When Guinevere awoke, she felt the heavy weight of his arm across her ribs, his breath warm and uneven on the back of her neck.
She eased out of bed slowly, her feet hitting the cold floor.
Something inside of her had shifted.
Arthur had tried to break them, but he hadn’t won. He’d twisted the truth, buried them, separated them, and starved them.
But they had endured.
No, not endured.
They hadsurvivedhim.
Guinevere was through with surviving quietly.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table. Her hair was mussed, her collarbone littered with proof of Lancelot’s mouth — even after demanding he leave no marks. Her skin was still dewy with the heat of the bath and the night and the love they’d claimed in secret.
This wasn’t a weakness.
This was strength.
Lancelot woke a while after, joining her in the window. His arms curved around hers, holding her tightly against him.
“We can’t go back.” He whispered against her hair. “You know that, right?”
“Good,” she replied, eyes glassy. “I don’t want to go back.”
She could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “What do we do, Gwen?”
She turned in his arms, framing his face in her hands. “We have to stop playing the game like we don’t know the rules he’s set.”
“Guinevere,” He started, worry threading through his features.
“He’ll want to meet with Percival and Gawain today.” She started, mind moving quickly. “You have to show up.”
“Can’t we stay hidden here?”
“Forever?” She smoothed his hair, smiling gently. “He’ll come for me again, Lancelot.”
His fingers tightened in her robe, pulling her closer. “I won’t let him.”
“Then we need to face this head on.”
Before either of them could speak again, a loud knock came from the door. Lancelot tensed as she pulled away. “No, my queen.” He whispered, eyes wide. “The sun is barely up… Who is calling on you?”
“I don’t know.” She pulled her robe tighter around herself, covering the marks that littered her skin.
She unlatched the door slowly, cracking it open to find a knight at her door, looking just as rough as her knight did when he had found his way to her. “Your grace,” the knight bowed low, “May I come in?”
“Sir Percival…” She avoided his eyes, unable to answer.
“I know he’s in there, your highness.” His words were soft, almost kind.
“I don’t-”
“I must speak with him before Gawain alerts his grace that we’ve returned. It’s urgent.”
“Let him in.” Lancelot’s voice rang out from behind her.
