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It made no sense.
No. It made perfect sense. Every magical attack they had faced had been focused on her. Not Arthur. She had not seen it because she had never thought to look.
Merlin’s exact words came back. You are afraid of the wrong thing, he had said when she worried she could not protect Arthur. He let her go, knowing what she thought, deceiving her without lying to her. Knowing that she would have refused to leave if she had known the coming threat was to Merlin, not Arthur.
The truth left her hollow. She was neither queen nor sorceress, protector nor warrior.
She was a burden.
Guinevere walked through the next days as though in a dream. Arthur wanted to speak with her but she could not manage it. Not yet. He was called away to the border, which for once was a relief.
She let Brangien brush and braid her hair. She visited and was visited. She grew to depend on Dindrane to accompany her so the burden of conversing was lifted. Dindrane and Brangien formed an unspoken alliance, shielding her and prompting her when she had to act a certain way. They were, in a way, her own knights. Fighting her small battles, protecting her from gossip and censure.
Everyone assumed her altered manner was because of the trauma of the boar attack. They pitied her and spoke softly, walked carefully. But Lancelot had doubly rescued her. News of the patchwork knight’s heroics rippled through the city, all the focus on that part of the story, Lancelot’s name on every tongue. The tournament was fast approaching, and Camelot thrummed and hummed with anticipation.
One afternoon there was a light knock on Guinevere’s door. Brangien opened it, then bowed and moved to the side. Arthur stood, framed by the doorway.
“Guinevere, would you join me on a walk?”
She nodded mutely, taking his offered elbow and letting him lead her out of the castle onto one of the walkways that circled the many levels. The wind nipped teasingly at them. It was nearly midsummer. She had meant to do some protective magic on the solstice, but it had never mattered anyway.
Arthur stopped. He sat on the edge of the walkway, his legs dangling over the side as he gazed down on his city. The lake bordered everything, impassable, guarding. Waiting. “I returned last night. I sent word. I hoped you would come to my room so we could speak.”
“I do not wish to waste your time, my lord.
”
He flinched. “I am not your lord. Please do not call me that.”
Guinevere sat next to him. But she kept her legs tucked safely under her, staying back from the edge. “I have nothing to offer you. It would be selfish of me to demand any of your attention.”
“That is not selfish.”
“It is.” She shook her head. She had been thinking of it—thinking of little else. “Why did you marry me? If all Merlin asked was that I be safe in Camelot, why not declare me a distant cousin? Or, more fitting, a servant? If you did not need me to protect you, why make me queen?”
Arthur shifted so he was turned away from Camelot. Toward her. “You speak of selfishness. That was the root of my decision. Merlin wanted you by my side, and I leapt at the chance. I have been hounded since the day I took the crown, besieged not only by armies, but by politics. I did not lie when I said any marital alliance would only have made my life more difficult. If I married a Pict, my southern neighbors would feel threatened. If I married someone from Camelot, my knights would be insulted that I did not marry their sister or daughter or cousin. And after Elaine—” His voice broke; then he continued firmly. “After that, how could I trust anyone to love me for anything but my power? The idea of adding another complication to my life—another person to be treatied with, a stranger in my home who would treat me like a king—was so wearying I could not face it. Ever since I claimed Excalibur, I ceased being Arthur and became king. I love my men, but they are my men. Even my family is complicated. Sir Ector and Sir Kay. Mordred. I did not want a wife like that. Merlin has been the only constant in my life. And you are part of him. I hoped that if I brought you here and filled the role of queen so no one else could demand it, I would have peace. More than that…I would have a friend.” He dropped his head, staring down at his hands. “It was unfair to you. And I hated the deception. And I hated that you did not view yourself as my queen. Not really. Please…please do not go. Do not leave me.”
He finally looked up, his face now as familiar to her as Camelot. And she realized that Camelot was beloved to her. So was Arthur. She did not want to leave. And she did not have it in her to hurt him. She reached out and took his hand.
He squeezed her fingers, trailing his thumb down hers. His hope was almost palpable. Guinevere smiled, wiping at her face. She had not meant to let the tears escape. “I like it here.”
His face relaxed. His strong features held tension well, but when it was gone, the boy he had so recently been was revealed. His shoulders slouched, the sharp lines of his tunic suddenly a bit softer, too big for an unkingly posture. Something in her released, too. Arthur still wanted her. He still needed her. It was not the way she had been led to believe, but with nothing else in her future claiming her, she would cling to it.
It broke her heart, though. She had become someone new for him, but even those deceptions were lies. How could she explain to him how lost she was, still, without hurting him? How being his friend, even being his wife, was not enough to make her feel real?
She could not tell him. Maybe someday, when she had grown into whoever she would be next. Until then, she would stay. Because it was easy. Because it was safe. And because she wanted to be needed. Arthur needed a friend. She would be that friend.
How often had she wondered what life would be like if she could simply be his queen, or even just a girl? Now she had that, and she did not know what to do with it. But she would try.
“Do you want to know a secret?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Guinevere grinned wickedly. “Sir Bors did not kill the dragon.”
“What?”
Guinevere told Arthur the story. She left out how wrong it had felt to push out real memories in favor of false. How she had wanted to wash herself as she had filled Sir Bors’s clothes with rocks and then thrown them in the stream. She did not tell him how she had understood the dragon, how the weight and melancholy of loss clung to her still.
