This isn't your battle, Gabriel. Your war, yes. Your battle? No. This is hers. You know that.
Yes, he did understand that, because of the simple fact he'd been placed in this damn room. The knight had been moved off the chessboard. Set aside while the real showdown began.
Or, perhaps, not so much a knight as a pawn.
Yes, almost certainly a pawn. Not swept clear of the board but moved to where he could be useful. Useful to the sluagh. A captive pawn.
He kept tapping.
Gwynn's sigh rippled through his mind. Gabriel ignored it.
You can't help her. You know that.
More tapping. Was that spot...? No.
Do you trust her, Gabriel?
Absolutely.
Then trust she'll get you out of here. Trust she'll win her battle. In the meantime, take this. If nothing else, it might calm you down.
Something slid through him, almost like a warm breeze. Then it was a warm breeze, and he was kneeling on a blanket in a meadow.
No, not him. Gwynn. He realized that as soon as he saw Matilda c
rouched beside him, taking cheese from a basket, as she laid out a picnic.
They were alone in the meadow, the sun blazing, a soft breeze tickling past, a hummingbird chasing the smell of spring wildflowers.
Matilda set out the last slice. She pulled back, as if to grab something else from the basket, and he reached for some of that cheese, not because he was particularly hungry, but because it would make her laugh. She would laugh and swat his hand and tell him to wait, her eyes dancing--
Matilda changed course, reaching for the plate at the same moment he did. They nearly collided. Both stopped short. He stared at her, just inches away. Close enough that he could lean in and...
Kiss her. That's what he could do. What he should do. What he'd been trying to do on each of these damned picnics, so many picnics that by now he was surprised she hadn't said, "Can't we do something else, Gwynn?"
But this was the one activity Arawn wouldn't join. Terrifically dull. He never asked to join their picnics, and Matilda never offered to invite him.
It was just the two of them, and each time, Gwynn vowed he would kiss her. He'd devised a hundred ways to do it, a hundred ways that would allow him to brush it off if she pulled back in shock.
Too much wine, too much fresh air, whoops, how did my lips end up there?
Yet each time he screwed up the courage, he panicked. What if he offended her? Upset her? Angered her? And then there was Arawn, and he tried not to think of that, tried to relegate their promise to the foolish vow of children. It wasn't as if Arawn hadn't taken a dozen lovers since. He seemed to have no feelings for Matilda beyond the fraternal. No, Arawn was not an obstacle. The obstacle was Gwynn's fear.
But there she was, her face in front of his, lingering there, and yes, yes, this was it, the perfect moment. All he had to do was lean in and--
Matilda kissed him.
Gwynn never saw it coming. Possibly because his own eyes weren't quite open at the time. They opened fast, though, as her lips pressed against his, and he looked to see her kissing him, absolutely, beyond any doubt, kissing him.
Then she wasn't. She was pulling back, blushing, but her eyes still danced, and in those eyes he saw challenge.
Well, Gwynn, aren't you going to--
He did. He covered that distance between them, his hand going behind her head, mouth moving to hers and--
"Wakey-wakey, Gabriel. This is hardly the time for napping."
He snapped from the memory-vision to see Imogen Seale. She wagged her finger at him.