Mace had never seen her like this: frightened, fragile. He watched her as she stood apart, composing herself as best she could. It was a thin facade, thinner even than her body; none of these changes were lost on him. He wanted to tell her that she had no reason to be ashamed, that he would never judge her, that she would never need to hide…but she was asking about Tristan, and he could not deny her. An easy deflection. He half-smiled.
“He’s coming back to himself,” he reassured her, and could not help raising a hand to brush her arm. It was impossible not to touch her, now that he could. “I don’t think he hates you. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t spoken of you – or at least, not to me. I’m sure he knows that would not be well-received.” His smile turned wry, and his breath came out heavy, a half-sigh. “He’s…confused, I think. It’s a lot to process. But he has good people, out there. And he has me. He’s not alone.”
He said it for himself, as much as he said it for her. And he believed it. Mostly.
The truth was, Tristan was getting better, but it was slow progress…too slow. Mace was torn between a desire to protect him, give him space, give him the time he needed, and the pressing awareness that if he took too long they would fail. People would die. Tristan would die. It was why he could not say to Morgana, or anyone, that everything would be okay – he could not make that kind of promise, not even to ease her pain. Not when they tiptoed, every day, along a knife-edge.
But Mace had spent most of his life with death breathing down his neck; that internal conflict did not show on his face. His fears and doubts were quiet, subdued beneath the familiar music of her voice, the stillness in the room, the scent of her that he could hardly believe was real, so often had it chased his dreams. He knew how important it was to hold the tender moments with both hands. To feel joy when it was offered. The victors in war were always the ones that could laugh in the face of danger, and rest even while bombs fell. The victors knew to conserve their strength, and remember what is was they fought for.
Mace fought for her.
“I’ll keep an eye out for him. Thank you,” he said, deftly avoiding a conversation about “Guy,” and wrapped his arms around her waist as she leaned into him. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a list prepared. I’ll make sure to do my homework before luring you down an alley, in the future.” She took his hands, and her fingers laced through his felt dextrous and strong but tiny compared to his. Delicate. He’d always loved that about her – how her grace belied her strength. Silk and steel. His eyes softened, crinkled with his smile.
“I would pay good money to watch you school them all.” It was an intoxicating visual, that warmed in his voice. Morgana in jeans, a little sweat sparkling in the mountain sunlight, her hair breaking free of a ponytail. A goddess of the arena. “All those boys will fall so hard for you they’ll barely notice how badly they lost. And I’ll applaud from the stands and tell them, that’s my girl…”
Could they have that? If anyone deserved it, they did – a man had never loved a woman like he loved this one, and surely nobody had suffered as much as they had, in their determination to stand by their principles and do right by the entire goddamn world. After all that pain, that sacrifice…surely they were owed the peace of each other’s company, uninterrupted. Surely he was entitled to see her safe, and happy, and free.
He wanted to be her safe place. He wanted to be her freedom.
“As you wish,” he whispered against her lips, quick to obey her command. I would give you everything, he said with his kiss, with his hands pulling her closer, trembling faintly beneath the weight of longing. Every time he’d kissed her, the world had stopped, but this time it seemed instead to transport him. He could see, clear as a winter morning, the way he’d kiss her before God, tender and full of promise. He could see her smile, her hope and nervousness. Could feel his own absolute certainty. If Mace had any future at all, it was her. It had always been her.
“Morgana…” he murmured, pulling away enough to kiss both corners of her mouth, her cheek, her forehead. Then he looked her in the eye. “Marry me, when this is over. I’ll build you a house at the edge of the world, where there is nothing but sky and wilderness, where you can run whenever you need space. I’ll be whatever you want, whatever you need. You make me a better man. You make this life worth living.”
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