Illusions

Tamani suppressed a chuckle. Their “supervision” was a joke. Mr. Robison had left the room fourteen times today — twice as many as yesterday. And whenever he did, David would just shut down. He wouldn’t respond to anything Tamani said. He’d just sit and stare at the whiteboards hung at the front of the room. When Mr. Robison returned, David would launch back into whatever halfhearted tutorial they’d been on before. It was uncanny, really — he’d just start up exactly where he’d left off. Mr. Robison didn’t seem to notice.

What got Tamani was the way David seemed to be brooding almost as much over this punishment as over losing Laurel. As far as Tamani was concerned, punishments were just part of life. You suffered them and went on your way — there was no reason to stop and regret.

Tamani sure didn’t.

He wondered if humans couldn’t escape their anxieties because they were always cooped up. It must be hard to cope when a person couldn’t breathe fresh air and work things out constructively, with some honest physical labor. Before Tamani was ten years old, he had spent several years out in the field with his father, maintaining dams with his sister’s companion, or running errands for his mother at the Academy. Humans, on the other hand, were lined up and put in pens like cattle. Perhaps it worked for them — maybe animals liked being boxed up. But Tamani had his doubts.

Mr. Robison had been gone for five minutes. There was only an hour left before the final bell. Tamani wondered if they’d be seeing him again before tomorrow.

“You’re fighting a losing battle, you know,” Tamani said. “Always were.”

Predictably, David said nothing.

“Faeries and humans, they just can’t be together. You’ve had a good run and, quite frankly, I’m glad you were there for her when I couldn’t be. But it just won’t work. You’re too different. We might look the same, but faeries and humans have very little in common.”

Still no response.

“You can’t have children.”

At that, David turned and looked at Tamani. It was the first real response he’d gotten from David since the start of their “suspension.” He even opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut again and turned away.

“You may as well say it. We’re supposed to be working out our differences, right?” Tamani chuckled. “Though maybe these aren’t the differences they had in mind.”

David eyed Tamani, ignoring the jest.

Tamani was suddenly struck by just how young David looked. He forgot, sometimes, that David, Laurel, and their friends were younger, in some ways much younger, than Tamani. He was posing as a school-age human, but in truth he was an officer in the Guard. He knew his place, he knew his role, with a certainty some humans never achieved. The amount of freedom human children had must be paralyzing. No wonder they took so long to become adults.

“I’m just trying to help you understand, that’s all,” Tamani said.

“I don’t need your help.”

Tamani nodded. He wasn’t fond of David, but it was hard to hate him when he was no longer an obstacle to be overcome. In many ways, Tamani could sympathize. And he certainly couldn’t fault David’s taste.

Fifteen minutes passed in total silence. Then half an hour. Tamani was wondering if he could get away with just disappearing for the last half hour when David spoke.

“A lot of people can’t have children — Laurel’s parents, for example.”

Tamani had already forgotten he’d even mentioned children. It seemed odd that, after almost two whole days of silence, David would latch on to this particular point. “Granted, but—”

“So they adopt. Or they just stay together the two of them. You don’t have to have children to be happy.”

“Maybe not,” Tamani allowed. “But she’s also going to live a hundred years longer than you. You really want to make her watch you die? You want to adopt children and make her watch them die, of old age, while she still looks forty?”

“You think I haven’t thought about that? Life is like that. I mean, not for you, since you have your perfect medicines or whatever.” He said the words mockingly and Tamani suppressed his anger — hadn’t David benefited from faerie elixirs himself? “But that’s how it is here. You don’t know if you’re going to die next month or next week or in eighty years. It’s a chance you take and it’s worth it if you really love each other.”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“That’s just something you tell yourself,” David said, looking Tamani full in the face. “It makes you sure you’ll win in the end.”

That stung a little; it was something he had told himself, frequently, over the last few years. “I’ve always been sure I was going to win,” Tamani said softly. “I only wanted to know when.”

David made a soft scoffing sound and looked away.

“Do you remember what I said, about Lancelot?”

“He was Guinevere’s faerie guardian,” David said, “at least according to your version of the story.”

Tamani sighed. The boy was being difficult, but at least he was listening. “Fear- gleidhidh does mean ‘guardian,’ but maybe not in the sense you’re thinking. Fear- gleidhidh is as much a… an overseer as a protector. Lancelot’s job included protecting Guinevere’s life, but it was also his job to protect Avalon — to do whatever he had to do so that Guinevere could succeed in her mission. To see to it that she didn’t back out.”

“And you’re Laurel’s Fear-gleidhidh.”

“I don’t know how much Laurel has told you about this, but I knew her… before. From the day Laurel left Avalon, I did everything I could to become her appointed guardian. Every choice I’ve made in life — every minute of training — was in pursuit of that position. Because I wanted whoever was out here watching her to be someone who loved her — not some indifferent taskmaster. Who better to guide and protect her than someone who loved her as much as I do?”

David shook his head ruefully and started to speak.

Tamani cut him off. “But I was wrong.”

Interest and suspicion showed in David’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Love clouded my judgment. I knew she valued her privacy, so even though she never knew she was being watched, I scaled down observation at the cabin. Her family moved away while I wasn’t looking. Until she came back, I was afraid I’d failed Avalon and Laurel both. We posted sentries here, and I wanted to come — but I wanted to be near Laurel as much as I wanted to protect her — maybe more. So I stayed away because I wanted to come for the wrong reason, and I convinced myself that a bad reason was the same as a bad choice. And now I’m here, and I have to say, watching her with you has been misery. Loving her so much has made me very bad at my job. Like that night with the trolls. I should have gone after them. But I couldn’t leave her.”

“What if there had been trolls waiting around the corner? What if the first group had been there to simply lure you away?”

Tamani shook his head. “I should have trusted my backups. Don’t get me wrong, I intend to do my job. But my reasons for being here are different than the faux-noble ideals I once had. I would die to keep her safe, and I used to think that made me special. But the fact is, so would any of the sentries. And sometimes I wonder if Laurel would be safer with someone else as her Fear-gleidhidh.”

“So why don’t you quit?” David asked.

Tamani laughed and shook his head. “I can’t quit.”

“No, really. If you think she’s safer, wouldn’t it be your duty to quit?”

“It doesn’t work like that. I took a life oath that bound me to Laurel. This is my job until I die.”

“Forever?”

Tamani nodded. “If Laurel is outside Avalon, at any time, she is my responsibility. So if she decides to stay with you and the two of you go traipsing off to college, guess who’s coming along?” Tamani pointed an index finger at the ceiling, then spun it to point at himself.

“What!”