CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE #2
The shift in his tone pulled my attention back to him. I turned from staring at the horizon to find Lance's expression shadowed with something that looked like regret.
"For what?"
He drew a breath as though fortifying himself. "When you first arrived at Camelot, I doubted you. Just as everyone did—as many still do." His jaw tightened. "I looked at your stature, your modest origins, and decided you didn't belong here. I even spoke to Arthur against keeping you in the trials."
I'd suspected as much—seen it in the way he'd watched me those first days—but hearing him voice his thoughts aloud still stung.
"Arthur protected you," Lance continued. "Said he believed everyone deserved a fair shot, regardless of birth or appearance." A bitter smile touched his lips. "The king saw what I couldn't. Or wouldn't."
Arthur. Again. Another facet of the man I'd been sent to destroy, glinting in the moonlight like an unexpected jewel.
The tyrant who'd banned magic, who'd burned my village to the ground, who'd killed my parents—that same man had defended my right to stand among these knights when his own champion had questioned it.
I didn't want to know this. Didn't want these complications muddying the waters of my mission that had, at one time, been clear—things were infinitely easier when they were black and white, good and bad, right and wrong.
"I regret my actions now," Lance continued, his voice rough with self-recrimination. "The way I judged you so unfairly—the way I spoke against you. You've earned your place here as much as any knight in these trials. More than many, if I'm honest."
I looked up at him and gave him a small, grateful smile. "Don't dwell on it. I'm accustomed to people thinking such things."
"That's not the point." Frustration bled through his words.
"I should have been better. I shouldn't have fallen into the same trap that everyone else did.
" His hand curled into a fist against the stone.
"I should have allowed you to demonstrate your abilities free from unfair judgment. I'm angry with myself about it."
I studied him—this proud warrior—genuinely tormented by having misjudged a supposed nobody from the north. The contradiction between Lance's reputation and the vulnerable man before me grew more pronounced with each word he spoke.
"I forgive you, Lance," I said softly, holding his gaze. "And if I forgive you, then you need to forgive yourself."
The silence that settled between us wasn't uncomfortable or empty.
Instead, it deepened into something almost tangible, heavy with unspoken understanding and the weight of secrets we both carried.
In that quiet space, I became acutely aware of how close we stood, how the moonlight played across the sharp angles of his face, and how his breathing had synchronized with mine without either of us realizing it.
"If you could be anywhere else," he started, not looking at me as he changed the subject, which was just as well because I didn't want to focus on regrets, or the past, or anything that wasn't this moment. "Where would you go?"
His question struck me as precisely what it was—imagining possibilities.
What if we were given the chance for an entirely different life?
To make choices for ourselves that might have seen us in far different situations than we now faced?
What if we hadn't answered fate's calling and, instead, had carved our own paths?
"Somewhere near water."
"Near water where?"
"A lake or the sea, somewhere I could hear the rhythm of the waves, where the water reflects the sky so perfectly you can't tell where one ends and the other begins."
"There's something honest about water," he offered with a nod as though we both were admiring the same painting. "It doesn't pretend to be anything other than what it is."
I swallowed hard at that. Lance turned to look at me then, and for the first time since I'd known him, his smile was completely unguarded—genuine in a way that transformed his usually serious, battle-hardened features into something softer, more vulnerable.
This was Lance without his armor of duty and formality, without the weight of his reputation as Arthur's most feared knight pressing down on his shoulders.
In the pale light filtering through the castle's ancient stones, he looked younger somehow, more like the man he might have been if fate had chosen a different path for him—one that didn't require him to be Arthur's shadow and sword hand, always ready to kill or die at his king's command.
In that moment—standing beside him beneath the stars—I felt a dangerous longing.
Not just for him, but for a life unburdened by disguise.
A life where I could be seen, fully and freely, as Guinevere, as the woman I was.
A life that was so much simpler—where I was just a woman and he was just a man, and we were facing each other with no deception, no lies, just the beauty of honesty.
"The stars stay constant," Lance said, his voice quiet. "Even when everything else changes."
I reached out for him on impulse, but then immediately braced my hand against the cool stone wall. "Maybe that’s why we look to them when we’re lost."
His hand settled on the stone just beside mine. Not touching. But close—as close as we could safely be. In that small distance between our fingers lay all the things neither of us dared to say—possibility, risk, longing.
We continued standing there for hours, falling into deeper conversation.
Lance told me stories of his childhood—of whittled wooden swords and clumsy, early duels with stable boys.
I offered carefully edited tales of my time on the dairy farm, reshaping memories of a girl into the fiction of a curious boy.
Through it all, I let pieces of myself bleed through—my thoughts, my values, my hopes. Not all of me, but enough.
Lance admitted to a fondness for the old ballads of the northern tribes. We debated philosophies of leadership. His intellect revealed itself in layers—measured, thoughtful, surprisingly empathetic. Not the cold blade I’d expected, but a man of principle, purpose, and quiet depth.
As the moon crept across the sky and the castle slumbered below, our words grew softer, more personal.
"I’ve… I have been dreaming about you," he said suddenly, his voice barely more than a breath against the wind. "Every night since the hunt."
My heart stilled.
"What happens in these dreams?"
He turned away, his profile bathed in silver moonlight. "Things that cannot be. And yet… they feel more real than anything else." Then he looked at me and smiled. "Though in the dreams, I admit, you’re always a woman."
My breath caught. I should have redirected the conversation. I should have pulled us back to safer ground.
But I didn’t.
The yearning in his eyes, the confusion lining his brow—it was almost too much to bear. This man stood here beside me, uncertain yet open, all because of a lie I wore like armor. And part of me ached to shatter it as I wondered what could grow between us if truth replaced illusion.
"Dreams reveal what we hide from ourselves," I said softly.
He studied me for a long moment. "Do you dream, Lioran?"
"Yes." My gaze drifted toward the Standing Stones far beyond the castle walls. "Of another life. One where I’m not..."
I stopped. Too close. Too dangerous.
"Not what?"
I chose my words with care. "Not constrained by what others expect of me."
A silence followed, heavy but not uncomfortable.
"I understand that more than you know," he said quietly.
And I believed him.
We stood that way for a long time, side by side beneath the stars, and for once, I didn’t feel so alone.
Dawn approached. The horizon softened with the first hints of pink and gold, tugging us gently back to reality.
"We should return," he said at last. "Before the castle wakes."
I nodded. But neither of us moved.
Then, almost as one, we walked together toward the stairwell, our footfalls muted on the worn stone.
At the threshold where our paths would part, Lance slowed.
His hand brushed the wall, fingers tracing an ancient sigil carved into the stone—an old symbol of warding, smoothed by centuries of reverent touches.
"Thank you," he said simply.
"For?"
"For the conversation. For..." he paused, searching for the words. "For seeing me. Without demanding answers."
I smiled. "Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to speak like this again."
"I’d like that. Very much."
Then we parted, each retreating into the shadows of our respective corridors. And though my body longed for sleep, my thoughts churned.
I’d walked a dangerous line tonight—too close to the truth, beyond the line of intense feeling and emotion. And I repeatedly found myself wondering what might happen if I told Lance everything.
You can never tell him. I had to force down the ache in my chest at the thought.
Because you know what would follow.