Page 25 of To Love a Dark Lord

What waited for them on the other side, he had not known at the time. But in his heart, he was certain of the fact that this was, one way or another, a journey from which he would not return. The duty remained, however. The king lay dying, and only the magic of the isle of Avalon could save him.

What choice did he have?

He had sworn an oath.

They carefully lifted Arthur’s stretcher into the skiff. It barely moved with their weight as they clambered in, as gracefully as they could in their armor. Merlin was the last to board, his face set in grim determination.

Mordred always wondered if he knew what was to follow. If he had a vision of the future and could see with certainty that Arthur was already doomed. If he could have but told Mordred to stay behind—to change his path forward.

If such things were even possible.

Wondering whether or not his fate could have been rewritten was pointless. Such backward gazing did no good to change the path ahead. He climbed aboard that skiff. It set away from the world as he knew it. And when the mist broke, the beauty before him had taken his breath away.

Such color. Such wonder. Creatures the likes of which he had never seen nor even dreamed of. Bizarre and wonderful, strange and fantastical. Only Galahad seemed unimpressed—but as he was Seelie, Mordred knew the fae knight was far more accustomed to such things than the others.

Their march had not yet ended.

Merlin led the way through the woods. None of them dared question the wizard as to where they were headed. Arthur’s fever was slowly worsening. They did not whisper of the possibility of the king’s demise. Such things were unheard of. Unthinkable. Impossible.

He was the King of the Britons. The rightful ruler of them all. The world would be lost without him. It was as the sun turned the sky ambers and reds when it set toward the horizon that they finally stopped to make camp.

Mordred was the one on watch when the elementals arrived, though he had not known them by such a name at the time.

She drifted into camp like a wisp upon the wind, her butterfly wings shimmering in the firelight as she approached from the darkness, a bundle of gifts in her hands. Herbs. Food. Medicines.

When she approached Arthur, Mordred gripped the hilt of his sword. Galahad was the one who stopped him from drawing it, the fae placing his hand on Mordred’s arm to give him pause. Mordred had not missed the expression of awe on the other knight’s face, though at the time he had not been able to name it for what it was.

Wordlessly, the woman he would come to know as the Gossamer Lady placed the gifts on the ground next to King Arthur, bowing her head in reverence to the dying man.

Others came then. Beings made of fire. Of ice. Of water. Of the trees. Of the very air itself. Men and women and all else that seemed to be born of the very marrow of the world around them.

One by one, in a procession, bringing gifts of their own. It was not until the last visitor had placed their gifts that the Gossamer Lady spoke, her hands clutched over her heart.

“Long have we waited for the King of Avalon to come.” Her soft words carried through the air like the caress of a spring breeze. “Long will he reign, and long will we serve.” She bowed her head. “Noble King Arthur, we welcome you.”

Each of the elementals bowed before retreating into the darkness. It was only as the last one disappeared into the shadows of the woods that Mordred allowed himself to exhale the breath he had been holding perhaps the entire time they had been present.

The sense of hope was palpable. If the denizens of Avalon knew of their coming, Arthur must be destined to live. There was laughter amongst the knights for the first time since the Battle of Camlann as they shared in the bounty of the gifts.

Only Mordred stayed at his post by the king’s side, keeping guard while he watched the others banter and tease each other.

“You were always the outsider. Always different.”

This conversation had not happened. “Yes,” Mordred said. “You needn’t remind me.”

“You knew you were different. And they could sense it.” Arthur’s voice was thin and strained. “Sense in you the river of darkness that runs so deep in your soul.”

“This conversation is merely a figment of my shattering mind. This is not real. Your opinions do not matter.” Mordred rolled his eyes. “Please stop disgracing the memory of the man who would never have wished me to become a rampaging beast.”

“When did I tell you to become the feral wolf?” The king sighed. “You are not listening to me.”

“You are not here!” Mordred fought the urge to punch the vision of his uncle to death. His shout of rage did nothing to alert the other knights who still chattered and told each other stories the way they had on that fateful night.

The night that his life had taken such a terrible turn.

The night that Arthur had died.

“Perhaps. Perhaps you are talking to yourself. Or, perhaps you are not. Either way, there is wisdom in listening to one’s heart, do you not agree?” Arthur turned his head to watch the other knights. “I gave you Caliburn and my crown in hopes you would do what they could not.”

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