"Seriously" was published in Irreantum magazine in 2003.
The story is historically accurate (as far as historical accuracy goes in Arthurian fiction). That is, it is less 13th-century Malory and more 500 C.E. Romano-Britain. It is not 500 C.E. Druid/New Age/Feminist silliness.
I use the same background for Gawain that I do for Modred and Geraint in "Merciless," my first Arthurian story. The three are brothers.
* * *
Cea liked her parents, but they were altogether too much for her most of the time.
Brod, entering the hall that morning, bellowed, "You should have seen his face. When I picked up his head, you should have seen how he looked. I scared shit out of him," while Fevr laughed.
Fevr laughed now. "Oh, Brod, he won't come."
"But, Fevr, he's an honorable man, this Gawain. A good soldier. He promised."
Brod's tone betrayed what he thought of such honor: human honor.
Brod despised all humans—the Saxons, the Britons, the Picts—and Fevr loved to hear him despise them, although now and again she would say, "But, Brod, don't be unkind," and they would laugh and laugh.
Cea didn't mind, didn't mind her parents being fay, didn't mind not being fay herself since she wasn't their child, just the human orphan they cared for, and she didn't mind that most of the time. Just didn't want to be involved, didn't want to scare shit out of anyone.
As Brod had done to some Briton soldier in the south country, the old hacked-off head trick. Brod liked old tricks, liked to stalk about their fort in fairy guise, carrying his head in his hand, alarming his retainers who knew what to expect, who had seen Brod headless before and still jumped and swore. Brod was like that.
He visited human dwellings, great halls presided over by warlords, men claiming to be kings. He would arrive during feasts, dare the assembly, "I will allow one of you to strike me with my axe. If I survive the blow, you will let me return the favor."
There was always one fool of a soldier eager to prove his strength. Up with Brod's axe, off with Brod's head, and then Brod would scoop up his head while the soldier turned white with fear and shock. The head, dangling from Brod's hand, would speak: "Come in one month to the Green Chapel in Cumbria in the north. There, you will receive a similar stroke."
None of the soldiers ever came. Brod had been playing his game for as long as Cea could remember, possibly longer than she had been alive, and she knew no one would ever come.
"This one," Brod insisted, "is different. A hero amongst his people. One of so-called King Artos' men."
"I'd like a visitor," Fevr said, "especially a handsome, young soldier."
"I didn't say he was handsome."
"Honorable soldiers always are, Brod."
"Honorable soldiers aren’t susceptible to seducing wives."
"Aren't they? I think I could induce a little lustful fumbling," and she and Brod laughed until they couldn't speak.
Cea escaped outside, tramped across the rough, dark earth. She pushed into the wind, stooping now and again to pick up firewood.
I wouldn't come. I wouldn't care how noble or courageous it made me seem. I'd stay away.
I would never take Brod's challenge in the first place.
If the soldier did come, he would stop at their hall. Theirs was the only fort near the Green Chapel, the only decent fort for miles on the south side of the Roman wall.
He won't come. Brod knows that. He takes pleasure in proving it.
Brod was in the courtyard when Cea returned that evening, and he was greeting a Briton soldier. Brod was in human guise—a big man with a red beard—and Cea paused to watch.
"Welcome, welcome," Brod said, the hearty, good-natured host: Brod's favorite role. "Gawain, you say. Welcome, Gawain, to our humble abode."
Gawain, the soldier, was of Brod's height but slightly slimmer. His level eyes gathered in every detail of the courtyard before fixing on Brod.
Then, Gawain smiled broadly. "Many thanks," he said. "It would give me great pleasure to rest here before I complete my quest."
Pompous fool. Cea trudged into the hall to tell Fevr.
Fevr, ecstatic, swept to meet Gawain, hands out—"A visitor. How lovely"—while Gawain gaped.
Fevr is beautiful, Cea reminded herself. She has the spontaneity along with the spotless skin and even teeth and thick hair. People want to get to know her, they want to think she is wonderful.
Cea sighed and wished Fevr wouldn't introduce her, but Fevr would, not from meanness; she thought Cea was pretty, she thought Cea's only problem was Cea didn't have enough confidence, she was proud of Cea even if Cea wasn't proud of herself.
"This is my daughter."
"Hullo, hullo," Gawain said.
Cea glared, Fevr frowned at Cea, and Gawain blinked nervously.
Fevr said, "We love visitors, especially ones of such importance. What is your quest?"
"I'm sworn to secrecy," Gawain said, startling Brod who spilled drink down his beard.
He stared at Gawain over the rim of his cup.
"Secrecy?"
Gawain gave a portentous nod.
"How exciting," Fevr said to cover Brod's guffaw. "Not one eensy-weensy detail?"
"Only," Gawain said, "I need to find the Green Chapel. I have to be there in three days time."
"You've come to the right place," Brod said "The Green Chapel is less than a day's journey from here. Why not stay with us till then?"
Poor fool. He was so stupid and good-natured, he didn't deserve Cea's parents for three days; that was more than any quest should have to include, no matter how ridiculous.
"You are most kind," Gawain said and beamed around the table.
He swaggered off to bed, whistling. A few minutes later, Fevr followed.
She'll seduce him. He'll look the fool twice over when Brod doesn't kill him, and Fevr discards him.
Cea didn't want to hear about it. So humans were stupid, and the human girl who had borne Cea and deposited her absentmindedly in Fevr and Brod's hall had been as stupid: a witless idiot who had been raped, probably, by a soldier like this one, probably. A soldier who bragged about his virtue and honor. Cea knew humans were like that. She didn't want to hear about it.
She woke early, dressed quickly, planning to slip out before Brod and Fevr were up, but they were whispering together over the hearth. Fevr waved an impatient hand.
"Oh, Cea, you have to hear this. I got one kiss from him, most chaste. The rest of the time, he told me how unworthy he was of my love. I'm serious, Brod. He may be a fool, but he's a genuine fool."
Brod slapped his chair arm, his belly convulsing with chuckles.
"He told me my beauty was too radiant for him to bear. Honestly, Brod, don't laugh. Or you, Cea."
Cea grinned and went outside.
She searched for old berries and nuts in the fields outside the fort. She had her tunic all over mud, and her hands red with cold when Gawain knelt beside her and began to rub her hands quickly between his.
"I can warm them myself," she said.
He released her, smiling at nothing. She shook her head. Idiot.
He said, "Have you heard any tales about that place?" nodding towards the valley.
They were on the edge of the hill that overlooked the Green Chapel's hollow.
Cea shrugged.
Gawain sat, hands around knees, and it came to her, of a sudden, that if he were genuine—a truly honorable soldier—he believed he would die in two days. She glanced sideways at his face.
Not a fool's face, not at the moment. Rather grim, those level eyes surveying the ground below.
She said, "It's a fay place," hoping for a reaction.
Nothing. She continued to dig.
He said, "Have you ever encountered the fay?"
She shrugged.
"Has your family ever fought them, living so close?"
"No. Why?"
"I thought you might know of weapons or curses, ways to stop them."
She sat back on her heels.
"Is that your quest?"
He shifted his head; his eyes were empty of emotion.
"Depends which one," he said finally and turned his head away.
She pushed the earth into small, neat piles, automatically ordering disorder. How human, Fevr would say.
"Why is your quest a secret?"
"Aren't they always?" he said, face averted so she could not be sure of his expression, but his voice mocked.
She chewed her lip, rolling an autumn nut between her fingers. Gawain took her hands again.
"You're cold," he said.
She shrugged and gave him a sideways glance.
"The fay don't harm—" she said.
"Don't they?"
"Tricks, disappearances, wagers—nothing serious."
"Tricks can hurt," he said.
She let him warm her hands and carry the berries she'd foraged. "What did the fay ever do to you?" she said on their way back to the fort, but they entered the courtyard, and he didn't answer.
* * *
Ten years ago, fay kidnapped Gawain's brothers. A fairy transported Modred and Geraint to a crumbling, stone castle beside the sea.
"If you try to leave," the fairy threatened Modred, the elder of the two, "the castle will collapse; it will crush you."
Modred had stayed, and he had kept the toddler Geraint from straying. Three days amongst the damp stones until Gawain found them. Even now, autumn evenings evoked for Gawain the same terrified nausea he had felt during those days, and with the nausea, memories of stumbling through swamps, following dancing lights, calling until his voice was a frayed thread of entreaty.
Gawain had found his brothers. "We can't leave," Modred had said, pale-faced and wild-eyed, his fingers tight on Geraint's wrist. "The castle will fall. It will kill us. The fairy said."
"You can't stay," Gawain said.
He'd forced them to leave, hustling Modred before him, Geraint slung over his shoulder, and the castle hadn't collapsed.
Fay lie. Fay joke. That's the harm fay do.
He'd brought Modred and Geraint home, but—
I lost them. Geraint trusts nothing, wakes at night from dreams. Modred—Modred has no faith—not in himself, not in me.
Modred led a patrol squad of which Geraint was a member. Gawain was one of Artos' lieutenants, very much the elder brother, the outsider.
They blame me.
The fay's fault.
Impossible to find the responsible fairy now. Fay were many. Fay had no leaders, no connections. Fay did what they wished.
Gawain hated them all, indiscriminately. He had taken the green fairy's challenge at the feast, relishing the chance to strike, not caring for the consequences, just, Damn you all to hell.
Of course he didn't win. Not against fay. Not possible really. One could hope. And try.
I'll win this time.
Fay have no rules. Neither do I. Smile. Smile at your audience, behave as they expect, and kill.
He smiled, he lavished gratitude upon his host and hostess, endured Fevr's cooing and teasing. What a house. Where the mother tried to seduce the guests, and the daughter spent her days avoiding the family.
Cea had the look Geraint had had for years after the kidnaping: a panicked edge. Geraint was stable now, Geraint was sane, but Gawain dreaded that Geraint would slip away like Modred into an uncommunicative, untouchable void.
"Stupid," was all Modred said when he heard about the challenge.
Modred's squad had been on patrol during the feast. Modred stood at the door to the junior barracks, stamping his feet. Behind him, amongst the cots and stacked weapons, boys tussled, yelping their contentment.
Geraint wasn't among them. He waited in the darkness of the door, arms folded. Galahad, the boy-priest leaned beside him. Their eyes turned from Modred to Gawain.
Geraint said, "You won't go," his voice a study in nonchalance.
"I'd go if I thought I could kill it."
Modred considered, but "Not worth the effort," he said, ending the discussion.
Stupid to go, stupid to offer one's neck to the fay.
Modred slid into the barracks and yelled for quiet. Geraint went after him, but Galahad paused.
He said to Gawain, "You hate the fay?"
"I have good reason. So does Modred."
"Perhaps."
"You, of course, love all things, even fay.'
"I haven't been required to love the fay. If I met one, yes, I suppose I would try to love it," a long speech for Galahad. "Baptize it," he added after a pause, "which is an act of love."
Galahad was a priest, an average soldier, but Modred had never requested a replacement. Modred, Gawain suspected, needed Galahad: his talisman, his believer in something.
Galahad said, "You're thinking revenge?"
"Better than doing nothing," Gawain said, and Galahad frowned, his eyes on the line of fortifications that surrounded the hill.
"It's like nothing," he said in the slow, fractionless voice that eased the men who heard it, even if the hearing was rare. "Doing things for the mere existence of them."
Gawain said. "It's a tangible solution."
Prove to Modred that evil could be punished, pain did not have to last a lifetime.
Galahad said, "Intangibles take more—" he hesitated, and Gawain waited. "Courage. Less self-absorption. Less hedonism."
"Hedonism." Gawain barked contemptuously. "Hedonism might do us some good."
He jerked his chin towards the tattered soldiers on the training field with their battered weapons and frayed boots.
"The things we touch are never enough. For our wants."
"I don't want much," Gawain said.
Galahad studied him, gray eyes like metal discs. "You won't go north?" Galahad said.
"No," Gawain said and knew he lied.
Modred's squad departed next day on patrol. Four days before they would return, Gawain rode away from Artos' fort to Cumbria to find the Green Chapel.
Kill one of the fay, bring its head home, give my brothers that prize.
Not too much to ask.
* * *
"I think," Cea told Brod that night, Gawain safely stowed in the guest chamber, "he isn't going to let you strike him. I think he's going to fight."
"Oh, my." Fevr gave a mock shudder.
"And I thought he was a man of honor."
"He's frightened, Brod," Fevr said.
Cea did not say what she thought: that Gawain wasn't afraid, that he hated the fay, that he wanted to kill.
Brod's done nothing to him. Gawain agreed to the challenge.
"I'll ease the boy's mind," Fevr said. "I'll give him my girdle. I'll tell him it's magic, tell him if he wears it, no creature will hurt him."
"Oh, Fevr," Brod hooted, but Cea said, "Please, be careful."
"Careful, Cea? Your mother's girdle is no more protection than your own, sweetheart. What can the boy fight me with but his silly human weapons and his silly human fists?"
"He could hurt you."
"Then I'll kill him," Brod shrugged as Fevr glided off towards the guest chamber, her hands loosening the fabric around her waist.
Cea went to her room. She insisted on privacy, even during the winter; she hated to sleep in the great hall with her parents and their retainers for all it was so much warmer.
She curled on her bedding.
Humans were fools, Fevr had taught her, and she had no reason to disbelieve Fevr's perception. Humans believed in unseen, unknown things--principles, virtues and gods--humans set for themselves unfathomable standards. Honorable soldiers went on drudging, pointless quests. Desperate men groped for weapons against the indestructible.
Am I a fool too? Is that my inheritance, my birth mother lacking more material gifts to give?
Brod and Fevr would say not.
But had they ever truly acknowledged that Cea was not one of them?
"Cea."
She sat up, narrowing her eyes. Gawain had slipped through the curtain to her chamber. She glared. If he thought she was like Fevr, that she wanted to be, she'd tell Brod to swipe him for good.
He held out Fevr's girdle.
"Your mother says this is magic."
She nodded numbly, hating him because she'd never had to lie before, hating her parents because she'd never had to protect them before.
He stood there, pulling the girdle through his hands.
"It's your mother's," he said as if he hadn't already said, and then she noticed the emphasis.
Your mother's.
"I thought," he said, "yours might be magic too."
She didn't argue, she didn't care if she lied. She got her girdle and helped him tie it on under his shirt. He was a fool, and Brod would make him look a worse fool, but he was genuine, he was honest, he didn't want to wear a married woman's girdle.
Gawain spent the following day with Brod. They hunted, returning towards evening with partridges and a brace of rabbits. Gawain avoided Fevr. He smiled at Cea, but she couldn't approach him, wary of what she might expose.
Stop worrying. He won't hurt Brod. Brod won't hurt him. Brod is all bluster, waving arms and loud words. Nothing more. There's no need for worry.
Panic woke her before dawn, dream images of Gawain dead, Brod bleeding, Fevr screaming curses. She ran down the stone-chilled corridor to Gawain's chamber. It was empty.
"He's left," said the watchman. "Said thanks for our hospitality, hopes to see us again." The watchman chuckled. "Doubt that'll happen."
He strode on his rounds, and Cea ran out of the gate into the gray mist.
She heard a horse stamping and called. She ran into a chest. Hands touched her shoulders, her cheek—
"Cea."
--and she wanted to stay there, in that warm enclosed space.
She backed away.
"Don't fight," she pleaded. "He won't hurt you."
"They do," hoarsely, "They will."
"No, please. Just finish your quest and go. You'll be safe. I promise."
His hand brushed her arm. She could feel his questions. She sobbed and turned and ran back to the fort.
* * *
"Cea."
Gawain stared into the darkness, heard no answer.
My brothers, he should have said. For my brothers, I have to try at least.
Gawain walked the horse forward, feeling the road with his feet. It would split soon. The left hand path, Brod had told him, would lead him to the valley and the Green Chapel's hollow. The green fairy would be waiting to deliver his blow, but Gawain didn't plan to wait.
He had Cea's girdle. He didn't know if it was magic, but he suspected her mother's wasn't, and he'd rather wear Cea's.
He had wanted to go to her the night before, to be with her, hold her, nothing else. He had stayed in his chamber instead, watched the dark sky ease to gray.
I don't want another person to cower from me.
Ahead of Gawain on the road, streaks of light brushed the horizon. Sunlight sparkled on the bare-limbed trees. A few flakes of snow fluttered past Gawain's face. The road twisted downwards. He reached a stream and then, a copse of trees. The road plunged and there was the Green Chapel.
Not a human chapel—not one of Galahad's sort—but a green mound in the middle of a green hollow—green even in winter—the mound split by a waterfall. Gawain left the horse by the trees and descended.
"Hullo."
No answer. Gawain pulled his sword and dagger from his belt.
Don't fight. He won't hurt you.
I want my brothers back, the heart of them. Galahad's intangibles lost to a fairy's lie.
Just finish your quest and go—
They keep themselves at arm's length. They look to each other, never to me. I failed. Every time Modred looks at me, he blames me for not coming sooner.
You'll be safe, I promise.
Worthless, elder brother.
Gawain pressed a hand to his face, felt the sword hilt impress his cheek.
My fault. I slept while they were kidnapped. I got lost during the search. I came late.
Give my brothers something—something tangible at least—a death—
"Welcome."
The green fairy stood on the path above. Descending into the hollow, he strode to the top of the mound.
"Your arrival is well-timed. Are you ready to receive your stroke?"
Gawain let go the sword and dagger. They splashed in the waterfall's pool. He bent his neck, waited.
The axe whistled down. Nicked his neck.
He didn't move. Rage and anguish wrestled through him. Just a joke, just a joke, just a joke.
"I would have missed completely," the green fairy said, "but I thought you deserved the nick for taking my wife's girdle. Naughty boy."
And the green fairy dwindled into his host, Brod, red-bearded and laughing.
Don't fight. You'll be safe, I promise.
"You're wearing it now, aren't you?" He heaved with guffaws.
Gawain picked up his weapons.
"Oh, come now, don't be sore. We'll go back to the fort. You can stay another week."
"No," Gawain said dully.
Not even Cea truly on his side. Did he expect she would be? Could he ask it of any of them?
Brod frowned. "Look, man, I'm not angry. You're not hurt."
Gawain unwound the girdle, dropped it to the ground.
Brod chuckled. "My wife wants you to keep it."
"It's your daughter's," Gawain said and saw uncertainty flick across Brod's face.
Gawain stepped away, stepped back, bent and picked the girdle up. She'd given it to him, and Brod hadn't known. Gawain could be glad of that much.
He had reached the trees when Brod said, "Hey!" and started up the bank.
Gawain clambered onto his horse.
Brod shouted, "What did you do to Cea?"
"I asked."
"She would never have agreed." Brod reached for Gawain's knee. "She would never help a stupid, soldier boy."
Gawain kicked the horse's sides. He galloped away from the trees, over the stream to the main road.
He turned the horse's head south and pressed in his heels desperately.
He hadn't considered Cea's safety when he threw down the girdle, had thought only of his own bitterness, his own intense loneliness.
Stupid. Fool man.
He thundered down the road.
* * *
The three soldiers arrived with the sunrise. Cea was outside by the stables, fixing the livestock hutches, trying not to think of Gawain or his meeting with Brod or her warning which hadn't been a betrayal but felt so much like one.
The leader of the soldiers—compact, dark-haired—slid off his horse and walked to meet the steward.
"I'm looking for my brother," he said, his voice quiet and passionless, yet curled about with so much dark intention, Cea shivered.
She watched, her hand on the hutch railing. She saw Fevr loitering on the hall steps, ready to become the eager and enchanting hostess.
A second, lighter-haired man—boy—said, "We're looking for Gawain," and whirled as a horse rode into the courtyard.
Cea braced herself, expecting Brod's hearty, "You should have seen his face," but the man on the horse was alone, and it was Gawain.
He rode towards her, dismounting before the horse halted.
"Cea," he said, his face pale, his voice frantic.
His eyes darted past her. He saw the three young men and gaped, looking for a moment as bewildered and dull-witted as he'd pretended to be when he first came to the fort.
The dark-haired leader, still in that passionless voice, said, "We’ve been traveling up here ever since we got off patrol. I never thought you'd do anything this stupid."
"That wasn't any reason not." Gawain twisted towards Cea. "My brothers: Modred, Geraint."
They looked at her unsmilingly, the eyes of the younger fierce, the eyes of the older empty and cold.
"Galahad," Gawain said, waving a hand towards the third soldier, a priest, and a faint, uneasy pleasure stirred Cea's heart.
A Christian. A holy man. One of theirs.
"You said you wouldn't come," Geraint said to Gawain. "You told me, you told Galahad you wouldn’t."
"What's happened?" Modred said.
"I can't—I'm not going to argue with you, not now. Cea," Gawain spun back to her. "Cea, come with us. You can trust us. Please, Cea. Your father's angry," and Modred's eyes fixed on her face.
Beyond them, she saw Brod, human guise, stride through the gate. He spotted Gawain and swerved, shouting:
"I want some answers, Soldier-boy."
Modred moved. Drawing his sword, he fixed himself between Gawain and Brod.
Brod reared back. Fevr hurried from the hall.
"Don't be a fool," Brod snapped at Modred. "I'm not going to hurt him. I want to talk to Cea."
Modred jerked his head, and she too had a protector—Geraint at her shoulder, sword ready.
Brod roared into fairy shape, huge and green with wide-open mouth.
Geraint gasped, a sound like a whimper that brought Gawain's head round.
"Is he the one kidnapped you?" Gawain said.
"Yes," Modred said.
No. Cea closed her eyes. I don't want to know, a silent cry from the numb center of her heart.
The fay do harm.
Gawain started towards Brod, but, "No," said Fevr," and, "No," said Modred, turning, his shoulder against Gawain's. "No, you can't win."
"I should have killed him before. Ten years ago. I ought to have found him and killed him then," glaring at Brod over Fevr's head.
Brod dwindled to human form. He stared and shook his head, perplexed.
"Trapped them in a castle," Gawain shouted. "Threatened them, told them, told him," his hand on the back of Modred's neck, "it would collapse if they left."
Brod laughed. "Oh, yes, that. That was just some fun, that."
Gawain surged forward. Again, Modred stopped him, his arm across Gawain's chest while Geraint on Gawain's other side said hoarsely, "Don't fight him, Gawain."
"No," Fevr said. "I wouldn't, Soldier-boy."
She isn't the hostess now, Cea thought. She's always been more Brod's protector than his lady or wife or even my mother.
"Forget it," Modred said. "I have. Geraint has."
"Have you?" Gawain turned, stared down into Modred's face. "Where are you then, if you've forgotten? I lost you. I never really got you back."
The winter breeze drifted across the courtyard, ruffling Gawain's dark hair, throwing shadows across Modred's face.
Modred said gently, so gently his voice seemed to mingle with the breeze, "I'm here. I'm here now."
Geraint's voice grumbled into the silence. "Which is more than we could say about you when we got off patrol."
And Modred grinned. Mockery glinted in his eyes before they returned to their usual opaqueness.
Gawain's muscles eased. He bowed his head. His eyes slid towards Cea.
"Cea," he said, "will you—?"
But Brod bellowed: "Don't you ask her anything." He aimed a finger at Gawain. "You tell me why she gave you her girdle. What did you do to her?"
Fevr, her voice unrecognizable, said, "You forced her?"
"No," Cea said, her eyes meeting Brod's.
Brod didn't scare her.
"I gave it to him," she said. "He asked."
Fevr crowed. "Oh, Cea, did you? Oh, honey, that's wonderful. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have let you seduce him."
"It isn't wonderful," Brod snapped. "Did you seduce him?" almost pleading.
"No," Cea said. "I'm going with them," Cea said, and her voice didn't waver any more than her eyes.
Except now Fevr frowned, saying, "Are you?" her voice sweet and tight and forbidding while, "Oh, no, you aren’t," Brod roared.
"Come here," Fevr said. "Don't be fools," to Modred and Gawain standing in her way, swords drawn. "I'm not giving Cea over to some sordid, human romance," and she started forward.
She stopped abruptly. She had seen what Brod, still shouting, had not: Galahad, standing solitary, eyes attentive. She hissed sharply.
"Brod."
"What? Oh, Fevr, he's just some Christian boy."
"Some is too much."
Fevr, Cea thought, has always seen things sharper than Brod; she's never been satisfied with just the joke.
She would have seduced Gawain. She would have, Cea thought, swung the axe clean through. I'm more like her than I thought.
Fevr and Galahad faced each other.
Cea clenched her hands. Gawain took them in his free one. Modred and Geraint lowered their swords. They all watched Fevr and Galahad, even Brod.
Spectators, Cea thought, each of us, trying to manage in the dark, to cope while the Fevrs and the Galahads face each other, the Fevrs all for themselves and the Galahads for belief, for faith, for God in this case.
Galahad said nothing, undaunted by Fevr's sugary smile and bright teeth.
"Spend a night with me, Christian boy?"
It was not a true challenge. Fevr was marking her ground, that was all, was barely unnerved when, "No," Galahad said. "Will you let me baptize you?"
"Brat," Fevr said without rancor. "The things I could do to you—"
"If I allowed—"
"I have no regard for your God's 'free-will'. I do not respect it."
A hint of wryness. "In that, at least, you have no choice."
Fevr snarled.
Galahad grimaced, his eyes straying to the fort. Fevr rustled forward, spread her fingers across Galahad's cheek. He flushed, dark pupils dilating in their gray settings. His gaze steadied on Fevr's face.
"What could you possibly want," she said, "that I couldn't give you?"
"There's always more, beyond the immediate."
"Perilous," Fevr said, "grasping for uncertainties."
"Yes," Galahad said. His mouth twisted. He paused, and Fevr waited, eyebrows raised. "Like fairy games," Galahad said, and Fevr snorted.
"Just games. Nothing more than games. Can you separate the real from the game?"
"I don't know," Galahad said and Cea heard the yet.
She twisted away from her protectors, went to stand beside Galahad.
"I'm going with them," she said. "You can't stop me, Mama."
"No," Fevr said, softening. "I didn't raise you to be stopped."
Thank you, Cea wanted to say, but Fevr would not want thanks.
Fevr stepped away from Galahad. She knuckled Cea's chin.
"Come Brod," she said and walked away, not beaten, not contemptuous, just no longer interested, no longer involved.
"But—"
"Cea's decided. They're hers, her kind. Come," and he followed her docilely, looking back once, bemused, shaking his head.
Gawain released an uneven breath, glanced over his shoulder at Cea and smiled, his eyes wary but pleased.
Modred's flat, emotionless voice said, "Can we go now? Unless you want Galahad to exorcise the place?"
Gawain shook his head. He sheathed his sword.
Cea said, "What happened at the Green Chapel?"
"Nothing." Gawain fingered his neck where a red slash showed above the shirt. "He made me look a fool, that's all."
The words fell heavily amongst them until Geraint said to Cea, "Gawain didn't tell us about you."
"He didn't know," Cea said.
"I wouldn't have minded him going if it was to rescue you," and Cea heard mischief in the guarded voice.
Galahad made a soft sound of amusement.
She looked at the soldiers who surrounded her. Her kind, Fevr had said. Humans, Fevr had said, and she trembled at the implications. Modred's opaque gaze was as demanding in its way as Galahad's gray-eyed serenity. She stepped closer to Gawain, touched the blood at his neck.
Geraint said, "It is your girdle--"
"Geraint," Modred said sharply, and Geraint subsided, but Cea saw Modred wink--surely saw Modred wink--and Gawain saw it and flushed.
"Just a joke," he said, his cheek against her hair.
And laughed.
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