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She trilled with laughter, and the court laughed with her.
Like parrots mimicking their master.
Lancelot didn’t think her words were particularly funny. Or at all.
“You married,” he stated like an accusation to Arthur, a gauntlet thrown down.
He refused to look at Guinevere though he could feel her sharp gaze gouging into him.
“You were gone,” came the strange, emotionless reply.
“I was away for only a fortnight,” Lancelot said, his ire rising uncontrollably, which was an extremely unpleasant new experience.
What the fuckingfuck!
“Where were you?” Arthur whispered, his eyes an indiscernible shade as they stared fixedly upon Lancelot’s face.
He could not see the deep blues in those familiar eyes, Lancelot reflected distantly, as if he was watching this farce play out from outside of his own body. He could not seeArthurat all.
In a move entirely unlike him, for it was driven by frustration and fury, emotions that had never before been visited upon Lancelot, he threw Excalibur, wrapped in linen cloth and tied like a gift, onto the stone floor at Arthur’s feet.
“I got you this,” he practically spat.
“You broke Dragon’s Tooth and Bear Claw, so I got you this. It won’t break.”
Arthur disentangled his hand from Guinevere’s (it took some effort), and reached with both hands for the sword. He unwrapped it with fingers that Lancelot could see were trembling even from where he stood. He pulled the sword from the scabbard and made the steel sing, the sound silencing the entire hall.
Shockingly, he listed toward his wife, as if he might mean her harm, the blade of the sword dangerously close to her neck. His face contorted with something like blind rage and unspeakable pain as the sword shook in his hands, his knuckles bone white he held it so tightly.
For her part, Guinevere looked entirely unconcerned. She still wore that strange, knowing smile. She stared unblinkingly into Arthur’s eyes, chin raised as if in defiance. As if she wasdaringhim.
And just like that, the tension was gone. Arthur’s body deflated like an empty wineskin, thoroughly defeated.
For a moment, only a moment, the light reflecting off the blade of the sword shone upon Arthur’s face, illuminating his eyes.
They were wet.
And they stared so deeply and helplessly at Lancelot, that he felt as if something in his chest had cracked.
Ithurt.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe!
“I do not deserve this gift,” the King said softly, barely a rasp. He sheathed it again and held it tightly in one hand.
“But I will cherish it for as long as I live.”
Silence reigned. No one spoke a word.
It seemed to Lancelot that Arthur said something else, even though he heard the words perfectly well. He didn’t know what Arthur meant, for his eyes were opaque once more.
And Lancelot was shut out.
“Come, husband,” Guinevere said, breaking the strange, oppressive silence.
She took his hand again in a firm clutch, lest he tried to pull away.
“I am tired after the day’s festivities. Leave your good men to their entertainment. We shall see them on the morrow.”
