“I’m not,” he said, too quickly. “I just — God, Gwen, I’m angry too. But notatyou.”
She turned from him again, pacing like a lioness. “You agreed.” She couldn’t look at him. “They asked you to be the godfather of that abomination and youagreed.”
“I had to.” He was behind her now, not touching her yet. “Because if I didn’t, if I refused, it would’ve meant something. It would’ve meanteverything.”
“It alreadydoes,” she said, spinning back to face him. “Don’t you see? That was our sentence. That room. That ceremony. Thatthingin Morgana’s arms. It was all for us.”
His voice dropped. “I know.”
“No, youdon’t!” she shouted. “You left. You forgot for a while. I stayed here. I watched thembuild a futurefrom your absence, and now-” She cut herself off, breathing hard, lips trembling.
Lancelot moved. Just one step, enough to close the air between them. “You think I forgot you, Guinevere?” he said, low and deadly and trembling too. “Every night I thought of you. Every step. I saw your face when I found the Grail. I saw your hands when I touched it. And I-” he stopped.
Swallowed.
She looked up at him, broken open. He hadn’t spoken of the Grail since that day in the meeting chamber. Not since he had returned. “And you what?”
“I couldn’t take it,” he said. “Because I didn’t want salvation. I didn’t care about purity. I wantedyou.”
And then she was on him. Not with grace, not with ceremony — but like a storm. Her mouth found his like it was the only prayer she still remembered. He caught her with a grunt, stumbling back into the wall with her weight, their teeth clashing before their lips truly fit.
His hands were in her hair, on her back, everywhere. Hers tore at the fastenings of his tunic like she could strip the day off him, strip thegodfatherout of him until he was just Lancelot again.
Just hers.
“I liked this tunic,” He muttered against her lips, brow furrowing as he teased her.
“Then you shouldn’t have angered your queen.” She stretched up, taking his bottom lip between her teeth.
Lancelot hissed, framing her face with his hands as he shifted, pressing her back against the cool wall. She hummed a note of contentment, fingers coming to curl into his beard. “Tell me, Lancelot,” she whispered, eyes closed. “Say you love me.”
“Like the moon loves the stars,” He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her temple.
“Like the flowers love the dew.” His hands slid into her hair, forehead resting against hers.
“Like a knight loves his queen.” Another kiss, not desperate, not wild. Just slow and warm andtheirs. Like they were two people who had never had to fight for the other.
Like they had always been together.
“I should have called for Lunete.” Guinevere spoke after a while. The silence that engulfed them had been healing.
“Let me help.” His voice was shaky, but no less certain. “I am a knight of Camelot. Certainly buttons on a gown are no match for me.”
He smiled softly. She couldn’t help the way her fingers reached upwards, tracing over the shape of his lips. “I love you,” she whispered, her own smile tugging at her mouth.
His eyes closed like it was a benediction. Like her words were the only absolution he’d ever believe in. “I know,” he murmured. “I know, my love.”
He took a step back, gently turning her around. A low whistleleft his lips as he laughed. “Maybe we should have called for Lunete.” His fingers danced down her spine. “This is a lot of fastenings,mon amour.”
A gentle blush spread across her cheeks as she bit back a smile. Even after everything, even afterthis, he still found a way to nestle into her heart. “I believe in you,” she whispered.
Lancelot untied the fabric that held her tousled braid, tossing it haphazardly to the floor. Coaxing his fingers through her hair, she felt the remainder of the plait coming undone.
Sweeping her hair over her shoulder, he pressed a kiss to the base of her skull, just above where the lace of her gown ended. Gwen tilted her head, a grin playing across her lips. “You’re doing so good,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut.
“Careful,” he warned, voice darkening. She felt his knuckles brush the back of her neck and he clumsily worked her buttons open. His lips followed after, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to her now-bare skin.
The gown slid from her shoulders, a slow cascade of silk pooling at her feet. She stepped out of it carefully, Lancelot’s hand hovering. He stooped to gather the gown, folding with care before setting it aside.
