-18-
He saw her before she took notice of him. She walked slowly among the stalls, pausing at those that were obviously her regular haunts. She looked different: more relaxed, not hesitating to smile at familiar faces.
Arthur had been orphaned of that smile, and seeing it again—even though it wasn't for him—filled the gap in his heart that was empty of her, even if only partway.
She was bathed in the golden light of the early morning sun. It turned her dark curls into a myriad of colors: the deepest of reds to the richest of browns to the darkest of blacks where it rested against the slope of her neck.
He remembered how he would play with her curls as she slept in his arms, loving how they felt woven around his fingers. He recalled how they always smelled perfectly of lavender and the scent that was uniquely her.
Looking at her from the shade provided by a stall, Arthur couldn't help but marvel at Guinevere. Kindness came so easy to her; a smile, a touch, a word of comfort—they all brought a little bit of peace during the worst of times.
He thought back on all the times he sought out the haven of her presence. She never once hinted that he was imposing on her time; she always made feel welcome, cherished, important, loved. And even when it was she who was hurting, she never forgot to ask about the ones she was with.
Guinevere was a better person that he could ever hope to become. And all those times when she was looked upon as being weak, she was the strongest one of all of them.
And he cast her strength aside.
He told her once that it was her counsel that he valued above all, only to banish her because she faltered that one time.
He stepped out of the shade of the awning and softly called out her name. Arthur waited until she turned and he saw realization slowly dawn in her eyes.
She knew.
'Sire,' he heard her say and with that word, Arthur felt the walls of her resistance grow even stronger. He saw her hands clench into fists and the beginnings of a curtsey, and it took all of his will not to take her into his arms and soothe her until she was melting into him once again.
Instead, he asked that she never lower herself to him again.
She asked when his transformation happened and he told her that it was after the meeting at her father's house. She gave a quick nod and turned away from him.
Her rejection hurt.
Arthur had called out to her and when she turned to face him again, he saw the weary resignation etched in every line of her body. Her shoulders were slumped and there was a sadness in her eyes that he had never seen before. It cut him bone-deep; the woman he loved could not bear the sight of him—how could any man survive that hate?
"Will you dine with me this evening?" he heard himself ask. He was desperate for her presence, and he threw out the invitation like a lifeline.
He saw her brow furrow.
"Why?" She asked.
"I've missed you, Guinevere." He looked into her eyes and hoped that she felt the honesty in his words.
Arthur knew that she was weighing his invitation. Wondering if there was anything more to what he said. He didn't blame her. After all he had put her through, he expected her rancor and distrust, but if there was still the slightest hope of making her love him again, he would grasp that hope close.
"I can't," Guinevere finally answered and Arthur's head and shoulders drooped.
"But I can spare time right now," her voice cut through his misery and he raised his head.
"There's a small cafe around the corner," she began to say, but Arthur gave a small shake of his head.
"Come with me to Camelot."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw Guinevere take a step backward. He had no doubt that she would have fled if she had the chance. But Arthur gently took her small hand in his and softly begged her acceptance.
"Please, Guinevere."
