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As if he was ashamed. As if he resented Lancelot for being there.
They didn’t talk about Guinevere; avoided the subject like the plague, in fact. For, the fastest way to push Arthur awaywas to speak of his wife. He would always close up completely and glare at Lancelot with such undiluted hatred.
As if it was Lancelot’s fault that he chose this fate.
Excalibur protected Arthur well, as Lancelot knew it would. The sword never failed him. When the King wielded Excalibur, he seemed stronger, more himself. The mighty warrior of old.
But the enchanted sword couldn’t protect him from the she-demon he lay with. Despite the fact that Arthur was a man in his prime, not yet thirty years of age, his face was haggard and gray; his skin, sallow. He often had dark circles under his blank, colorless eyes. Lancelot never saw him smile, whereas he used to be filled with joy.
It cracked his icy heart into jagged pieces to witness the relentless destruction of such a proud, strong man.
In spite of the numbness he embraced, Lancelot ultimately couldn’t overcome the urge to confront Guinevere once and for all.
It was his Destiny to serve and protect Arthur, he rationalized to himself. He was failing at his task. He had to address the source of the problem, even if he risked being caught in her powerful dark web.
And so, during one of the lulls between battles, when Arthur had been abed for many days, while Guinevere flaunted her seductive wiles at court, disappearing into hidden chambers to have orgies with countless men that, if not seen, were certainly heard, Lancelot waited outside her lair until the last of her lovers toddled drunkenly out.
“Come in, good knight,” she called from within when he hesitated at the door, clearly conveying that she’d known he was there all along.
He braced himself for what he might find, and what he might do, crossed her threshold and bolted the door behind him.
“Ah, the beautiful, unattainable Lancelot,” she purred, lounging like a coiled snake on a massive disheveled bed, the bedclothes stained and wrinkled with a variety of unsavory fluids.
Including blood.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Lancelot took in her long, wavy hair, pale, flawless skin, glowing pink from her exertions just moments ago, and her almost completely nude body, only a scant, diaphanous robe hanging off of one shoulder.
He felt nothing but revulsion, so strongly, he shuddered from head to toe.
Her eyes glinted with hatred even as she trilled with seductive laughter.
“Do not look upon me so, noble knight,” she purred. “After all, you are here to strike a deal, are you not? Be careful you don’t offend me before we even begin. This might be your only chance to save Arthur, after all.”
“You admit to harming him,” Lancelot accused, seizing on her words.
“I admit nothing,” she said easily, almost bored.
“You are the one who perceives danger where there is none, my Lord. I am merely reflecting your sentiments back to you.”
“Then why would I be here to bargain with the likes of you?” he seethed, the roiling emotions inside of him getting the better of his tranquility.
She tilted her head and inspected him like an avaricious slaver at the market.
“Because you can’t kill me?” she mused.
“You are welcome to try. But I think you know that my powers far exceed yours, youngling. You would only fail and perhaps even lose your life. Where, then, would be your King? Do you not live to protect him? He would certainly bedefenseless after that. Excalibur might protect him from falling in battle, but it has no place in our bed.”
She was right, damn her to hell.
Lancelot fair vibrated with the need to end her, yet invisible hands held him back.
Whatever she was, she was stronger than him. Her magic far more powerful. Though she could not entrance him under her spell like others, if he attacked her, she would not hesitate to put him in his place.
He did not know what manner of creature she was; he did not know what hehimselfwas. But he instinctively knew she was stronger, the way a lion bowed before the larger, more deadly tiger, even though it was powerful in its own right.
“But I cannot let you stay close to him unchecked,” she went on, thoughtful.
