Brooks

Gwen has been gone for hours. I don’t know how to find her, but she said she’d return. I have to trust.

Sitting in the library, I flip through the pages of a book of Arthurian legends. Are they legends? Was Kit lying when he said I am Arthur? I have no memory of a life before this one, nothing, except for a deep connection to Gwen. Though I have to admit, part of me feels a sense of loss now that Lancelot is gone. It feels…wrong to be just the two of us.

“A bit of light reading?” Gwen asks, catching my attention from the doorway.

“You’re back.”

She nods. “Safe and sound. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to explain.”

“Where did you go?”

“Back to my coven. All three of us have our magic again.” Her happiness radiates and fills the room. It’s obvious now that I see her with her power, she’s herself again. Gwen wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace before pressing a light kiss on my cheek. “We can find Lance now. I can easily do a locator spell and we can bring him back. I know I can save him.”

Unease curls in my gut. Can we? He was nearly changed by the time we figured out what was going on. I can’t bring myself to tell her he was too far gone. Instead, I nod. “Let’s give it a go.”

“I’ll need something of his to track him with.” There’s such excitement shining in her eyes, it almost hurts. What happens when…if she finds him? She can’t be with us both. Can she? “Back in a tick,” she says, darting out of the kitchen. I hear the thump of her rapid footfalls on the stairs, and a few moments later, she’s back clutching a comb.

“Are you sure that’s his?” From his constantly tousled appearance, I doubt Lancelot combed his hair with more than his fingers.

“Yes,” she murmurs, running her fingers over the teeth of the black comb and pulling out a strand of dark hair. “Perfect.”

She clears the counter and stares down at the marble, a frown on her face.

“What is it?” I ask.

“This isn’t going to be pleasant. We can’t call him to us. We’ll have to go to him.”

“Okay, and what does that mean?”

She takes my hand and murmurs a few words. The world spins and goes misty before righting itself, but now, we’re in the woods. Soft birdsong and the rush of air as it caresses the leaves fills our surroundings. The scent of fresh earth and moss brings back a flood of familiar nostalgia without a solid memory for me to cling to.

“I know this place,” I whisper.

“So do I.” Her voice is faint and unbelieving.

“Why do I know this? Where are we?”

“I could be wrong, but I’m fairly certain we’ve been brought to the place where Camelot once stood.”

“How do you know that?”

Keeping her gaze away from mine, she murmurs, “You never forget where you’ve died.”

I swallow hard and take a long breath as those words sink in. “Which way do we go?”

She threads her fingers with mine and points to the north. “That way. Can’t you feel it?”

I close my eyes and let my body guide me. She’s right. There’s a pull, a kind of magnetism. “Yes. I feel it.”

We walk together through a barely visible path, the brush getting more dense as we go. Branches catch on our clothes, in her hair, but we press on. The call is too strong to ignore. My heart is racing in anticipation of what we’ll find. There’s too much at stake for us to leave Lancelot, but I know I’ll lose her when we bring him back to us.

Gwen breaks through to a clearing before me and I nearly run into her as I follow behind. She’s standing still as a statue, staring down at a pile of ashes and an empty chain at her feet. Bending down, she collects the chain and inspects it. “This…the moonstone was on it.” She gestures to the pile of ash. “Whoever this was had my power and was using it against us all.”

“So, it was Lancelot who freed your magic,” I state.

“It had to have been him. Oh, God,” she whispers, bringing her fingers to her lips. “Is that…”

“No, darling, no. It can’t be him. I still feel the pull. If he were dead, would this spell have worked?”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “You’re right. Nothing would have happened. I wouldn’t be able to sense him.”

“Then we continue on our path.” I caress her shoulder and slide my hand down her arm until our fingers are once again linked. “Come on. We do this together.”

Signs of a struggle are all over the clearing. An ancient boulder is cracked down the middle, dark blood staining the rock. But then I see it, at the crest of a hill, the gnarled old tree with a twisted trunk and exposed roots of dark wood.

“The hawthorn,” Gwen breathes. In that moment I realize her connection to this tree and jealousy burns through me. I read the stories of the knight and the queen. She rushes to it running around the trunk calling Lancelot’s name. Her voice cuts off abruptly and she cries out in surprise before I can get to her.

“Gwen!” I run up the hill, desperate to save her from whatever trap had been set, but find her on her knees in front of a tangle of roots. There, glistening between them is the hilt of a sword.

“He’s gone. He’s gone.” She repeats those words over and over, staring at the sword. Then she stands and grips the hilt, bracing herself, she pulls with all her might. Screaming her frustration into the quiet forest as the blade doesn’t move an inch.

“How do you know he’s gone?”

“I can’t feel him anymore. He’s not on this plane.”

She’s right. As soon as I caught sight of the sword, I lost my connection to him. My gaze locks on the ruby encrusted hilt still in her hands. I stride toward her and grip her arms gently, pulling her away from Excalibur.

With trembling hands, I touch the sword. The once calm breeze swirls around me and light bursts from the blade as I pull it free of the tangle of roots with little effort.

A life I didn’t know I’d lived flashes through my mind. Marrying Guinevere, making her my queen, loving her more than life itself, but needing someone else just as badly. Countless battles with my knights by my side—none more loyal than Lancelot. Morgan forcing my hand after she exposed Gwen and Lance’s affair. Losing both Gwen and Lancelot. But what aches most is the memory of living a lie by denying myself the love I needed. Love from both of them.

I fall to my knees and a sob breaks free from deep in my soul.

Gwen is there, her calming presence taking away some of the guilt and regret. I turn my face to hers and kiss her long and deep. It’s the kiss of a husband returned to his bride after a long absence, of a man begging for forgiveness, of a desperate lover asking for acceptance.

“Guinevere,” I murmur.

“Arthur.” Her sigh of my name fills my chest with hope for the future we should have had.

“We have to find Lance. We have to bring him back to us.”

To be continued…