Title: Indiscretion
Summary: "Because Arthur had been so busy lately. And Gwen couldn't help but feel left out, ignored, unappreciated… desperate for attention. Maybe that's why she did it." Or why Kitty O hates Gwencelot.
Pairings: Arthur/Gwen/Lancelot. Or, in a way, anti-Gwencelot, or broken-Arwen. Married!Arwen.
Warnings: Mentions of adultery. If this really upsets you, please don't read. Nothing explicit.
A/N: Here's the thing. I hope this NEVER, EVER happens in the show, and I HATE LANCELOT for the possible future he brings for our dear Blondie. However, I have known for a while that I was going to have to write a Cheater Fic, because it's only fair. So here we go… This makes me sad. This is why I hate Gwencelot! Die, Lancelot, DIE! *Ahem* Ignore that… Please review.
When Gwen awoke and felt a strong arm thrown possessively about her middle, her first thought was to wonder if Arthur was awake yet. She shifted in the thin white shirt she had on, turning to greet her husband.
Only it wasn't him.
Because Arthur had been so busy lately, busy ruling Camelot. He'd had his hands full, what with Morgause's enchantments and keeping his own little sorcerer, Merlin, in line. And Gwen couldn't help but feel left out, ignored, unappreciated… desperate for attention. Maybe that's why she did it, though she would convince herself later that the drink was innocent. She would tell herself that she hadn't known anything would happen.
"Lancelot!" she gasped, the shock setting in before the memory could hit her.
And then his brown eyes were open and gazing into hers, and full-blown panic was blaring in her head and coursing through her bloodstream.
"Gwen?" For a second, he was confused. Then he, too, remembered. The hand clenching around her midsection was instinctive on his part, but she reacted just the same, pulling away and rolling off the bed.
But their eyes never left each other's. She could see his nervousness. He could see her horror, her shame, and the approaching tears.
"No," she choked, denying what she knew. "No!" Her hands found their way to her bowed head, tearing at her curls in distress. "Arthur! What have I…? What… What did I drink last night?"
Good, wise Gwen. Gentle, calm Gwen. The Queen of Camelot. The one who always knew what to say. All it had taken for her to throw all of that out the window was a few drinks, some whispered words, a surge of emotion on his part…
Gwen's wail of disbelief clawed at his insides. Lancelot had a strong heart, not easily broken. He was tough. He had survived his problems with Elaine and the situation with Galahad with few emotional injuries. He had watched Arthur kiss the girl he pined for every day and was still whole…
But now it broke. At Gwen's panic, at the realization that shame and horror would be the only emotions she ever associated with the night that had just passed – a night he hadn't even dared to dream of before – fracture lines appeared in his very soul.
Still wailing, big tears falling unceasingly from her eyes, she leaned against the bed, her hand pushing up the neckline of her shirt modestly. It didn't matter much. What hadn't he seen?
At last he spoke, his voice as heavy as his heart. "I'm so sorry, Gwen; I'm a scoundrel. I don't know what I… I… What were we drinking?"
She'd always liked Lancelot, but she'd always loved Arthur, so she thought it was safe to marry the latter. She'd known she could be faithful, a good soul like her, because her love was patient and kind and good. Because so was Arthur's.
One night of impatience. One selfish thought. One way that would make it not-really-her-fault. And now she'd never escape it, not her whole life long…
A pox on all alcohol.
"No," she said as the tears slowed, her voice muffled by the protective cover of her hands. "It's… it's my fault. I should've known this would happen. I should've seen…" Her gaze flew up to meet his again; red-rimmed and anguished eyes bored into his. "What… what do we do, Lancelot? Treason, banishment or worse… How do we tell Arthur; how do we…? Oh, good Lord in heaven" – here she cast her gaze to the sky – "I'm so scared!"
She was shaking in her thin shirt, holding herself with dark arms in a hug.
In a moment, he had gotten out of bed, his pants were on, and he was kneeling by her side. His hands went on her shoulders, gripping tightly so she would have to pay attention to him.
When she looked him in the eyes again, he spoke, his words calm and assured, but with an undercurrent of fear. "What we do is keep quiet."
"What?"
"We don't tell. That could get you in trouble, could get me in trouble… And it would hurt Arthur."
Her eyes filled up with tears at the last sentence, but he pushed on. She had to understand him; he wouldn't let her tell! He wouldn't let her honor be besmirched, ever. "It will all go back to normal, Gwen. No one needs to know this ever happened; everything will be normal. We won't ever let it happen again, and after a while even we will forget. You see?"
She nodded slowly, leaning heavily against his soft bedcover. "You want me to lie to my husband?"
Lying was wrong; that's what her father had always taught her.
But then, he'd said the same thing about getting drunk and adultery.
"Unless you want to break his heart," said Lancelot.
She nodded slowly. She would keep the truth from her husband; she was too scared to do otherwise. Like a child, she suddenly thought. Like a little child who broke her mother's favorite, best bowl, and stuffed it under the nearest chair, and the mother never even noticed it was gone.
But Guinevere forgot.
She forgot that the place on the shelf where the bowl belongs always loomed over the guilt-stricken child, even if the mother took no notice. That space grows into a hulking monster ready to swallow the little child whole. She forgot that just a few minutes after hiding the sharp shards that pierced the child's conscience, the child was ready to scream.
She forgot that fate and destiny were cruel, forgot that they liked to build up legends. Providence liked to make a certain unlucky few great, to fill them up with dreams, but not mention that all good things must die, that all legends must crumble. The greater the heroes are, the harder they fall, because they all have their inevitable, human, fatal flaw.
And, worst of all, Guinevere forgot that destiny takes great pleasure in wreaking that which it creates. It had no greater pleasure or pastime than finding the weakest spot in a legend. A single push and the whole structure came falling down every time.
- end -