“You know it is.” He turned, pressing his lips against her temple. “And you know that I have to go.”
Gwen shook her head, laying her head on his chest. “I wish you didn’t.”
She didn’t know when they fell asleep, or if he did at all. When she woke up, the bed was cold, the room was empty. Sun filteredthrough the window, dust particles dancing in the air.
The queen pulled the blanket up over her head, savoring how her sheets still smelled like him.
And she broke.
21
Days passed. Maybe weeks. A month? Time didn’t move the right way anymore. Guinevere had lost weight, unable to stomach her meals unless in the presence of others.
She had to keep up appearances somehow.
Arthur demanded more of her. More of her time, more of her input.
More of her body.
It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. She stayed in his bed when he called for her. At least she feltsomething, even if she was broken.
It’s never like it was withhim.It could never be. Arthur’s touch was icy and calculated — no reverence, no love.
He undressed her like it was a chore.
Fucked her like she wasn’t even real.
He whispered in her ears things like “You’re being so good again,” and “What a dutiful little queen you are.”
It disgusted her.
They held a celebration in her honor.
She threw up all that night.
It hurt to stand, to walk, to speak.
Part of her soul was missing, and she would never get it back.
At night, she would wake up and feel his warmth, smell his woodsy scent, and reach for him.
Each time, she found her bed cold.
Empty.
She resented him.
He imprinted himself upon her chambers, and left.
She wished he hadn’t spent that night with her.
She knew that wasn't true.
He came to her in dreams. Held her, whispered sweet nothings into her ear while she clung to him.
She would wake up with the sound of his voice lodged in her throat.
She threw up then, too.
