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It was a long time that Lancelot stood there, rooted to his spot. He did not know how they left him, only that one moment they were there, and the next they were gone.
He stood there until an icy numbness flooded his veins. It was the Lady’s magic, he knew. She was protecting him from feeling too much.
He closed his eyes and let the nothingness wash over him.
She was right. It was better not to feel. Better to be cold and alone, as he’d always been.
As he was meant to be.
~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~
It soon became clear to Lancelot that Arthur was dying.
The more time he spent with Queen Guinevere, the more weakened he became. But try as he might, Lancelot couldn’t discover evidence of foul play.
The Queen did not make it easy. She constructed chambers in the bowels of the castle for which only she had the key. She required no handmaidens in private, though a dozen of them followed her around in public.
It was just Guinevere and Arthur when they retired during the day or night—
She had “need” of him often.
It also became clear that Arthur was not the only man she took to her bed. Or wherever it was that she took them.
One by one, Arthur’s men each fell under her spell. Not a single one of them was spared. And just like Arthur, when they emerged from her den, despite their boisterous boasts and barely-veiled insinuations, they seemed lesser. Weakened and reduced.
And their eyes…
Their eyes reflected none of their souls. It was like staring into an abyss.
Yet Guinevere only appeared more radiant than ever, practically glowing with health and vitality. She possessed a blinding, awe-inspiring kind of beauty that enthralled all who looked upon her.
Only Lancelot remained aloof. The Queen always looked upon him with equal parts resentment, suspicion and calculation.
She wanted him, he could tell. Probably for the same purpose that she wanted the others.
But he was immune to her charms, and she could be extremely charming. Half the time she threw her relationship with Arthur in his face, paraded her other lovers in plain sight of the world, though the world chose to turn a blind eye. The other times, she came at him directly, coaxing, inviting, enchanting.
But none of it worked. He was cool as ice.
He tried a few more times to get Arthur alone, to talk some sense into him. But Arthur made his own choices, and every time, he chose Guinevere.
Hechoseto return to the deadly arms of his sorceress wife.
Hechosenot to believe Lancelot and distance himself from him.
Hechoseto ignore the Queen’s blatant adultery and become a laughing stock amongst the people, who, for some reason, never spoke ill of the perpetrator, only lambasting the cuckold.
Lancelot was grateful for the dulling of his emotions that the Lady had blessed him with. If he felt everything, he’d be a raving mad lunatic. He would probably break into the Queen’s chambers and murder her in her sleep. He’d challenge the King to a duel and beat him senseless. Or until heregaineda modicum of sense!
Aye, he was very grateful indeed, to feel close to nothing, though a maelstrom inside of him seethed with unleashed fury and grief.
But it was locked away, never to see the light of day.
Over the years since Arthur took his deadly bride, Lancelot discovered that the only way to stall his decline was to urge him into battles on the frontlines of war, away from Guinevere.
Fortunately, there were a lot of battles to be fought. Unfortunately, the Queen sometimes managed to come along. When she was not there, Arthur seemed more in control of himself, more aware.
He never opened up again to Lancelot the way he used to. But there were moments when Lancelot caught him looking strangely at him, before quickly glancing away.
