[I Cast Gun] - Chapter 39: Journey to the Lodge

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Birds were still chirping their morning exaltations as Arthur and Catherine saw Princess Peace into her armored carriage.

Peace was all smiles as Arthur gave her his hand for stability as she stepped up into the belly of the wood and steel beast that would see her safe to the royal retreat.

“Thank you, Sir Arthur!” Peace said sweetly.

“Thank me when we see you safely to the Lodge,” Arthur grumped back.

“Of course, I shall thank you then, too,” Peace said, slipping into her seat.

Arthur made a noise halfway between a huff and a sigh. Then he closed and bolted the door behind her, sealing Peace inside the carriage.

“You’re in a stellar mood this morning,” Catherine noted, one eyebrow raised.

“Six assigned to the escort, ” Arthur shot back, “and only four of us are fighters.”

“Sir Arthur,” Fourth said from behind them, “have I given you any reason to doubt my abilities?”

Arthur turned and looked the man in the eye, or tried to. For being one of the King’s intelligence officers, the man seemed immune to eye contact, preferring to look at the ground or the distance whenever he spoke to anyone.

“It’s not that I doubt you,” Arthur said flatly. “It’s that I don’t know you. And I don’t trust you.”

“That’s fair,” Fourth said. “Being part of the King’s Left Hand doesn’t provide much opportunity for trust.”

“Let’s get moving,” Arthur waved for the guard to open the gate.

“Right,” Porten agreed. “The sooner we get to the Lodge, the sooner we can have dinner.”

“You have quite the appetite for a mage,” Hugh commented, pulling up alongside him.

“I’m hoping to get fat and die young and happy, instead of dying old, thin, and rickety,” Porten joked.

The carriage driver cracked his whip and the eight horses strained against their yokes.

Arthur wordlessly rode forward to lead the caravan.

And so, they took to the road.

---

The road had been calm. Quiet.

They passed merchants, peddlers, and tradesmen as they made their way out of the city. Most looked only long enough to notice the King’s seal, then found something else to occupy their attention. Once beyond the walls, they passed a scant few farmers and one hunter, all of whom pulled aside and bowed respectfully for the royal carriage.

The hunter left them with a rude hand gesture once they had passed.

Hugh saw that one.

Unfortunately, no one else cared.

By midday, the paved roads had given way to dirt, and the fields began thinning into the managed woods surrounding the King’s hunting retreat. They were making good time. If nothing changed, they would reach the Lodge before nightfall.

Catherine rode beside Porten, discussing various matters related to the Bedivere holdings.

“While as a child I was grateful the Mage Tower would send its mages at my brother’s behest to rebuild our lands, I do wish they would stop using that relationship as a pretense to try and ‘guide’ our crop choices,” Catherine said.

“You wouldn’t expect a craftsman to build a fine armored wagon and not have opinions about its upkeep, would you?” Porten replied with a measured tone.

“Be that as it may, it challenges our house sovereignty…”

The words died on her lips.

An arrowhead protruded from Porten’s eye socket.

For one absurd instant, Catherine only stared.

Then he listed toward her. 

She caught him because he was falling, because he was beside her, because her hands moved before the rest of her understood. His weight struck her shoulder. His blood was hot. It spilled down the front of her dress, soaked into her bodice, ran along her arm, and gathered between her fingers where they clutched his tunic.

Something wet touched her cheek.

She did not look at it.

Porten’s body hitched once against her, trying and failing to breathe.

Then it went still.

Catherine sat astride her horse, holding his corpse.

The world narrowed to his weight.

His blood.

The unfinished sentence in her mouth.

Someone was pulling him away from her.

She resisted. 

She did not know why. Porten was dead. She knew Porten was dead. But her fingers would not open, and for some reason letting go felt like killing him a second time.

Someone pried her hand loose.

Then Arthur was in front of her. 

He checked her quickly, hands moving over her arms, her shoulders, her face, searching for wounds.

Then he held up a... flashlight.

That was what he had called it.

One taken from one of his weapons.

He shone it into her eyes, one at a time, flicking it away almost as quickly as it appeared.

“She’s in shock. Wrap her in a blanket and get her into the carriage.”

Then, sharper:

“Make sure the Princess doesn’t see.”

Catherine watched as if from somewhere outside her body while hands pulled her down from the saddle. A blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Someone guided her forward. Then the world became dark and warm, the armored carriage closing around her, the only light coming through the narrow viewing slits in the sides.

No.

I promised.

The emotions cut through her numbness briefly.

I promised I wouldn’t freeze again.

Then even that slipped away.

Catherine stared into the dimness.

Porten died again.

And again.

And again.

---

As they pulled up to the Lodge, Catherine felt herself becoming more aware of her surroundings.

She heard Arthur ordering Hugh to take care of the Princess.

And the body.

Porten’s body.

She shuddered.

Before, she had not been able to let go. 

Now she could not bear the thought of seeing him.

Porten.

A reminder of her failure.

Arthur opened the door, an outline against the darkening sky.

He leaned over her and asked. “Can you walk?”

Catherine nodded.

He helped her sit up, then wrapped one arm around her as he helped her toward the door.

As they entered, the servants who had been gathered to receive them had, blessedly, already been scattered. The only person left was the Head Steward.

“A private room for the Lady,” Arthur ordered. “And send up a basin of cold water.”

The Head Steward bowed, murmuring a “Yes, Sir,” as he retreated.

A maid came and showed them to the room.

Arthur took her over to a chair by the fireplace, setting her down. She sat, blinking and breathing as she slowly came back to her senses.

In minutes, he had a fire going.

The basin arrived soon after.

As Catherine stripped before the vanity, peeling away blood-soaked layers, she was dimly aware of Arthur’s presence behind her, where he sat staring into the fire.

She washed herself, the water turning red, then brown as she scrubbed away the blood and filth.

She felt the tears slip down her face as she gazed into the mirror.

She felt so small.

Like she might never be able to stand again.

Like she might never be able to choose again.

Catherine scrubbed at her eyes, fatigue finally punching through the armor of adrenaline. The tremor in her hands angered her. She hated feeling small. Hated needing anything from anyone.

Most of all she hated feeling unsafe.

“Arthur,” she said, the word forced out between her teeth.

“I’m here.” He stood, stepping closer immediately, head tilting, already searching for damage. “What do you need? I can—”

She caught him by the jaw and pulled him down.

Her mouth crashed into his.

For a heartbeat he forgot how to think.

Shock flared first.

Then awareness.

Then the weight of what this meant.

Not comfort.

Claim.

If he answered this, he was agreeing to something. To roots. To belonging. To a future that had hands and expectations and faces.

To being someone again.

He had not chosen this world.

He had not chosen this body.

He had never considered that he might be chosen in return.

He pulled away.

“Catherine, you're upset-”

“I am upset. I am not confused.”

He stopped. A silent moment passed.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Let me be with the man I want. Just for the night.”

Arthur took a deep breath.

Just for the night.

That made him think twice.

Because it felt so good to be wanted for something other than killing.

And because some part of him already knew he would not be able to leave it there. 

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