He turned her face to him, gentle but firm. “With me?”
Her eyes brimmed. “I think about it, Lancelot. Even if we ran, even if we were in a different world where we found peace. I couldn’t give you sons. A legacy.”
He shook his head once, sharply. “You think I need alegacy?”
“I wish I could give you everything.” She was crying now, tears falling gently down her cheeks. “I wish I could give you more than this.”
“You’re not a vessel for a legacy. Mineor otherwise. You are not a line to carry forward.Youare the point. You are everything.”
A weak, broken sound left her lips, but he did not let her turn from him.
“If there were another world, a better world with no prophecies, no kings, no Arthur — do you know what I’d want?”
Guinevere shook her head, barely.
“You. In a cottage. Or a tower. Or a tent in the woods. I’d wantto wake up beside you and fall asleep with your name in my mouth. If there were children, I’d love them. But if there weren’t — I would still die having loved more fully than I ever dared imagine.”
Silence.
Then… a sob wrenched from her chest. She covered her mouth with her hand, but he pulled it away, kissed her knuckles, kissed her palm.
He didn’t speak.
He just opened his arms.
She leaned into him slowly, like a tree bending towards the light. And she let herself be held.
40
The winter court arrived cloaked in snow and silence.
It had been months since Guinevere had whispered her fears into the low embers of the fire, since Lancelot had kissed the tears from her cheeks and promised her a world without thrones or heirs.
Since then, Camelot had hardened around them — the walls colder, the halls quieter, the eyes sharper.
And then, with the first thaw of spring, Morgana screamed.
The child was born at dawn, beneath a sky the color of bruises.
Trumpets didn’t sound — not at first. There was too much blood, too much waiting. But when the wails came — the baby's, and then Morgana’s, triumphant and primal — the castle erupted.
By midday, Arthur had declared the child the heir to the throne.
He held the infant high above the kneeling court, eyes fever-bright, voice like thunder:“A child of prophecy. My father’s legacy.”And though the boy’s hair was tawny and his mouth already set with Morgana’s stubbornness, no one spoke against it.
They couldn’t. Not now.
Not when Arthur had doubled the guard. Not when Morgana’s rooms were watched day and night. Not when Guinevere stood beside the king like a statue carved of grief and quiet fury — Lancelot behindher, silent as a blade in shadow.
The child had a name.
The court had a future.
And Guinevere… had a deadline.
They had left them alone. Lancelot had moved all of his belongings into her chambers. They spent very little time apart.
If members of the court knew about the manner of their relationship, no one said anything.
