Page 20 of To Love a Dark Lord

“Me too.” Eod went back to chewing on his antler. “But is okay. Find Dad soon.”

She smiled. Find Dad soon. That was the plan.

“You can talk to the dog?” Mirkon blinked. “You magic users. Weird folk.”

“You’re right. It is weird.” She chuckled and went back to stitching. “But I don’t mind it. I’m slowly getting used to it.” She paused. “I hope I live long enough to really get used to it.”

“You will,” Bert chimed in cheerfully. “I’m sure of it.”

At least Bert would always believe in her, even if she didn’t always believe in herself. That was nice to have. They sat and finished their dinner—those of them who ate—before tucking themselves in for the night. Bert stayed up to keep watch since he didn’t need to sleep. She was tempted to make a crack about him being a scarecrow and that being his job, but she figured it was too easy.

Yawning, she snuggled up next to Eod, draped an arm over him, and let sleep take her.

She wasn’t surprised when she found herself in a dream that wasn’t her own. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she was anywhere at all, as a thick, impenetrable white fog stretched everywhere she looked. If it weren’t for the grass beneath her feet, she might have thought she was in another weird void. She shivered as the chill of the air and the mist of the fog settled over her.

Furrowing her brow, she turned around slowly in a circle, searching for any sign of where she was supposed to go. It wasn’t until she heard soldiers with their clanking armor that she had any hints at all. She headed off in that direction, careful not to trip over a rock or fall into a hole. Soon, dark shapes were visible in the mist—a line of knights, two of them carrying a stretcher between them.

As she drew closer, she recognized them. Bors, Gawain, Percival, Lancelot, and the rest. The man on the stretcher was Arthur, his crown still resting on his head, his hands folded over Caliburn atop him as though he were already dead. But the creased expression of pain on his features told her otherwise. None of the knights seemed to register that she was there, simply trudging along in the memory. They were all clearly still human—well, except Galahad, who never was. This must be England before it was really England, before they took King Arthur to Avalon.

She turned to face the end of the line as a veritable nightmare stepped from the fog. She jolted, startled at first, as Mordred approached. He was as she knew him, with his jagged, rusted armor, and molten eyes. She’d hoped by this point she wouldn’t feel awe at the sight of him. But she did. Awe, and just a little fear.

And fuck, did he look angry.

When he glanced at her, his expression softened slightly. “Gwendolyn.” He did not stop walking, though, following the line of knights through the fog.

She fell in step beside him, reaching her hand out to weave her fingers into his, not caring how strange the metal gauntlet felt. “Watching reruns?” She shook her head, catching herself before he had the chance to remind her she was an idiot and he was from the past. “Never mind, sorry.”

“I believe I gather your meaning. Yes. I am. It seems my psyche has taken shelter in these memories to protect me from the storm. Though, I wish it would choose happier moments.” His expression darkened again.

“Do you have happier moments?” She nudged him, smiling, trying to tease him into sparring with her.

“No.”

So much for that plan. She sighed and looked ahead at the marching knights. “This is when you took him to Avalon.”

“I used to wonder if it would have not been better if I had died at Camlann instead.” His hand in hers tightened just slightly. “If all of Avalon would not have been better for it. It would have chosen him.”

“You don’t know that. He could have died, anyway, and the island could have chosen nobody—then they’d all be dead.” She gestured at the line ahead with her other hand. “And you too.”

“Some might argue that would still have been a favorable outcome.”

“Not me.”

Gwen might have kicked him in the gut for the flash of pain that crossed his features. Those rust-colored eyes met hers, and there was grief in them. “Forgive me, my love. I have had far too much time left alone with my thoughts.”

“I’m working on it. I need to stop at a city to meet Bert’s people, and then I’m going to find Galahad and make him tell me where you are.” She frowned. “But I need you to hold on.”

“Who is Bert?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

Right. They’d never met. “A friend. He’s in charge of a resistance movement of villagers who?—”

Mordred laughed. “Oh, by the Ancients—you’ve fallen in with them?” It made sense Mordred would know about their so-called underground resistance. “Adorable fools. I let them carry on with their…secrets and their plans. They are harmless.”

“They have an army.”

“An army of chaff—of foam thrown about by the sea. If you fight the elementals with them, you are doomed.” He shook his head.

“Which is precisely why I’ve convinced them we need you.” She paused. “It’s the only reason I think they’re going to help me free you.”

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