Like my mother, I can see the Threads, but I am no Oracle. Neither of us had a godsdamn thing to do with that slippery cunt known as Fate. I can only see Threads from my own life, though I am privy to the way those events may ripple out across the centuries.
That is to say, what happened last night had to come to pass. I could not tell any of you because I have told people what I have seen before. I have made choices based on the futures I glimpsed upon my Threads. And every time, it has slipped out of my hands. I learned from my mother that to see a Thread come to fruition is to act as though nothing has changed because of what I have witnessed.
And I need you to hear me: this Thread I have foreseen, that somehow stretches all the way from the burning of a sorceress to the far reaches of the next millennium, is the only one where this world might stand a chance.
It is the only Thread where a girl kills a god.
It is the only Thread where Merlin, the sorcerer who conspired to help Uther Pendragon rape my mother and bear the poisoned fruit that is Arthur Pendragon, gets precisely what he is owed.
I pray to the Morrigan that I have not said too much even in these few sentences. I have spent years of my life trying to devise a way to tell you three how much hangs in the balanceof me burning at that stake. Guinevere, you would have died right there in my bed if you had grabbed your dagger as you intended. Nyneve, you would have burned instead of me if you’d used your magic to try to save me. Mordred, you cannot murder everyone in this citadel.
His voice wavered as he came upon the next line.
(Please, my darling changeling boy, hold the darkness back one more year, would you? For me?)
Mordred put the letter down on the quilt, his hands shaking. Morgana’s writing blurred as his eyes filled with tears. Resting her cheek against his shoulder, Nyneve gently picked up the sheet of parchment and continued in his stead.
I believe the three of you know that I am far from selfless. If there was any other way for everything to pass in the way that it should, I would have taken that path. But here you are, aren’t you, reading this letter?
Do not weep for me. Suffering is a pastime of the living, and now I walk freely among the dead.
All my love,
M.
Guinevere went still, looking over at him with a fathomless sort of loss that he never wanted to experience. “That’s it?” she managed.
“No,” Nyneve said, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe away her tears. “There’s a letter for each of us, I believe.”
“Oh,” Guinevere said, lurching forward toward the bundle of waxed cotton. At the last moment, she paused, her hand hovering over the letters. Then she drew back, folding her knees to her chest. “No,” the queen admitted in a broken whisper. “I do not think I am ready for there to be nothing left of her.”
A sob wracked Nyneve’s body as she shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Nor I,” his sorceress murmured, though her fingertips brushed the letter with her name.
“No,” Mordred breathed. “Not today.”
Just hours ago, he had returned from Arthur’s pursuit of Ragrshydan and the Host to find the charred corpse of one of the few mortals to ever love him lashed to a stake, the body of his friend crumpled at the pyre’s feet.
If Nyneve had not been waiting for him, holding her terrible vigil at Galen’s side, he was quite certain he would have destroyed the entire citadel then and there. He remained unconvinced that it would not have been the correct choice, though the soft animal weight of her head on his shoulder lulled him into believing otherwise.
The sound of a horse’s neigh drew Mordred’s attention to the left of the meadow, where the path came snaking up from the citadel’s main road. His hand landed on his sword, and he drew himself up to stand before he caught sight of Gawain’s chestnut mare and Palamedes’ gray stallion.
“You should not be seen with us!” Guinevere called out.
“Aye, aye,” Gawain said, waving the queen’s words away like a fly. His mare ambled toward them before coming to a halt for the knight to dismount. “This’ll be the only time I disobey Your Royal Highness, I swear it.” He sank into a low bow with a flourish.
Palamedes shook his head at Gawain as he swung his leg over Qila’s side, pulling off the stallion’s bridle to let him graze. His gaze met Mordred’s, and he smiled sadly. “What are we going to do?” the tall, powerfully built knight asked in his most princely voice, expressive eyes searching the three of them.
“We should probably run,” Gawain said with a grunt as he sat down next to Guinevere, squinting as he looked out into the distance.
“You are welcome in my mother’s court, I am sure,” Palamedes offered, lowering himself to sit on the edge of the quilt. If he saw the letters, he ignored them.
“I am not abandoning my throne,” came Guinevere’s icy voice as the queen sat up and faced them. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, her hair in the simplest plait Mordred had ever seen. And yet the tilt of her chin was undeniable. He had never seen someone so clearly born to lead. “I am still queen. That affords me some degree of power. And I will do whatever I can to turn these dark tides.”
“You have my sword,” Gawain promised, smiling at her. “Been in this citadel since I was a wee thing. I’m not about to go anywhere.”
“I am not from these lands, but I made a vow to Camelot’s court,” Palamedes said, tying a few strands of long grass together. “I shall not abandon this place when its need is most dire.”
Mordred watched them, biting down on his tongue. He would not take their agency from them, no, but if they stayed, it was incredibly likely he would watch them all die. He had hoped his predetermined death at least meant he would not have to live through the loss of those he loved. But Merlin was going to take that small shred of peace from him, too, it seemed.
