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And the extraordinary existence of living in Glastonbury amongst the Tor and the legends and the mystical air is all but forgotten in the business of living a life. Alas, the price we pay for proximity to wonder: it gets cheap.
He turned and took off at a lumbering sprint down the road toward Vera. She didn’t pause to consider the potential consequences. Vera kicked her horse into a run, urging her out into the road, where she drew up the reins and stopped so hard that her hood fell back. She unsheathed Lancelot’s sword with both hands, wheeled it in a high arc over her head, and brought it down in front of the boy, halting his path forward. He skidded to a stop and fell back on his bottom, staring up at her in unbridled shock. “I would reconsider,” she said.
Even in the dark, though, the castle was unmistakable. It was not the cold medieval fort structure Vera expected. It was taller, the stone a light pearl color with an opalescent sheen in the moon’s glow.
He nodded to her and bowed to Arthur. “Safe travels, my liege. Happy Yule, happy Christmas, happy whatever the hell we’re celebrating now. We’ll make sure Camelot doesn’t go to shit while you’re away.”
It should have killed him, but it didn’t. According to the storyteller, Percival’s mighty and selfless spirit served as a shield sent from God that kept him alive. All of Arthur’s forces, witnessing this miracle, found untapped strength, and the battle was shortly after won. Arthur knighted Percival right there on the battlefield; the youngest person to ever be knighted.
“You used to sing it in the chapel,” Arthur said. “I didn’t … I wanted to be there for you without hurting you, and I didn’t know how to …” His voice trailed off. “I went to the chapel after you and would sit in the alcove so you wouldn’t be alone.”
“Because he knew you didn’t need protecting.” Vera had never believed that falling in love happened in an instant. It came about over time, as bonds were formed like a thread between two souls, a simple tether with affection that slowly thickened into a golden cable with love. But it was in this exact moment when Gawain’s simple proclamation lodged in Vera as truth, and as Arthur smiled over at her (pride and ease and care—how was it she could see all that in one expression?) that Vera knew. She loved him.
But it wasn’t about being whole. She was broken and messy and utterly, wondrously human, and the weight of that mattered. She mattered.
