Who could that be? Guinevere's head looks up sharply at the sound of an unexpected, unfamiliar knock. Freya has just left to take her supper tray back to the kitchens, and Merlin's knock is generally louder. I suppose it could be Llacheu.
"My lord," she says, surprised to see Arthur standing there. He is wearing a simple white tunic and brown trousers, more casually dressed than she's ever seen him.
"Lady Guinevere," he greets, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
They stare at one another for a few awkward moments. "Won't you come in?" she finally says, stepping aside, guessing he is waiting for an invitation.
"I don't want to disturb you," he replies.
"I wasn't doing anything important," she answers.
He steps inside, and, after hesitating a moment, she closes the door.
"I thought you might be preparing your lessons," he says.
"I do that after lunch, while that day's lesson is still fresh in my mind," she explains. "Would… would you care to sit?"
"Thank you," answers, and follows her to the fireplace. The night is chilly and she has a roaring fire going.
"I don't have any wine, but would you care for some water?" she offers, her hand hovering near the pitcher Freya customarily leaves for the evening.
"Thank you," he repeats.
She pours two goblets and hands him one before sitting opposite him. Now it is her turn to wait for him.
"I would like to thank you for looking after Amhar," he says, staring into his goblet. He glances up at her for a moment, allowing himself only that long to appreciate how she looks in the soft glow of the fire before dropping his eyes again. "You did not have to do any of it."
She is stunned. "You are most welcome, Sire, and I was happy to help," she replies. "I've grown quite fond of the princes."
"I am aware," he says. "They are fond of you as well."
The unspoken additional words I am fond of you also hang heavily in the air between them. Neither says them; both think them.
Guinevere takes a sip and clears her throat. "Llacheu is very protective of Amhar," she comments.
"Ah. Yes. Yes, he is," Arthur replies. "We all are."
"Is it…" she starts, then hesitates.
"Yes?"
"Is it because Amhar favors his mother?" she asks. "I'm merely guessing, of course, but since he seems to look very little like you…"
He nods a little. "He looks so much like Mithian," he confirms. "I daresay he has several of my other traits, but he is the physical copy of his mother."
Guinevere smiles, knowing some of the traits to which Arthur is referring. Stubbornness. Pride. Possibly mischief, but that is a guess. "He has your scowl," she volunteers.
To her surprise, Arthur laughs. "He does at that," he agrees. He takes a long drink, then says, "His resemblance to his mother may be what prompted Llacheu's protectiveness, but…"
"Yes?" she prompts, curious.
He looks at her. "Well… you know what it is to lose someone. Someone dear," he says.
She nods. "Yes," she answers.
"Amhar has been ill a few times before this. I have to stop myself from… flying into a panic every time," he admits, his voice soft. "It gets a little easier as he gets older, but…" He rubs his hand over his face. "My mother died in childbirth. I never knew her," he says. "So I know what it feels like to grow up without a parent. I do not wish to know what it feels like to be a parent who has lost a child. Especially after already losing his mother." He looks down, then away.
As surprised as Guinevere is at Arthur's confession, her heart suddenly goes out to him. She almost reaches across to take his hand, but stops herself. Amhar heavily favors Mithian. She died of illness, so naturally when Amhar falls ill, Arthur fears the worst. It is a sobering realization. "You must have loved her very much," she says, for lack of anything better to say.
He doesn't immediately answer. "I did love her… in a way," he admits. "It was a strategic marriage. I was very young, just shy of 20, and my father had died a few weeks earlier. I needed Nemeth, or someplace like her. I needed the support of a more… established kingdom," he carefully says, indicating he is well aware of Camelot's "barbaric" reputation. "King Rodor had a pretty daughter who had just come of age." He pauses, taking a drink. "She was educated and refined; the very picture of a lady, much like yourself," he unthinkingly says, gesturing towards Guinevere with his goblet. "But she was strangely competitive with me. Felt she had to prove herself… I suppose. I tried to gently tell her it wasn't necessary, tried to tell her… that she was pushing herself too hard."
"She wouldn't hear it," Guinevere guesses.
"Of course she wouldn't," Arthur says with a humorless chuckle. "Everything was a competition. It was… tiring, even for me," he admits. "She wouldn't accept that she wasn't as healthy as she wished to be." He looks up at her. "I wish I could say I wasn't surprised she was able to bear me three healthy sons. Probably did it just by sheer force of will," he chuckles again, still without much humor. "I wish I could say I was surprised when she fell gravely ill." He takes another drink and falls quiet for a moment. Guinevere waits. "I was very fond of her… yes, I suppose I did love her… but I would be lying if I said she was the great love of my life. At least I hope she wasn't." Another thoughtful pause. "Kings are not often afforded that luxury," he concludes.
Guinevere is surprised. Mighty King Arthur, a romantic? "You are young… and handsome, and your kingdom is prospering, Sire. Surely it is not too late," she quietly says, thinking back to when Elyan said nearly the same thing to her. When she looks over at him, he is studying her intently, his slate blue eyes boring into her, drawing her eyes to meet his. The moment stretches, and Guinevere's lips part just slightly.
Arthur's gaze drops to her lips, lingers for a beat, and then he looks away. He clears his throat. "Tell me about your husband," he says. "I only know of him by reputation, and I am… curious if he truly lived up to it." I am curious about the man who was able to earn her heart.
She takes a drink, thinking about how to answer his question. "He was a good man and a great knight," she replies with a slight nod. "He was truly noble… not only by birth, but also by deed. He treated every man and woman with kindness and respect."
"Was your marriage arranged?" he bluntly asks.
"No," she replies. "He courted me. Asked my father's permission… and my brother's. My brother was his captain, you see." He nods and she continues. "Claimed he was smitten the first time he saw me."
He peers at her. He can certainly understand being immediately attracted, but can't help thinking there is something she isn't saying.
"It was all very nice, and… perfect. He was always sweet and kind, always the perfect, noble knight," she says, staring into the fire.
Arthur definitely knows she is withholding something, and, curiosity piqued, tries to find a way to draw it out of her.
"He was too perfect," Guinevere nearly whispers the admission before Arthur comes up with his question. "At least, that was the impression he gave."
"Was he cruel to you?" Arthur asks, suddenly very worried that brave and noble Sir Lancelot had been beating his beautiful wife behind closed doors. It does happen, and more frequently than most people realize.
She looks at him, eyes wide. "No! Oh, goodness, I see how you could draw that conclusion from my words, but no," she exclaims, and is quite surprised to see relief wash over Arthur's features. "He was good to me, but… I don't know that I ever truly knew him. And I know he never truly knew me."
Arthur's brows furrow. "How is that possible?" He was always under the impression that people who had the good fortune to be able to choose their mates had better, happier, stronger marriages than those who had their spouses decided for them. That there would be no one you know better than the person with whom you chose to spend your life.
Guinevere bites her lip, unsure how much she should say. How much she can allow herself to say. She's never confided this information to anyone, not even Elyan. "He was always very… careful. Always trying to make me happy with little gestures and gifts. Never wished to upset me, never disagreed with me, always deferred to my wishes." She pauses, takes a long drink of her water and whispers, "Never shared his true self with me."
"What was that?" Arthur asks, not sure he has heard correctly.
"It was all superficial," she finally blurts, slumping back in her chair. "We had no meaningful conversations about our feelings, hopes, desires, wishes… ourselves. He… placed me on a pedestal, treating me like a… a prized possession instead of a real person." Her eyes water with the emotions of finally saying all these things, out loud, to someone else. "I don't know if 'possession' is quite the right word," she mutters, blinking back her tears. "All I know is I knew his favorite color but not his deepest fear or greatest joy." As she looks over at Arthur, she realizes she is fairly certain she knows both of those things about him.
"I am sorry," Arthur says. "I had no idea."
"No one did," she replies. "Even now. You're the first person I've ever told."
"Oh," he softly exclaims, momentarily speechless.
"Everyone thought we were happy. The perfect couple." She sighs. "Even when we lost the baby, all people saw was how he doted on me, nursing me through my recovery…"
Arthur suddenly feels very, very small and slightly ill, as though his stomach has dropped into his shoes. "Baby?" He didn't mean to ask, but the question could not be stopped.
Guinevere looks over at him, her expression grave. "I miscarried," she says. "It took years to conceive, and then I miscarried." She looks away before the tear falls, and quickly swipes it away before reaching into a hidden pocket for her handkerchief. "He wouldn't talk about it with me. Ever. I never knew how he truly felt about it, and he never asked me how I felt about it." Everything is spilling out now that the dam has been cracked. "Of course he would ask how I was feeling, but he didn't mean that way. The way that was most important. My body healed, but my emotions… my soul needed mending, and he…" She breaks off now, unable to continue.
He reaches across and gently, hesitantly places his hand over hers. "Guinevere, I cannot begin to say how sorry I am. I had no idea," his voice is soft and full of sympathy, and it only makes her cry harder.
"There was no way you could have known," she says, sniffling. "But thank you."
"I never would have said… what I said that day… in the throne room… if I had," he says. "And even so, it was a truly awful thing to say all on its own, regardless of your personal circumstances. I beg your forgiveness for it."
She regards him for a moment, giving her tears a moment to abate before responding. "I forgive you, Sire," she softly says.
"Thank you," he replies, shoulders slumping in relief. "You may call me Arthur," he quietly adds.
"I do not think that would be appropriate," she says, slipping her hand out from beneath his to dab her eyes with her handkerchief.
"When we are simply talking… like this, I do not see the harm," he says, stopping himself from using phrases like "In private" or "When we are alone" lest she get the wrong idea.
"If that is your wish," she replies.
I want it to be your wish is Arthur's immediate thought, but he holds it back. He had not come here to declare himself to her, but has now come close to doing so at least twice. He looks at her. "Was it a relief when he died?" he asks. It is a blunt question, but posed gently.
She looks away and stares into the diminishing fire for a long moment before answering. "Would I be a terrible person if I said 'A little'? Because part of me was relieved, yes," she replies, still looking at the flames.
"If you are a terrible person, then so am I," he honestly answers, and Guinevere then knows he was hoping she would give that particular answer. "I was grieved, of course, but there was this… nugget of relief in my belly, shrouded by guilt."
She nods, completely understanding his meaning. "He has been gone more than two years now, and I only stopped wearing my widow's mourning colors when I came to Camelot," she says.
"Because of that guilt?" he asks.
"I think so. That, and it was… safe. I could hide behind my mourning and… not allow myself to be open to…" her eyes flicker to his for just an instant, "anything," she concludes, talking to the floor.
Arthur slowly nods, unsure how to respond. He understands exactly what she is saying, but is afraid admitting it will reveal too much of his heart, reveal the true reason for his erratic behavior where she is concerned, most of which he deeply regrets. He reaches for his goblet and holds it between flat palms, rolling it back and forth a few times before taking a drink. "I… I would like to also ask for your forgiveness for my behavior the day after the feast. You were correct: I had no right to make any accusations," he says, deciding to change the subject.
"Thank you again," she answers. She has had a lot of time to think about how her interactions with Gwaine may have looked to an outsider, and while they were not inappropriate, they were definitely familiar, to use Arthur's word. "I… I do understand how you could have arrived at the conclusion you did—"
"It was still no excuse for me to behave like a boor," he interjects. "I… jumped to conclusions. Made incorrect assumptions. Reacted before I had all the information." He sighs. "I know better. As a king, a knight, and a man."
She looks at him. "Yes, you are a man… Arthur," she says, trying out his name. She likes saying it more than she will admit. "People make mistakes, and if they are wise, they learn from them." She very slowly reaches across and touches his hand. He looks up at her. "You are a wise man," she adds, withdrawing her hand.
He raises his eyebrows. "I must say I am surprised you think so," he says, the barest smile playing about his lips.
She tries not to look at said lips. "Well, there are a lot of… words… that come to mind when I think of you, but 'fool' is not one of them," she says, smiling a little.
"That's certainly reassuring," he chuckles. "But I doubt you have made many mistakes in your life," he adds.
She looks at him, thinking he may be jesting, but his expression is quite sincere. "Oh, I've made a few," she answers with a smile that manages to be both sad and a little mysterious.
Arthur is intrigued, but decides asking about the details of Guinevere's enigmatic response is best left for a later conversation, hopefully when they know each other a bit better. He then notices the roaring fire has burned down to mostly embers, so he lifts his goblet to his lips, drains it, and sets it on the table. "It is getting late," he says. He doesn't really wish to leave but also does not want their visit to be construed as improper by staying late into the night. Alone. In her chambers.
"Yes," she agrees, her heart sinking a little as he prepares to leave. He stands, and she follows suit.
They silently walk to the door, the atmosphere thick and heavy between them. She reaches for the door handle.
"Guinevere," he says, his voice rolling over her like warm velvet. She swallows the gasp; ignores the way her stomach drops at the sound of it. He holds out his hand, and she pauses a moment before placing hers in it. "Thank you." He lifts her hand and brushes the barest hint of a kiss across her knuckles.
It is a rather polite, chaste kiss, a kiss to express his gratitude and emphasize the apologies offered, yet she still feels it on her skin after she's withdrawn her hand. "Y-you're welcome, Sire," she answers, her voice a whisper. "Arthur," she corrects.
"Good night," he says, releasing her hand, then opening the door himself.
"Good night," she answers, but he is already gone.