What more indeed.
Was I still that girl with my fathers, hungry for excitement, the next big thrill? Was I still the young woman with James, dreaming of a more fulfilling life? Was I really a silly fool, never satisfied with what I had, always aiming for the next rung up the ladder?
I loved Ricky. Still did. Always would. Yet as with James, there would always be that sense that we didn't quite fit, that something was missing, that I could be happier...
I looked over at Gabriel. He stood in front of a mirror, staring at his reflection. I reached for his hand. Then I remembered what happened in the dark maze and stopped myself.
He glanced over, his gaze meeting mine. He hesitated. Then he took my hand, squeezing it, and when he did, I saw what he did: endless iterations of Gwynn. I recognized one--the boy, hunting in the forest, following Arawn's representative, Carl. Carl taunted him, and Peter lifted his rifle. As I glanced away quickly, I saw another scene, another Matilda, this one in a Victorian gown, screaming at a Gwynn, who stood stunned and pale, holding a bloodied sabre over the body of a man I knew must be Arawn. The woman dropped beside Arawn's corpse, sobbing as if her heart would break, while Gwynn stood, dazed, as if he couldn't understand how he'd gotten there. And in a blink, I was that Matilda, feeling her grief and her rage and her confusion, and it hurt so much, and I wrenched my gaze away, squeezing Gabriel's hand.
"That's enough," I said. "Let's move--"
"No," he said. "This is important."
He released my hand enough that I could let go. His way of saying that I didn't need to watch. But he did. He struggled so much with being Gwynn, in a way I did not struggle with being Matilda nor Ricky with Arawn.
Gwynn is the man who betrayed his friend and mistrusted his lover and brought about her terrible death. I understood why Gabriel wanted nothing to do with that part of himself, but now he watched. Forcing himself to take it in. To understand.
When I met Gabriel and Ricky, I admired the way they were both so comfortable in their own skin. They knew what they were, and they accepted that. They knew what they wanted, and they strove toward that. I hungered for such a life. Now I was finally edging toward it.
I was Eden Larsen and Olivia Taylor-Jones and Matilda and just plain Liv.
Yet, at the same time, Gabriel and Ricky had discovered there was more to them. After a lifetime of knowing who they were, that foundation tilted, throwing them off balance. Ricky plowed forward, determined to find that reconciliation of self. Now Gabriel stood here, trying to do the same.
I looked into another mirror and saw yet another tragedy, another death, this time of a young woman, lying dead on a floor, a young man kneeling beside her, another grabbing him and hauling him to his feet and hitting him. He hit him again and again, while the first young man made no move to defend himself, just stared at the dead girl on the ground.
Show him something better, damn it. I know there's something better.
I squeezed Gabriel's hand and pictured Gwynn--the real Gwynn--in those early days. I found him, at about twelve, laughing as Matilda mimicked someone, Arawn joining in the impersonation and grinning at Gwynn, just as happy as Matilda to hear Gwynn's rare bout of laughter.
That was what it had been like, for so many years--three friends, delighting in each other's company. The kind of children who make a blood bond that they will never be separated, who imagine themselves growing old together, still laughing and talking and happy, endlessly happy.
An image glimmered in another mirror, and I looked with reluctance. It was another iteration of Gwynn and Arawn, as young men at the turn of the century, walking down a street, clearly drunk. I could tell in an instant who was who, Arawn singing some dirty ditty at the top of his lungs and trying to get Gwynn to join in, Gwynn laughing and shaking his head and stumbling. Another picture flickered, a girl and a boy in pioneer clothes, running hand in hand through the woods, exploring. The girl stopped to cough, and fear flashed across the boy's face. I knew she would not live long, but for now, she was happy--Matilda was with her Gwynn and she was happy.
More memories flashed, more Gwynns and Matildas and Arawns, and maybe there was tragedy in their futures, but at that point, they were happy.
Finally, Gabriel said, "That's enough."
"Better?" I said.
"Yes."
"They aren't us," I said. "Their mistakes won't be ours. We see those mistakes. None of them had that advantage."
I pointed to the original three, Arawn and Matilda now finished their performance, the trio stretched out on the grass, watching clouds pass, completely at peace.
"That's us," I said. "You feel it, don't you? We're the closest to them. And that is us. Now. It will stay us."
"Yes," he said, and for once there was conviction there. Conviction and determination.
--
We exited into another room. I kept my light on, and we'd gone only a few steps when I caught voices. I could tell Gabriel didn't hear them, and I said, "Finally." A few months ago the prospect of a vision would have sent me running the other way. Now, I just wanted to get the damn thing ov
er with.
The next room was a kaleidoscope of color and visual distortion. A group of people stood in the middle, their voices as distorted as the room. Five figures dressed in robes, hoods pulled up. My first thought was Cwn Annwn? but the cloaks were wrong, and two figures seemed female.
My next thought was that I'd walked into a scene from a movie. A D-grade horror flick filmed at an abandoned amusement park, where the wide-eyed young blonde stumbles onto a satanic ritual in progress...and becomes the star, taking the role of virginal sacrifice. Yeah, serious miscasting. The only part of the description I fit was "blonde," and my hair was really more of an ash shade.