Page 93 of Arise the Queen
Some, like hers… neither good nor bad.
We do what we must for the good of all.
Gwendolyn blinked, her confusion gone, and with the weight of a thousand lost tomorrows heavy upon her shoulders, she remembered her cousin and reached for the dagger at her boot—the one that once belonged to Borlewen, whose laughter had been silenced too soon. But she would not stab him in the back, as Málik once taught her to do. Nay, she would take his life whilst looking him straight in the eyes. “Remember Borlewen?” she asked, watching his expression, and she rejoiced in the sound of her beautiful cousin’s name on her lips and the terror it evoked in her murderer. Gwendolyn grinned, advancing again. Locrinus didn’t move, his eyes wide, flicking from the flaming sword to the tiny, ornate dagger in her hand, and when she was certain he remembered it, she said, “May the gods claim you.”And with a swift motion, guided by the hands of her dead loved ones, she plunged Borlewen’s dagger deep into Locrinus’ ignoble breast. His eyes grew wide with shock, his lips parting to form a silent plea as he gasped in protest. Blood gurgled from his lips as he reached for the dagger embedded in his chest, clutching at it, his fingers slick with his own blood, slipping over the hilt, groping the dragon hilt with a panic born of comprehension. And then his hand dropped to the ground, and he sank back, the strength leaving him for good.
“The Usurper is slain!” came a shout, and the word spread like Hellas fire across the battle-scarred plains. Swords raised skyward as the enemy turned and fled.
Gwendolyn watched dispassionately as the soul drained from his eyes, her own reflecting not so much triumph but satisfaction. His final breath wheezed from him, an inaudible whisper that died in the wind, and his death rattle was like the breaking of a curse, the last note in the dirge of his reign.
Kneeling down next to him, her fingers grazed the hilt of Borlewen’s dagger, and whispered, “I am the vengeance of every woman, man, and child you ever disdained.” And then she grasped the dagger, pulling it free from his lifeless body, before cleaning it upon his tunic and placing it back into its sheath at her boot.
She rose then, and the air, once thick with the guttural cries of combat, shuddered with a new sound—a collective breath, held too long.
Belatedly, she spied the myrtle crown that had fallen from his head, and she bent to scoop it up, staring at it a long moment, before settling it over the blade she held. It was rightfully hers, though she needn’t wear it here. This victory was not Cornwall’s but Pretania’s.
A cheer resounded.
Finding Aisling, her white coat splattered with blood, Gwendolyn climbed atop her back. With her armor dented and smeared, she looked upon her army. The once verdant meadow lay marred by the scars of war, the ground weeping with the blood of friend and foe. Her gaze wandered the victorious, grown silent save for the cries of the wounded and the clinking of armor as soldiers tended to the fallen. “Tonight!” she shouted, again lifting the burning sword. “We weep for those who lay silent on this field! Tomorrow we bury our dead, but we honor their memory, not in whispers of sorrow, but in declarations of glory. Together, we have woven a tapestry of courage that shall hang upon the halls of eternity!” Another cheer resounded, and she continued. “Each thread represents a life lost, a sacrifice made for the freedom of our people, but our children’s children will point to this day and know victory belongs to us!”
Heads nodded, eyes glistening.
Fists clenching with heartfelt emotion.
Once more, Gwendolyn raised the sword, and cheers erupted anew as her gaze swept over a sea of faces, each a story of valor. One by one, her gaze settled upon the living—Baugh, Kelan and Málik…
At the sight of Málik, her heart leapt into her throat, tears stinging her eyes.
Esme and Caradoc appeared, stumbling to the fore, with Taryn behind them, wounded and leaning on Bryn.
With a lump in her throat, Gwendolyn spied the young lad she’d given advice to, as well as the blacksmith’s son, who waved his sword victoriously. She gave him a nod, and, with a shuddering breath, re-sheathed her flaming sword.
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Abandoned swords littered the ground, and the pyre built to honor the fallen demanded days of labor. Gwendolyn worked beside men whose names she didn't know, bandaging wounds and arranging bodies for the pyre, feeling a camaraderie with all. Indeed, she had always imagined that, after a successful battle, the first thing a warrior might wish to do was to go home. This turned out not to be the case. Together, these men and women had fought and bled together, and no one abandoned the dead or wounded. Exhausted and bloodied, night after night, they gathered about the bonfires that had been hastily lit amidst the carnage, drank from shared flasks, united in the aftermath of this chaos that had unfolded. Their homes awaited, but for now, they found comfort and camaraderie in the sharing of stories under a starlit night. There was laughter amidst tears—for the fallen, and for futures uncertain, but above all, for the end of the tyranny that had withered these lands with Rot. And, it seemed such an irony that Gwendolyn would spend so long presenting her best face, afraid to show herself as anything but strong, and now she was wholly unashamed to weep for those whose lives were lost here—for all were harmed by Loc’s short reign.
And most of all, she was not the least bit chagrined that some of her tears were shed for relief that the people she held most dear had come through this battle intact.
As the last embers of the funeral pyre faded into obscurity and wounds healed, they slowly dispersed to make their way home. Amidst those who lingered after were Caradoc and his men to reclaim their home, along with Gwendolyn's grandfather and his troops, who would remain with Caradoc for some time to see him settled and defended. Gwendolyn thanked him profusely.
Málik remained, though without his Fae warriors, who’d all vanished before the first dawn without goodbyes—as though they had never even been there to lend their swords. It was hardly a surprise. For all the time they’d traveled together, Málik’s warriors had kept themselves apart, following not Gwendolyn, but their sovereign king. But that was perhaps as it should be, for they were never hers to command.
On the very last night, those who lingered stood before a dying fire, their silhouettes etched against the flames. Seated beside Málik as he gazed at the fire, Gwendolyn felt a wave of melancholy wash over her, sensing that their time had not merely grown short, but as was this quest, it was done.
“Thank you,” Gwendolyn said, grateful for all he had done. In the end, once their dead were counted, he had lost a good fifty of his own.
He turned his hand, opening his palm, and a small blue orb burst forth, spitting dull, blue flames, twisting and turning as though it struggled. Gazing up from the Faerie Fire, much diminished from the first flame she ever saw, he met her gaze, and hiswinterbourneeyes now held a depth of sorrow. He tossed it aside, and then rose to face her, holding Gwendolyn’s gaze, drawing her onto her feet, and into his embrace, and she knew before he spoke the first word that he meant to go.
But worse, by the sputtering light of that Faerie flame, she already knew what he meant to say. “When I go,” he said, “the last portal will close.”
Gwendolyn nodded, understanding. Since the day she first met him, she had witnessed fewer and fewer manifestations of his magic…
It took him another long moment to find his voice again, and he swallowed, drawing her close. “I’ve asked twice… pride be damned, I will ask once more.”
Gwendolyn’s heart wrenched painfully. She swallowed the words she longed to say, and, unwilling to hear his plea once more, despite how much she loved him, she shushed him with a gentle touch to his beautiful lips—her answer unchanged…
Her eyes burned as she stared at him, and her hands trembled with the desire to clasp him to her and never let him go.
But she could not go.
