ALL OTHER BLISS.

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring;
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before.

- Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere, Lord Alfred Tennyson.

The soft whish of ladies' silken gowns filled the air, accompanied by a bone flute's tremulous tones and the gentle plucking of a lyre. The entire court swayed upon the stone floors, the low murmur of their voices mingled with the chatter of taps from wooden sandal'd feet. King Arthur, even behind his half-mask of wood, was instantly recognizable. It was a humble piece that he wore, adorned with only eagles' feathers and carvings of the Boar of Cornwall, but there was no other man in the kingdom of Camelot who held himself as Arthur did. At least he was trying. Lancelot would give him that.

Even as he watched, Arthur threw his head back and laughed. The brunette woman beside him, clad in dull red and copper, tilted her lips and smiled politely. Her mask was an elegant concoction, handcrafted black lace and the crimson tree engraved into its base. She was becoming, but certainly not Guinevere, and Lancelot moved on to look throughout the rest of the room.

There were several fair ladies in the hall, many of the wearing the style that their queen favoured while in court. The masque was for Guinevere's nameday after all, and so it was only right to honor her however they might. On the other hand, it made Sir Lancelot's search all the more difficult. At the very least, there was no woman wearing the volto mask that Arthur had commissioned for his wife. He'd seen it himself while it still lay in the box, an ornate, heavy thing with intricate gilding and ivory wings along the cheeks. She had protested weakly, but the king had brushed it aside and presented it with a beaming smile. "For my queen, a mask of the dove, for purity and peace."

It would not have been right for a knight of the Round Table to laugh, but Lancelot had dearly wanted to.

The sight of such a mask would be impossible to ignore, (which Arthur had known, he'd intended for it to identify the queen and ward off any suitors, since it would prevent them from claiming ignorance in the morning. Lancelot though, was no mere boy to grasp a lady's hand and dash away once the sun arose. He would not be deterred by such simple means) and the lack of whispering meant that Guinevere had not worn it after all. Among the many beautiful nobles, Arthur would never be able to find his wife. He did not know her well enough, no matter what he might think, and in any case the darkhaired beauty that he was spinning across the floor would hold his attention as long as starlight still streamed through the high windows.

But Lancelot might find her – and he would, he vowed. The thought of one night where he might hold her in open view, with no repercussions, was intoxicating – to dance with her in the castle in finery as she deserved, rather than a quick, mad frolic on the open fields in secret.

"Sir knight," came a lilting voice from his left. He whirled around, eyes anxiously seeking its owner. He knew the voice, he knew the soft touch that came to his hand (all too well, in truth) and their owner –

The lady before him was a dream of spring, sheathed in delicate green, golden hair heavy and loose as it fell over her shoulders. A crown of white carnations sat upon her head, a fragile columbine mask fastened into place beneath. It covered only the top half of her face, leaving rosy lips bared to his gaze, and he struggled with the desire to sweep down and claim them – claim her, before them all.

That was one wish that would have to go unfulfilled.

"My lady," he returned, speaking quietly. Nobody would hear them, but they were so very used to whispering. "The King, his majesty – does he – "

"I'm afraid I do not know what you mean, sir knight," Guinevere smiled slyly, even as she entwined their fingers and somehow made it look as if he was leading her towards the swirling crowd. "Tonight I am only a woman, and I am not familiar with our King Arthur."

Let tonight be ours, her eyes pleaded from behind the mask. There was so little he could do, but Lancelot could grant her that much. One night.

Nothing will never be enough, not after this, he thinks despairingly, but he nods and smiles and pulls her into his arms in earnest, sliding in smoothly between two other couples. Her hair shines in the candlelight, flying wildly as they step and twirl like everyone else, anyone else. The music crescendos, the lyre thrumming, and Guinevere laughs as they pass by Arthur. He does not even turn.