human, but Lancelot won’t flinch from it. Instead, he will swallow, then hold a hand out toward me. At first, I will think he means to take the flask back, but when I hold it out, he will take hold of my wrist instead, pulling me toward him, and despite all of that rot between us, I will let him. Even though his skin will be so hot against mine that it burns, even though I imagine my own skin must feel like ice to him, like something not quite alive anymore.