Because sometimes just one isn't enough...

Long Lost Part Twelve

There's a fire starting in my heart
Reaching a fever pitch
And it's bringing me out the dark

"You slept with Guinevere," Lisa repeated, but this time hesitantly.

Alex's reaction didn't change. The shock was stamped on his face, and it was slowly becoming something else: fury. "No, I didn't."

"But she said..."

Her words tailed off as she realised just what that meant.

Alex strode up to her: his eyes were livid, his pride clearly cut to the quick. "Is that why you ran so far, so fast?" he said, and his voice was thick, a mix of wonder and anger. "For a lie?"

The world was tilting, as if the ground slid from under her feet. And she didn't understand: she couldn't. "Why else?" she whispered.

The air between them was close and tense. His hands were hooked, trembling at his sides, not reaching for her, deliberately not touching her. But despite his anger, his eyes would not meet hers.

"I love you," he said. "You're everything, everything to me!"

And as if he could contain himself no longer, his fingers brushed her cheek. The touch was soft as a whisper, but it lanced through her like a falling star, all speed and heat.

The world split apart in a flash of white.

There was the hollow night – and there was the cataclysmic chaos of his mind. A vast tempest roared around her, a brew of truth and emotions that beat upon her with the intensity of rain.

"Everything..." he declared and the word was the crack of thunder in his soul, carrying splintered memories on it like lightning.

...summer in Cadbyri, wildflowers tangling in the hedges. Her face was so startled when he found her gathering herbs as if the country wasn't riddled with Saxons. He'd shouted while she looked at him as if he was an utter fool, and then produced the most enormous knife from her basket. His reaction had been to scoff – and hers had been to kick him in the shin. When he stood, or rather hopped up, she flinched back, realising just what she had done, fear dew-bright in her eyes... until he burst into laughter, because what else could he do with a girl like this?

...When she laughed too, he realised it was the first time she'd done so: for a moment his heart lurched, and he didn't know why.

...cold nights in the fortress, autumn tumbling in on fallen leaves and icy gusts. She was huddled in front of the fire, miserable, and he came in on quiet feet to drape a bearskin over her shoulders. Her fingers curled around it – surprise in her face, flickering like the reflection of the flames.

...Puzzled, she said, "Why?" and he said "I wanted to."

...he came back from a battle, aching, latticed with wounds.. Too many men dead: he knew the Empire had to fall, but it was so slow and so ugly. His room was empty of the living, his dreams packed with the dead, piled up like rocks on a cairn as he shivered with fever. And then warmth spread over him – a hazy orange glow held back the shadows. Damp cloth on his skin, cleaning away the blood and the memories. He saw, dimly, her above him, her expression a mesh of concern and pity and maybe something else, something better. She hummed songs that followed him into his dreams like an enchantment, sweet enough to soothe even the dead. When he woke, it was to her calm hands and silence.

...He said, muzzy, "Why?" and she said, "I wanted to."

...it was one spring evening, like any other, as he wrote the long dull reports Rome demanded. Except that when she had lit the candles, she did not leave. She blew out the taper, and the scent of smoke filled the air. Candlelight gilded her, danced in her eyes, and she was beautiful, gods, so beautiful. She plucked the stylus from his hand, and pushed the tablet aside. When she bent down and kissed him, it was fire that burst between them, fire and hunger and this need he'd never known.

...and neither of them asked why, because the answer had not changed.

Alex drew back, but the warmth of his touch burned on her cheek: dazed, she swayed like a tree bending under a gale. His voice was low and savage.

"And you think I'd throw that away? For Neve?"

"What else was I supposed to think? You left me there! You went to war, and you left her to care for me." And she was seventeen again, irrevocably altered by one night in a smoke-filled room, hurting in ways she could hardly comprehend. Lisa swallowed tears, throat aching, because she had to cling to her dignity, to something that might keep her whole. "I woke up a vampire and alone, and you'd run..."

Her voice broke – the words shivered into gasps as she fought back the grief. Please, please. She couldn't cry in front of him...

He turned away; his breath was ragged, as if the air would saw him in two. "I know," he said. "I did run. I was stupid and I was scared. I'd realised how much I had to lose, and I couldn't bear to lose anything more. I needed – I don't know…space, time, something. So I ran to the border and the Saxons, but it didn't help. It took me half a war to understand what I needed – it was you, it was still you, and it was always you. And I thought...if I told you...you might forgive me for what I'd done..."

His silhouette was black on the charcoal sky, fingers scrunched in his hair.

"And you were gone," he said quietly. "Neve told me..." His throaty laugh was bitter. "Well, it doesn't matter, does it? It was another of her lies. I just didn't know it."

"Neither did I," she said. "She showed me memories-"

A snarl rolled from him. "What, exactly, did she show you?"

"You and her. Everywhere, every when, every how." She forced an awkward smile that he did not see. "That's some imagination she's got."

"So it seems. I wish I knew why she did it. She is – was – my oldest friend. I thought that meant something."

Myriad small moments connected in her mind, like an optical illusion sliding into focus to form a new and terrible shape. Comments that had a coating of poison, the occasional look in Guinevere's eyes, flashing by so fast Lisa had always thought it a mistake, her steady, fierce devotion to Alex when it gained her nothing.

"It did," she said slowly. "Just not enough."

She dreamed, sometimes, of Guinevere looming over her, fangs bared and eyes hungry, as if her intent was to kill, not to save. Of her blood-red lips, curving into a smirk-

Until an unfamiliar voice, harsh and flat, had wiped away the cruel smile. Lisa could not recall the words: only that Guinevere's pinching fingers had become gentle, her expression a mask of care. That voice had saved her, she was sure.

"She loved you," she told him. "She wanted you. And I got in the way."

He did not speak or move. And she felt pity for him: she had lived with Guinevere's betrayal for years. All she was learning was that it had been betrayal of a different nature. But for Alex, the wound was new, deep, violent. His world was dissolving like a sandcastle beneath the tide, nothing left but swirling dust.

And the lies he told her...

Revelation rose over her like the crest of a wave. It broke in a cold shock, because of course, he hadn't lied.

A thousand years of fear, of flight, of hurt and hate and empty homes she'd left like sloughed-off snakeskins had all been for the wrong reason.

She said, hardly aware the words left her, "Oh, god, why..."

The wasted years – the dead, the war, all of it, it had been for one woman's lie.

He had loved her. He still loved her. It should have been joyful: it should have been wonderful. But instead it was the two of them, separated and shellshocked, with the truth as black as the sky.

Alex turned back to her. The bleakness in his eyes was a match for her heart. His words were a rasp, laden with the bitterness of one who knew love and obsession and jealousy, and all they could engender.

"Because she wanted to."

-o0o-

Vaje stood, breathing hard. Then someone whooped, and cheers broke out around him as people surged forward. Moments swirled by in a press of bodies, of handshaking, congratulation, noisy madness.

When the commotion eased, the next man in front of him was Alexandros.

"Remarkable," he said in liquid Latin, incomprehensible to those around them. He clapped Vaje on the shoulder, but his eyes went past him, to where Galahad lay in a large heap on the floor. "You do realise he'll try and kill you."

"I'd be offended if he didn't," he answered.

Alex nodded, a cynical twist to his smile. "I'd order him not to, but all it would do is make several unsubtle murderer attempts into subtle ones. He was never gracious in defeat. Or in victory, for that matter. It would be wise for you to leave Cadbyri for a while."

"I assume you have somewhere for me to go."

"Very perceptive. Though I would expect nothing else from one who wears the marks of Hades on him." Those black eyes were cool and knowing. "Which are you? K'Shaia or Pursang?"

Vaje fervently thanked anyone listening for the lack of travel and modern technology which made his next words virtually unverifiable. "Neither, these days. I used to be Pursang's, but there was too much talking and not enough action, so I moved on."

Every word true. If Alexandros skimmed the surface of his thoughts, and Vaje didn't doubt he would, he would find only honest conviction.

"Pursang always loved words more than war." His smile was unexpectedly boyish. "I, on the other hand, have war enough to fill this cold country. And I can use a man like you, if I can trust you."

"You can, but my word's not much use, is it?" he said wryly.

"No. Which is why you have an opportunity to prove yourself. The Saxons have taken a valuable prisoner. You may know her – the Lady Nimue's sister, Morgan Le Fey. She is quite mad, but a gifted prophetess. I would not have her power in the hands of our enemy."

Vaje thought of Nimue and Merlin's angry words, and some of his vitriol, her pain, became clear.

"What do you need from me?" he asked.

"She's held a day's ride from here. The camp is heavily protected, both by magic and by force of arms. I've found an excuse to send an embassy – and you will go with them. Rescue Morgan and try not to get anyone killed in the process."

"Sounds easy," he said lightly. But it would take him away from here – from Lisa. He could hardly protect her from Guinevere when long grim miles separated them.

A cool gleam danced in Alex's eyes. "It won't be. But that's why you'll have help. If you've spent any time with Nimue, you'll have met Merlin. He should be able to protect you from their spells. And of course, I can hardly send an embassy to the Saxons without a suitable figurehead."

"Is that all I am?"

Her voice was low, throaty, lazy. The eyes that met Vaje's were the colour of steel, of cold lifeless things, which gave the lie to her warm smile. Guinevere knew precisely how beautiful she was, and how easily distracted people were by such flukes of nature.

Vaje was careful to keep the thought buried deep, offering her a small bow.

"Eminently suitable," said Alex, flinging her the carefree smile of an old friend, affectionate and empty of passion. "But hardly a figurehead. Gawain, meet Guinevere, empress of Britain, a lady of Nightfire and my wife." He said the last as if it was barely relevant. "She will lead the embassy as the last of the royal line and as my voice in this matter."

"An interesting choice, Artos," she said, taking in Vaje with one cool look. "He is hardly one of us."

"And if he fails, it will hardly harm our reputation," answered Alex. "You cannot deny his skill, Neve."

She gave an elegant shrug. "Well, we shall see if you can outwit the Saxons as easily as you did Galahad."

He heard the threat in her words, matched in the meaningless curve of her red, red lips. He would succeed or die. And he would do it without her help. He was mere entertainment to this cold woman.

So he would succeed. He would outwit the Saxons.

And then, he thought, we will see if I can outwit you.

-o0o-

His hands were shaking as he laid the wards down, and not from the cold. That was no surprise, but neither was it good craft. And this had to be good: it had to be the best magic of his life.

And of hers.

Every day, every night, Cern saw her. It didn't matter that Jal had been dead for two years: her image was tattooed onto his heart. People had told him that it would get easier, that the grief would fade. They had lied.

Instead, he moved a world that seemed leached of life and of purpose: a grey, drained world that was full of people who didn't care that she was dead. Who thought that it was right, or at least inevitable. So he had left them behind.

Sometimes, he wondered if that had been a mistake. If their rowdy, crowded lives and their awkward consolation and their unasked for love would have filled up the empty spaces, like dye seeping into fabric. Sometimes, he missed them too. But not often, and not like he missed her.

It was a sickness, his grief for her, relentless and cruel and debilitating. There were times when he dreamed of her, green eyes half hidden by that swirl of golden hair, her smile shy, her hands tentative. He woke, peaceful, forgetting that she was dead.

And then it crashed back in on him. He was alive. Jal was not.

That would change. He had the spell. The ingredients were remarkably simple, but then, it hardly required elegance – just power.

"You're sure about this?" he said, though he didn't want to ask. Panic constricted his heart at the thought that she might recant-

It was hard to make out Guinevere's face in the gathering dark but there was no mistaking the ring of conviction in her voice. "Certain. What do you need me to do?"

Cern finished the wards. Air, earth, fire, water, none of them strong because he was conserving as much of his power as possible. Just enough to ensure no one would know what he had done until it was over and she was back.

He did not notice how thick the shadows were beyond the clearing, bristling at the edge of his wards like a swarm of flies. He did not notice that they pooled in Guinevere's eyes and crawled up her ankles.

"Nothing yet. Once I start the spell, I'll need your blood. Make a cut somewhere – your hand or arm is best." He walked over to the scorched patch on the ground, staring down at it. He had cleared off the snow and in the dim light, it looked like a bloodstain. "You might need to reopen it. Your blood has to last until the end. Let it fall here."

Guinevere rolled back her sleeve, untouched by the cold, untouched by fear.

Cern wished he had her confidence. What if Jal blamed him for letting her die? What if she didn't love him? What if...what if it didn't work?

No. It had to.

He unrolled the scroll, paranoid that it might tear. Silently, he ran over the words, which seemed to shift on the page. He had seen them before, words of power, of a language so old it was all but forgotten. But never so many together, never like this. Words to tear open the world, words to reach into the void and drag back the dead.

"I'm ready," he said. Nerves and excitement jittered through him like electricity. "Last chance to back out."

Her voice was soft and warm. Cern did not turn to see her face; if he had, he would have seen that she was swallowed by shadow, nothing visible but a glimmer of teeth, bared in a spiteful smile. "Not for all the world."

-o0o-

The ride was long, meandering through a land still half-wild. The Roman roads that scored the countryside like wounds were starting to crack and crumble. Hedges and clumps of trees overhung the stone, creating shadowy green avenues that hid the hints of civilisation.

They were a small company, escorted by a dozen warriors who carried the ransom. Guinevere rode easily, her carriage as elegant on horseback as on foot. Merlin, on the other hand, looked like a sack of potatoes as he lurched from side to side. His horse was wild-eyed and snorting, as if it could hardly bear the scent of him.

"I thought you druids were supposed to be at one with nature," remarked Guinevere airily.

"We are. Sometimes nature disagrees," snapped Merlin.

"Or is it that you truly are half demon?" She cantered up beside him, her face all innocence and her voice all poison. "It would explain so much."

He did not answer her.

"And you," she said, turning her attention to Vaje. "You won my husband's trust very easily."

"I've won nothing but the chance to prove myself. Your husband is no fool."

"You seem very confident of that."

He gave her a little salute. She thrived on conflict, so he would starve her of it. "He married you, didn't he?"

She looked startled, then laughed. "Is there a courtier under that boiled leather? Has the Lady Nimue cast a glamour on you?"

That sly jab was far too close to the truth.

"Take care what you say about the Lady Nimue," Merlin warned, a hint of a snarl in his voice. "She is no liar."

"Did I say she was?" Guinevere tossed her hair back. "It was a comment on Gawain, Merlin, not our fey lady. He is a curious sort. A very dangerous man, I think." Those grey eyes were flat as stone. "A man with secrets."

"And I keep them well," he said mildly. "Every man has them. Lost loves, shameful deeds done in darkness, words spoken that were better not." Truth, every word; sketching a careful lie.

"Petty deeds." Her glance slid away, as if she were bored. She rode up to the head of the column, leaving him with Merlin.

"A petty woman, I think," he voiced softly, slowing his horse to a gentle walk to give Merlin some respite.

The sorcerer grimaced at every jolt. "Few see it. They call her regal and haughty. In truth, she is that basest of things."

He remembered the look in her eyes when Lisa went by. "Jealous."

"Yes. Artos is blind to it." Those blue eyes were shrewd. "Nimue trusts you. And I trust her."

"Really?" he said, arching an eyebrow.

A faint flush crept up his face. "We disagree. It's in our nature, I'm afraid. She is half-fey, and I...I am half-demon. The two are bitterest enemies. Our magics are anathema to each other – and yet...and yet I keep hoping that we are more human than monster, human enough to love."

"You're no monster," he said firmly.

His smile was taut. "I try not to be. Some days are easier than others." He sighed. "This will be one of the hard ones. The Saxons have a sorceress of their own."

"Tell me you don't have to duel," said Vaje grimly. He'd seen enough magical battles to know that the fallout was always ugly and never predictable.

Merlin shook his head. "No. It's a show, but they expect an impressive one."

"And the Lady Guinevere? What does she provide?"

"Ah. Part of any meeting with the Saxons is the exchanging of stories. They treat them like currency. And not only does the lady know every tale that's told in the isles, she has the skill to tell them well." Merlin's tone was grudging. "Combine one of her gentler sagas with a little magic, and half the camp will be asleep. Which is your opportunity."

He nodded. "Sounds straightforward."

"It won't be." For a few seconds, there was nothing but the clip of the horses' hooves. "Morgan may be...difficult. She was found wounded some months ago, and she has never been the same since. She may resist you. She may speak to you of your past. Of things you want no one to know."

There was something in his voice. "What did she say to you?"

Merlin was staring fixedly at the road. "It was nonsense. The words of a mad, bitter woman who is afraid of her own power."

"Is that really what you believe?"

The sorcerer's back stiffened. "I need to prepare my spells," he said shortly. "Alone."

Message received. Vaje nudged his horse forward, and stayed away from the pair of them. The empress and the magician. If only they were as easy to read as the Tarot.

And before them, he thought with dark humour, comes the fool.

-o0o-

He was crumpling before her, and Lis did not know what to do. He had been her adversary so long in something as enduring and faithful as a marriage. And it was not so different, she supposed: vows sworn before witnesses, a pledge ringing through the years to the very edge of the grave.

"She loved me," he said dumbly. "She loved me and yet she did this?"

"She did this because she loved you," she said. It made it no easier to bear.

Tentative, now, unsure how the tables had turned so swiftly and so easily, she took his hand.

Lightning lashed through their joined hands: she blazed in the contact, in the scorching glow of his anger and his – yes, his hurt. His mind was open as the night sky, glittering with a thousand thoughts, open as he had never been before because of his secrets...

So many secrets… Scraps of his thoughts drifted to her like snowflakes. A sleeping king. The queen of darkness. The lord of the dead empty-eyed on his throne. The promise of a boy who did not know – oh gods, I did not know…

She stood there, inside his soul and she said, so softly it was hardly spoken at all, "Did you betray me?"

No, she expected to hear. No, it was Guinevere, the master playing a terrible game of chess and even the king merely a piece upon the board. No, it was not me.

Yes and yes and oh gods, a thousand time yes, but not the way you think. Not with Guinevere.

Dizziness swept her. Memories crowded at the edge of her mind, just beyond her reach, insubstantial things that capered in her nightmares.

She was trembling, afraid now. "What did you do?"

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was younger then – I didn't know...love was nothing, a word, a stupid word.

"Tell me," she pleaded, her voice a husk of nothing.

Lisa...

"Tell me!"

The night inside him and the night outside seemed to merge, to become one until all the world was dark and hollow, until the stars went out one by one by one. There was no sound but the cold whistling wind, no one beneath the sky but her.

His whisper shook the world.

I killed our son.

The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can't help thinking that we could have had it all

-o0o-

Thank you for reading. Thoughts very much adored.