Till Death Do Us Part: A Paranormal Why Choose Romance (Vows Duet Book 1)

Chapter 54

Chapter 54

1,573 Years Ago

As much as I hate admitting it, Morgause was not wrong to send Guinevere away. Without any source of gossip to keep the masses busy beyond the first day or so, it has been peaceful for the past month.

At least amongst the court.

Within my thoughts, there is nothing but chaos and darkness.

Doubt.

Without Guinevere and Lancelot here, everything seems as if it were a dream and nothing else. I cling desperately to the idea of the love the three of us shared, but it is as if a fog has taken over my brain and disallowed me to remember it all.

Through it all, Morgause has not left my side, and I am grateful for it.

I sit in my study, looking over the maps with her help, listening to the suggestions she makes. I have succumbed to headaches on an increasingly frequent basis, even leaving Morgause to give orders in my place when it pains me so badly that I cannot hardly think.

As if she knows just how badly it aches now, Morgause smiles at me as she passes a chalice of spiced wine. “Here, Arthur. Drink,” she encourages.

I greedily drink it down, knowing that something about the wine helps soothe the ache.

Or maybe makes me forget about it?

Either way, I drink deeply, draining the vessel, save for the mouthful that I splashed over the side in my haste to take the cup. I collapse against the back of the chair as Morgause takes it away, a sigh of relief gusting through my lips.

I do not know how much later it is when I come to, not having realized I had fallen asleep at all. As I fight to find awareness and take in what is happening around me, I realize that there are two raised voices arguing. I cannot make out what they are saying, but as I force my eyes open, I see my sister and my nephew in a heated exchange.

“What is it?” I slur, rubbing at my eyes.

“Nothing, love,” Morgause says softly, coming to me. Her words cause Mordred to let out a snarl of frustration, but all I feel is confusion. “Do as I say,” she orders, louder, and I know she is talking to Mordred when he storms away, slamming the heavy door to my study closed behind him.

“What is wrong?” I manage to say through a haze of exhaustion.

Perching on the arm of my chair, Morgause tenderly strokes her fingers through my hair. “Everything is fine, Arthur. Sleep some more.”

Sleep sounds heavenly. Her touch lulls me back to such a relaxed condition that I feel my jaw go slack.

It may be minutes or days later, but I stir again, still upright in my chair. A hand rubs at my cock through my breeches, attempting to stir it to hardness. The thought of Guinevere or Lancelot waking me up in such a way has me grinning in my dozing state.

A whisper somewhere inside breaks free of the fog.

Guinevere and Lancelot are not here.

My eyes shoot open at the thought, threatening to close immediately under heavy lids. I manage to keep them open, tracking the movement over me.

Horror takes over my being as I realize Morgause is the one stroking me. With movements that feel as if my limbs weigh as much as a horse, I reach out, ensnaring her wrist.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice garbled.

“Hush, now,” she whispers, twisting her arm to find freedom from my grip. “I can take care of you.”

“Morgause, stop,” I order, albeit feebly. “This is not right.”

She laughs under her breath. “That is what you said before, too,” she murmurs. Her lips graze over my cheek, then hover over my mouth, making me jerk my head back against the chair. “And yet you filled my womb with seed and gave us a son.”

“I—what?” I grunt, tossing away her arm.

“It is okay, my love.” Morgause kneels before me, peering up with excitement. “With Guinevere gone, we can be together. I will be your sister by day, and lover by night. No one will be the wiser.”

Disgust curls my lip, and I try to shove to my feet, to no avail. “Get out,” I command, my head swimming.

“I do not think I will,” she answers firmly. “I have waited a very long time to be yours once more. Once I heard the rumor of Lancelot’s affection for Guinevere, I knew there would be more than mere glances occurring. Lancelot would hardly look in any lady’s direction before, so I knew it would be easy to trap them if he was being so brazen as to openly look upon her.”

“What I did not expect to find was that Guinevere was not the only one who had caught Lancelot’s eye,” she continues, bemused. “But now, things are as they should be—how they always should have been. You and I were destined, Arthur. Morgana once told me so.”

Morgana. Lady of the Lake. My eldest half-sister; Morgause’s eldest half-sister too.

Whatever Morgana told her, I cannot fathom she meant this.

“Morgause,” I say, trying again. “You are my sister. It is not right—”

“And it was right for you and Lancelot?” she snaps.

The answer flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Yes.”

The rage on her face startles me. “Yet I am a mistake. Unwanted.”

A memory surfaces of when I was very young, probably not a full six summers old. I had been playing along a creek when I found Morgause sitting on a large, flat rock. Older than me by several summers, she usually ignored me fully. But that day, she had been melancholy, saddened because of Morgana’s departure to attend to Avalon.

“I wanted to go,” she had said. “Yet they only want Morgana. Not me.”

“I am glad you did not go, Morgause. I want you to stay. I will always want you to stay.”

Her slow smile to my childlike oath had been the truce between us. We had been inseparable after that—until I was sent to study with Merlin less than ten summers later.

Morgause’s words circle around my head. “What did you mean?” I demand, my head feeling a little clearer. I sit forward, shoving her hands off my thighs. “About a son.”

There’s a flash of fear in her eyes. “Let me get you some more wine,” she offers, standing, and I know for certain there is something she has been putting in my wine.

“No!” I shout. “I want no more wine! Tell me what you meant!”

But it is too late. The pieces are coming together for me as she freezes, her eyes fixed not on the wine, but on the satchel she carries everywhere with her. The same satchel she carried sixteen years ago, just after I became king, and I drank myself into a stupor while she visited.

Or I thought I drank myself into a stupor.

The familiar way she was rubbing at my body runs through my mind, like she had done it so many times. And fuck. Maybe she has. I cannot say for sure. All I do know for sure is that I am horrified by what this all means.

“Mordred,” I choke out. “Mordred is my son.”

Morgause’s eyes flash as they find mine. “I gave you the son that your whore of wife could not,” she whispers. “You have an heir, Arthur.”

I am out of my chair before she finishes her statement, how she referred to Guinevere setting fire to the haze that had still been lingering. “You are my sister!” I bellow, repeating the words once more as if they will make any of this untrue.

“Yes,” a cold voice says, and we both swing around to look at Mordred. His smile is tainted with darkness. “But regardless, I am your son. I will be king. It is my right.”

He shouts the last word, some madness slipping through with the outcry.

“We can be happy together,” Morgause pleads, glancing between the two of us.

Mordred chuckles while I give her an incredulous look. “Mother, you always were daft,” he murmurs, moving towards her. She accepts his embrace even after his harsh words, and he presses a kiss to her forehead like she is his child and not the other way around.

My body lurches with the idea of defending her when her body jerks, a gasp tearing out of her throat. I stare at the handle of the dagger that he has embedded in Morgause, flinching when he shoves it even deeper and twists into her belly.

Head swimming, I ease toward the wall while Mordred is occupied with holding Morgause on the floor as she dies, her breaths labored. Quietly as I can, I take Excalibur from its place of honor on the wall, letting the sheath slide off and land on the floor.

Mordred rises after gently laying Morgause flat. His eyes find mine and a smirk crosses his face as he pulls his sword free.

“The nightshade is still in your veins,” he announces.

He is not wrong, but my head feels clearer than it has in days, the adrenaline helping push away the fog. “Mordred,” I say steadily. “Stop this.”

His laugh is tinged with that same madness I heard earlier. “I think not, father. And once I have dispatched you and claimed my crown, I will bring Guinevere back to court to be my wife. I will fuck your whore every day, knowing that I took her from you. I have always wanted her for myself, and now I will have her. Everything you have will be mine!”

With his last declaration, he leaps forward and our swords clash. My balance has not been restored to the fullest, but I force myself to react anyway, fueled by outrage at his plans for my wife should he win this fight. I parry his blows, my footwork wobbly, using my free hand to push him back, creating space between us.

My mind churns with thoughts, remembering Mordred’s apathetic sparring. I do not need to be at my full capabilities—I only need to be better than him. Not for my life, but for Guinevere’s.

The thought spurs me on as I charge forward, a furious roar ripping free of my chest. Our swords meet, scraping together with a sharp whine, and Mordred bares his teeth at me as we tarry laterally. Using my knowledge of his fighting, I slam my entire forearm into his chest when I get the opportunity, once more knocking him off balance. My attempt to slice through him is thwarted by a quick spin to put himself outside my reach.

Mordred recovers, taking up his stance with heavy breaths at the door, and I match his posture, raising Excalibur single-handed. The door to my study swings open and I do not have time to call out a warning before Mordred swings around, both hands on his sword as it slices through Sir Gareth’s neck before he can react. Gareth’s head rolls from his body, his expression eternally frozen in surprise.

I lurch forward, trying to end this with a dishonorable stab into Mordred’s back. He senses it before I can plunge the blade into his flesh, sweeping my attack away. Gareth’s body is trampled under our feet as we spill out into the hall. The metal echoes out here, carrying through the castle. Distant screams from the court ladies and bellows from my other knights surround us as we battle for the upper hand.

I release a pain-laced scream as my left leg bursts into agony. My focus wavers as I glance down, the spear clean through my thigh, already allowing blood to fill my boots. Mordred throws off Excalibur and goes in to finish me with an attack aimed at my heart. Digging up my resolve, Guinevere in my mind’s eye, I stop his blade with mine. Gripping his shoulder with my free hand, I bring my knee up, connecting with his groin.

When he doubles over, I do not waste any time thrusting my blade through his body. Excalibur skewers him, his eyes wild and wide as he lifts his head, the spear being ripped from my leg at the same time. I cannot find purchase to bellow out in pain.

His sword clangs to the ground as I rip my blade from him and reverse my hold, stabbing behind me blindly and finding a victim. My stance wavers, my injury weakening me by the second. Whomever I have stabbed falls to the ground behind me with a rattled breath, sliding off my blade.

My legs collapse from underneath me and I go down, writhing in pain as blood spurts from the hole in my thigh under my hands, pressed onto it to stem the bleeding. Pounding footsteps come toward us and then my knights are upon us, screaming for healers.

I know I am not going to survive my wound. I have lost too much blood. It pools around me, mingling with the blood of the two other men who lie beside me—my son and Sir Meliagaunt I realize, when I glance over to see who had betrayed me at the very end.

Both men are still, death already giving their skin a pallor they did not have before.

I am not far behind them.

Those around me are talking and screaming at me, but I do not hear their words. After another moment, I do not see their faces either, though I know my eyes remain open.

Instead, I see moments of time pass before my eyes. Of Guinevere. Of Lancelot. Of the three of us. Every sordid thing we did together, which I could never regret, even if it lead to this moment.

“Guinevere,” I mutter to no one and nothing. “One day…without fear…”

And my last breath escapes my lungs.