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Was it strange that he felt closer to Arthur this way? Because he’d also been inside of her?
If he used his imagination, if he closed his eyes and reached for it, could he touch the seed Arthur must have left within her?So he could imagine it coating his own cock when she forced him to release, instead of the hellish walls of the demon’s cunt?
If Lancelot could die, then that was the day of his death. Every day thereafter was living hell.
She was true to her word. Now that she had him, she used Arthur less. Now that she controlled him, she did not guard Arthur so jealously.
People talked, as they always did. How the King’s First Knight stole his Queen. Arthur’s men despised Lancelot for the same act they perpetrated themselves. They challenged him to duels. He readily won. They fought over Guinevere, and she only laughed.
Arthur witnessed the destruction of the comradery, the kingdom, he built with cold, emotionless, colorless eyes. But he saw it all, for Guinevere loved to flaunt Lancelot in his face. If she could rut upon him in public, on Arthur’s supper table while he watched, she would. But there was a limit to her illusions. The insinuations were enough. She took sadistic glee in ruining the King.
He was only her puppet now. They all were.
But in brief moments of lucidity, Lancelot glimpsed the same hints of life in Arthur’s eyes. Just for those infinitesimally small moments, they recognized each other.
And so, despite everything he’d given up, Lancelot had no regrets.
They would survive this bitch if it was the last thing they did.
Chapter Nine
“Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.”
—Sigmund Freud
Three weeks ago. London Mayfair.
Arthur couldn’t get the image of the she-demon out of his head.
Though the portraits in the gallery didn’t capture her true features, and he couldn’t recall what they were, only that they were constructed to mesmerize whomever that looked upon her and conformed accordingly to people’s fantasies, they were enough of an approximation that he felt as if she was staring out at him from the prison of the canvas. Any moment, she might just pop out into reality.
And even though he’d been told she was dead and gone, he never saw her demise for himself. Not that he could recall. Never enacted his revenge with his own killing strike.
It left him…bereft.
Without the anchor of hate and the grail of retribution, what did he have left?
He was broken shards of bones she’d already sucked dry. A husk of a man that used to be flesh and blood, full of life.
Even his fucking life force was not his own! He had to share it with a savior he never asked for. He couldn’t even die!
Arthur’s feet took him back in the direction of the Haymarket Hotel by rote. He didn’t really notice the streets he took. Didn’t care that he jostled people in his haste, or that they jostled him. He half wished someone would take offense and pick a fight with him for his lack of attention and courtesy.
But this was a different time, even if it was a familiar land. Modern men didn’t jump to resolve slights with their fists.
More’s the pity.
Arthur was broiling with fury, anguish and despair. Most of the time he wore a neutral mask, sometimes even donning his old charm. He pretended to be himself, tolive, when he’d not felt alive since the day he laid eyes on Guinevere.
He didn’t know what she did to him to make him acquiesce and do her bidding like a puppet on a string. They’d gotten married in haste; it was all a blur. He remembered distantly that he didn’t want to touch her, fuck her, be inside her. But his body had a mind of its own. It no longer obeyed his will, only hers.
And when Lancelot returned, when Arthur finally glimpsed what he’d been missing so desperately, he knew no joy, only regret and despair. Because he knew that the dream of his valiant knight was long lost.
He’d killed it himself by succumbing to the she-demon.
He tried to hide it, what he truly felt. He didn’t think he possessed any feelings left to leak through the mask.
But she knew. She saw.
