Page 91 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

He directed this last sentence entirely at Morfran, who merely rested his head against the post, gaping at the old man. Hadn’t he seen the shape of him before he’d passed out in the castle? How did he know all these things?

“Which brings us to this.” Grandfather Tortoise gestured to Bronwen. “If Morfran was still as evil as you believe, then how did he not only resurrect a woman he knew wanted to kill him, but resurrect her in a way that in all shapes and forms demonstrates complete and selfless love?”

Bronwen was looking back at him, not with hate, but not with love, and he found that he could handle her gaze only for so long before he had to shut his eyes.

“Think on all we’ve testified today,” Grandfather Tortoise said, before leaning against Bronwen. “We’ll hold the vote in one hour’s time.”

One hour was an awfully long time while waiting on a verdict of whether or not he’d be torched to death. Morfran hit the back of his head against the pole, again and again, mindlessly. Everyone else had left. Everyone except Grandfather Tortoise.

Someone had brought him out a chair, and he was leaning comfortably against the back of it, watching the butterflies flutter by and smiling at the sweet sound of the birds.

“You were in the trophy room with us.” Morfran finally said it, when it became apparent that the old man wouldn’t. “That’s where you were during the battle. I don’t know how you got in. But that’s how I didn’t die. You healed me before I could.” He gritted his teeth. “Which also means you let Bronwen die.”

The old man was still admiring the free, flying critters around them. “Have you ever wondered why I request to be called Tortoise?”

“What?”

“It’s not my actual name. What idiot names their son after a reptile?”

Morfran stopped banging his head on the post.

“I admire tortoises. They carry their home with them, of course, so they’re never lost. They know precisely who they are, and are at peace wherever life takes them. You”—he pointed a crooked finger at Morfran—“could do with some peace. You fled your childhood home after burning it to the ground. Then you found a new home in a sizable castle before you realized what evil lived inside it with you, and then you fled home again. Now where are you? Homeless yet again.”

“Thanks for rubbing it in.”

“No, I’m pointing it out. You’ve wanted to run away this entire time you were with us. Guilt and shame and fear were eating at you, telling you that you were no good. But, lad, it is time you learned something else about being good that is often forgotten.” He leaned forward. “Good people forgive themselves.”

He snorted, bitter. “I don’t deserve—”

“Brood about it all you want, Morfran, Lord of Brooding, but it’s the truth. Good people forgive themselves. And if they ever find that they can’t, then they try to mend the ill deeds that are preventing them from finding that peace, and afterwards, check in on how they’re feeling and if that feeling is closer to peace. Because it is only when one is at peace that one ceases to run away, and there they find that everywhere they go can be called home.”

Morfran glanced across the courtyard. Smoke still wreathed the sky, but behind it he could see the promise of blue. His wrists had long since grown sore, and his eyes stung. Stung from the ache of nearly dying yesterday, the battle of Warshire, the battle of Redmoth, the battles of Atlantis 2.0 and Ferndock and all those others he’d fought for the past twenty years, going to and fro across the lands but never satisfied. It was no wonder he was tired. Tired of being afraid, and ashamed of everything he’d done.

“Now, you blame me for allowing Bronwen to die when I could have saved her,” Grandfather Tortoise said. “But it was necessary. I knew you could bring her back, besides. And was I wrong?”

He looked at him. The man knew too much. Far too much to be a mere old man. “Who are you?”

Grandfather Tortoise smiled. “Your godfather. I suppose the full term would be fairy godfather, but I don’t have wings, just a shell.” He chuckled to himself.

Morfran wanted to punch him. “What?”

“Yes. Magic is sparse in the kingdom, but it does thrive in little pockets and people here and there. I’ve watched you and your family from afar, Morfran. I suspected everything you were going to do, just as I suspected that Ravana’s magic ring had gone rancid because of her wicked soul, just as I suspected that Bronwen was your true love.”

“What?”

He squinted at him. “Surely your vocabulary is more extensive than that single interrogative pronoun. Yes, Morfran. Did you not notice how she didn’t stutter once when she gave her testimony? You at least had to have noticed that she’d killed Ravana without her hex getting in the way.” He grinned, sly. “Just what happened in those tunnels earlier?”

“But—but she had Arthur—”

“Young people believe that everyone they become infatuated with is their true love.” He rolled his eyes. “She didn’t believe me, either.”

“You told her?” He frowned, thinking of all those passing looks she’d given him. But he’d seen her eyes. She didn’t love him back. She couldn’t, after all he’d done.

“Yes. Didn’t accept it until I asked her what you smelled like, and if you smelled ridiculously good all the time.”

“What does scent have to do with it?”

“Our true love always has a scent that reminds us of home.” He looked at him curiously. “What did she smell like to you?”