Chapter 43 #2
I edged closer to him and he did the same, our footfall soft and halting.
The last scraps of my soft sister’s heart wanted to accept his presence in good will, but years of wrongs and mistrust had buried my faith.
Morgan le Fay as she was now had changed too much; she could not afford to let herself be disarmed.
“Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe,” I said. “But given you are here, if you have something to say, feel free to do so now.”
He stiffened at my formal tone, but did not recoil. Instead, Arthur gathered himself and marched towards where I stood. To my astonishment, the High King of All Britain stopped before me and bowed his head.
“I’m sorry, Morgan,” he said at long last.
“Arthur… ” I began. “What…why…?”
“I am deeply, terribly sorry. You cannot know how much.” He looked up, his eyes grey and fierce, clear as our mother’s. “Please believe me.”
My pulse quickened but I refused to be outwardly moved. “I don’t understand. What are you sorry for?”
“All of it,” he said immediately. “I have made so many mistakes. Known to me or not, I will apologize unreservedly for anything I have done.”
For a moment he looked so young, the confident and idealistic youth he had been, wanting to solve every problem for the greater good. To his mind, if he could make this apology perfect, then all would be well.
“That’s not good enough, Arthur,” I replied. “I am no innocent, but if I let you throw a cloak of apology over all of our troubles, then that is no more use than pretending we have never met. If you must do this, then give me something, not everything.”
He considered it solemnly, then said, “Of course, you are right.”
I had hardly taken the chance to absorb his acknowledgement when, in a movement somehow both bold and hesitant, he reached out and took my hands.
“First, and most of all,” he said, “I am sorry for Sir Accolon.”
At the sound of his name, I buckled, crumpling to the floor.
After all this time—even as my Gaul’s resurrected shade walked, talked and reminisced beneath the leaves of our weeping willow tree—the thought that Accolon had died at my brother’s hands still had the terrible power to bring me to my knees.
In a heartbeat, Arthur was with me, kneeling at my side and clutching my hands tight.
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” he said. “His death has haunted me, these long years. I know how unlikely that sounds, but I didn’t know, I…
” He ducked his head, snatching back tears.
“I was drugged on a hunting trip, held captive. They said it was just me who had been taken, and I would have to duel for my life. I tried to tell them who I was, but they either thought me a liar or didn’t care.
If I thought for a moment my opponent was Sir Accolon… ”
I squeezed my eyes shut, but in the darkness came the vision of the battle as I had seen it: the field, rucked with mud; the hoarse grunts of effort, and the violent encouragement from the crowd; the deadly music of blade upon blade.
Blood on mail, on swords, on skin and the grass.
My brother weeping as my lover lay dying.
“You must believe me, Morgan,” Arthur insisted. “I would have thrown down Excalibur and refused to fight. He was a brave, honourable knight and a good friend—I never would have done him harm.”
I gripped his hands harder, feeling the cool hard flagstones under my knees, telling myself I could collapse no further. “It’s all right,” I said. “I already know. I…I’ve seen Accolon’s death. Through magic.”
The idea of my conjuring visions did not rattle him—he was raised with Merlin’s ways, and assumed I had learned them—but his face weathered a gust of pain.
“How long have you known?” he said.
“A while,” I replied. “Since just before the Grail Quest.”
“Two years?” he exclaimed. “And you never told me?”
I recoiled, pulling my hands from his. “How many times must I bring you my truth, Arthur, only to be rejected? Last time I came to Camelot, you called me a liar, threw me out and commanded me never to return. To come to you yet again was not my duty.”
He did not balk at my anger but nodded and looked away, his silence inadequate.
“Besides,” I forged on, “knowing you didn’t kill Accolon with cold-blooded purpose isn’t enough. What you wrought didn’t stop there. You told the world that slaying him was righteous—as my punishment.”
He gave a heavy sigh. “I know. I should never have used his death in that way. Out of every regret I have had, this lie has haunted me the most.”
“Then why did you spend years maintaining it?” I said fiercely. “Before that, why did you lie to me again in the abbey? Accolon was already dead, and there were a hundred other ways to punish me. Why did you want me to believe you a murderer?”
“I was angry, Morgan!” he cried. “I thought I had been betrayed by my own blood, made a fool by one of the people I had loved and trusted most, and it tore through me like wildfire. I reacted in the moment, amidst all my hurt and fury, then once it was said, I couldn’t take it back. You know how that feels.”
“It is no excuse,” I snapped, but immediately heard the absurdity of my words. Of all the people unsuitable to scold another about acting upon rage and impulse, I was the first who should not throw a stone. I sat back on my haunches and sighed.
“Yes, I do know,” I admitted. “Fury has been my lifelong companion, both cure and poison. But you were supposed to be better, Arthur.”
He echoed my sigh. “And I should have been. Such a grave mistake was beneath me, and I have borne the weight of my actions every day. Back then, I was unmoored, fearful. I had lost Merlin, I was without you—all I was left with were prophecies, warnings of betrayal and treason, the danger I was in and a kingdom depending on me. My worries had become all-consuming, and I had no sister of wisdom to share it with. I felt entirely alone.”
“That was your choice,” I said. “You chose to believe Merlin. You signed the Royal Decree calling me corrupt. Even when you asked me to come back to Camelot, you insisted I prostrate myself before the court so you could save face. You had no sister to share your troubles with because you threw me away.”
“I see that, I do,” he said. “I’m not trying to excuse any wrong I have done.
For years I wondered if there was a way forward for us.
We are bonded, Morgan—we always have been.
By blood, our fury, the dreams of our birthplace.
One of your storms began our war, and today, you sent another that brought me back to you. It must mean something.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but could speak no denial. Hours earlier, it had been thoughts of him, after all, the confusion of what I felt, that conjured the elements into chaos.
I shoved the notion away. “Does it really matter if we have a connection, when we have spent so many years at odds?” I said harshly.
“You hurt me, and I have tried my hardest to do the same to you. Even when we were in harmony, I kept things from you. Your wish for me to be taught by Merlin wasn’t the only reason I left Camelot. There were secrets, lies.”
My brother recoiled. “What secrets?”
I shook my head; still I could not bear to say that I was pregnant outside of my marriage, and my desire to protect my brother meant I chose not to tell him, because I didn’t want to add to his strain, or have him think any less of his clever sister.
Surely, such resistance to speak of it even now held more meaning than an accidentally conjured storm.
“It’s part of a river that has long flowed into the sea,” I said. “If we had found peace years ago, I might have gathered the strength to tell you. But now, facing it all again feels like too much. Maybe I am not fixed enough to be broken all over again.”
Arthur nodded, and we sat for a long moment, without rancour but with little else. Eventually, he said. “I understand. Perhaps it’s best if I leave you.”
I watched him stand and rose in turn, saying nothing but wondering if I should. When I didn’t argue, he cast his silvery gaze upon me and smiled with regret.
“When you were at Camelot, it was the happiest time in my life,” he said. “But though I loved and valued you, I know now it was never as much as you deserved. You were enough, Morgan. I wish I had realized it before it was all too late.”
In truth, I was already breaking, and his words crashed through the pieces that were left. When he turned away, I found myself putting a hand on his arm.
“The sea,” I asked him. “Does it still come to you?”
Arthur shook his head, and my stomach plunged. He saw my disappointment and gave a faint smile. “It does not come to me,” he said. “It never leaves. Tintagel and its waves are always there.”
His explanation brought only the sweet ache of relief.
Unexpectedly, I laughed, and before I knew what I was doing, I reached out for my brother and put my arms around him.
He let me, leaning in and resting his forehead against my shoulder, as he used to after I had healed his headaches.
As I took the weight of him, I found I had missed it.
“How long were you riding lost?” I asked.
He stood upright, lines of tiredness drawn on his face. “Oh, not that long,” he said. “Two days, perhaps, until the storm.”
It raised a bittersweet amusement in me; Arthur had never known how to worry for his own person.
There was always something more pressing, a kingdom to put first, endless decisions, a thousand questions waiting for the answers he must give; the same fervency for solving problems and perpetual forward motion that I recognized in myself.
“In that case, before anything else, we will dine,” I said. “Sensible people say that important conversations should only be had on a full stomach.”
“I see,” he said wryly. “Is that where we’ve been going wrong?”
He gave a modest, warm smile, and all at once he had returned to me, the brother I once knew, who I had talked to, and laughed with, and believed in.
“Possibly,” I rejoined. “Though our tempers may carry some blame. Come on.”
I turned to lead the way, when Arthur caught hold of my hand, staying us.
“I’m glad I’m here, Morgan,” he said.
“So am I,” I replied, and somehow, by some miracle, it was true.