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“Yes,” I acknowledged. “He has.”
“He frightened me, too. When I looked into his eyes... Nothing was holding him back. He was still a man. Flesh and blood. He has a soul. But nothing held him back.”
I understood what she was saying. Something had snapped in Arthur. The part of him that cared about anyone outside of himself. It was fading. If it wasn’t already gone completely.
“I see it in Lancelet, too,” Guinevere said, so softly I wasn’t sure I had heard her properly at first. “That void. Filling her with hate. It frightens me.”
“Lancelet was very badly hurt. She must feel so terribly betrayed. She was alone. She must have been terrified. And no one came.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’ve thought about how she must have felt, what it must have been like, countless times since then.”
“So have I,” Guinevere said.
“She blames me, I suppose.” I threw the words out into the cold air, hearing the desperate tone in my voice. “She won’t hear me if I try to explain.”
“Still, you must try. She’s waiting.”
I was stunned. “Is she?”
“Of course. She may not know she is, but she waits. She wants a reason. She doesn’t want to feel this... this hate. So much hate. It eats her up inside. Worse than her scars is the hate. She feels so much of it already. For my sake. She hates your brother. She hates, simply hates. She cannot hate you, too, Morgan. Not her dearest friend.”
“I hope you’re right.” I wavered for a moment, then asked, “How do you know all of this? Did she tell you?”
“Not in words. She doesn’t need to. I can feel it.”
She reached a hand up to the owl on her shoulder, gently stroking the bird's soft plumage along its neck, just beneath its sharp, curved beak. The owl tilted its head slightly as if savoring the touch, its eyes half-closed in contentment.
“I see.” I hesitated. “She seems to care for you very much.”
Guinevere looked away again. When she spoke, it was as if from a vast distance. “Yes. I don’t know why.”
“She is a good ally to have. A good friend.”
“She wishes to protect me. To save me. I’ve tried to explain that it's too late for that.”
“I doubt that went over well,” I said wryly.
“It did not,” Guinevere agreed. “She is... very persistent.”
“Well, perhaps you should let her be,” I suggested as gently as I could. “If it doesn’t bother you. If you’re the only thing she cares about. If believing she might be able to protect you helps her... Perhaps it's what she needs right now. And perhaps...” I knew I was probably overstepping. “Perhaps it’s what you need, too.”
“Perhaps. Yes.” Guinevere nodded slowly. “I’ve wondered the same thing.”
“Oh. Have you?” I felt oddly relieved. “Good.”
“To be so bonded to another soul is a sacred weight, is it not? Do you feel it too?”
I was speechless. Did she mean Draven?
But when I looked at her, Guinevere’s eyes were on the owl. She looked into its golden ones intently, as if it might also respond to her question.
“I am not sure I have,” I lied. “Is that how you feel? Bonded to Lancelet?”
Guinevere was already turning, drifting away across the garden. “No,” she said over her shoulder, her voice soft. “But I believe she feels that way about me. I... don’t feel much of anything. Not anymore.”
I watched her walk slowly across the courtyard and out into a covered corridor.
When she was gone, I crossed my arms across my chest and shivered.
A strange girl. She was strong, yes, but her strength had been hard-won and seemed as brittle as ice. Little wonder.
