A/N: Written for English class…. Yippee, right? My teacher HATES this story, although I did get an A on it – she says it's all AU. (Not really.) I happen to like it, though. Review plz!

Based on a synopsis of Le Morte d'Arthur, which we read in class (BLAH….)

Circumstance: Arthur has just returned from his hunting trip to find that Agravaine is dead and that Guinevere and Lancelot have betrayed him. He must confront Guinevere about what he has heard happened the previous night.


"What can I say?"

Arthur's voice was sharp and harsh, a tricky mixture of confusion, anger, and sadness. He was running his fingers through his short beard, a sure sign that he was nervous. Guinevere, sensing that no answer she could give would suffice, kept silent as she studied her husband.

He looked like a broken man: she could see the jagged shards of a broken heart in his pale blue eyes. He avoided looking at her; his gaze traveled all over the room, taking in the humble furnishings, and silent the lady-in-waiting who stood near the wall with her eyes averted. His shoulders slumped, giving his fine robe of brown leather a shabby look. His tarnished gold circlet was sliding off, and Guinevere had the sudden urge to go and straighten it for him.

Their eyes locked together, and a glance told him all. The harsh torchlight reflected and danced in her liquid jade eyes. Her face was drawn and she fiddled with the single piece of jewelry she word: a gold ring set with rubies. Her blue-black velvet gown, cut low in the latest style from London, and the gold crucifix she wore on a cord around her neck seemed too fine in this room of harsh wood and no decoration. This was a place of penance, a place of repentance. But there could be no earthly repentance for the crime she had committed. He had to remind himself of this every few seconds now as he looked at the woman he loved. Oh, how he wanted this all to disappear!

"What can I say?" he asked again. When Guinevere again remained silent, he roared, "Answer me!"

Her lip trembled, but her gaze never faltered. "You know I am a virtuous woman, Arthur. You know Lancelot would never betray you. You know that there has been no wrong committed here. You can tell me that you know these things." Her heart nearly stopped as he stepped toward her. Forgive me, she willed. Believe.

She stood and walked toward him, stopping when she was close enough that her body gave the slightest breath of warmth to his own form, still chilled from the cold forest night. He waited scarcely a moment before embracing her and clutching her tightly to him.

Guinevere was right; he knew these things. But doubt stirred in his mind as he remembered the shocked, hurt face of Sir Mordred, telling him of the scandal and the battle the night before. He remembered the sincere tears that filled Mordred's eyes as her relayed to Arthur Sir Agravaine's demise at the blade of Lancelot's sword. And again his view of Guinevere was clouded.

Guinevere sensed that Arthur doubted her word. She pushed his circlet back into place and brushed away the lock of wavy, graying hair that hung in her husband's face. Her lips parted slightly and she ran her hand along his earlobe, down his jaw, in the tenderest of caresses.

He drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. He took her hand in a crushing grip and pushed it away. "Seductress!" he hissed. "Witch! Devil's spawn – don't you dare to try your sorcery on me!"

Standing near the wall, Beatrice, Guinevere's lady-in-waiting and dear friend, stifled a gasp. She was to be a silent witness, but she couldn't bear to see anyone hurt her lady. Arthur looked Beatrice in the eyes, shoved Guinevere backward, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him like an angry child.

Beatrice rushed over to Guinevere, but the queen assured her friend that she was all right and resumed her regal position at the table, looking at the open Bible in front of her but not reading a word of it.

Another knock, this one louder and more urgent, sounded, and the door was pushed open. Beatrice hurried back to her place near the wall and studied the men who entered the room. Two knights – Sir Gawaine and Sir Mordred -- came in first, followed by the guardsman Ymar, Beatrice's husband.

Ymar gave her a silent nod of greeting, which she was about to return when Sir Mordred crossed the room in one long stride. He grabbed Guinevere by her slender ivory throat and hissed something in her ear. She grew very pale, and choked as he tightened his grip. Gawaine stood in the background, looking beaten. A single tear ran from his eye, and he did nothing to protect his queen.

"NO!"

A desperate cry tore from Beatrice's lips, and she lunged at Mordred. All seemed to stop, whether for a moment or a thousand years, and then it was too fast to focus, a blurred mass of bodies and weapons. Guinevere had been thrown back against the stone wall, and she lay there dazed but unhurt, watching everything.

Beatrice had thrown herself at Mordred, sending blows wildly. Mordred turned upon her, and Ymar rushed at him with a battle cry, trying to protect his wife.

But it had all happened so fast, and when it was over Beatrice lay dead on the plank floor, with a wound to her throat. Ymar was on his knees beside her, and Mordred stood above them both with a bloody sword.

All Guinevere could see was blood, so much blood, staining the floor, a puddle of it that ran along the slightly-sloping floor and stained Guinevere's slippers and the edge of her gown. She opened her mouth to scream and found she could not make a sound.

Gawaine rushed out of the room, and Ymar knelt next to the body of his wife and wept. Faintly, Guinevere saw that Arthur was back in the room. She heard yelling, but she didn't care. Someone shook her by the shoulders, and she surrendered to unconsciousness, all the while staring in shock at the blood coagulating on the hem of her skirt.

A whisper in her heart, whether from demon or angel, gave her a message: "This is where the end begins – all right here."