Her brain reeled, not quite awake enough to process everything that spilt from his mouth. “I’ll go, I’ll leave.” She muttered, searching the room for… What was she searching for?
“You can’t just walk out.” He grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back from the doorknob. “What if your ladies-in-waiting are by your door? What if the guard is here to fetch you?” His eyes were wild.
“Yes,” she nodded, still a little dazed. “Yes, of course.”
He stood there, mouth slightly ajar, looking at her.
“I’m sorry. What am I supposed to do?” She asked, dragging her hand down her face. “Lance, you’ve got-” She reached towards him, tightening the tabard knot on his shoulder. Her fingers smoothed the wrinkled fabric. “There, perfect.” She patted him on the chest, beaming.
“You’ve got to go.” He stepped around her, pulling the door open. “I’m so sorry, you’ve got to go. I love you, go.” His eyes met hers, wide.
The room held its breath. The air stilled around them.
Guinevere opened her mouth — but she didn’t even have time to speak.
His mouth was on hers, hands framing her face, lips pressed roughly against hers.
Not a gentle kiss, not careful. She felt like she was falling,flying.His mouth moved against hers like he was drinking in every piece of her he’d never dare to claim.
The bell rang once.
Dawn.
He pulled back from her, pupils blown wide. “Go, my queen.” he nudged her out the door, slamming it behind her.
Her mind hadn’t caught up quite yet. She slipped into her chambers, mindlessly grabbing a gown from her wardrobe.
As she dressed, his words danced through her mind.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
She had to be at his knighting ceremony — even if this was the second one he had earned.
Quickly, she dressed, tucking his tunic inside the blankets of her bed like a secret. A prayer.
She stopped by her vanity for a moment, hands twisting her hair into plaits before she could think. “No,” she whispered, smiling, and let her hair fall down her shoulders, loose and untamed.
She hurried through the halls, praying that she would not be late.
As she slipped through the door, Arthur was standing in front of the court, hands clasped in front of him. But the ceremony had yet to begin.
She squared her shoulders, holding her chin high as she walked past the gathering crowd, taking her spot on her throne. The king narrowed his eyes as he turned to face her. He lifted his hand — pinched a lock of her hair between his fingers as a gentle look of disdain flashed across his features. “I awoke dismayed to find you not by my side, wife.” His voice was sharp, but found no purchase on her soul.
“Apologies, your grace.” She lilted, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lip.
Lancelot entered through the main doors. His hair was loose, curls framing his face as he confidently strolled down the middle of the room.
“Kneel, Lancelot du Lac.” Arthur’s words rang throughout the room.
Lancelot knelt down on one knee, a smirk on his lips as he waited.
Arthur stepped forward, lifting the ceremonial sword. “The crown of Camelot calls you Lancelot du Lac,” he declared. “To rise in her service. To take your oath, and your place among her knights.”
He raised the blade to Lancelot’s shoulder.
