Guinevere senses the very instant her husband is lost to this world.
The sudden weight of a broken heart, shattered by Arthur's betrayal, sears in her chest. The very air around her shimmers and shifts like so much windswept sand, the scales of bewitchment falling from her eyes in the same heartbeat as the fog clears her thoughts, and she knows.
Arthur is dead.
She is free.
Perhaps one day, when the scars of his treachery have begun to heal, she will find it in her heart to mourn the man she'd once adored.
It shall not be today, she decides with dry eyes. Today she is a no longer a queen but a stranger in a bewildering land, her soul keening for the loss not of Arthur but of Lancelot. Lancelot, her one true love, the man whose heart she broke in the cruelest of fashions, whose trust she betrayed in the most terrible of ways.
She was not herself when she committed these dreadful deeds, but that is of little comfort. The memories of her actions are hers to keep, it seems, and there is no amount of magic that could ever heal the gaping wound in the heart.
I cannot help you regain what is lost, my son. You must be patient. Water is the source of all life, of all magic. In order for your heart to be healed, water must first return that which is most beloved to the Savior.
Heartsick and footsore, the Lady of the Lake's cryptic words still echoing in his head, Lancelot stares in bewilderment at a deserted Camelot.
As nonsensical as it sounds, the townsfolk - his kin, his brethren - have vanished during his fruitless journey to visit his mother. Their possessions lay scattered, as if their former owners have been whisked away in a heartbeat, as though a mighty windstorm had blown through and spirited them to another land.
(He senses the faintest traces of dark magic lingering in the air, an almost acrid tang of despair and deceit.)
The strange eating house in which his heart had been broken beyond repair is gone, only the flattened plants and grasses beneath giving any sign it had once rested there.
Of Merlin, there is no sign.
Merlin's loss is almost too much to bear, of course, but it's another loss that has his knees buckling beneath him as he sinks to the ground.
His lady. His Guinevere.
Gods above, he'd still had hope that he'd be able to save her. To bring her back to him, away from Arthur's enchantment. It was all that had sustained him during his long, arduous trek.
But he has failed.
She is gone.
The newly resurrected pirate comes in search of her the very night of his return to this realm, his jaw set in a determined manner that reminds her uncomfortably of her husband. The mourners grieving Robin of Locksley have mostly dispersed, their faces still etched with sorrow, and the dining room overseen by the Widow Lucas has grown quiet. "Milady, if I may have a word?"
Draining her cup of coffee, she hesitates, her first impulse to refuse. She has wasted far too much time in this realm, waited helplessly while the rulers traipsed to the Underworld to save the man standing before her, his feet shuffling awkwardly. Her mind is filled with plans to return to Camelot with her people, a task not for the fainthearted, but she cannot deny a certain kinship with the purposeful gleam in the sea captain's eyes.
"You may."
He slips into the other side of the wooden booth, his eyes trained on her face. "I have news of your husband."
"If you wish to inform me of his death, you are too late." Odd that her voice sounds steady when the pit of her stomach feels like a den of vipers. "He is lying in state awaiting our return to Camelot."
(He will not be buried as a beloved ruler, but he will still be buried in the place he'd fought so hard to mend.)
Hook hesitates, then goes on, his tone surprisingly gentle. "He's in the Underworld."
Shock blanches her flesh, right down to her bones. Ridiculous, really, considering the circumstances. If anyone has unfinished business, it is surely King Arthur of Camelot. The lingering taste of sweetened coffee on her tongue turns bitter, and she swallows hard. "You spoke with him?"
The pirate nods. "Aye." He pauses, clearly choosing his next words with care, and she is irritated to find herself leaning forward in her seat. "He aided me in my quest to help defeat Hades." A grin quirks his mouth. "He proved himself to be quite the worthy ally."
"You trusted him?" She stares at him, her newly returned sense of self mingling with bittersweet memories of the man she'd once held so dear. "Even though it was his sword that caused your death?"
"That I did." The pirate lifts his hand to slowly rub the side of his throat, his blue eyes darkening with remembered desperation. "I had no other choice, not if I was to help Emma."
Her own throat tightens. Arthur used to speak of Excalibur with the same fervor, but not her, never her. Only one man had ever held her in such high esteem, and it had not been her late husband. "You must love the Savior very much to risk trusting my husband."
He seems almost affronted she would bother asking such a thing. "I do."
Silence falls between them, still and waiting, and she pushes aside her empty coffee cup with a restless hand. She has no idea what to do with his words, but she is a queen, and she knows gratitude is in order. "Thank you for telling me."
He nods. "No matter how things stood between you, I thought you would wish to know his fate." He slips out of the booth as quickly as he'd first joined her, but he makes no move to leave. "There's more." His ringed fingers tapping on the table top, he ducks his head, catching her gaze with his. "When I moved on, Arthur chose to stay behind." Another nod, this time of encouragement, as if he suspects she might find his next words difficult to fathom. "He wanted to help those still trapped find a way to make peace with their unfinished business."
Oh.
Her heart lurches.
For the first time in the longest while, she allows herself to remember the young boy she'd known. The young King she'd championed. The man Arthur had been before his quest had tarnished his very soul.
Her eyes blur hotly with tears she'd been so very determined not to shed - for Arthur, for Lancelot, for herself – but there is something else, something more than simply regret and sorrow digging into her heart. A renewed sense of purpose is surging through her, propelling her forward.
Arthur is not the only ruler of Camelot with unfinished business.
"Thank you, Captain."
Hook dips his head in a quick bow, then he is gone, back to his Savior's side, she has no doubt.
Guinevere closes her eyes for a long moment, listening to the sound of her heart beating, no longer bewitching, no longer enslaved to a hopeless quest. She listens to the sound of her heart beating, its pounding strong and steady within her chest, and there are two things she knows.
She is Camelot's true ruler, and she will lead her people home.
She is Lancelot's true love, and she will find him.
He loses count of the days.
It's easier that way.
Lancelot has always been a man content with his own company, but after several weeks of travelling alongside nothing more than his own thoughts, he had arrived in Camelot longing for conversation.
But Camelot is no more. It's now little more than an empty shell, devoid of life and laughter, robbed of its brightest jewel, its Queen.
He spends his days scouring the woods for clues as to Merlin's fate, his nights reliving every stolen kiss he'd shared with Guinevere. It is a poor way for a Knight of the Round Table to live out his days, but it is all he has.
He loses count of the days, and so he has no idea how long he has been waiting for something – anything – when it finally happens.
The early morning sun warms his face as he crosses the field, intent on refilling his flask at the quietly running stream. There is a sudden hum in the air, as though the very wind itself has been set alight, then a vivid flash of fire and light flares across the sky.
And then she is there.
His lady.
She is there and surely he is dreaming, but she is very real and she is not alone. The townsfolk are spilling out onto the field behind her as if deposited there by the very hands of the gods themselves, chattering excitedly, their voices clamoring louder and louder.
He barely hears them.
Guinevere is sweeping across the grass to him, her face ablaze with a fierce joy that calls to his very soul, banishing the darkness from the most hidden parts of his heart. "You're here!" Her voice trips like the sound of the finest lute song, rippling over his skin.
To his great shock, he manages to find his voice. "Aye, milady, I am. Where else would I be?"
She laughs, a glorious sound, then her arms are around his neck – in front of her subjects, under the early morning sun, and she is kissing him, her mouth hot and sweet and his for the taking. Her scent makes his head swim, the feel of her pressed tight against him has him struggling to stop himself from sinking to the warm grass with her clasped in his arms.
His breath is shuddering in his lungs when she finally pulls back, and she is faring no better, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his own. "Where have you been, my lady?" He brushes her flushed cheek with his knuckles, her answering smile an instant balm to his loneliness. "How did you return?"
She grasps his hand tightly, pulling it to her mouth for a kiss, his lips lingering on his skin. "I have missed you, my love."
My love.
There is a lump in his throat the size of a fist, and his voice sounds hollow with disbelief (and hope, so much hope) even to his own ears. "You are yourself again?"
Her eyes glittering with tears, she nods. "I have much to tell you, but nothing is more important than this one thing." Placing her other hand on his heart, she smiles, an unsteady curving of lips damp with fallen tears. "I love you," she tells him a soft, true voice, and he is reborn in the fire of her regard, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of his grief.
"And I you." Falling to one knee before her, he tugs their clasped hands to his own lips, his whole being awash with jubilation. "My Queen."
This time, he thinks he hears the townsfolk cheering as he sweeps her into his arms once more, then she kisses him, and all he knows is her.