protected - dnf

eighteen, pt. 2

⌌⊱⇱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰⌍

            Clay stood at his desk, gripping the edge of the table tightly.

A storm raged inside of his chest – a hurricane. He had felt like this before. Felt angry. Confused. But he had always been able to manage it.

Now, his emotions felt out of control.

For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. He felt like throwing something, maybe, or destroying something. Just to make the outside look the way he felt on the inside. But before he could do anything stupid, an image outside his window caught his eye. He watched George lead Daisy from the stables, jump on her back, and ride through the castle gates into the darkening night.

The sight startled him. He sat down heavily at his desk, the image filling up his mind and momentarily quieting the storm.

George left, like Clay had told him to. Was he leaving for good?

Let him go, a bitter, retributive voice in his head hissed. You can find a servant who's twice as good, and half as irritating.

But the instant he let himself actually picture a world without George by his side, that sentiment crumbled away like sand.

George was special. He was smart. Smarter than people gave him credit for. He was incredibly brave. Every time Clay got himself in a scrape, George threw himself in right alongside him, even though he had no real way to defend himself. He had an incredibly good heart. He cared about everything and everyone, even animals, to a degree Clay sometimes found ridiculous, but always endearing.

There was nobody else like George, not to Clay. His being Clay's servant was just a technicality. The idea of replacing him was – was laughable.

And Clay had just told him to leave.

But you had to, Clay told himself, his mind spinning again, the storm starting up and swirling his thoughts into gusts. George had been defending magic. He had been irrational, had been saying dangerous things. What else was Clay supposed to do?

The inherent evil of magic was something Clay knew to be true. Fundamentally. Deep down, in the parts of himself that never changed. He knew his duty was to protect the things he cared most about: his family, his friends, and above all, Camelot. He also knew that magic threatened Camelot. Every time. Without exception. Therefore, his duty was to eliminate magic.

But apparently, George believed differently. Didn't that count for something? Didn't it count that Clay, himself, had seen a gray area? Had hesitated when looking into that woman's eyes?

What if George is right? he thought, and even putting that sentiment into words felt terrifying. It was questioning a premise he had accepted unquestioningly for his entire life. It was challenging his father's bedrock beliefs. It was acknowledging that, all this time, for all these years, Clay might have been wrong.

His mother's words echoed softly in his head. You know truth, Clay.

He didn't know what the truth was in this moment. His father and George, two people he trusted implicitly, had looked at the same woman, had heard the same words, and had left with entirely different minds. Clay had left torn between the two. Directly in the middle.

Clay needed to see the sorcerer again, for himself. Needed to talk to her. Surely, he must have missed something about her – something that would unlock the answer, something that would confirm to him that his father was being rational, rather than tyrannical. That he hadn't based his worldview on a lie. He felt himself stand and move towards the doors, propelled forward by the steady drum of his heartbeat in his ears.