Archive of Our Own ^beta

I am not feeling like myself.

Lancelot’s bracelet is undeniably beautiful: polished, gleaming, extravagant. Arthur has given me plenty of gifts before—expensive ones at that—but he knows my tastes skew more plain and practical. A purple-dyed gown stitched with my favourite flowers. A gentle mare that rides like a dream. I still keep the dagger with a gold-encrusted hilt he gave me hidden in my dress at all times.

He teased me that, The crown is enough of an eyesore, but he kissed my temple and murmured, Your beauty outshines it all anyway. Pretty words. I remembered that flustered feeling in my chest, outpacing the nerves of being his queen. It was a typical reaction of being with Arthur.

But this . . . I stared at the engravings on the silver bracelet, my mind wandering to Lancelot. Instead of Arthur’s soft, blond hair and his striking blue eyes, I think of nothing else except Lancelot.

Oh, I am not feeling like myself at all.

#

Morgana’s gown clings to my body as I clutch Lancelot like a lifeline.

His hair is shorn short, a far cry from that long haired man who flitted in and out of my life a year ago. His chainmail is rusted, his face dirtied and bloodied. Fear handles me like a dog on a leash, wants to drag me to run, run, run, but I cannot get over the devotion Lancelot has shown me.

Loud shouting and a thundering of footsteps echo in the caves. There is something beyond these tunnels looking for me. Who is it again?

“Follow this tunnel. It will take you out beyond the castle walls.” Earnest dark-brown eyes gaze into me. “I will buy you as much time as I can.”

I clutch him tighter. Fear tugs on me tighter. My head hurts. I can’t—I can’t. What am I doing? “Are you sure this is safe?” I ask him. No, this doesn’t make any sense. I didn’t say that. I said . . . what did I say again?

“You must.” Lancelot melts into the shadows, clad in all black. No, it’s chainmail. I swear upon it. It’s my eyes. It’s the adrenaline in my body.

“No.” I shake my head. “I will not leave you here to die.”

Lancelot’s warm, warm hands cup my face and my stomach flutters alongside the fear. “”I would die for you one hundred times over. Live for me, or everything that I am has been for nothing.”

This cannot be right. A flicker of a memory flits through my mind: a funeral pyre, a red cape, Arthur’s hand in mine—no. My wrist burns. That cannot be right. I hear myself tell him, “As long as I live, my feelings for you will never fade.”

Lancelot says, “No one visits the council chambers at this hour of the night.” Nonsensical. What council chambers? But I am moved nonetheless. I have never heard prettier words said toward me in my life.

A lie. No. The ache in my head worsens, my wrist is an iron rod left in the fire for too long. My hands travel up the length of his chest. Chainmail, I think. Where is the chainmail?

My wrist grows hotter. Lancelot must be holding me there. I smile up at him and—

#

I don’t know how this happened.

As the shock fades, shame wells up in me until it’s all I can feel. Shame and guilt. How could this have happened? I love Arthur. I do, with all my heart and more.

Lancelot’s bracelet rubs me raw and I cry out in anger, in frustration, and rip it away from me. I don’t even watch where it lands. I can’t.

All I can think about is Arthur. His rage is fine as a blade, sharpened by the betrayal I have dealt him. Why did I kiss Lancelot? Why did I do such a terrible thing? When Lancelot left again so soon the second time, I vowed that I would get over him and I did because for all his sweet words, he always left me. He never even gave me a choice.

Arthur gave me a choice. He gave me one and I loved him for it. I love him. Arthur’s desperate anger floods my mind. I can’t even remember when I last kissed him. I don’t want to forget the feel of his arms around me, his lips on mine. Oh, God, how could I have done this?

I kissed him on the cheek before he bide me goodnight. Fleeting, domestic. A precursor to the rest of our lives because I foolishly thought I would have years with him. I thought I would have my whole life with him.

Grief settles into the corner of the dungeon with me and watches me not cruelly, but not kindly either.

I land on my knees and sob until my chest aches and even after that.

#

I do not struggle as I’m led to my fate.

As I’m led to Arthur.

I don’t know what I am expecting. Under Uther’s reign, I would’ve been sent to hang for this offence. I almost died for having loved him once before, but we persevered. Not this time.

Despite all he tries, Arthur is not his father. He is kinder than any man born into royalty has a right to be. It is part of the reason why I love him so. He gives me hope. Loving him gives me hope.

Arthur tells everyone else to leave. A demand wrapped up softly, but he is kingly regardless. There is no hiding the broadness of his chest, the rigid spine.

My eyes catch Elyan’s. I’m desperate for just one hint of familiarity, one bit of comfort, knowing I am not worthy of it. But when Elyan’s disappointed glare lands on me, I cannot do anything but accept it.

This is my legacy, I think forlornly. An adulterer.

I do nothing to hide the tears on my face. My knees dig into the floor. Arthur’s footsteps are heavy as he walks around me. I can’t look at him. Shame brings my gaze down.

“What are you still doing on your knees? Am I just your king?” Arthur says. “Get up for goodness’ sake.”

Shakily, I stand and watch as he circles me.

“I was to be your husband,” he continues.

I try to pull myself together, but all I can do is put my hands against my stomach as if that will keep all my sobs trapped in.

When he’s finally in front of me, he locks his eyes with mine. I cannot break away. It is the least I can do for him.

“What happened, Guinevere?” Arthur asks, something broken in his tone. “We were happy. I know we were happy.”

I close my eyes and tears stream from my face. I nod.

“You felt it too?”

I nod again, unable to speak.

“You love him? You’ve always loved him—”

This I can answer confidently. “No.”

“All those times you said you wanted to be with me?” he asks, voice breaking on the last word.

“I meant every word.”

The doubt in his face almost makes me fall to my knees again. I love him. I love him. Please, I cannot live this life without him knowing that he was so loved by me.

“Tomorrow was our wedding day.”

“I know,” I say, nodding. I cannot stop crying. I don’t even know how. Heartbreak has never felt like this—so empty.

“If you had worries—”

I finally look up at him, shaking my head. “I wasn’t worried.”

But he barrels through. “If you had doubts . . .”

“I didn’t have any doubts.” My voice is a whisper.

His is a shout. “Then forgive me! Because I must be really stupid.” He takes a step toward me and grips my arms, shaking me as if he can unravel my mind by force. “What were you doing?”

I do nothing, too stunned, but he inhales sharply and apologises. Turns away.

“No,” I say, rubbing my arms. “No, no, it is I who should be sorry.”

I see the way anger chews Arthur up just by the way his jaw clenches, the avoidance in his gaze, the way his heels dig into the ground.

“You mean everything to me, Arthur,” I tell him. “Once there was Lancelot—a long time ago—but I haven’t considered him in that way for many years. I thought he was head. I thought I would never see him again and . . . and then . . . when I did, I was . . . overwhelmed.” It is the only thing I can think of to explain myself, but even it sounds stupid to my ears. Stupid, foolish girl. “I was drawn to him. I couldn’t stop myself. I don’t know why.”

I press my hands to my lips, like in prayer. “I love you,” I say desperately. “You mean everything to me. All these years, I waited for you.”

Arthur is so still. I might as well be speaking to a statue.

“You only had to wait one more day.” His voice breaks and so do I.

I sniffle and press my hands to my stomach. “All I ever wanted is to be your queen.” I pause. “I still want to be your queen.”

He points to the door. “Do you know what they’re saying? That in my father’s day, you’d be put to death.”

The sentence falls like a scythe. I can almost hear the whistle of the blade against my neck. It is what I deserve. I should not be so surprised, but still, I find that I am. It is not like Arthur to do this.

“I don’t want to see you dead, Guinevere.”

I close my eyes, savouring the way his tongue rolls around the length of my name. This might be the last time I ever get to hear it.

“But I don’t want to see you.”

The hurt pummels into my chest.

“I cannot look at you every day. You will leave Camelot at first light—”

“Arthur—” I don’t know why I’m calling his name, just that it’s instinct to want to stay. It is less cruel than a hanging, a beheading, but there is something so desolate about never seeing Arthur again. To know that this—Arthur in pain because of me—is the last I will ever see of him.

“You return upon pain of death.”

“No,” I say as he walks away. Desperation clouds my every thought. “No, no, no! I cannot be without you.”

I cannot leave this place, my home. I can’t.

His footsteps are steady, sure. “That is my decision.”

I stop, accepting that he won’t change his mind. “Where will I go?” I ask.

Arthur doesn’t turn. The sight of his back is one I am much too familiar with. Look back, I plead. Look back.

Like magic, Arthur does, but it does not fix anything. It just makes everything worse. “I am sorry,” he tells me. “I am truly sorry.”

And I am alone.

#

I cannot speak for Arthur, but the days without him dulled into a never-ending ache. A lost limb. Every time something happens, a small joy or a petty annoyance, I turn to him expecting him to be there. But he isn’t. The ache of his absence echoes through me. A hollow bell.

Hunith doesn’t ask questions, though I give her all the answers. She doesn’t judge, nor does she tell others. I can see where Merlin got his gentle nature from.

News of Camelot reaches even Ealdor about King Arthur courting Princess Mithian of Nemeth. Hunith ushers me into her home and holds me as I sob into her arms, clinging to her like I’m her daughter and she, my mother.

It is as though my heart repairs itself little by little every day only for grief to rip it to shreds. It is what I deserve.

Oh, but I miss him. I do.

Camelot will have a beautiful princess for a queen, and Arthur will fall in love. At least I was loved, I tell myself on the hardest days. When guilt and grief weigh me down so much I can’t even help around the house and just curl up near the fire, I dream of Arthur.

I wake up crying.

#

I would die for this kingdom, I think simply.

The roar of applause, the chants—Long live the Queen!—dull to a soft thundering. Arthur’s hand is my anchor. I glance at him, watch that boyish grin light his face like the sun. I watch him mouth the words, I love you, Guinevere, and I resist the girlish urge to throw my arms about his neck and kiss him senseless.

Arthur already threw decorum out the window when we wed and dipped me down at the waist and kissed me for so long Geoffrey coughed pointedly while everybody in the room whistled and cheered.

I’m determined not to do that again.

As the chanting dies down, Arthur leans down to whisper in my ear, “I told you.”

“Told me what?” He is beautiful like this, smiling and kingly and mine. God, he is mine and I am his.

I cannot believe he took me back after my betrayal.

Arthur tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, careful of the coronation crown. “Your beauty outshines this eyesore of a crown.”

A laugh leaves my chest. The crowd cheers again when Arthur pulls me in for a kiss.

#

I don’t like to think about it.

Neither does Arthur.

We’re happy, really, truly happy. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier before in my life. I wake up in his arms to Merlin bustling around in the room with breakfast for three. We’ve gotten into a good routine.

I haven’t picked out a maidservant yet because it is still a novel thing, having my own servant. So Arthur has taken it upon himself to learn how to do and undo my laces and is getting quite good at it too. Merlin fixes the bed while I get dressed and we all look over the day’s reports and schedule while breaking our fast.

Trust me, it’s as good as I can tell it.

But.

I don’t think about it every day, but it hits me. Sometimes when I do something innocuous like pick out jewellery and I avoid dressing my wrist like the plague. Or when I pass down that particular corridor and reroute my path entirely to avoid it. It eats at me—the guilt.

Here I am, the Queen of Camelot, with everything that I have ever wanted laid by my side and I am still not content.

“Gwen,” Merlin says, his brows furrowed in concern as he walks toward me. “Are you okay?”

I’ve been rubbing my wrist, staring out the window of our chambers. “I’m fine,” I lie, not turning around. In my line of sight, Arthur’s out on the courtyard directing a squadron of knights into formation practices. The grounds have been in a state of disrepair ever since Morgana, so they’ve been training out here instead.

Merlin takes my hand and rubs a thumb over the redness. “I can give you a salve if it’s bothering you.”

“It’s not—” I blow a noisy breath. “Merlin, I trust you more than anyone.”

“Barring Arthur,” he adds easily.

I nod. “Of course, barring Arthur.” I sigh. “I do not know how to confide this to anyone, but it’s . . . it’s tearing me inside.”

Merlin gently steers me to sit in Arthur’s chair. I finger the grooves, the aged wood that has seen Arthur grow up as I try to find the words. He crouches down and holds my hand still.

“Sometimes, I can scarcely believe Arthur forgave me,” I confess, my eyes watering like I’m facing punishment all over again. “I know you told me that Lancelot wasn’t really Lancelot and I’m glad it wasn’t him because he really was such a good, noble man but . . .” Merlin’s eyes are soft. “I don’t know what drove me to kiss him. I—I don’t even remember it.”

My memory feels fractured. I keep trying to conjure up the image, but all I can think about is that stress-filled day being imprisoned by Hengist. Lancelot with blank eyes, Lancelot with rusted chainmail, Lancelot’s face clean and barren, Lancelot wearing all black.

It makes no sense.

So I tell Merlin, “It just makes no sense. When Lancelot came back, I was happy, of course, but my feelings for him never came back. I felt fond, but for a friend I haven’t seen for a long time.”

Merlin hums. “Did Lancelot . . . give you anything? A present?”

“Yes,” I say faintly, rubbing my wrist again. “A bracelet.”

Merlin’s eyes darkened and a rush of affection washes over me at his protectiveness. He is still that country boy at heart. The one who introduced himself as Idiot because he fought the arrogant prince for being a bully.

“I don’t even know how he got it. A knight’s pay doesn’t cover nearly enough to get something like that. A dead knight has no money at all!” I exclaim, confused out of my mind. “It makes no sense, Merlin. I just . . . don’t know. And I don’t want to bring this up in front of Arthur either because, you know.”

Merlin bites his bottom lip. “Do you know where that bracelet is?”

I shake my head. “I took it off the moment I was in the dungeons. I couldn’t stand the sight of it.”

“It still must be there,” Merlin says, mostly to himself now. He stands and I crane my neck to look up at him, our hands hanging between us in the air. He really is one of my dearest friends. “I’m going to research something, okay?” He kisses my knuckles. “Gwen, everything will be perfect. I promise you.”

He says it like an oath and it’s his surety that tamps that guilt down just enough to be bearable.

“Okay,” I say simply and watch him go.

Then I stand, straighten my dress, and affix the crown on my head. It’s almost time for court. I wipe away the remnants of my emotional outburst and head out.

#

It’s the end of the day and we’ve closed the throne room down from seeing audiences. Only Arthur’s knights and the councilmen are still here, trying to squeeze in a short, urgent meeting about Morgana’s whereabouts. I’m still seated on the throne, telling Fenire, one of the new serving girls, to go and grab some refreshments and Merlin if she can find him in time.

Arthur’s milling about, listening to each councilmen’s arguments and opinions though, going by his face, they know nothing of Morgana’s mind.

Just when I’m about to go up and join my husband, Merlin bursts in through the door, that damned bracelet clutched in his hands. I press my hand to my stomach, feeling unsettled. Shameful.

“Gwen,” Merlin says to me. “I figured it out.”

He looks to Arthur, barely taking in the other people in the room. “Arthur,” he says excitedly. “Gwen’s innocent.”

Merlin waves the bracelet in front of Arthur’s uncomprehending face. I’m stuck to the throne, unable to move.

“What are you blabbering on about?” Arthur whacks Merlin’s hand, but Merlin’s grip is tight. The bracelet never leaves his hand.

“Lancelot!” Merlin comes closer to me, but I can only stare at him with wide eyes. “He gave Gwen an enchanted bracelet that is undoubtedly Morgana’s doing because I know, without a single shred of uncertainty, that Lancelot did not have magic.”

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice is flat.

But Merlin ignores him and looks at me. “My lady, Sir Lancelot gave this to you, correct?” He jiggles the offending piece of jewellery.

I nod.

“Did you have any amorous feelings about Sir Lancelot prior to putting this bracelet on, my lady?”

Understanding that this is the trial that I never got, I tip my chin up. I strengthen my spine. My hands tremble with relief. “No, I did not.”

“And when you put the bracelet on, all you could think about was Sir Lancelot, right, your majesty?”

“Correct,” I tell him, a weight lifting from my chest. I lock eyes with Arthur, whose own eyes are shining bright.

“How did you figure this out?” Arthur asks, placing a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

“Gwen told me about Lancelot giving her a bracelet and I know Morgana’s methods. It’s just like her to do this. So I went and found it in the dungeon where she told she took it off. I didn’t know a sure-fire way of testing it with Gaius gone so . . .” He shrugs, scratching the back of his head. “I put it on and all I could think about was Lancelot.”

“You put on an enchanted bracelet?” Arthur slaps the backside of Merlin’s head, but looks intently at the thing that ruined both our lives. “You’re certain it was the enchantment?”

There is something hushed about Arthur’s voice that makes my eyes prick with unshed tears.

“You can put it on if you wish,” Merlin offers. “It’s not deadly. It just . . . makes you think of nothing else besides Lancelot.”

With one hand, Arthur takes the bracelet and slips it on his wrist. I can see every emotion pass on Arthur’s face before he rips it off and throws it to the ground.

“She’s innocent,” I hear Merlin whisper to Arthur.

But Arthur isn’t looking at him.

He’s looking at me.

Arthur strides toward me. I expect him to pull me up, kiss me in front of everyone. But he doesn’t do that.

The King of Camelot sinks to his knees at my feet. A bundle of emotions wells up in my throat, so I don’t speak. Not yet, at least. His head is bowed, his entire body supplicant.

“Guinevere,” Arthur says hoarsely. “Forgive me for doubting you. For banishing you. Forgive me.”

I care not for the other people in the room, not their pity or their shock. I care only for Arthur.

I rest my hand atop Arthur’s head as if in blessing.

“Oh, Arthur,” I say. He raises his head. I give him my hands and stand up, waiting for him to rise with me, a parallel of my own coronation.

“I forgive you.”

With my words, Arthur crushes me to his chest, pulling me tight.

This is forgiveness, I think and let my lips meet his. This is love—as warm as a ray of sunlight and just as bright.