His bravery and loyalty landed him directly in the king’s service. They’d lost the previous battle, and things were grim. Arthur was in the thick of the fighting, and Percival courageously brawled to get to him to provide aid. Each was locked in swordfight, fighting for their lives.

Vera looked at the three warriors at her table. Percival bit his lip as he reluctantly watched the performance. Arthur and Lancelot bore proud smiles. They weren’t trying to antagonize him. They were celebrating him like a most beloved brother. Arthur surveyed the gathered crowd, checking to ensure people were paying attention.

The story’s climax came with Arthur and Percival battling a short distance from one another. Arthur was occupied, and his arms got caught up. There was another aggressor, though, and his sword was about to swipe across Arthur’s throat from the side. Percival was also under attack. He could have easily parried the blow coming down toward his own face. Instead, he thrust his sword out to stop Arthur’s attacker and knowingly took the blow directly to his head by his assailant’s broadsword.

It should have killed him, but it didn’t. According to the storyteller, Percival’s mighty and selfless spirit served as a shield sent from God that kept him alive. All of Arthur’s forces, witnessing this miracle, found untapped strength, and the battle was shortly after won. Arthur knighted Percival right there on the battlefield; the youngest person to ever be knighted.

“But that’s not what happened,” Percival told Vera. “Magic stopped that sword from hitting me with its full force, or my whole head would have been chopped in half, face first, rather than leaving me with a measly scar.” It was hardly a measly scar, running nearly the full length of his face. Percival unconsciously scratched at the part of it beneath his eye. “It was like,” he shook his head in frustration and stared into space as he remembered, “an invisible arm or … or like a rope or something pulled back on the soldier’s sword arm right when his blow would have fallen.”

“Who did it?” Vera asked. “Who saved you?”

“No idea,” Percival said. “But it wasn’t some God-sent miracle. It was someone’s magic who was on the field with us.” He looked around like his savior might reveal themself.

“Yes, and Arthur didn’t knight you right on the field. He let the bleeding stop first,” Lancelot said. “But that doesn’t make for a good story!”

Percival shook his head and drained his cup in one drink. Nobody mentioned it again for the rest of the evening, which was spent with laughter and countless goblets of drinks at their table. Festival attendees came by to welcome them and especially to greet Arthur and Vera.

Vera held somewhere in the realm of a dozen babies, had her hand kissed more times than she could count, and her cheeks hurt from all the smiling. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, though she grew tired as the hours wore on and had already hatched a plan for what to do with her solstice morning in Glastonbury. She could not be this near the Tor without climbing it for the sunrise.

Matilda noticed her yawning from across the table. “Are you ready to turn in for the night?” she asked.

Vera smiled gratefully. “Yes, I think so.”

Matilda stood to join her.

And so did Arthur.

“You can stay. I’ll be fine.” She touched his arm. It was a gesture that didn’t raise anyone’s attention, but Arthur stared down at Vera’s fingers as butterflies erupted in her stomach. She’d touched him before. Why was this different? She blinked to shake herself from it.

“You’re doing me a favor,” Arthur said. “Otherwise, this lot will try to keep me out until dawn.”

“S’true,” Lancelot said loudly. He grinned up at them with glazed eyes. “There are only a couple days in the whole damn year I don’t have duties and obligations and—” He waved his hand, searching for the word. “And such. I fully intend to make the most of it.” His speech ran together enough to betray his inebriation, though he made a valiant effort to sound coherent.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to run to the top of the Tor in the morning?” Vera asked with a laugh, hoping her disappointment didn’t show.

“Absolutely not,” Lancelot answered. “But I will for you, Guinna.” He slammed his fist on the table and pointed at her seriously. “Only for you.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said. As much as she’d love to share that with him, Vera would not steal his one morning of respite. And she certainly wouldn’t guilt him into the torture of a hungover run up a wickedly steep hill.

“I haven’t ever been to the top of Tor,” Arthur said. “I’d like to come with you.”

“Really?” Vera asked. “Are you sure?”

“Only if you don’t mind me slowing you down. I’m not much of a runner like the two of you.”

“I don’t mind at all,” she said. “Thank you.”

Had this really been the same man who would only fix her with a cold stare for the better part of the past three months? Arthur’s face was now so flooded with gentleness, his eyes alight with concern. He’d known just how much this meant to her.

Running the Tor was as familiar as drawing breath, but this morning’s venture may as well have been her first time making the journey. In many ways, it was. Chronologically speaking (in a way that positively bent her brain sideways), this was Vera’s first run on what would someday become her well-trodden path. Also her first while knowing the truth about her past (well, knowing more of the truth). Her first with Arthur.

The bed they’d shared was large enough that they didn’t so much as brush fingertips through the night. She’d thought that knowing he was so close might keep her awake, but she fell asleep quickly and slept more soundly than she had in weeks.

That part may have had something to do with being in a place that felt like home. And resuming her favorite morning ritual. He was already up and dressed when Vera woke. Unsure of the condition of the path to the top, they left earlier than necessary and carved their way through the landscape. They jogged up the lane, past the stream of White Spring where Vera had first emerged into this time, and onward, up the long slope. The way was clear. Enough pilgrims had made the trek to leave a natural foot-worn trail through the otherwise grassy hillside. Still, it was tougher terrain to jog. They charged up a particularly steep section, Vera but a half step ahead of Arthur. When he stopped, she felt his absence and stopped, too.

“Shit,” he groaned, looking at the climb ahead. His face shone with sweat, and his heavy breaths came out in cold vapor puffs.

Vera grinned. “Yeah, it’s rough. Do you want to walk for a bit?”

He chuckled through a heaving breath and looked at her with admiration. “No,” he said.

It was a lie, one she knew he valiantly offered only for her sake. She had gotten faster after so many mornings running with Lancelot, and, in her excitement to be back on this trail, she may have pushed her pace more than usual. Arthur gamely kept in step with her until the final stretch when her excitement spilled over. She sprinted ahead to the top. Her breath would have been taken clean from her body even if she hadn’t been winded.

Chest heaving, she marveled at the sight with an open-mouthed smile. St Michael’s Tower wouldn’t be built for hundreds of years. Instead, a single stone totem stood in the center of what would someday be the tower’s footprint. It was taller than both of them, though not gargantuan. Arthur could jump and touch the top, which was like the rounded end of a dull crayon. Squat grey stones surrounded it at equal intervals. These looked like benches. Vera counted twelve and wondered if it formed a sundial.