Meeting Vera #3
Arthur bristled. He resented the notion there’d been something deficient in her before. She’d been hurting. But she’d also taken on more than anyone should. And she’d endured more. He’d seen awful deaths in battle, yes, but she’d seen her share of trauma, too. She’d watched her own mother die.
“Well, father says I was there, but I don’t remember it.
You can’t be hurt by something you don’t remember,” she’d told him.
And she’d smiled when she said it, which was the final tell that it was something that made her very sad to say.
And he was quite certain she was wrong too.
He was quite certain her wounds were so deep she’d convinced herself they didn’t exist.
But.
Different. Good different. This time, he couldn’t resist the temptation. “How so?”
Lancelot’s lips tilted nearly imperceptibly up, and Arthur knew he was pleased that he’d gotten what he hoped for: enough interest from Arthur to continue the conversation. “She likes me, for one.” Lancelot’s smile broadened.
“Really?” Arthur colored his tone with disbelief and quirked an eyebrow, surprising himself by indulging the levity, but more so that Lancelot’s instinct to show up for Guinevere had been a good one. Maybe, in a turn none of them could have guessed, Lancelot had been what she needed all along.
“She does,” Lancelot said proudly. “And she’d just left her whole world behind. Everything, Arthur. And she still seemed happy. Not thrilled by the circumstances, obviously. But different from the others. It’s not just wishful thinking, I know it. I just … I know it.”
Arthur’s muscles had relaxed. He realized he was no longer clenching his jaw. But this woman being different didn’t fix anything. “That’s all the more reason I should stay away.”
Lancelot sighed. “She’s going to need your help, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t call me that,” Arthur said. He’d never gotten used to hearing the formal title from his oldest friend, and it landed heavy, especially now. “I tried to help the others. It ended poorly.”
“I know.” This, his friend offered more gently. “So maybe you do it different this time. Maybe you tell her.”
“Tell her?”
“Yes.” Lancelot’s eyes lit as he took a long drink, emptying his cup. “Tell her about the others. Tell her all of it.”
Everything in Arthur jolted like he’d been knocked sideways. “Are you mad? That’s the surest way to damn her. Merlin said—”
“I know what he said. It doesn’t mean he’s right.” He turned the cup in his hands, seeming to study it for a long moment. “She’s going to need you.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. Lancelot’s instincts were unmatched, and Arthur trusted him implicitly—but in this matter, Arthur could not trust himself. “I can’t help her.”
Lancelot scoffed. “What is she supposed to do? She’ll need someone who isn’t Merlin. He’ll be gone half the time anyway.”
“She’ll have you. I’ll stay as far from her as I can.”
Lancelot shook his head as he released a long breath through his nostrils. “It’s a mistake, Your Majesty.”
“Stop calling me that.” Arthur drained his own cup and set it down on the table harder than he meant to. Nearly slammed it, really.
“You’re still king, Arthur,” Lancelot said softly.
“Even when you’re feeling ashamed. And when you’re three sheets to the wind.
You’re still my king. You’re still her king.
” He took the pitcher and refilled Arthur’s cup and then his own.
“If you think staying away will protect her, I’ll try it. Nothing else has worked.”
He wasn’t sure of anything, but Lancelot had gotten her safely here. Lancelot had been a friend to her and—Arthur blinked. “Did you just leave her out there?”
“Yes.” Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Shut up. So did you.” He wasn’t wrong. “Merlin’s out there. She’s fine. She knows how to hold her own.” He gave a lopsided grin, and his eyes glimmered.
“You really like her,” Arthur said.
“Very much. And you will too.”
Arthur’s insides lurched, but he nodded.
“I’m going to bed. You should too.” Lancelot took one last swig from his cup before he stood. “You don’t sleep enough.”
Arthur huffed. “I’m not the one running through the woods before daybreak.”
Lancelot grinned, tilting his head to the side. He looked like he swallowed something he’d thought to say and started to leave.
But Arthur couldn’t resist. “What?”
Lancelot turned back quickly and sat back down in his chair. “She runs, mate. Brought shoes with her—snuck them in her bag. She laughs really easily.” He raised his eyebrows with a chuckle. “And she curses rather a lot.”
Arthur smiled at that. “Curses? Well. That’s not Guinevere.”
“Maybe not.” Lancelot clicked his tongue. “Maybe that’s a good thing. But I like her, and I trust her.”
Arthur liked the sound of all that. And he had a mission: Stay away. Keep this woman alive. Get her back home, so she could live her life. “We’ve got to get her through six months without …”
Without me destroying her.
Lancelot nodded. “And the memories?”
“If Merlin can help her recover them, fine. Otherwise, sod it. This is our mess, not hers. We’re on our own.” Arthur raised his cup to Lancelot. “And you’ll take care of her?”
Lancelot tapped his drink against his king’s. “With my life, Arthur.”
Arthur had climbed the stairs and entered his chamber without even thinking that she would be there.
He’d grown so used to coming to this room alone, and his mind was still foggy from the wine.
But as he turned into the room after locking the door, he saw her right away—in the center of his field of vision, seated on the foot of the bed.
Fuck. Of course she was there. Where else would she be?
She stood up quickly, her eyes wide and desperate and fingers pressing hard into the book she held. He’d seen expressions so like this one on Guinevere’s face, and the panic that rose stole Arthur’s breath. All he could manage to do was set his jaw and stare at the wardrobe.
Just get there. Get to the wardrobe. Get clothing. Leave her be.
But when he stepped in her direction, she flinched away. He wanted her to stay away from him—not fear for her bodily safety in his presence. He needed her to know that he she need not fear … assault from him.
Fuck. This was awful.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He had to force his vocal cords to function.
He skirted a deliberate and wide path around her. As he dug through the wardrobe for the clothing he’d wear in the morning, he was certain he could feel her eyes on his back as goosebumps rose along his spine. Maybe he imagined that.
He wanted to turn around. He wanted desperately to talk to her, to ask her questions, to see what Lancelot had seen. Feel the assurance that she was living this happier life, but all of that was selfish, and he would not yield to it.
God. There was no way he’d sleep tonight. All right. He’d stop at the desk and grab The Hobbit. Something to read would inevitably help. What better than a grand adventure written for children?
But when he got to the desk, it wasn’t there. Maybe he’d left it somewhere, but … wait. She’d had a book in her hands, hadn’t she?
He turned, eyes darting to the tome. Now that he was looking, he recognized it as The Hobbit.
Something warmed in him that it was the book she’d selected, and an alarming jolt of affection rushed through him.
Almost instantly, she’d clocked his eyes on the book and offered it to him.
A pang rattled in Arthur’s gut. She didn’t understand.
“They’re yours,” he said. “Merlin brought them. He thought they might comfort you.” Her eyes still shone with fear, but they searched him with curiosity too, that spark breaking through … No. Not good. He shifted his gaze to her shoulder. He wanted to stare at her, to know her. Don’t do that.
If she came to him, afraid and seeking comfort, he’d want to give it. He’d want to be there for her. He’d want to help her.
And it would all come to the same end. This woman who’d somehow found a way to claim the vibrance that had thwarted Guinevere would die like the rest.
No. He turned to the door to the side chamber. He was leaving. He. Was. Leaving.
But then she said one word. “Arthur?” Her voice, Guinevere’s voice, said his name. It disgusted him that he took pleasure in that.
Then she asked the questions he should have thought to answer. Could she drink the water? How would she turn off the light?
What would his mother say about what a cad he’d been?
The least he could do was provide some simple instructions about how she might be comfortable. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t offer anything extra. He adopted the focused demeaner of negotiating a peace treaty and kept his face carefully blank.
And then he lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling, except when they darted to the crack beneath the door. Her light was still lit.
An hour passed.
It was still lit.
Two hours. Three.
Shit.
Fuck. Maybe Lancelot was right. Maybe this was worse, and he should talk to her. He’d never been this riddled with uncertainty in all his life.
He opened the door as quietly as he could. “Guinevere?” It was barely loud enough to be a whisper.
Silence answered. The panic that she was dead was immediate— irrational, but not—and he rushed to her side. She lay still, lifeless. He knelt, ready to give her a frantic shake, but he made himself wait and watch with his hand poised over her shoulder.
Her chest rose and fell steadily.
Then Arthur realized—she was sleeping on the side he always used to sleep on. The others hadn’t done that either. Her fingers still rested in the book, marking her page. Her arms and legs were both curled in close.
She was cold.
Very carefully, he slid the book from beneath her fingers and, not wanting to lose her page, found a scrap of parchment from his desk to tuck into it before he closed it on the table.
She was on top of the blankets on the bed, so he went to the chest and drew out another and laid that over her, gingerly pulling it up to her shoulders.
Before he had a moment to think better of it, Arthur reached down and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. She did not stir. Her breath did not change. But her furrowed brow smoothed and for one fleeting moment, a soft smile rose on her lips.
Arthur was so stunned that he sunk down on one knee to be at eye level with her sleeping face. It had been so quick, but she had smiled. He was sure of it. And the crease between her brows had not returned.
His lips tugged up at the corners as he watched her because, just now, she did look a little bit … happy.
He decided right there, kneeling on the floor at her side: this was what he would do.
Arthur would care for her in every quiet, invisible way he could find.
He’d watch what brought her delight and silently deliver it.
He’d notice what released the tension from her shoulders and shift castle life to bring that peace.
He rose, went to the opposite side of the bed, and lowered the light before he retreated to his room. Though he knew better than to think it anything other than a coincidence, he could not shake the whisper of hope that she had smiled at his touch.
Or perhaps it was merely wishful thinking.