WiltingDaisies94: So I've been vacillating about whether or not to start another Merlin story. On the one hand, I am annoyed enough with Season 5. On the other hand, I'm not a great updater and I don't know how much more guilt I can live with.
But anyway...
Last chapter before a reveal, okay everyone? Literally just stick with me through this one chapter more and then I promise you'll get your reveal!
Chapter 29
Lancelot knew it was ridiculous to wait for her night after night; part of the reason he'd wanted to go fight with the King was to rid himself of the anxiety of waiting on Lady Morgana. He was tired of having his hopes dashed every evening, and feeling like a fool for returning to the same place anyway.
The knight glanced up and down the empty corridor, feeling like a fixture of the wall. The occasional servants on their way to retiring for the night had long since learned to ignore his presence, even if they could not interpret its meaning. Sighing, Lancelot placed himself on the stone bench, settling himself in for another disappointing night.
Lancelot's mind drifted around, trying to distract him from his discontent, and only succeeded in landing on another topic the knight was attempting to avoid: Queen Guinevere. He was inwardly saddened by the end of their time together, knowing that the comfortable repertoire they had developed would shortly disappear.
Though it distressed him, Lancelot knew the separation was inevitable and necessary. Lately the knight had been having increasingly unkind thoughts towards His Majesty. The King had a beautiful, charming wife and hardly understood it at all. Arthur did not appreciate her goodness, her sweetness, the moonlit glow she always possessed…
It was jealousy and he knew it, an ugly creature that Lancelot desperately tried to ward off, to no avail. The Queen transformed him, brought out the best of his qualities and reciprocated his interests. He loved her long before he was willing to admit it to himself, and he was helpless against his feelings. Dragged away like a doll in a thunderstorm, he was drawn to Guinevere, all against his better judgment. Where was the logic in love? Lancelot asked himself a hundred times over. How was he going to survive once the King returned? How was he going to face the King at all?
Ironically the knight's only saving grace was the haunting presence of Lady Morgana in the back of his mind. Like a man being drawn and quartered, each of his limbs was pulled in a different direction, and no matter which he leaned into, it was agonizing. Lancelot was a romantic in the truest sense; he had never anticipated loving two women at once, one as insubstantial as a night tale, the other already belonging to his greatest friend. It was a mess, the whole of it, and terribly depressing to the knight's spirit.
"Good evening, Milord."
Lancelot's head shot up at the sound of the voice, hoarse and nearly inaudible. There, standing a few paces away from him, her dark gown brushing the cold stone floor, was the Lady herself, the absent specter made flesh again.
He stood immediately, terrified he'd passed on into full hallucinations. "Milady?" He stepped forward, a hand unconsciously reaching out. "Is it you?"
In a raspy voice, quiet and insubstantial, she replied, "It is I."
All rational thoughts fled the knight's brain and without hesitation he flew to the Lady. It never occurred to him that he should berate her or resent her lack of communication; merely the sight of her was irresistible.
Lancelot wrapped his arms around her, overcome with relief and emotion. 'Why?' he tried to ask, looking down at the smaller figure. 'Why have you avoided me? Where have you been all these weeks? How could you leave me to wonder and fear? Who are you?'
Guinevere, from behind her mask, saw the confusion on Lancelot's open face. Being there at all was nearly crushing her soul with guilt, but what could she do? Lancelot… he understood her perfectly. Spending days with him as her nearest companion had made her more comfortable in Camelot than any of the dozens of courtiers and nobles she'd met. He was friendly, easy to talk with, so completely unlike her husband.
That was the truth – the King and Queen spent as little time together as possible. When they did see each other there was a rather cool civility, and though they might have once stood a chance of being friends, something, some unknown barrier or divide had eliminated that possibility.
It had been at first a relief to Guinevere to hear that His Majesty was leaving for battle, but the contrasting news of Lancelot's remainder was the only thing that had made her worry or care. It was not that she was too cold a person to not be bothered if her husband lived or died; she worried for his safety, but on a very impersonal level for a spouse.
It was terrible to Guinevere, thinking of her love for Lancelot as betrayal. She knew she did not love Arthur, and she had a suspicion that he would very much prefer to love someone else.
For, although the King had arrived home the night before, he had neglected to call on her that evening. Guinevere at first guessed that he was too fatigued for a night with her, but when it was long past midnight and His Majesty had not come this evening either, the Queen could not help but wonder.
And hope. Guinevere knew it was a twisted view, but in her mind she felt that if the King were also engaged in an extramarital affair, she could feel less guilty for conducting the interests of her own heart.
"I have been ill of late, Milord," Guinevere excused herself to Lancelot's inquisitive eyes. The timing had turned out most favorably, with the effects of the dumbcane wearing off just as the knights arrived home. Lancelot had never heard her speak as Queen, and now this character, this imagined 'Lady Morgana' had a sore throat, an excuse for not having met Lancelot. "You must believe I would have come to you otherwise."
Lancelot took Guinevere's hands and looked intently into her face. "Promise me, Milady," he asked, "that you shall not repeat this separation."
Guinevere shook her head rapidly. "I am sorry," she whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady and her eyes clear. "I am sorry."
"Answer me," Lancelot demanded softly. "Tell me the truth."
Guinevere swallowed. "Of course," she breathed, reaching to stroke the side of Lancelot's face, which yielded to her touch. "I am yours, Milord."
The knight let out a sigh of relief, and tilted up Guinevere's chin, leaning in to meet her.
"I am so sorry," Guinevere repeated, feeling the graze of his lips against her mouth. "So very, very sorry."
