Encounter in the gardens (Patreon)

You have to get away from the feast before you unravel. You’re barely holding yourself together, the snagged threads of your composure slipping through your fingers. You find the balcony doors open and you flee through them, down the marble steps, away from the dizzying brightness into the shadow-shrouded gardens. You dash down gravel paths of neatly trimmed hedges and blooming roses bushes tall enough to swallow you up, with nothing but the full moon to guide you. The music and voices fade out and you start feeling like yourself again; no longer overwhelmed with that itching restlessness, that need to retreat to the nearest crevice that’ll fit you, a burrowing animal taking refuge from the mean, sharp teeth of a predator. You need a respite, need space. You’ve done all that was expected of you tonight: you talked and smiled and danced, all while nursing your wounded heart.

Tonight, for the first time in well over a year, you were in the same room as Arthur. The father – so many years absent – that you love so much, that you had no choice but to excise out of your life yourself – slowly, painfully, bloodily – so that once again he is nothing more than a shadow looming over you.

You point your steps towards the silvery sound of flowing water, and come upon a fountain, topped by an over-sized marble goose with its wings open as if about to attack, spurting out water from its beak. You sit down on the edge of the basin, pull your legs to your chest and dip your fingers in the cool, bracing water. Your thoughts will hardly be marshaled into anything resembling order, but you try your best to focus on familiar words, calling out to a familiar presence, one you’ve reached out towards since your childhood. You easily pick up on the Goddess’s magic, a current pulling at you even through the still water – you only need surrender yourself to it.

Slowly, you regain a modicum of composure – it’s almost all dissolved by the rustling that comes next. You flinch and almost flee away, a spooked bird, before you realize how silly you’re acting and settle back down, then almost flee a second time.

Approaching the fountain – with the sad, apologetic smile of the tenderhearted farmer coming to fetch the lamb for slaughter – is Arthur. His voice is quiet as he points towards the fountain and asks, “Can I?” as if afraid to scare you away.

You should be scared away – you spell nothing but trouble for him. But something in his eyes makes you stay.

Your voice is no louder when you respond. “Yes.”

He sits on the edge opposite you so that the falling water separates you, not so much obscuring but blurring his face, turning it into a melancholy smear.

If only matters were different, if only it could all go back to how it were before you knew the truth. You wish to tell him to go, remind him that you won’t allow yourself to cause him any more hurt that you already had, all these years, without your intent, without your knowledge. Yet you couldn’t stand that wounded expression on him, can’t stand to turn him away when you can see in your father’s face how, whenever he goes, he leaves another piece of his pockmarked heart behind.

It’s Arthur who breaks the silence. “How have you been? I mean, what with what happened then, but also – in general. How have you been?” Each word is clumsily strung together.

“I’ve been fine,” you reply, giving the saddest, most pitiful fine possible.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? It’s not your fault,” you gently say, “You needn’t trouble yourself with me.”

Arthur lets out incredulous, brittle laugh. “Don’t say that, Mordred.” He pauses. Beyond the sheet of water, his face is thoughtful and distorted. “I wish I knew the right thing to say to you. I wish there was something I could do to take this pain away from you, but I can hardly take it off myself at times. But it will get better.”

How can it get better? Every passing year brings you closer to your doomed destiny, to becoming the weapon of destruction you were born to be – that you fear – meant to ruin the father you love.

“No matter how much time passes,” Arthur says, “whether we write or speak or not, if you need me, you can always reach out to me.”

Your throat tightens. You couldn’t talk even if you knew what to say. You know what you want to say – reach out to him right now, bridge the gap you dug yourself, bury your face into his shoulder and cry. Instead you run.

No footsteps come behind you.