For those of you unfamiliar with the Arthur legend, here is a very brief primer. Arthur lived in a world where might was right, and justice was determined by strength. He and his queen, Guenivere worked to create a kingdom based on the rule of law. But Guenivere fell in love with Arthur’s right hand man, his best friend, Lancelot, and the two had a long affair, probably with the knowledge of Arthur. Those who wanted to destroy Arthur repeatedly challenged Guenivere’s honor, but, since Arthur hadn’t yet changed the court system, Lancelot was always able to defend her honor, much to Arthur’s relief. But eventually Arthur created a court system based on evidence, not strength, and Arthur’s enemies were able to make the charge of treason, by way of infidelity, stick on Guenivere. Arthur was powerless to stop the sentence without destroying everything he had worked for. This story takes place the night before Guenivere’s scheduled execution. Though I only use one name, once, I think you will recognize who’s who.
A Once and Future
Love
The queen listened as Arthur’s gentle footsteps faded away on the cold stone. When she could hear them no more she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, and sobbed convulsively. Yet no tears came to sooth her burning eyes. It was an aching, choking, fearful sob, and she clutched at her stomach and doubled over.
How had it come to this? Looking back, it should have been so clear. She had loved Arthur since the day she first met him, the day they were wed. But she loved him with her soul and her mind, never with her heart. Her heart she gave to another.
Their meeting this night was strained, yet tender. The dank prison cell offered an unreal backdrop as Arthur pleaded with her.
“Gwen, please,” he begged, tears streaming down his face. “You must go with Lance. I cannot live if you die tomorrow, knowing my law killed you.”
Guenivere had cupped his face in her hand and brushed his tears with her thumb. “Arthur, I cannot. It will tear your kingdom apart.” She shook her head sadly. “Everything you’ve dreamed of, that you’ve worked for - that we’ve all worked for, would mean nothing if I run away from the sentence of the court.”
Arthur covered her hand with his own, then turned it to kiss her palm. He closed his eyes and choked back a sob. She could see he knew she was right, but then he shook his head.
“How could something so right be so wrong?”
Guenivere pulled his head to her shoulder. “Shh,” she whispered. “What I did wasn’t right. And we have no choice now. I can face my fate tomorrow only if I know that you will continue, that you will build the kingdom we started. That is your destiny. This,” she paused. “Is mine.”
Arthur had seemed to accept, finally, that she would refuse Lancelot’s rescue later that night. They talked aimlessly, for an hour, as friends do who cannot bear the reality crashing in on them. And then, with a tender, loving, brotherly kiss, he left.
Arthur had always know, she realized, from the start, the day Lancelot first arrived. When they first wed, Arthur hadn’t forced his love, preferring to wait for Guenivere’s passion to grow. But it hadn’t. The two had always been effective partners, working together seamlessly to create a kingdom where justice reigned, not strength, where the Way of Love could thrive. He had won the minds of his people and she had won their hearts. Later, when Lancelot joined them, the strength of the knight’s sword had kept the wolves at bay to allow Arthur’s dream to grow. The three indomitable, entwined, Lancelot and Guinivere loving and serving Arthur, he loving Lancelot more than friend or brother. But while he loved his queen with all his heart, she loved Lancelot.
She waited now, trying to quell her wracking body, knowing her love would soon arrive. She had to stay strong. She couldn’t give in to the temptation to flee the stake, to run away with her love, to forsake and destroy all that Arthur had built.
Already she could feel his touch. She caught her breath and closed her eyes. Stop it, she whispered to herself. Be strong. Remember who you are. The dry sobs quieted, and she sat up straight, pushing her reddish gold hair back. Soon, she thought. Soon he will be here.
But still she was startled when the hinge on the barred window snicked open. Lancelot’s lean frame was silhouetted briefly against the stars, and he landed lightly on the stone floor, soft leather boots making hardly a sound.
“Gwen?” she heard his voice. How she had longed to hear that voice this last week, and this last night of her life.
“Here, Love,” she answered, and held out a hand in the darkness.
He came to her on cat’s feet, and melted into her on the hard bench.
She soaked up his embrace, trying to feel every part of him that touched her, hearing the words “never again” echo ominously in her mind.
“Are you ready?” he asked breathlessly.
She pulled away a little and turned her head. “Lancelot.” She stopped, savoring his name, and unsure how to say the next. “My love, I can’t. We both know what will happen to Camelot if I run from my sentence.”
There. She’d said it.
She could feel Lancelot’s gaze, see, even in the darkness, his piercing blue eyes looking into her own. She could hear his tears.
He must have known she would refuse his rescue, yet he had come anyway. Why?
She felt his strong gentle hands cup her face and pull her towards him. The kiss was brief, stolen as it was, between tears and gasps.
They separated in unison, reading each other’s bodies as they had a thousand times in this lifetime, and a thousand each in a score of lifetimes before.
Then his arms were around her, and she felt the heat of their passions drive all thought away.
It was like the first time, which hadn’t really been a first time. Guenivere was aware of every inch of her skin that he touched, every boundary he crossed, every breath he breathed as their lungs sucked in the scent of each other’s lust. She wanted more of him. She wanted all of him, to envelope and draw him into her, to merge their bodies and souls to be onel, instead of two, soulmates. They drank in every sound, every taste, every touch until the world ceased to be and their passion crested and released, leaving them clutching at each other, afraid to move lest it might all melt away.
They lay like that for some time, the hard bench insistent against their bodies, and the cool damp beginning to creep over them. Guenivere stroked Lancelot’s raven hair.
Finally he spoke, and his voice was thick with emotion. “My love, my life. My Gabrielle.” He stopped, unable to go on.
Guenivere ran her fingers down his face. Gabrielle. The name he always called her when they loved. How had he known her secret name, the one she spoke to herself? She looked into his eyes, and saw the eyes of ancient evenings, the smoky mists of time dissolving, the veil of ages lifting away. Sometimes, in those fleeting moments of total surrender, she heard another name on her own lips, evoking ghostly glimpses of past battles and glories, memories of forgiveness and redemption, destiny, and always, death.
It would be death again. But in her soul she knew that death was temporary, that in some form their two souls would continue. That was the source of her strength, and the vision she would cling to as the flames licked at her knees on the morrow.
Lancelot stirred, his eyes never leaving hers. “Why is this always our fate?”
Guenivere shook her head and smiled. “Not always, love. We both know that.” She rolled away from him briefly to free her arm, and then curled her head on his shoulder.
“But we have a choice this time, Gwen. Run away with me. We can travel the world, fight for the weak, change the future.” Guenivere sensed desperation in his voice.
She thought a moment. “Lance, would you give your life for Arthur’s kingdom?”
“Of course.” He sounded almost indignant. “A hundred times. You know that. So does he.”
“Then, Love,” she answered, stroking her fingers on his breast. “Let me do the same.”
And so they lay together, pushing against the rushing dawn, thinking every touch would be their last, yet knowing nothing would ever be truly their last.
The End
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