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“Why would you think I have any answers to these questions?” she demanded impatiently, hands on hips.
“But you—”
“Are-am merely the messenger,” she interjected.
Then, she looked him up and down in a deploring way.
“Word of advice though.”
“Why would I—”
“You have to let Arthur go.”
Lancelot reared back as if she’d kicked him in the face.
“No,” he uttered without thinking.
Simply—no.
“You have to,” she persisted.
“This spell you’re under, the spell you think that has protected you—in a sense it has. But it has also done more harm than good. And I wonder whether it was intended to do good in the first place.”
Gibberish. It was as if she was speaking an alien language, Lancelot thought.
But she kept going.
“In order to free you both, you must let him go. The Bond between you has become a festering wound. The more you feed it, the more it tears at you. You must let go to give it a chance to heal. Give Arthur a chance to stop resenting you. To see youas he once did, without sorrow, remorse, and ruined dreams to color his perception.”
“Why are you telling me this? How can you know?” Lancelot whispered, staring at her in shock.
She deflated like a paper doll upon the moss-covered rock.
“Once upon a time, I had a hand in this wretched mess,” she lamented.
“Mind you, it wasn’t done on purpose. The princess could have gone to any witch worth their salt to bolster her own already powerful spells. It just so happened that I was the witch that day. Or rather, I inhibited the witch’s consciousness for a time. I knew what she was trying to do was wrong. I tried to dissuade her from her course.”
She stared bleakly into Lancelot’s eyes, though he couldn’t follow what she was saying. It made no sense.
What did any of this have to do with him and Arthur?
“Free will,” she said.
“Everyone has it. Even gods can’t change the course of people’s will. Those who try will always fail, and the consequences are dire. There is no Fate or Destiny. Only what you decide. Sometimes, that choice is stolen from you. But as long as you breathe, as long as you live, you will have more choices to make.”
Lancelot simply stared at her. Uncomprehending.
The fake-Lady went doggedly on.
“The princess made her choice. She ruined many lives in the process, including Arthur’s entire family—his father, by extension his brother, and…you. Her choices led to her ultimate demise. She’s probably roasting in a hell somewhere, if you believe in that sort of thing. In any case, she’s quite irrevocably dead.”
The Lady’s eyes shimmered hypnotically, making Lancelot listen even more closely.
“Whereas you, Sir Lancelot the Brave, are very much alive. You have choices to make. Don’t squander them.”
Her form gradually grew transparent. He stepped forth to reach out to her. Was she even real?
“Don’t forget the Everlasting Embrace,” she reminded him as she disappeared.
