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Silence.
“Honestly, Gale, what is the matter with you? Why do you look so grim? You would think someone had died,” he replied, now frowning.
I hung my head.
“What is that in your hand?”
I froze.
This was a bad idea.
“It looks like a brief folder. Why are you holding it? Galahad, what are you doing?”
“I do not know,” I whispered. “I am trying to be better. To honor you and Arthur, to honor myself and the person I love and—”
“Wait. You are in love?” He chuckled. “You?”
“Is it not possible for me?”
“Ahhh, so it’s a woman that has you so. Now I have to give you my time, for this is a first,” he said, finally taking a seat in the chair beside me. “Do explain. Who this woman? Do not tell me it is—”
“You do not know her well.”
“But, I do know her?” he asked slowly. “Who is it? Gale, you must know, I will not approve—”
“You already approved of her.” I chuckled, looking at the folder in my hand. “In fact, it was because of you I even went to see her. I spent a month with her, and in that month, I fell faster and harder than I ever thought possible. I was nearly slipping downstairs at her voice, laughing as if I would never laugh again. I was happy, and now you and mother and the world...”
I paused, catching myself, forgetting that I was ranting to a man who had no idea what I was talking about. I glanced up at him, expecting him to chastise me for something. But instead, he just stared, his shoulders dropped and his face void of all emotion.
“Father?”
He glanced around the room then back at me.
“Father, are you—”
“Galahad. How long have I been out of sorts?”
I did not answer. I could only stare back at him. He outstretched his hand for the brief, and part of me knew not to, but another part of me, the hope that just wouldn’t die, outstretched my arm and gave him the folder. In silence, he read, flipping the page to read more. He read quietly to the end and closed it. Gripping it tightly, he tried to form a smile, but it just looked as if his face was pulled in different directions, one of grief and the other trying to remain composed as a king would.
“I understand nothing but the date,” he confessed, swallowing the lump in his throat. “And it isn’t the date in my mind.”
“Father—”
“No.” He held up his hand. “There is no point in my knowing what has happened. I do not know how long it will be until I forget again.”
“Right,” I whispered, looking down at my hands.
“Gale, son...”
I bit my lip, trying harder than ever to remain composed as well. “Yes, Father.”
“Whatever you are struggling through, you shall overcome it.”
I shook my head. “I am unsure if I can. I am not like you, not like Arthur—”
“No one is completely like anyone. I do not know what causes you to feel inadequate. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was because I failed you.”
“Never,” I said quickly, looking at him. “Father, never, it was me who was immature and callous, and—”
