welcome, please take off your shoes

At last, Galehaut looked at him. His broad face, wide and flat and beautiful, was twisted with some great emotion, some fierce anxiety that could not be contained by mere expression. He pulled his hand out of Lancelot’s and turned away, lumbered to a patch of soft grass. “Sit beside me,” he said, the earth rumbling as he lowered himself upon it.

Lancelot did as he was bid. He took his place beside Galehaut, wrapping his arms around his knees, staring at his beloved with open worry. But he said nothing; he knew Galehaut would speak when he was ready.

The wind was soft, delicate. It rustled through the glade, carrying the sounds of evening with it — songbirds, insects, the first hooting of owls and chirping of bats. Dappling through the leaves was light the color of faded gold, growing dimmer with every breath. Soon, the stars would emerge.

Galehaut sighed, his exhale shaking the leaves of nearby trees. “I met a witch, once,” he began, “who told me my fortune. She said I had two paths before me, the first of glory, the second of sorrow. And that I would know when the moment of my choice came.” He paused, took a long, low breath. A few frogs croaked distantly. “The first path, the one of glory, was simple. I would spend my days fighting, and would conquer half the known world — more than Alexander himself. I would die an emperor, battling foes in distant lands. The second path…”

He paused. Lancelot frowned, but did not push him, eyes still on his huge form.

“The second path,” Galehaut repeated, “would come when I met my most beloved. I would love him, the witch told me, and he would love me, but I would die before my time for it. His love would steal my years.”

Now Lancelot stirred. “Galehaut —“

“It’s a load of bollocks,” Galehaut interrupted. “She didn’t know my beloved would be a man, for one.” He rolled his eyes. “And for another, I am a half-giant. So….”

Galehaut bit his lip. Lancelot stood, put his hands on his lover’s shoulders. “So, what?” he asked, felt himself pleading. “What does that mean, Galehaut?”

Galehaut was looking at the ground again. “It means,” he said, and it seemed his voice was trembling, and the earth trembled with it. “My love, my lion,” he whispered, “I already have not many years. No half-giant has ever lived past forty.”

The glade had fallen silent, the contemplative moment when the last of the light shrank from the sky, and the whole world held its breath. “Forty?” Lancelot repeated, the word having suddenly lost all meaning.