#37 Decisions
Kirra shimmered in the afternoon light, small flames of silver and blue danced through her hair as she made her way to where Guinevere knelt at Lancelot's head. Guinevere could feel the power radiating from her in waves and Arthur moved back as Kirra knelt at the side of the fallen knight. She looked him over carefully, her eyes darkening in despair when she felt nothing of him, not even the smallest spark of who he had been.
No, this cannot be. I came to help them and one is gone. I cannot let this happen. Not this time.
She grasped the bolt in his chest and slowly pulled it out. When it did not bleed, Kirra knew he was gone; she had spent too much time with Tristan. She took an angry breath and ground her teeth; she could not -- would not -- accept Lancelot's death. It was for this reason that she had been saved and came back, traversing time and space, losing all she had known and loved twice over.
Kirra looked at Arthur. His eyes were bleak and full of guilt and grief. He felt that it was his fault his friend and lieutenant was dead, killed far from his homeland on a cold and uncaring island in a battle that was not his.
Kirra balled her bloody hands into tight fists, why had she been forced to choose one life over another's? Had she chosen right? Arthur loved all his men, but this one was special, this was his brother. Kirra knew the grief of losing a brother; she had felt it only moments ago. How could Arthur become who he was born to be without the help of all of these men? Without is best and closest friend there to offer advice? Kirra understood in that moment that only with all of them, the last and the strongest of his knights, could Arthur hope to bring Britain together and hold it.
Pulling out her small silver knife, Kirra cut through Lancelot's armor as she had done with Tristan's. It easily split the metal as if it were nothing but thin cloth. She pulled it away and placed her hand on the hole over his heart. There was very little blood. She sat back on her knees and closed her eyes. Everything around her stopped and for a time she heard nothing but the drum of her heart beating. She felt nothing except the tiny almost imperceptible throb of life inside her womb. A life, until now she hadn't realized she carried. It was like the flickering glow of a single candle, shining bright with hope through the darkest night. In that flicker, the goddess again spoke to Kirra.
She opened her eyes, trembling, suddenly filled with the knowledge of what to do. Could she do it and live with herself? She looked up at Gawain, standing beside her bloodied and wounded, would he forgive her? He met her eyes steadily, shocked by the emptiness he saw there, frightened by the shadow that passed over her and the sudden all encompassing grief that touched her. Kirra looked nothing like herself and he couldn't understand the sorrow and despair he saw in her. He bent to touch her. "No." The word was harsh, twisted, and she turned from him, her heart breaking. She knew what must be done. There was no other choice.
She dropped her little knife and placed her free hand on her belly between the two crescent moons, she closed her eyes again, sealing out the sight of Gawain and the other gathered knights.
She opened her eyes to the sound of happy laughter and found herself standing on a hill, in yet another strange place. Down at the bowl of the valley she saw two children playing together.
Two little boys laughed as they chased one another, one of the boys, dark as the night, the other bright as the day and Kirra knew instinctively who they were. Her sons. Two sides of one coin. Fighter and healer. They saw her and stopped in their joyful play to wave. Kirra started down to join them, but paused when she saw a man walking toward the children. He was tall and dark. Rich, dark, heart-blood still ran from a hole in his bare chest. It was Lancelot.
Kirra's heart stuttered as he watched her children. The dark one regarded the man silently while the fair haired boy approached him. The man knelt in front of the child. "You are hurt," She heard the boy tell man in a pure voice.
Lancelot frowned and looked at his chest in confusion, "I did not know." He touched the blood on his chest and glanced up to where Kirra stood frozen, hot tears gushing down her cheeks. The little boy placed his small hands on Lancelot's face causing him to turn and look back at him.
"I can help you."
Kirra struggled to move, to call out, but found she could not. Her decision had been made; now it was another's. It was then she realized that all souls were given the ability to choose what they wanted even before their birth into the world. It was the best of the gifts of the goddess, but the knowledge did little to fill the gaping hole in Kirra's heart.
Kirra sensed a comforting presence near her, but didn't look to see who it was; her gaze was fixed on the scene in front of her.
The child reached out his small hands and covered the wound in Lancelot's chest. When he next spoke Kirra heard ancient words spoken as loud as the thunder, soft as a whisper. They fell heavy and dark, like poison on her mother's heart. A great wind whipped around her, tossing her long hair and tearing at her clothing, and she felt herself torn in two, agony ripping at her very soul. Watching Tristan almost cut down by the Saxon had been nothing next to this feeling.
A brilliant flash of white light caused Kirra to throw a hand up to shield her eyes. When she brought it down Lancelot was standing in front of her, tears fell unceasing from his eyes, as he cradled her little son to his undamaged chest. The only indication of injury was a new scar directly over his heart. It was one that he would carry always to remind him of the sacrifice of a mother and her child.
Kirra fingered her son's bright curls and brushed a kiss across his temple. She took him from the weeping knight. Her little son was so light, so small, so perfect, so beautiful. She turned to Niara, who had been by her side the entire time. Niara smiled sadly, her eyes full of compassion and love. She said nothing, as words would have meant nothing, only touched Kirra's cheek before taking her son from her and turning away.
Kirra watched numbly as Niara and her son vanished. She stood staring blankly into the distance for a long time. When she finally turned to Lancelot; she pressed a cold hand to his chest and felt the faint beating of his heart. He said nothing, but stood silently, tears dripping from his face to fall on her. Kirra raised her eyes to his and choking, called his name aloud.
Behind them a single child returned to his play, alone.
Kirra opened her eyes to Lancelot's stunned ones. It was the same scene as before played over only this time Kirra had not the strength to fight the pain. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled and would have hit the ground had Gawain not somehow caught and lifted her. When he did so, he and the others were horrified to see the ground where Kirra had been sitting was coated in dark blood, the same blood that now dripped from her limp body.
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Kirra awoke sometime later in her own room. It was dark out. Gawain was sprawled in a chair by her side, his long legs stretched out. A single candle softened his features and burnished his hair. Kirra's heart constricted at that sight, tears pricking her eyelids, as she remembered their son's fine, fair curls. She silently slid off the bed, not wanting to awaken Gawain and face him just yet, and moved to the window. She pushed the hanging that covered it aside and stood motionless, looking out.
Clad in only her shift, she did not feel the bitter wind that tossed her hair and chilled her skin. The moon was full tonight. She could feel it pulling her on, lending her its strength, but it was blue and cold. Kirra closed her eyes to the soft light and felt tears slip down her frigid face. She had not thought she had any more tears to cry. Her chest was tight and dry. She felt as is she had no heart, only a deep hole where it had once been. Her soul had flown with her child and now she stood, crying because of the cold, blue moon.
Kirra felt, rather than saw Gawain waken and take a blanket from her bed. He crossed the room and draped it around her shoulders. She allowed herself to be turned, but couldn't meet his eyes. Gawain tenderly wiped her tears away with his thumbs. His rough, calloused hands caressed her cheeks before he gathered her to him. Kirra stood lifelessly as he stroked her hair. Gawain kissed the top of her head and rested his chin on it.
He was the first to speak, "Lancelot told us what happened."
Kirra pulled away, her grey eyes haunted, by the knowledge of what she had chosen. She should have been the one to tell him. "It was what I had to do," her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
Gawain flinched at the sound, "I know." There was anguish in his eyes and Kirra backed further away.
For all the anguish she saw, she saw no anger. Gawain did not even sound angry, but he should have been. He should have been violently, wrenchingly angry with her, but he wasn't and his love and acceptance hurt more than if he had been. Kirra wrapped her arms around herself as if holding herself together.
"I don't understand." Gawain was pleading with her now to talk to him, begging for her to explain what had happened, to help him understand all that had happened.
Kirra's heart, which she didn't know she still had, ached. "I don't know, it happened so quickly …" her words trailed into silence. "We both just made our choices and it was over, done in the blink of an eye. And our son was gone. I am … so … sorry …" She dropped her arms, palms out, begging for the forgiveness that she felt she didn't deserve.
Kirra stood in before Gawain, eyes downcast, tears dripping from her pale face. The light that she had always possessed was gone from her. She stood before him now, broken and wretched. A mother who had paid the ultimate price and now bore the grief and guilt of the world on her small shoulders. She would never be the same.
Gawain closed his eyes and drew a ragged breath. He hurt, but knew it could never be as much as she. For mothers feel and never forget. He stepped towards her and once again enfolded her in his arms. What could he say to ease her mind? He knew there was nothing; he could only hold her and hope that she realized that there was nothing to forgive.
He picked Kirra up and carried her to the bed; intent on tucking her in and making her sleep, but Kirra clung to him, unwilling to break the contact that she so desperately needed. In the end Gawain gave up and lay down beside her, holding her to him until she fell asleep in his arms.
I thought of the scene with Lancelot about two and half years ago as I was feeding my baby one early golden morning. It made me cry. Looking at my little girl, I could imagine how Kirra felt. TES