The Last Knights of Cambria Book 1: Echoes of Gideon

Chapter 11: Welsh castle of secrets

The king is unable to stay for long. It's clear he's having trouble breathing even as he smiles around at the faces of his people, awash in summer sunlight, happy, and confident he'll keep them safe even if he's not sure he can do that. He's wheezing by the end of the first dance, and Rhiannon takes his arm, and Gareth nods for me to take the other one. He leans heavily on me, but tries not to show it, lines of pain in his face.
When we make it back to the castle the servants disperse, and Gareth takes over, looping an arm under his brother's shoulders, nodding for me that he's got it from here. The king collapses, coughing uncontrollably and struggling for breath.
I'm eager to be away from the crowds, and find dinner then retreat to my room for some quiet before I set out to find Dancer. I'm not accustomed to being wrong about things, and I don't usually trouble myself with matters of other's hearts. However, against my better judgment, Dancer is my friend.
I go down to the library, where of course there are candles still burning.
Dancer is as ever slumped at his desk, a couple of books in front of him, chewing on his lip and lost in thought, greasy hair hanging half in his face.
"Go away," he says, without looking up.
"Can I talk to you a minute?"
"No, see previous."
"Are you in love with the king?" I ask, folding my arms, as I stand in the middle of the library.
"Close the goddamn door," he snarls, getting up and moving to do so, but I slam it shut with magic.
"Well?" I ask, cocking my head.
"How did you find out?" He asks, going to lean against the desk, "I—nobody knows."
"Yes, and while everyone in this castle has three collective braincells which you have at all times, I occasionally get a turn," I say.
"That's not answering me. What did you do? How did you know?" He growls.
"Well, you look at his lips whenever he speaks, let's start there."
"Oh."
"Your eyes are forever on him. When he talks of dying you contradict it, you care less for saving Wales and more for saving him," I sigh, "I may be ignorant of love, but I am not blind."
"Why are you telling me this?" He asks, looking down at his feet.
"Because I'm guessing you don't want other people to know," I say.
"You would be right," he snarls.
"And if I noticed, me, being me, it's more than a bit obvious," I say, gently.
"It doesn't matter. Isn't that the worst sentence in the world, Gideon? My love does not matter," he says, his voice wavering with pain.
"Do you know that he doesn't return your feelings?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, putting the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop up any tears.
"Did you ask him?" I ask, gently.
"I know it in my heart," he whispers, miserably.
"So, no, you didn't ask him," I say, dryly.
"I know—I know—I know him," Dancer sighs, finally lowering his hands from his tear-stained face, "God, do I know him. He does not care for me that way. Which is fine. This way I can be close to him. He can never, ever know."
"But—," I feel bad, wondering if this is the cause of his self harm? Or something more?
"There is no second clause to that. There is nothing. That is the epilogue. I'm not a man like you," he says.
"And what is a man like me?" I ask, the familiar anger taking seat in my chest. All my life I've been a 'like' a something. A person like that. One of those kids. We didn't know he'd be like that. We don't know why he's like that. Here are some drugs to try to stop him from being like that.
"Like you? You're stone. Nothing touches you, not war or age, we'll all fade away you'll still be here with rivers and valleys named for you— men like you don't break. Men like me were waiting to be broken," he sighs, "I wish I had your spirit."
"You don't know anything about me," I say, shaking my head.
"I know that you'll survive, until true evil comes along to kill you finally. Because nothing good lasts in this world, or he wouldn't be dying," Dancer sighs.
"I'm sorry," I say, quietly. He's only talking through his grief. He mistakes my silence for strength and it is not. It is not.
"No, you aren't. You can't be sorry enough, its fine I don't want anyone to feel what I feel," Dancer says, softly, "I'm glad. I don't want you to begin to imagine. The first person to show you kindness and he's starlight. And you can never have him. I had nothing before I met him, and I'll have less than nothing when he's gone for all I'll be left with is an empty heart."
"Dancer—he cares for you back. He does. And he wouldn't want you in this kind of pain," I say, gently.
"He does not care for me, as I care for him," Dancer snarls.
"We all have different sorts of love to give. Just because our love doesn't match another's, doesn't mean it has less value. Or it's not real," I say, quietly. The words of a teacher, years ago now. I was crying, hiding under my desk. My mother usually came and got me at lunch that day she forget she was meeting a new boyfriend. And I was expecting her to come. And my teacher was telling me that just because somebody else's love didn't match yours  didn't mean it didn't matter. "Sometimes we have more love for someone than they can take, or they know what to do with. And you're always left with more to given and you've got no place to put it."
"You plagiarize that from a book as well?" Dancer asks, wiping tears and snot from his face as he leans against the desk, limp and defeated.
"No. A teacher told me that. Once. All my life—you see, my parents gave me up. When I was a baby. We don't know how old I was. Because my mother left me at a—at a shop—," it was a gas station. Went in to get gas. And buy cigarettes. And she put me down in the back by the coolers of water and the beer and she put me on the floor, and she left. "—and she went and left, and they called people. And they never found out how old I was or anything. Or who she was really. And they expected that she didn't want me. But I always figured that maybe she was trying to save me from a worse place, that maybe there was some good in it. So all my life I've had love for her but I've got nowhere for it to go. And when I was lonely, or scared, with the people who raised me, then all that love would just make me ache inside. Because I didn't have any place for it, there was no one to take it. But I think, I've learned, finally. That, perhaps it doesn't need to go anywhere. Maybe. Wherever she is. She can feel it too. Time, and space, aren't as constant as we think and there's so much more in this universe than even you or I know. So when I want to know who she was, or want her to hold me and love me back. I let the love go, because maybe she needs it. Or feels it too. So then, that's all right, or as close to all right, as a star crossed, mixed up, wanderer like me will find."
"I'm not as strong as you are, Gideon," he whispers softly.
"I'm not strong," I say, shrugging. It isn't easy. It wasn't easy, listening at a door. While they told my adoptive parents, that my mother drove off a cliff with probably my father in the car. What they got of the remains, both drunk. But she saved me. She saved me from whatever was chasing them. She did that. That was all the love she had to give me. And I am having a really good time.
"No, Gideon, I'm telling you. I am not strong like you. I cannot do that. I will die. I will destroy myself. I will never learn what I should have before which is how I'm meant to live with just me, just my love, alone. That wound is too deep and it's ruining me," he says, tears bubbling in his eyes.
I don't know what he means because I haven't felt it. But I hug him anyway. He slumps into me, sobbing as I hug him tightly. When I first came he was taller, now I am, and I feel my arms thick and strong around his slim frame.
"I'm warning you. I'm falling apart," he whispers, sobbing.
"We'll hold you together," I say, hugging him tightly. But I know the love I have for him will never be enough. Whatever he needs or thinks he needs is well beyond my reach. But this is all I have to give so I'll give it. "Shh. Shh. I'll do whatever you ask."
"No, you won't. Nobody will," he moves away, wiping his face, "You can't give me what I need."
"What do you need?" I sigh. Him to love you back? I can't do anything about that. I mean, he's dying and rather busy, but I would not 100% rule out the king returning his feelings like, he doesn't act straight and he's very attached to our Dancer. "What can I give to you?"
"Your noble heart?" He laughs, dryly, "But I can't have that can I, Gideon?"
"You just haven't seen me at my worst. I'm not as strong as you think," I say.
"Oh, I've a feeling you are," he smiles, mirthlessly, "I'll be well, Gid. You're fine. Go wherever you go, when you're not haunting me here."
"I want to help," I say, shrugging.
"You cannot. Nor can you tell anyone. It only matters to me," he says, going back to his books.
I nod, going to the door, "Come and find me anytime all right? I—I know I can't do much. But I can listen. I'm not claiming to be good at this I'm going to guess Gareth is good at this—,"
"Gareth is NOT good at this do you not pay attention to Gareth's lack of a personal life that doesn't involve violently attempting to parent us?" Dancer asks.
"Um—no?"
"Yeah, trust me, he's not good at this. If he were, I wouldn't be alive. Goodnight, Gideon."
"I'm not pretending to be good at this, but. I'm still here to help," I say.
"I'll keep that in mind," he nods a little.