The night after Arthur burns the remains of Lancelot and scatters his ashes to a strong east wind, Guinevere comes to his bed. Her kisses are soothing, her strong fingers gentle. He cleaves to her desperately, and gratefully. He holds her afterwards, as she holds him, his fingers tracing the half-healed cuts on her body and her fingers twined in the curls of his hair.
"You do not love me," she whispers, smiling in the shadows. Arthur's eyes narrow, the corners of his lips tightening towards a frown. He weighs her words, and wants to protest them, but the wiser part of him dawns on the truth at the same moment her lips speak it:
"Not yet."
Arthur nods.
"Not yet," he says, his voice hushed in respect of the stillness of the night. "But I could love you."
"I think perhaps you will," says Guinevere, quiet but mirthful. "And if you are lucky, then perhaps I, you."
Arthur laughs—a throaty sound, heavy and sad. It is too early in his mourning for lighter laughter.
They lay silently, wrapped in an embrace of mutual comfort and mutual respect. Arthur studies the shape of Guinevere's face in the darkness, its sharp angles chiseled deeper by the shadows, her pale skin silver in the moonlight. She is studying him, too. He wonders what it is she sees, where her focus lies.
She takes him by surprise when she speaks again.
"Tell me about the man who gave his life for me."
"Lancelot..." Arthur whispers. The word chokes from him, involuntary. In his startlement the reality of his death catches him all over again. Guinevere is still in his arms. She lets his emotions pass in their own time.
There is a hole in his life. There is a jagged wound where something vital to him has been so recently irreversibly severed. He closes his eyes and wonders if he can find the words. The pain is too raw and recent. The silence stretches on.
It is Guinevere who speaks at last.
"Forgive me. I ask too much of you."
"No," Arthur hastens to reply. There is a part of him that would like nothing more than to speak of Lancelot, to speak until the torrent of emotions that had bottlenecked in his throat could be expressed freely. There is a strange power in this woman, he thinks. He barely knows her and yet a part of him would confess everything to her as he would have to a priest.
Guinevere's fingers trace his jaw. Arthur shivers, his eyes drooping closed.
"Him you loved," Guinevere says. Guinevere knows.
Arthur exhales a long breath.
"Yes."
"And yet you've let me court you."
The backs of Arthur's eyes are colored with memories, coming quickly, and indistinct. He searches for the words to explain.
"We had come to a parting of ways. I would not go with him to Saramacia, and he would not come with me to Rome. We were already apart when I let you court me," Arthur's emotion-rough voice pauses. "But when I chose Britain, instead of Rome..."
"Then, he chose you. He chose in freedom to come to your side," Guinevere finishes softly, the hand that was at his cheek slipping across his shoulder, her fingers cupping the back of his head in embrace. Arthur nods tightly, feeling the pressure of tears at the back of his dry eyes, the clench of sorrow in his chest. He has already cried for Lancelot, in private. His eyes are too sore to cry any more.
There are things now realized between them that cannot be spoken, although their eyes meet, and they both know: that he could have turned away and been alive. It could have been Guinevere, and not Lancelot, that died that day.
Silence lingers between them again.
With a sigh Arthur leans forward, his eyes drifting shut, his lips pressing to the lips of slender woman in his arms. The kiss is solemn, gentle, and chaste. It speaks when words cannot. His lips say I do not grudge you this, and hers agree, This is what he has given you.
Their lips part slowly as sleep begins to win its battle to take them. The covers rustle as they shift against each other and relax. As they lie together, beginning to doze, Guinevere's voice disrupts the silence one last time:
"Will you tell me about him tomorrow... and the next day... and the day that follows that?"
Arthur holds her close, his chin resting against the crown of her head, her hair soft against his cheek. He begins to love this woman, who would mourn with him as he mourns. He knows he will love this woman, whatever her imperfections, though he does not know her yet. He will not grudge her if she is not arrogant or short tempered, a little pushy, or too hardheaded. That lover will be neither replaced nor forgotten. He smiles, though his smile is still taunt with loss and sadness. He whispers in the darkness:
"I will."
"You do not love me," she whispers, smiling in the shadows. Arthur's eyes narrow, the corners of his lips tightening towards a frown. He weighs her words, and wants to protest them, but the wiser part of him dawns on the truth at the same moment her lips speak it:
"Not yet."
Arthur nods.
"Not yet," he says, his voice hushed in respect of the stillness of the night. "But I could love you."
"I think perhaps you will," says Guinevere, quiet but mirthful. "And if you are lucky, then perhaps I, you."
Arthur laughs—a throaty sound, heavy and sad. It is too early in his mourning for lighter laughter.
They lay silently, wrapped in an embrace of mutual comfort and mutual respect. Arthur studies the shape of Guinevere's face in the darkness, its sharp angles chiseled deeper by the shadows, her pale skin silver in the moonlight. She is studying him, too. He wonders what it is she sees, where her focus lies.
She takes him by surprise when she speaks again.
"Tell me about the man who gave his life for me."
"Lancelot..." Arthur whispers. The word chokes from him, involuntary. In his startlement the reality of his death catches him all over again. Guinevere is still in his arms. She lets his emotions pass in their own time.
There is a hole in his life. There is a jagged wound where something vital to him has been so recently irreversibly severed. He closes his eyes and wonders if he can find the words. The pain is too raw and recent. The silence stretches on.
It is Guinevere who speaks at last.
"Forgive me. I ask too much of you."
"No," Arthur hastens to reply. There is a part of him that would like nothing more than to speak of Lancelot, to speak until the torrent of emotions that had bottlenecked in his throat could be expressed freely. There is a strange power in this woman, he thinks. He barely knows her and yet a part of him would confess everything to her as he would have to a priest.
Guinevere's fingers trace his jaw. Arthur shivers, his eyes drooping closed.
"Him you loved," Guinevere says. Guinevere knows.
Arthur exhales a long breath.
"Yes."
"And yet you've let me court you."
The backs of Arthur's eyes are colored with memories, coming quickly, and indistinct. He searches for the words to explain.
"We had come to a parting of ways. I would not go with him to Saramacia, and he would not come with me to Rome. We were already apart when I let you court me," Arthur's emotion-rough voice pauses. "But when I chose Britain, instead of Rome..."
"Then, he chose you. He chose in freedom to come to your side," Guinevere finishes softly, the hand that was at his cheek slipping across his shoulder, her fingers cupping the back of his head in embrace. Arthur nods tightly, feeling the pressure of tears at the back of his dry eyes, the clench of sorrow in his chest. He has already cried for Lancelot, in private. His eyes are too sore to cry any more.
There are things now realized between them that cannot be spoken, although their eyes meet, and they both know: that he could have turned away and been alive. It could have been Guinevere, and not Lancelot, that died that day.
Silence lingers between them again.
With a sigh Arthur leans forward, his eyes drifting shut, his lips pressing to the lips of slender woman in his arms. The kiss is solemn, gentle, and chaste. It speaks when words cannot. His lips say I do not grudge you this, and hers agree, This is what he has given you.
Their lips part slowly as sleep begins to win its battle to take them. The covers rustle as they shift against each other and relax. As they lie together, beginning to doze, Guinevere's voice disrupts the silence one last time:
"Will you tell me about him tomorrow... and the next day... and the day that follows that?"
Arthur holds her close, his chin resting against the crown of her head, her hair soft against his cheek. He begins to love this woman, who would mourn with him as he mourns. He knows he will love this woman, whatever her imperfections, though he does not know her yet. He will not grudge her if she is not arrogant or short tempered, a little pushy, or too hardheaded. That lover will be neither replaced nor forgotten. He smiles, though his smile is still taunt with loss and sadness. He whispers in the darkness:
"I will."