† Year Five, Day 293 †
As expected, the broken bone healed without complications, and after about four weeks, Lancelot could rely on his arm for simple tasks as long as he kept the pressure low. Throughout this time, the Lady of the Lake spared him another trial and allowed him to lick his wounds alone. Sir Jonathan likewise kept his distance.
Lancelot banned all thoughts regarding the dead Fairy from his mind, but Tristan's face wound its way to the forefront from time to time. If the moment came to face Tristan, could he do it? Could he treat him like every other knight he had faced before? Lancelot had no answer to these questions. But he dreaded the day he would once more look into Tristan's heart, afraid of what he might see and what this knowledge might convince him to do.
The sharp scratching sound of metal on stone chased away the images of Tristan while Lancelot carved a line into the archway neighboring his campsite. Stone splinters flaked off the structure and joined their brothers on the ground. Against the sturdy metal tip of his spear, the limestone had little to show for, but the routine nevertheless provided a good exercise for his injured arm. When he was satisfied with the result, Lancelot placed the spear aside and held his finger against the new grove. A perfect, straight line the length of his upper forefinger joint. Not much more space remained on the current brick. Soon, Lancelot would have to make his way to a new one. How many more after that one?
Before his thoughts wandered to places far outside his reach, Lancelot tore his gaze from the archway and went for a walk among the castle structures. Like tombstones, the towers dotted the meadows of Avalon, half-decayed and with a story no living person remained to tell.
Lancelot let his feet decide the direction and wandered on until he left the ruins behind. Thereafter, the land sloped down to a field of wild wheat stretching half a mile until it hugged the shore. Because winter never dared to lay its hands on Avalon, the wheat always stood ripe, and the heads weighed with the wind. Not once since Lancelot had discovered the field, had someone made use of the rich harvest that could have sustained a small village for a few months. Maybe the Lady of the Lake had a secret passion for baking. Or more likely, Morgan had let her creativity run wild.
What would she have said if she had witnessed his last trial? Would she have spared a word of kindness for him? A hand on his shoulder to stop him from hunting after the illusion of Tristan or a push in the wrong direction?
Perhaps it was better for her not to know.
Lancelot inched through the field and studied every other hem as though its looks told him anything about the quality of the flour a skilled farmer could produce from the corn. If only he had been born as a peasant, then the Lady of the Lake would have chosen someone else to do her bidding.
A wheat ear crumbled under Lancelot's fingers, and the earthy scent clung to his skin. Hiding from the Lady was as pointless as running away, but maybe his tour through the corn field would spare him another trial. Just for one more day. One more day to play pretend he was someone else.
Alas, the field didn't go on forever, and he reached the outskirts too soon for his liking. Ahead, after a narrow patch of grass and a beach covered in polished white stones, the lake stretched towards the end of this world. Its dark waters washed against the stones in a futile attempt to eat them whole. And amidst the waves stood Morgan. Her dark locks danced around her as she stared at the horizon. The horizon that seemed so close but that she could not reach.
Despite his quiet steps, she turned to look at him before he reached the shore. A smile lit up her face but not in time to hide the carved lines between her brows or the emptiness in her gaze.
"You found me," she said.
Lancelot moved closer but hesitated to set his foot into the water. The Lady of the Lake would surely find him there, where the shadows reached down to the bottomless depths of the waves.
"I didn't know I was looking for you."
"Oh yes, we were playing the longest round of hide-and-seek any human has ever seen. And you won fair and square." The laugh in her voice failed to reach her eyes.
"Does this mean you will finally stop disappearing? Because this game is getting old. I… missed you. I needed you."
"I was never far away. This will be nothing compared to when you go and leave Avalon to fulfill the role you are destined for."
A deep, unending sadness shone in her eyes, but the tears stayed away. Morgan never cried. Not like Lancelot.
His reservations all fell silent and, pulled forward by the lures of the lake, Lancelot joined her side. The water swapped around his knees, a constant lullaby to keep them company.
"If this is where my destined role takes me," he said, "I don't know if I want to continue down this path. I can't see the end of the way, and I'm afraid to find out how much of me will remain once I get there. I've envisioned my return to Britannia so many times – now I can't bear these dreams anymore. It's like I've poisoned them with blood. Drop by drop until everything blurs. Have you ever killed someone? Have you ever hurt someone or just though about hurting someone even though you knew you're in the wrong?"
Morgan watched the horizon. "Yes. I thought I did it out of love. I thought that what I did was justified, even necessary. But I'm not sure anymore. Maybe it was my own selfish desire which led my hand. Maybe the feeling which I thought was love was nothing but a fantasy, a lie I clung to. And now, I'm afraid it's too late to ask for forgiveness."
"I wouldn't know. No one thought to teach me forgiveness."
"And no one here will. We can't teach what we don't understand and what we have never experienced. Avalon has no forgiveness. Not for you. And not for me. This world is my punishment, my prison. Quite fitting for a murderer, isn't it?"
The water seeped through the leather of Lancelot's boots. And although Morgan stood less then a yard away, he felt no warmth from her.
"I shouldn't have asked," he said. "This has nothing to do with you. We can talk about something else."
"You want to know whether I killed? Whether I understand what you go through?"
"No, I'm sorry, forget I brought it up in the first place."
"I have killed. I don't remember the blood on my hands or the cries or the fear in their eyes. Their lives meant nothing to me, not when their deaths could bring me closer to the one I loved. This makes me a criminal in your eyes, doesn't it?"
Lancelot swallowed. "Yes. But I'm not gonna fault you for what you did. There's so little on this island that I can hold onto. I don't want to sever the last thread. I can't go back to that afternoon in the apple grove. But whatever happens, I want this little piece of me to survive."
"If I could, I would promise you that you won't have to fight anymore. But I can't. Everything's in motion, and I have tarried for too long to spare—" Morgan's voice broke. Two ideals waged war inside her, and the longer she stared into the water the more undecided the victor seemed.
"What's wrong?" Lancelot was tempted to take her hand. But at the last moment, he thought better of himself and remembered whose blood he rubbed from his palm day in and day out.
Morgan returned his gaze with a million different emotions. "I'm scared. Scared to see you go, scared that I have asked too much from you, scared that you will forget me as soon as you return to Britannia. I'm scared of the day I have eagerly awaited for such a long eternity."
Lancelot could not tell how often he had wished to read her heart, but never had the urge been this strong. If he understood what troubled her, if he saw what nightmares haunted her, he could offer her a little comfort. Ease the pain and make her smile.
"I would never turn my back on you," Lancelot said. "You're the only friend I ever had."
"You're thinking to highly of me. I'm nothing but a foolish creature who desired the heart of her beloved too much. How many years have I longed for his return, to see his face and hear his voice, and yet he never came back for me. He didn't spare me a single look. All this time, I told myself I would sacrifice everything for him. Even you."
Lancelot searched in her face for answers but found none. "I don't understand."
"You would hate me if you did."
"Are you working with the Lady of the Lake? Is it that? 'Cause that's not a good enough reason for me to hate you. I've been working with her too, I've been doing everything she asked from me, and I didn't even stop to second-guess my actions. How am I supposed to judge you for the crime I am guilty of?"
Morgan avoided his eyes, and the sky seemed to darken with her mood. "You don't know what I've done…"
"Okay, then try me! Tell me about the contract you made with her. Tell me about the little chats you have where you come up with the next ordeal to throw my way. You know what? I don't care. I chose this hell for myself, and no matter how much I hate every step of the way, I will keep going. Because this is the one and only path that leads to where I need to go. I want to right all wrongs. And I'd rather face the trials along the way with you than alone."
The waves splashed around Morgan's upper legs, and for a while she gave no reply. Sooner than on other days, the sun kissed the horizon and hung suspended there, caught between the light and the dark.
Morgan reached out to touch his cheek, but her hand lost the necessary will midway. "You're making it so difficult for me to see you like any other human. Maybe it would be best if you do forget me once you leave Avalon. Maybe then I'll—"
"I won't forget you. I promised you, on the day we first met. I promised to get you out of here so that you can venture across Britannia with me. Remember?"
The light of the setting sun painted spectacular red lines onto her pale features as she looked up to him; in the end, he had grown taller than her.
Lancelot reached out and tapped into the magic field surrounding them. Its contrasting facets were as familiar as the ridge and the little dents of his sword, and the warmth with which the magic welcomed him cast a smile on his lips. His hand prickled as he let the energy flow through his veins, and in his open palm, a flower emerged. The white petals grew and unfolded like they would in the warmth of the spring sun. A perfect, beautiful bloom down to the tiniest details.
When Lancelot offered the single peony to Morgan, she gazed at the petals in pure wonder. Perhaps no one had thought to give her any presents before, or perhaps the gesture remined her of this ominous beloved who had treated her so poorly. Whatever her reason, her delicate fingers trembled when she plucked the flower from his palm and, after holding the gift in her hands like an injured baby bird for a moment, placed it in her hair.
Morgan looked at Lancelot with an intensity to make him think she wanted to memorize every bit of his face.
"You have so much darkness within you. But also so much light," she said. "Please never change. No matter what happens, hold onto this perfection. Will you do that for me?"
"You know that I will do anything. I'm serious. That spell that holds you here; I will break it. And then you'll be free to go wherever you like."
"Only Chaos can lift the spell."
Chaos. The name rolled from Morgan's tongue with an admiration that knew no equal. She regarded this Chaos as both the purest man in existence and the worst warlord known to mankind. She loved and hated him at the same time, and neither emotion held the power to silence and defeat the other. All this pain he brought Morgan – how could she still cherish him? The mere thought of hurting her to such an extent, to leave her broken and deformed without a care for her suffering, made Lancelot's stomach revolt.
"Okay, then I will challenge Chaos to a duel," he said. "All this training the Lady of the Lake made me go through has to pay off at some point. Once I've mastered all of Sir Jonathan's tricks and defeat him, I'm sure Chaos won't pose much of a challenge. He can't be all-powerful, and when he is at my mercy, he won't have a choice but to release you."
Morgan's breathing stumbled, and her eyes caught his. Of his own free will, he handed her the shackles to chain him.
"Chaos isn't a mere human the way you think he is. He is a god, a will with the power to create and destroy. Some of his creations had the audacity to turn against his genius and sealed him away. I cannot imagine the horror he must have felt, caged in that disgusting vessel without a chance to even communicate with the humans he held so dear. And while he has since escaped his cage, he is nonetheless a prisoner. Trapped inside an unworthy body by that Belialuin snake. Oh, she had so much time to wrap him in her delusions of absolute peace. That's why Chaos won't break the barrier around Avalon. That's why he never came back."
Lancelot reached for her hand, and the fine contours of her fingertips sent warm shivers across his skin. The injury of his arm paled and was forgotten. "Then what can I do? Tell me, whatever it is, I won't hesitate."
The endless depths of her dark eyes stared into his soul, into his heart and memories, and she plucked every little secret from his thoughts, gardened every little seed of information she had tossed him, pushing, pulling, tearing him towards the final trial.
"You must kill the one who holds the power of Chaos so that he can take a new vessel. Someone worthy of the brightest light and the darkest shadows."
"Who is it?"
"The one they call the merciful king. Arthur."
Arthur. The merciful king. A king for dreamers and weaklings. Arthur, the one who let murderers loose, the one who surrounded himself with liars and traitors, the one who lacked the strength to do what must be done. How many criminals Lancelot had killed had begged for Arthur's mercy? How many more had benefitted from his forgiveness? The images of the king had gleamed in their hearts – his dream was noble but his actions suffered from misguidance and youthful illusions. No wonder considering his mentor.
Ban had never talked about Merlin, her name only passed his lips with the spite of a curse, but thanks to the memory gift Lancelot had received from Gowther, the truth no longer had a place to hide.
Everything Merlin had done in presence of the Sins had served her selfish intentions. She risked the lives of others for her gains, she lied if misinformation helped her cause, and she had broken her bonds to the Sins without a second thought, a mistake that nearly brought about the destruction of Britannia. With nothing but her own wishes in mind, she had shaped Arthur into the king he was.
Indeed, Arthur held responsibility for allowing evil to spread among his subjects. But the guilt dirtied Merlin's hands to the same extent as his.
"I won't let you down," Lancelot said, and Morgan awarded him with a smile.
"I know you never could. That's why I chose you."
She closed the space between them, pulled their interlaced fingers behind her, and placed a kiss on his cheek. The corners of her lips brushed his, and a sensation like fire and ice overflooded his nervous system, stole his thoughts away, and if he had maintained muscles to move, he would have sought to deepen the touch. She tasted of strawberries and cinnamon, of tarragon and almonds, sweet and bitter at the same time. The rest of Avalon revealed its true flavorlessness now that he had taken a sip of this delicious poison.
And although Lancelot failed to grasp the full extent of her words, he nevertheless cherished Morgan's closeness like a dying man valued the kiss of his final goodbye. Few people had accompanied him on his journey, and the first to do so, his parents and Jericho, faded from his mind with each day under the pale sun of Avalon. Until at least he thought Morgan was his only friend.
The only one who he trusted with his life and the only one who he would do anything for.
How bittersweet deception tasted at the time.
12/28/20 - A late Merry Christmas to you! Please take this short but crucial chapter as a delayed Christmas present. I won't manage the next update before the 31th, so I'll see you in the next year.
