"Why aren't you and Father friends anymore?" Gwydre's direct question during their lessons catches her off guard just over a week later.
"Gwydre, I told you not to say anything," Llacheu snaps in a harsh whisper.
"It's all right, my l— Llacheu," Guinevere replies, tripping over his title to call him by his given name as he requested the previous day. And once Llacheu allowed her to address him in this manner, the other two boys immediately followed, but she is still adjusting.
Not wishing to discourage Gwydre's natural curiosity, she says, "We can never learn anything if we do not ask questions. Even if they are difficult ones to address."
"Don't you like our Father?" Amhar pipes up, his large brown eyes beseeching. He looks a trifle pale, but she doesn't think too much of it, being distracted by this unexpected line of questioning.
She ponders her answer carefully. "Your father is a good man, an excellent father, and a fine king," she replies, smiling at the youngest boy.
Mollified, Amhar returns to his letter puzzle, his normally busy hands working a bit more listlessly than usual.
Gwydre fixes her in his thoughtful blue gaze and says, "That doesn't really answer the question, Lady Guinevere."
Guinevere looks down and turns away. She's gone back to avoiding Arthur, even though Merlin has assured her the king is sorry for what happened.
She is avoiding him because she's afraid of what might happen if she accepts his apology. She's afraid of her own developing feelings for him, feelings that started clarifying after Merlin left her room the night after the feast. She tossed and turned for hours before she finally decided to get up and go for a walk. When her feet took her past the king's chambers, she wished she was surprised to find herself there. She even paused outside his doors for a moment, listening without knowing why.
She moved on before the guards could take too much notice, but not before she noticed the light coming from the crack beneath the doors. The fact that he was still up was strangely comforting, and her footsteps paused again, wanting to go back and knock.
It was then she realized she wanted to see him, to apologize though she had done nothing wrong, just to see him smile at her again.
She hurried back to her rooms.
"I like your father," she finally answers, still not facing the boys. "But it is difficult to be friends with a king." It's a valid reason to keep her distance, even if it isn't the entire reason she feels she should.
"Why?" Llacheu asks. As the future King of Camelot, his is a completely understandable question.
"Because the king is the seat of power in the kingdom," she starts, then stops, deciding to take a different approach. "Think of it like this: You love your father, correct?"
"Yes," the three boys nod.
"Do you respect him? Know he will look after you; make certain you are well?"
They nod again.
"But would you refer to your father as your friend?" She sees them about to nod, and she stops them. "Before you respond, think about what happens when you misbehave. Does your father seem like your friend then, or is he definitely your father?"
"Oh," they chorus.
"I understand," Llacheu says with a slight frown. "There has to be some… separation. A sense of responsibility. Like how we're not supposed to be friends with the stable boys, even though they have the most fun, but we are supposed to make sure they are being treated well. We can't really be their friends because we are princes and they are commoners."
"Something like that," Guinevere says. "But remember, it's not about being better than someone else," she cautions. "People of all classes have worth. A good king respects his people, no matter who they are. Please remember that. Just because someone makes his living cleaning up after horses doesn't mean he is a lesser person than someone who owns property and has a lot of money. It simply means he lives his life in a different way, and often people have no control over the circumstances in which they find themselves. You three were born princes. I was born a Lady. We did not choose these things any more than Bertrand chose to be born the peasant son of the royal stablemaster and his wife and therefore, became the next royal stablemaster."
The boys thoughtfully nod.
"But what does any of that have to do with you and Father not getting along anymore?" Gwydre presses.
He's a persistent lad. She sighs. "Everything and nothing," she answers. "As I said, your father is a good man and I like him fine. But the fact that he is king makes things a little… complicated, that's all. No matter if I like him or not, he is still my king, just like he is still your father whether you like him or not."
"So being king is like being a father to the whole kingdom?" Llacheu asks.
Guinevere smiles, a little proud of herself for turning a personal matter into a lesson. "Yes. I would say it is very much like that indeed." She taps the desk. "Now. Back to your lessons."
Outside the classroom doors, King Arthur slowly walks away, having heard the entire conversation. He was about to knock, forcing Lady Guinevere to face him, but Gwydre's question stopped his hand.
He's very glad it did.
xXx
"Lady Guinevere!" Llacheu exclaims, bursting in through the open doors of her rooms. The prince looks rather upset.
"Llacheu, what's the matter?" Guinevere asks, standing and going to him. She places her hands on his shoulders.
"It's Amhar. He's ill," he says.
"Where is your father?"
"He's in Ascetir, visiting Lord Gaius."
"Where is his nursemaid?" Guinevere asks, but immediately remembers the youngest Pendragon's nursemaid had gone to visit her ailing mother up in Idirsholas and would not be back for several days. "Oh, that's right," she says.
"Will you come?" Llacheu pleads, taking her hand and lightly pulling.
"Of course," she answers, quickly following him out.
She enters Amhar's room, which still looks very much like a nursery, to see the boy lying in his small bed. He looks even paler than this morning and more pathetic than she's ever seen him. She goes to his bedside, shooing Gwydre away. "You do not want to risk catching anything," she gently says.
Gwydre hangs back beside his brother, who already had the sense to keep his distance.
"He's been there ever since training," Llacheu explains. "Not that he trains much yet, but… well, you know him. He doesn't ever… want to go to bed."
"I know," Guinevere agrees, nodding as she places her hand on the boy's head. It's hot and sticky. "He has a fever," she says.
The two older boys gasp. "Oh no," Llacheu says.
"I don't feel good, Lady Guinevere," Amhar says, his voice small.
"I know, sweetheart," she tells him, brushing the damp brown hair from his forehead. "You'll feel better soon."
"Will he?" Gwydre asks.
"Shh," Llacheu quickly hushes his brother.
"Do you have a court physician?" Guinevere asks.
"Yes, but…" Llacheu answers, hesistating.
"But?" she prompts.
"He's not very good," Gwydre, always right to the point, supplies. "He just puts leeches on everything."
"Amhar does not like leeches," Llacheu adds. "He really, really doesn't like them."
Guinevere feels a small hand gripping hers. "Don't let him put leeches on me!" he squeaks.
"Shh, I won't," Guinevere says. "I want you to rest, all right? I'm going to go get some things and come right back."
"Don't leave," Amhar says, holding her hand again.
"I promise I will come right back," she says. She leans down, kisses his forehead, then leaves, Llacheu trailing behind her.
"Lady Guinevere," he says, easily falling into step beside her on his longer legs.
"Oh, good, you can help me," she says, glad he came along.
He places his hand on her arm, stopping her. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?" he asks, his bright blue eyes threatening tears. "You won't let him die, will you?"
Guinevere knew Llacheu was fond of his baby brother, but didn't realize exactly how much until right now. "He won't die, Llacheu. I promise." She knows this is a promise she cannot – and should not – make, but also knows the prince needs this reassurance right now, and she is the only one to provide it. She pats his hand, still on her arm. "Come. You'll feel better if you can be useful."
xXx
Guinevere spends her afternoon at Amhar's bedside, placing cool compresses on his forehead and making him drink water. When Freya appeared, Guinevere sent her to the market with a list of herbs and a purse of coins. The other two boys drift in and out whenever they are able, always asking how Amhar is doing and if there is anything they can do to help. She takes a few bites of dinner at the prince's bedside while she urges him to take spoonfuls of broth between sips of the coriander tea she made with some of the items Freya retrieved.
"How is he?" Arthur's voice makes Guinevere jump.
"He has a fever, Sire," she answers. He rushes in, his face a mask of worry. Suddenly, their personal issues are no longer important. "But I believe he will make a full recovery." She notices he is still in his chainmail and boots, and the smell of horse follows him inside the room. He must have just gotten back.
"Have you any medical training?" he asks, sitting on the edge of his son's bed. He places his hand on the boy's leg. "How are you feeling, Amhar?" he asks before Guinevere can answer his first question.
"Tired, Daddy," Amhar answers. Guinevere smiles, never before having heard Arthur addressed as such, even by the five-year-old. "Cold. I hurt all over."
"I should summon Edwin," Arthur sighs.
"No!" Amhar exclaims in a panic. "I want Lady Guinevere!" He grabs her hand again. "Edwin will just put leeches on me!"
Arthur looks from his son to Guinevere. She looks tired and slightly disheveled. Her sleeves are rolled up and wisps of hair are springing free of what looks like a hastily-done braid. He's never seen her looking anything less than perfectly composed, and yet she looks nothing less than perfect, even in her current state.
"I do not have any medical training, Sire," Guinevere answers. "However, I do know how to tend a fever."
He stares at her for a moment. "Very well," he allows. He knows things have been… difficult between himself and the children's tutor. He also knows she would never dream of harming the princes in any way. He knows she loves them almost as much as he does.
"I'm sorry I was gone, Amhar," Arthur says to his son.
"'Sall right, Daddy," the boy answers. His eyes are heavy.
Arthur leans over and kisses Amhar on the forehead. "Go to sleep now. You'll feel better in the morning."
Amhar nods, snuggling down into his bed.
"I will stay with him," Arthur says, standing.
Guinevere was prepared to sit vigil at the boy's bedside all night, but stands and gives him her seat. "Um, this is coriander tea, for the fever," she softly says, pointing to the pot on the bedside table. "There are clean cloths here, and this is lavender water for cool compresses if he needs it."
Arthur nods, then looks up at her. The gratitude is on his face if not on his lips.
She curtseys and leaves the room.
xXx
There are no lessons the next day, as Amhar is still sick and wants Guinevere at his side, believing she is keeping Edwin and his leeches away.
Arthur was slumped in the chair, asleep, when Guinevere entered the room the next morning. George must have attended him at some point during the night, because his armor was now off, but he still wore the padded shirt that was just beneath the mail, and his boots were still on.
She was just pondering whether or not to wake him when his servant returned, so she stepped aside, grateful to not be the one to rouse the sleeping king.
Arthur was in and out of the room all morning, visiting his son whenever he could. He intended to cancel everything today, but the young prince asked him not to. "I'm getting better, Daddy. You need to be king, too."
Guinevere could see the conflict on the king's face, but he eventually relented to his son's wishes. "I'll come back whenever I can," he promised, and he did so, returning at regular intervals throughout the morning.
Llacheu hovered from after breakfast until lunch, spending the time when they would normally be having lessons in his brother's room. He stayed far enough away, but decided it was his job to distract his brother from feeling ill by talking to him and trying to make him laugh.
Guinevere finds the eldest prince's actions incredibly sweet and wonders how much a part the five-year-old's physical resemblance to their mother plays in Llacheu's fondness for him. Llacheu is the only one who has any solid memories of Queen Mithian, having been nine when she passed. She doesn't know how much Gwydre remembers of her, but Amhar surely has no memory of their mother.
Gwydre stopped in frequently, but did not stay. Once, he had a book under his arm, and Guinevere was able to get a good enough look at it to see that it was a medical book. She doesn't know where he got it, but smiled at the thought of the boy deciding to learn what he can about his brother's illness.
Come lunchtime, Amhar is tired and Merlin has arrived to take Llacheu to lunch. Amhar is able to eat some bread and has one bite of chicken before deciding he was done. At that point, he rolled over and went to sleep, facing the wall.
"My lady, will you eat something?" Freya whispers, not wishing to disturb the sleeping boy.
"Yes, but I have promised Amhar I would stay here," Guinevere answers.
Freya nods, curtseys, and heads to the kitchens to find her mistress something she can easily eat while seated at the prince's bedside.
While the youngest Pendragon slept, his fever broke. He wakes up three hours later, drenched in sweat but feeling better.
When his father comes to see him before dinner, Amhar is sitting up in his bed with a tray over his lap, putting together a small puzzle. Arthur hurries to his son's bedside and Guinevere moves out of the way, looking on as he hugs him tightly and kisses his forehead, which is now much cooler.