A long, heavy pause stretched between them.
“I meant it,” he said, voice low against the crown of her head. “What I said to him. About you being mine.”
“I meant it too,” she whispered. “I have already chosen you.”
Lancelot exhaled, like he’d been drowning and had just surfaced. His grip tightened for one long, trembling beat — and then he pulled back just enough to cup her face again.
“Let me see.”
“No-”
“Let me see you, Gwen.”
She finally lifted her chin, baring the side of her throat. The bruises were stark already, angry purple and mottled red. His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with something deadly.
“I will not let this be the end of it,” he said. “He will not hurt you again. I swear it. Not while I breathe.”
“I don’t care about the bruises,” she said hoarsely. “I only care that he walked out of this room. That you’re still breathing beside me.”
His lips brushed her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. Like a benediction. Like a vow. “He called you barren,” Lancelot said at last, voice rough. “As if that was your sin. As if the gods don’t already weep for what he’s done to you.”
Guinevere didn’t answer. Her throat felt full of broken glass.
“I would rather you build a kingdom from the bones of our love than birth a son in his image,” Lancelot murmured. “You carry more power in your grief than he will ever hold in a crown.”
Something inside her cracked open.
She turned into his chest, curling her fingers into his skin, clinging to him like the only real thing left. He held her tightly, steady, unyielding. His hand pressed to the back of her head, shielding her.
They stayed like that for a long time. Just holding on.
Eventually, he spoke again, voice like the edge of a blade. “You chose me in front of him.”
“I will keep choosing you.”
A beat.
“You said you loved me.”
“I’ll say it again.” She vowed, “And again. Until the walls remember it better than they remember his name.”
He kissed her then. Soft, slow, full of fury and faith.
And though the room still stank of Arthur’s rot and rage, it began to feel, again, like sanctuary.
Later, when the fire had burned low and her hands had finally stopped shaking, Guinevere sat beside him on the edge of the bed. She spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can havechildren.”
She heard his breath catch, but he didn’t speak. His hand rested atop hers as they trembled in her lap.
“No one has ever told me outright,” she continued. “No healer or physician ever dared speak it. But it’s been so many years, Lancelot. Years with him and… not even once.”
A pause.
“His accusations have to be true.”
His hand curled tighter around hers. “Guinevere…”
“I know what it means,” she interrupted. “For a queen. For a woman. When the allegations started, before you, I thought it might not be the worst thing.” A sad sort of laugh escaped her lips. “Especially a daughter…” She blinked back tears. “But with you-”
