You remember when you used to love him.

You remember how this time a year ago, you did not hesitate before the thought, I will die for him if only he asks. And he asked. He did. He asked you before anyone. And it did not matter that the order was cruel, because it was Arthur who gave it, and how could he ever be something other than your light? You earned your title for him, best of all knights. You counted each point of your pentangle on his fingers. You did it so he would look at you a little longer. And he did. He does. He looked at you before anyone. He asked you first. This is your oath. You did not think twice before swearing it. My sword, my life. Bravest, best. For you. For you.

Last Christmas a green knight offered Arthur a game of equal exchange: strike him anywhere, and receive the same in return. He came with a great axe across one arm, a holly branch in the other. Arthur was so caught up in himself that he did not understand the offer also extended to the branch: there was a way out that didn’t require a fight. You were so caught up in Arthur that you cut off the knight’s head when you were asked. If you strike the right blow, Arthur had murmured, near to your mouth, he will not be able to issue one in return. It was a clear order. You’re good at orders. He was close enough you felt his heat. He was close enough you held his light.

So when the knight rose and picked his head up off the ground, it seemed only natural that you’d die. You’d said you would and you meant it. You remember how you used to love him. And yet you were given a year: settle your affairs, make Arthur love you, seek out the Green Chapel, get what you are owed. Blow-for-blow. Equal exchange. All you could think was how glad you were that it was you instead of him. If only he asks. He asked. He did.

A year passed. You did not make Arthur love you. You did not settle your affairs. It would always be unequal but that was the point of your life: a pentangle has an odd number of spokes. You left Arthur’s court to get what you were owed, and you spent three days in the court of that green knight, and when you went to his Chapel and you knelt and you didn’t die—

You came back ashamed, biting your tongue, stomach in your fists, back to Arthur’s court, and you came back ashamed because you discovered, in the end, that you did want to live. You did want to live. You wanted more than that: the pelt of a fox, the still-beating heart of a boar. A kiss you did not have to beg for. A kiss where you understood, clearly, from the start, what you were giving and what you could expect in return. Fair odds never seem a miracle until you remember what the rest of the world will offer.

Aren’t you happy? You came back to Arthur, light-bringer. You should be happy. You told the knight you couldn’t stay. You told him you had built a place where you could be proud, but of course by proud you meant a place where everyone told you that you were doing the right thing. A place where you didn’t have to think. A place where you reflected the light. There’s a lot to say for being a dog, for standing behind someone and swinging an axe when asked. There’s a lot to say for bowing your head when the time comes: for trust, for a belt, for three kisses—two—one. There’s a lot to say for when the knight took your face in his hands and your face was level with his hips. There’s a lot to say for when the knight knelt down beside you and said, close, soft, why is it you flinch?

Copyright © 2026 by Abigail Eliza