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“But Morris really meant this to be a representation of Guinevere in her queenly robes. You can see the thoughtful, perhaps guilty look on her face, the bright red hair that conveyed her passion for the wrong man. In some other paintings, Guinevere possesses blond hair, perhaps not coincidentally when she is with Arthur. But most often she has burnished gold tresses or an even darker auburn. She is always portrayed as a woman of unsurpassable beauty and irresistible passion. After all, how else could she have lured the perfect Lancelot to sin…”
Arthur clenched his jaw hard enough to break his molars. Purposely, he drew a few deep breaths, trying to push down the hateful venom burning through his veins.
After all this time, with Guinevere disappeared and gone, and if his friends were to be believed—dead and headless, turned to stone—he still had trouble swallowing down the bile that rose in his gorge at the mere mention of her. Never mind the countless portraits of her surrounding him on all sides upon walls that seemed to be closing in on him.
Trapping him.
Just as she had trapped him in her chambers, in her bed, in the dungeons, taking his life force through the joining of their bodies, through his semen and blood. Like a leech. An incubus. For the longest time, foryears, he did not even know it.
It had all happened so fast, a terrible whirlwind that swept him away from his true self and true desires…
Arthur Pendragon’s reign, Dark Ages Britain.
They did not have time to themselves for weeks after the night of Beltane.
As they were constantly in the company of Arthur’s men, they could only communicate their desires with shy looks and light touches. A glance here, a brush there.
It was driving Arthur mad.
But this…thingbetween Lancelot and him was too new to expose to the world, even to their closest friends. He didn’t entirely understand it. He’d never felt this way before.
It was equal parts obsession and affection. Passion and protectiveness. He’d never been besieged by such intense physical needs to be one with another like this, and that was saying something. For Arthur had always been a man of tremendous needs.
What they shared on that hilltop was beyond anything Arthur had ever experienced before. He felt tender, and he was never that.
With his bedmates of the past, he’d been a generous lover. The sex had been joyful and carefree, and he made sure that his partners harbored no expectations of anything beyond the sharing of his body for a night, at most two. It was simply mutual pleasure, nothing else.
With Lancelot, he felt…infinitely tender.
Vulnerable. Uncertain. Lost and helpless.
He wanted his knight for more than one night. Wanted him every night. All of their days and nights. Since meeting him the first time, he’d wanted nothing else.
But not just for a passionate coupling, not only that. He wanted Lancelot’s undivided attention. Wanted to know his thoughts and taste his wishes and dreams. So that Arthur could make it his life’s goal to make them come true.
Because, to the man who never asked for anything, Arthur wanted to giveeverything.
Lancelot, for his part, seemed oblivious to Arthur’s growing obsession. He took their night together in stride like he did everything else. To look at him, one would never guess that he’d licked his King’s cum off his hand like a cat with the sweetest cream.
And he did so while staring into Arthur’s eyes with the most innocent, pure gaze, as if he was completely unaware of how his lashes fluttered, cheeks flushed, as his eyes drooped in absolute abandon, lost in the pleasure and taste of Arthur on his tongue.
Entire days would go by, and Arthur would barely sneak a touch in, never mind a kiss. He looked aplenty, to be sure, but there were few opportunities to do more.
Arthur was confused as much as enflamed and desperate.
Did Lancelot not care about what they did together the way Arthur cared? He behaved no differently.
He never reached for Arthur the way Arthur couldn’t help but reach for him, often catching himself at the last moment. He didn’t look at Arthur with heat in his eyes. His gaze was always intense and direct, with a hint of curiosity, as if he couldn’t figure Arthur out.
But that was all.
They fought more battles together, traveling down the western seaboard to protect the coast from marauding Vikings.In one such skirmish, Arthur’s swords broke under the assault of a gigantic battle axe, wielded by an even more imposing warrior, like a monster of old.
Lancelot had saved him from getting cleaved in two by the same axe by leaping onto the Viking berserker’s back and hanging off of him in a stranglehold.
Lancelot was no lightweight by now. He was as tall as Arthur if not as broad and muscular. But he was heavy, his bones sturdy and his own muscles lean and tightly packed. There was no give to the man at all.
Even so, the giant flung him about like a ragdoll upon his back, trying to knock him off by backing into walls and trees. Lancelot hung on like a particularly tenacious barnacle, somehow shifting his body so that his legs now twisted around the man’s thick neck instead of his arms.
