He scoffed at that. After a stretch of quiet, he abruptly said, “Do you think Arthur will hate me if he finds out?”
Vera inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring at the idea that knowing this about Lancelot could impact how Arthur felt about him.
“I love you,” Vera said firmly. “I don’t love who you’re supposed to be, or some idea of you. I love you. And if Arthur doesn’t or can’t, then I’m sorry, but he’s the one who’s broken and doesn’t deserve your friendship. Not the other way around.”
Lancelot’s chin quivered ever so slightly as a tear fell from the corner of his eye that he hurriedly wiped away. Vera felt a surge of loyalty.
“I wouldn’t want to have a thing to do with him, either,” she added.
She was surprised when that comment cracked the shell of Lancelot’s pain. He chuckled. “Those are harsh words from the woman who loves him.”
She crossed her arms stubbornly across her raised knees. “Well, I very much mean it.”
Lancelot reached to affectionately squeeze her ankle. Then her words sank in, and he jolted, his mouth falling slightly open in a lopsided grin as his whole posture perked up. “You didn’t deny it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So, you do love him?” Even in this vulnerable moment, Lancelot’s eyes twinkled. Vera thought he might have been relieved that the focus had moved away from him.
She sighed, and he wiggled his shoulders with a gleeful giggle.
“You don’t have to be so fucking smug about it,” Vera said, but she laughed, too.
The sun had broken the horizon. Lancelot reached out his hand to call in his orb, hanging readily over their heads. It zipped into his hand.
Vera nodded toward the pocket where he tucked it. “Why the bloody hell don’t you want Merlin to know what your light does? Wasn’t he the one who made it for you?”
“Ah, erm. No. Sorry.” Lancelot grimaced. “I lied before. I didn’t ever anticipate telling you my mother was a mage when we met in Glastonbury. She made my light. And she was rather cleverer than Merlin, not unlike our Sir-Mage Gawain.” Lancelot looked off into the distance toward their campsite with love in his eyes. It wasn’t just a casual fling between them.
His brow furrowed, and he stiffened.
“What is it?” Vera asked.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Something. Something’s wrong.”
She looked, too. Back toward camp, though it was too far to see the tents. Vera wasn’t sure what they were looking for.
“It’s just a feeling, and I’m probably being paranoid.” Lancelot tried to shake it off. “I—”
A flash brighter than the newly born sun on the horizon mushroomed from their camp. If there was any doubt that it was an explosion, the sound of the blast that followed, carried slower on the wind than the light, confirmed it.
Vera and Lancelot sprang to their feet. They were running before either acknowledged out loud what they’d seen. Vera felt ill. The creeping nausea of instinct whispered quietly that this would end her world. She saw Arthur’s peaceful, barely awake face in her mind. She could almost feel the surprising softness of his cheek, the sensation of her fingers twining in his hair. That interaction this morning could have been their last.
Arthur might already be gone. The thought rose, unbidden, and Vera stamped it out. They were in the Mages’ Cloak. Merlin was there. Gawain was there. Maybe … maybe it was an accident, and everything was fine. It could have been nothing.
Vera was lying to herself.
She and Lancelot ran harder than they’d ever run. He was a few steps ahead of her, constantly glancing over his shoulder. She was holding him back. “I can’t keep up with you,” Vera said between ragged breaths.
“Do you want me to slow—”
“No!” she cried. “Go! Go as fast as you can.”
“I can’t leave you,” he said.
“I’m fine. Just get there!”
Lancelot slowed to look at her. He hesitated for two breaths, calculating the risk. With one last glance at Vera, he took off at nearly double their pace. Good. He’d get there. He had to get there. And if he was there, it would all be okay.
