39 Clare
39 Clare
The carriage rolled to a stop. Clare felt himself torn in half. He didn’t want this adventure to be over.
Elowen and Vandra, nodding off after their late night at a roadside tavern, were across from him. While Clare would have expected
himself to feel likewise weary, for they’d all gone out last night, no exhaustion weighed on him. Not when the green Mythrian
road passing them reminded him constantly of what waited ahead.
Next to him—Galwell.
With clear eyes, the once-lost hero watched the countryside, his auburn hair lifting in the wind passing through the open
windows. Clare had just gotten him back. It was going to be hard to say goodbye so soon. While Clare had not known Galwell
long in life, great friends did not need long to leave profound impressions on grand hearts.
But on his other side was the reason Clare looked forward to the journey’s end. Beatrice. Their life together.
Galwell looked up, pulled from whatever contemplation held him. “Let us help with your luggage,” he half-offered, half-commanded.
“We don’t have much,” Clare said.
“We’ll help anyway,” Galwell replied readily.
It was strange how not strange it was to be with Galwell again. Never mind how he was now younger than the rest of them—having been taken from his present into ten years into his future—he still had that same commanding presence. He still felt like a figure Clare would look up to, even if now Clare perhaps had less need to.
They climbed out of the carriage, the road crunching underfoot. The day was dazzling, the landscape glorious. Galwell and
Vandra unloaded the two small bags Beatrice and Clare had accrued on their voyage and stowed them on the horses they would
ride west to Farmount.
The road crossing where their paths diverged was unremarkable except in the way everywhere in Mythria was remarkable. The
dappled hills shone emerald in the sun. The cloudless sky reached out endlessly like hope itself.
When the packing was done, the group stood in a circle, looking at one another, knowing goodbyes were coming.
Elowen and Vandra were accompanying Galwell back to the siblings’ home village so Galwell could see his parents. It was too
intimate a moment for Clare and Beatrice to intrude on. Galwell deserved privacy as he adjusted to a changed Mythria. He,
like all of them over the past ten years, would need to decide who he was when the battles were over.
Besides, Clare was eager to show Beatrice their home.
“It is strange.” Galwell spoke first, for some things never changed. “I feel like we are concluding the quest to save Thessia.
But for you, this is the conclusion of an entirely different quest. I don’t know how one says farewell after sharing what
we’ve shared.” His gaze found each of them. “You do, though.”
Beatrice smiled sadly. “Not really,” she confessed. “After you... died... we didn’t exactly say goodbye.”
Galwell blinked. “Then how did you part? I know you grieved, but surely you had each other.”
“What Beatrice is politely trying to tell you,” Elowen said, “is that we acted terribly. We all quarreled and—”
Vandra cut her off. “Beatrice and Elowen had a shouting match at your funeral, and Clare went off and slept with someone.
Do I have it right?”
Clare winced, chagrined. “That’s about it.” He did not want to meet his noble friend’s eyes. While he’d rued the way the Four’s
friendships had ended, at the time he’d found himself almost grateful Galwell couldn’t see them then. What would he say? Clare had not ever expected he would confront the answer.
So when Galwell only laughed, Clare’s gaze shot up in surprise. Galwell shook his head lightly.
Clare went on, uncertain. “While I aspire to comedy most of the time, that particular moment was not my most humorous.”
“No, of course not,” Galwell said, sobering. “It’s just a little funny how much of a mess you all made mere moments after
I was... buried? I assume you buried me. Should I visit my own grave?” he asked. “Would it still be there?”
“Galwell, I literally discovered I could time-walk days ago,” Beatrice reminded him. “I don’t have any answers for you.”
Galwell nodded, accepting this for the moment.
“We needed you, Galwell,” Elowen said more softly. “Without you, we were lost.”
Galwell straightened, a shimmer of that heroic spark entering his eyes once more. “No, you did not need me,” he replied, warmth
under the firmness of his voice. “You saved Mythria without me. You saved each other without me. You suffered unfathomable loss. You dealt with unimaginable peril. Despite it all, you returned to each other.”
He put his hands on Beatrice’s and Elowen’s shoulders. “I could not be more proud. The next time I die, I will do so knowing
you will be okay.”
In the moment’s hush, each of them was moved. Everyone’s eyes welled with tears.
“Well,” Clare said, “as the eldest now of the Four—sorry, the Five”—he nodded to Vandra—“I hope I die first.”
Beatrice rounded on him. “Oh, so because you’re the oldest, you now have special privileges?”
“When it comes to our demise, yes.”
Vandra stepped forward. “We’d best wrap this up before we spend the day debating who gets to go in what order.”
Galwell grinned. “It’s marvelous. You all grew up.”
Clare knew it was silly, their childish bickering inspiring this observation. Yet he knew Galwell was right. In the light
of the peaceful day, they stood, no longer lost, lonely, furious, wayward souls. They were strong enough to venture into their
fears. They were strong enough to forgive their failings. They were strong enough to love themselves.
“So,” Clare spoke up cheerfully, “next time we all get together, what should we do?”
“I’m happy with whatever, as long as it doesn’t involve saving the realm,” Elowen remarked.
“Or camping,” Beatrice added.
“Oh, camping wasn’t that bad.” Vandra smirked, her eyes on Elowen.
“A dinner party, perhaps,” Beatrice proposed. “At our home in Farmount. As soon as you can come.”
Elowen nodded. Galwell, however, looked over with curiosity. “Beatrice, did your cooking improve while I was dead?” he inquired
sincerely.
Beatrice frowned, and Clare guffawed.
“How about,” Clare offered, “whatever it is, we just do something fun.”
“I can agree to that,” Beatrice said, her voice softening.
With teary hugs and claps on the back, Beatrice and Clare climbed onto their horses. Clare found himself wondering what the
poets would write of days like this one, with no villains to defeat or battles to fight—only the Five, forever one. He worked
to remember every detail, knowing no song would memorialize them for him. The day drawing long over the plains... The wind whispering in the grass...
Above them, Clare heard the familiar cry of Wiglaf circling. With his friends behind him, his bird in the sky, his girl at
his side, he rode toward the setting sun, his heart light.
It wasn’t farewell. There would be more of life’s journeys ahead. Ordinary, but no less epic. They would face them as they
had faced everything.
Together.