Guinevere dreamt of the sea. The deep hum and crash of waves echoed all about her, but she could neither see nor smell their green glimmering bellies and flying foam hair. Through the shadow of dreaming her body ached for the sea, for the taste of salt air and smell of wild foam, to sink her feet into the cold kiss of sand and feel the west wind stream through her hair. Amid the timeless rushing of waves she heard her mother’s voice. Her face was hidden, but she could smell the cinnamon musk of her, the scent of childhood, as familiar as her own breath, surrounding her in warmth that knew only one word Home.

The sea whispered all around her as she strained to catch her Andromedhe’s words. 

My beautiful daughter, star of my sky.

Mama I need you where are you?

The waves roared, bursting into foam, and the sky darkened with the shadow wings of a great bird. Guinevere ran, faster and faster, and the sand of Eirinn's shore turned thorny with leaves like a forest floor, but the waves still surged in sonorous might. Andromedhe's voice faded behind her, the sweet low syllables of she longed to hear again, but she must keep running. Faster, faster. Her breath hitched sharp as a dagger-point, and when she grasped her side the fingers came away sticky with blood. Mud sucked at her ankles and branches thickened all around her like grasping hands. 
She was running towards something, a safe place, a seashore by moonlight, but where? The raven wings of the sky glowered and tore with lightning, a terrible flash of violet fire, and she was running hard enough to flay her feet, running as the last glimmer of light flickered in the gathering dark like a firefly.
The sea roared and sang and wept and keened and burst into despair. But she could not see.

Guinevere felt a cool cloth dab her temple as she swam drowsily up from sleep. 

Gaius?

Vague images of the physician's face came and went while she slept, tending her fever and lifting honeyed milk to her lips. The milk was surely laced with a sleeping draught. 

But this touch was different, tentative and unsure. She opened her eyes and blinked as a moon-white face came slowly to focus. Guinevere blinked again, just to make sure.

"Morgana?" she barely mouthed the words, but the other woman drew back instantly, averting her eyes.

"Do you want me to leave?"

Gwen struggled to sit up, the receding fever having left her body hollowed with hunger, "Why are you here? To finish what Melwas could not?"

"I never wanted to harm you, Gwen. Please believe me."

"Sending me to the woods so that Melwas could...could violate me and kill me, how is that not harm?" she demanded, her head beginning to throb as tears pricked her eyes.

Morgana tried to touch her hands but Gwen drew away, "It was never my intention that you should be caught in any of this. I told her I didn't want to harm you, that you were my....my friend, " Morgana's voice quavered ever so slightly, and it seemed to Gwen her mask slipped for a moment. She kept her own face impassive.

"Why does she have this hold on you, Morgana?" she leaned forward; lowering her voice "Is it because of your son?"

Green eyes flashed, “Don’t speak of him. You don’t know what-,”

“I’m trying to know, Morgana!,” Guinevere’s anger flared, “I’ve tried, time and again and yet you’ve shunned my counsel. Have you forgotten how much we risked, Merlin and Arthur and I, to aid you when you bore him? How much we risked to protect you from Uther’s wrath? Is all that worth nothing against the lies that Morgause has poisoned you with?”

Morgana stood abruptly, dropping the rag she’d been using. She touched the silver ornament at her wrist, “She is my sister, Gwen,” she said softly, “Stolen from me by Uther’s war on my people. She taught me how to allay my nightmares, how to use, not fear, my true abilities.”

“And yet this loving sister thought nothing of using your body for dark magic, of causing you untold fear and pain so she might achieve her own ends?”

“It’s not that simple. I have a destiny, Gwen. A purpose to fulfil, a reason for my powers.”

“And I stand in the way of that?” she asked quietly.

For a moment Gwen though the ensuing silence would bear fruit, that her friend would resurface.

Morgana swept to the door, purple skirts swishing, “I’ve disturbed your rest, and Gaius says you need it. I’ll trouble you no more.”

“I know you are Uther’s daughter. I know why your ‘sister’ wanted me dead.”

Morgana’s white hand paused at the door handle, and she turned slightly so Gwen could barely see her enamel profile against the twilight shadows of her hair. 

“You must not air this knowledge carelessly, Gwen,” she turned the door handle, “The next time, I might not be able to save you.”

And she slipped out quiet as shadow.

Gwen recalled a moment two years ago, when Morgana had woken her distraught by the unnatural speed of her pregnancy, a young woman by a moonlit window, afraid and vulnerable and resolute, the great web of their enmeshed destinies poised in anticipation.

Where did choice end and fate begin? Or were they but threads of one rope, spanning not a web but an intractable net?

***

I am ready Mother.

How can you be sure?

The moon, the water, the leaves.

What if you’re wrong?

The ancient signs do not lie.

It’s too soon. We need more time.

My time is now.

***

Guinevere glanced in the mirror. Two days after Morgana had visited her, she was fully recovered, if somewhat restless. Her cheek was no longer swollen, and the sleepless lines beneath her eyes were fading, but her hair was grass-dry and tangled, and her skin itched. The woman in the glass looked small and fragile, a shell washed ashore. She felt as though a lifetime had rushed through her in the last few weeks. 

When Bernadette brought in her supper of fresh bread with some sugared fruit and meat,  she fell upon the fare ravenously. The last effects of the sleeping draught had faded, leaving her hungry and light-headed.

Bernadette made up the bed as she ate, “ It was sad to see her leave.”

“Who?” Guinevere spoke through a mouthful of bread and blueberries, cutting into her meat.

“Princess Mithian, milady. She left Camelot the morning after Prince Arthur found you in the forest.”

Gwen caught herself quickly and effected nonchalance, even as her heart did a little bird-skip, “Really?”

“I was watching from the east windows, milady, before Old Celie whacked me on the ear for neglecting my chores,” she chuckled, “She didn’t whack me too hard, not old Celie. She was curious too, if you ask me. Oh she scolds us younger girls like an old hen, but she means no harm.”

”Did Prince Arthur see her off?” Gwen asked casually, trying to redirect Bernadette’s attention.

“Yes milady, but I heard from Violet the scullery maid whose sister is married to Sir Leon’s squire that there’s been no betrothal.”

“No betrothal?” her heart leaped.

“No m’lady. There’s to be peace with Nemeth, but no wedding,” she lamented, “Pity, I’d have so loved to see a Royal wedding -,” she paused abruptly, causing Gwen to turn.

“What is it, Bernadette?”

The maid worried her lower lip, “Apologies milady. I shouldn’t speak of…that is to say, with Lord Melwas in the dungeons and all…”

Gwen felt some of the elation ebb away, and thoughts swept down on her like the shadow wings of her dream. Gaius had dispatched a message to King Peadar on her behalf, informing him of Melwas’ betrayal. Were the hills of Eirinn torn with war, its people fled and murdered? What would become of the Kingship, now that she could no longer wed Melwas? What would become of her?

The day Prince Arthur found you in the forest.

Arthur had not visited during her recovery, but the roses at her table attested to his concern. She remembered running through the rain swept forest in her dream. If safety and comfort eluded her in sleep, she would grasp it with open arms when awake.

 A soft mantle of certainty settled on her.

She wiped her hands and spoke kindly to the flustered Bernadette, asking her to draw a bath. 
When the steaming water lapped her shoulders Guinevere groaned, sinking into the tub. She let her head fall back, sinking deep, watching the light blur and melt. Her hair floated like dark seaweed as the deep hush of water filled her ears. She closed her eyes and conjured the taste of salt, the taste of the sea.
Among her mother's people it was common to bathe in the sea during times of tribulation as well as celebration: the Great Water could anoint and comfort, soothe and strengthen in equal measure.

Bernadette brought her a smooth river-stone and Gwen scrubbed vigorously until her skin sang fresh and taut, then lay back while the young maid tended her hair. Bernadette softly dried the damp curls and massaged them with lavender oil before braiding the way Gwen had shown her. The braided hair would drink the fragrant oil so when loosened its hyacinth curls would spring lush and fresh.
While she braided, Guinevere crushed the roses between her palms, watching the petals flutter to the water like delicate tears of blood, and their waxy perfume mingled with the scented oil and steaming water. She wanted to forget the metallic taste of fear, the shadowy leaf odor of pursuit and violence. 

She dressed slowly while the dusk light sunk into deep twilight blue, rubbing more lavender oil into her skin, savouring the warm slick fragrance. Her long braid brushed the curve above her buttocks soft as a kiss when she walked to her mirror. For the first time in a long while Guinevere surveyed her naked body, the slope of breast and stomach, the round curve of hip and the dark curls over her sex, her skin smooth and placid with coppery shadows. The bodies of men often wore their stories boldly, in knotted scars over ruined flesh; they were marks of honor, battle-wounds of which the minstrels would sing. 
The scars of women are hidden from the world's eyes, she mused, thinking of her mother's secrets, and Morgana's fire dreams, Yet they run deep and dark as ravines.

Guinevere imagined Arthur's sword-roughened hands on her flesh, dwarfing her curves with their touch, and a slow moist pang shivered low in her belly.

"Milady?" Bernadette interjected meekly, "Would you like to dress?"

The chemise fell like mist over her warm flesh, then her favorite corset with the embroidered forget-me-nots. Her dress was warm purple silk, soft and deep as the evening sky. Gwen touched the ring at her breast with a smile, slipping it into her bodice.

***

Arthur's neck ached from craning over scout reports during supper, and now Sir Leon was informing him that Cendred's men were spotted raiding some of the northeastern villages. The prince scowled; Cendred was a heartless tyrant, but he had long since realized the unprofitability of raiding Camelot's territories. Perhaps word had reached him of Uther's frail health.
It seemed he would have no choice but to ride out with his Knights and secure those borders. He rubbed his tired eyes while issuing instructions to Leon. They would leave at first light, marshall the northern garrisons by the Valley of Nyerne and oust the raiders. 

He sensed her presence even before the soft footfall reached his ears. She stepped out of the shadows, dusky and warm as a summer evening. The glow of her almond eyes brought a soft smile to his face, almost unwittingly, and his earlier listlessness fled before a newer, sweeter energy.

Sir Leon, discreet as always, masked his grin, "Will that be all, sire?"

"Hmm?" Arthur gathered himself, "Yes. Ensure the men are prepared for a long day's riding. We'll need extra mounts too. Merlin?"

"Yes?" the slender young man piped, somewhat peevishly. It had been a long day for everyone.

"Inform the stable-master of our plans. And Merlin? Do endeavor not to spend the entire night at the tavern. I won't have you falling off your horse before we leave the courtyard."

"I have never fallen off my horse!"

"Well don't start now then."

Merlin grinned at Gwen on his way out, leaning down to whisper, "It's a wonder he doesn't fall off his horse more. Can't decide what's fatter, his bottom or his head."

She bit back a giggle, nodding respectfully at Sir Leon as he, too left to carry out the Prince's orders.

"Guinevere," Arthur stood, the long riding coat sweeping dust at his boot-heels and making him appear even taller. 
For all her rush of certainty, Gwen felt suddenly flustered as his broad-shouldered form closed the distance between them. Strands of gold hair fell carelessly across his brow.

"I was hoping we might...talk. That is, if you aren't busy, and if you would like to...," she trailed off, glancing away from those full lips. Her hand itched to trace the strong line of his jaw. After her week of fevered sleep, Arthur seemed so golden with virile life it made her dizzy.

He smiled lightly and took her hand, tugging her outside the hall. Torches flared bright when they reached the exterior hallways opening to the courtyard. Arthur turned and captured her mouth in a deep and thirsty kiss, drawing her flush against his powerful legs. Guinevere responded in kind, clinging to his shoulders as the soft sleeves fell away from her bare arms. To be with him in this way, without fear or guilt, was potent as mulled wine. 

Arthur broke the kiss, running his lips along the throat within the rich and fragrant shadows of her hair. She was soft and lush as a garden, her full breasts crushed against his chest, driving him to distraction. He had no doubt she could sense his hardening desire through the soft whisper of her silk gown. 

"You're trembling, Guinevere," he murmured. 
He had felt her shaking in his arms once before, on a stormy night in Eirinn when shadows with golden eyes haunted the windows of a seaside cottage. But it wasn't fear that she trembled from now.

"Take me away from here, Arthur," she whispered, soft fingertips teasing his nape. An hour, a day, a lifetime. 

He drew back to look in her eyes, those glimmering depths drinking the light. Be alone with her after nightfall? Away from the prying eyes of the castle? Did he dare trust himself? Vague, disapproving voices rose to mind: his father, Gaius, Morgana. 
But Guinevere was staring up at him with such perfect trust, and two years of burgeoning desire, of curbing his willful heart, had frayed his resolve beyond recognition. Just a few hours, he reasoned with himself. I'm a Knight, damn it. What use is the Knight code if I can't restrain myself?

"There's a small meadow, beyond the lower town. I used to play there as a child."

She nodded and he led her to the stables. Gwen watched silently as he saddled his stallion Silver. The great animal gave an impatient shake of his head, its liquid eyes glowing. Arthur helped her mount, her feet dangling to one side, then hopped on nimbly behind her.  The stars were blinking awake when they rode off, the grass fresh with dew. Guinevere rested against Arthur's chest, the spicy masculine scent of him curling in her nostrils. She imagined hot bathwater trickling down the contours of muscle, slicking the ridged abdomen to drip lower, between his hips...Heat flooded her face, equal parts shyness and desire. She twisted her head to kiss above the loose ties of his tunic, opening her mouth to let a tentative yet hungry tongue taste his skin. Taking advantage of her position, Gwen wriggled herself closer, so the curve of her rump rested squarely between his thighs.
Her head swam with exhilaration.

Arthur groaned, "Are you trying to get us thrown from the horse?" What on earth...does she realize what she's doing to me?

Beyond the castle walls and past the lower town, he clicked his heels and Silver took off galloping. Guinevere clung to the pommel in delight as the horse's speed raced through her loose hair. She wanted to ride forever, beyond the starry mantle of the sky, on to the edge of the world.

"Whoa, Silver. Whoa…," the stallion slowed to a trot when gravely pathways gave way to a lush grassy riverbank, shadow-dappled with oak trees and starlight. She was still caught in the rush of the ride when Arthur leaped off and pulled her down into his arms, covering her mouth with his.

I'm going to pay for teasing him earlier, she thought wildly as he pushed her up against a tree, wanton excitement racing through her veins. The kiss was hot and sweet, his tongue and scent and taste all crushed between her lips and nose. His hands rested just beneath her breasts and Guinevere arched suggestively against him, unable to hide her gasp at the feel of his iron length. He groaned and dragged his lips away, and she brushed the falling hair off his temple. 

"Guinevere," he husked, "What are we-," her fingers stopped his words, lightly touching his lips.

"Arthur...,” her eyes rose to his, simmering with the pure determination he knew so well, “…make me forget, everything...who we are, the weight of our lives...please," she dropped feather light kisses at the top of his chest, fingertips skimming his chest. With a stifled oath he kissed her hungrily, her sweet wet tongue meeting his as he let his hands roam the curves of her breasts and hips, adoring the round swell of her bottom that had driven him to madness on the horse. Forget, yes, oh god, if remembering means not touching you Guinevere I would forget everything I am.

Guinevere let her head fall back, allowing him easier access to the sensitive skin of her throat. Surely he could hear the runaway flutter of her pulse. His mouth hovered over the swell of her breast, and he licked his lips, turning her insides molten. One hand played questioningly with the laces at her back, then tugged them loose at her whispered assent. Arthur, who was no stranger to undressing women, nevertheless felt himself grown clumsy with a haze of desire. When at last the bodice slipped off, the chemise gave way like petals, freeing her beautiful breasts to the night air.  
Gwen heard him suck a sharp breath through his teeth, but when his hands covered the soft mounds she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut as desire pooled liquid in her womb.

Arthur's mouth covered a dark nipple; the flesh already taut with anticipation, and Guinevere keened softly, hands fisted in his hair. He rolled the tight bud over his tongue, ghost touching with his teeth, then turned his attention to the other breast until her skin glowed damp with heat and she was panting. 

He was fast losing his grip on sanity, drunk on the honey warmth of her skin. Kissing between her breasts, he bent slightly and bunched up the soft skirts, sighing when his hands travelled the bare legs and smooth thighs. She shivered, but didn't push away his hands. Arthur ran a slow finger up her inner thigh, groaning at the slickness there. She was bare underneath her skirt and chemise, bare and silken-wet. His senses reeled.

"We should stop," he whispered against her mouth, but his hand kept stroking her sweet thigh, "It isn't proper that I should..." he cleared his throat, "I want you to be mine, Guinevere, before the eyes of gods and men, undisputed and unquestioned."

His eyes were dark as midnight skies. Guinevere twisted the slender chain around her neck for him to see. He recognized the ring instantly, as clear as the day he pressed it into her palm

"This has never left me, not since the moment you gave it to me," she said quietly, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb, "The gods know, and men can wait." She kissed him then, and he felt her mouth shape words against his, "I love you, Arthur Pendragon, and I have always been yours."

Like a key turning a lock, her words undid the last shreds of his resolve.

***

“Gaius, you’re talking in riddles,” Merlin complained, tugging off his dung-covered boots, “What does any of this have to do with Morgana and the Triple...the Triple thing.”

Gaius glanced sternly at the young warlock before pushing the book across the table, “The eclipse is coinciding with the seasonal change from spring to summer. This has not happened in a hundred years. The High Priestesses call it The Great Cusp.”

Merlin frowned, “You think Morgana is trying to do something? Kill Uther again or  - ,”

“I’m afraid it’s far more serious, Merlin. The Cusp is a powerful magick hour, you will feel it in your bones. The veils between worlds are thinner, easier for dark things to slip through. I have no doubt the Three have been planning this for some time.”

“How do we know for sure?”

“We have a brother of the Triple Morrigan right here in the dungeons. If anyone might know, it’s him.”

***

Guinevere drank in the sight of him, the sculpted muscle of chest and abdomen, powerful shoulders silhouetted in the secret moonlight. His tunic lay in a heap by her dress, and she lay on his riding coat as Arthur kneeled above her. Her eyes travelled lower, to the unmistakeable bulge straining against his breeches, and a small flicker of nervousness brushed her.

Arthur lowered himself, leaning one an arm while he traced his fingers up the smooth expanse of her belly. He dropped soft kisses on her lower belly, then brushed butterfly strokes with his tongue that made her gasp.

“Are you afraid, Guinevere?” he kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, achingly tender. It took every ounce of his strength not to spread her silken thighs and bury himself in her there and then. The thought of her wet tightness sheathing his cock while his mouth lavished her breasts was unbearable. He hadn’t been with a woman for over two years, not, in fact, since before he left for Eirinn.  He had tried, once or twice. There were plenty of pretty young village maids willing to warm the Prince’s bed. But ever since that torchlit night when he’d first looked on Guinevere, her dark hair rippling like shadows in the music of her dance, she became the changeless shape of desire haunting his nights. Other women failed to rouse his passion, but alone in his chambers the thought of her flashing dark eyes and swelling breasts stoked his dreams as urgently as he stroked himself. He worried that his lust would culminate too soon, before she could feel pleasure too.

“No,” she said in a small voice, kissing his shoulder, “Just…un-taught,” she let her hand trace his abdomen, stroking lightly, grazing with her nails, learning the texture of his skin, lingering just above his breeches. Arthur watched the progress of her hand, his breathing laboured. She hesitated for a moment, then brushed the erect length of him through the soft deer-skin, before grasping him fully, feeling him hot and hard. His eyes half-closed, and his hips dipped towards her touch. Emboldened, she started to undo the lacings.

Arthur her palm, drawing it up with a kiss, “We shall go no further than you wish, my love.”

For a second she flashed back to that dark forest, and Melwas’ paws ripping at her bodice, her helpless choking fear.  Maybe it was how close she had come to death, or to the crude violation of her body, but she was weary of shadows and fear and shackled longing. Her flesh yearned to drink deep of desire, emptying the cup until her blood swam with it.

Arthur watched her, passion and tenderness warring in his eyes, and she drew his mouth down to hers, offering her tongue and lips hungrily while her fingers tugged at his fastenings. When she wrapped her hand around his length, feeling the hot firm girth of him, he moaned against her mouth. Following instinct she began to stroke him, softly at first then more vigorously, while his own hand wandered up her thigh, fingers brushing her damp curls and moistened folds.

“Oh…,” she gasped when his touch stroked her wetness, shooting bolts of sensation down her spine. All her fevered imaginings when she had rubbed herself to empty fulfilment were but ash and dust before the pure kindling fire of his touch against her sex.

“Shall I stop?” he husked in her ear, nibbling the earlobe

“No…no, please,” she begged, her soft whimpers deepening to a moan when he slid a slow finger inside her. Guinevere bucked against his hand, and his thumb found the soft pearl at the apex of her folds, rubbing lazy circles while his fingers slid slowly in and out.

Watching her pant and writhe with pleasure was pure sweet torture. He could sense her release close as new moisture trickled hot against his hand. Arthur increased his pace, adding another finger while his thumb rubbed feverishly at her tight nub.

Her grip on his arm tightened desperately as the sensation started unfurling at her core like a thousand fluttering petals, velvet and pure heat, and a soft cry burst from her lips as pleasure shuddered through her.

Arthur withdrew his hand as her trembling subsided and waited till her melted-almond eyes slowly opened.  Without gazing away, she slowly grasped his length and guided him between her legs. Arthur swore softly when the head of his member brushed her soaked sex, and he edged forward gently.

Guinevere let herself relax as his length nudged in, but when he pushed forward a few more inches her body drew itself up tensely.

Arthur felt her stiffen and bent to kiss her, using his tongue to explore and tease her mouth. “I won’t move until you tell me,” he murmured,

She nodded against his shoulder and lifted her hips cautiously to take more of him, gritting her teeth at the pain. He groaned as her silken heat sheathed him, his own desire stoked to a feverish height, “Guinevere…,” he groaned. Arthur slid a hand beneath her backside and lifted her gently, still holding back. Her warm eyes met his, and Arthur felt time expand and shrink like a web of spun-silk, moments weaving and twisting one into the other, from the drumbeat of a woman’s dancing feet, to the flash of swords to the surging of the sea and the blood-gleam of another man’s jewels around the throat of the woman he loved, and the jewel-red roses his mother had planted when he still dreamt in the womb.

Choice was an arrow shot through the crystal sky of destiny, he knew that now, and his entire body quivered poised as though his entire being would speed free across that sky.

Guinevere nodded slowly, and he lowered himself into her, sinking into a warm sucking sea. She gasped as he filled her, clenching her eyes against the pain. He started to move then, gently and caressingly, and slowly through the burning softened and melted into something decadently warm, laced with the sweetest sharp edge of pain.

Arthur buried his face in her neck, “Guinevere….oh,” his hips started to pump faster, fingers digging into her thighs. He filled her completely, and as he kept moving his length brushed an aching centre somewhere inside her she didn’t know she could feel, and the rippling tightening pleasure built again. Arthur lowered himself so he rubbed against her weak spot and Guinevere clenched her legs around his waist, wanting more, more.

“Arthur…,” she gasped, hips moving furiously as the sweet sensation took her again, deeper this time and moving through her in deep currents. Arthur could hold back no more, and his thrusts grew swifter, harder, deeper still, as though he could transcend the barriers of their flesh and fuse himself with her. He cried out her name in the moonlight, his body shaking with the violence of his release, and Guinevere felt the warmth of his seed fill her.

His head dropped against her shoulder, breathing wet and hard, and Guinevere stroked the damp hair at his nape, as the last waves of pleasure ebbed from her.

The scent of grass and wildflowers had never seemed so sweet, nor the stars so achingly beautiful.

***

“What do you want.” Melwas sulked in the corner of the dungeon, wary as cornered animal.

“The truth,” Merlin stated, “What are they planning, your Priestesses?”

A strange shaking took over the hunched form, and Merlin realized it was laughter.

“I warn you,” Merlin felt the magic surge in his eyes, but he blinked it away, “I have the ear of the prince, I can-,”

“You can what?” Melwas stood suddenly, like a serpent uncoiling himself. His pale face was splotched with bruises and grime, his brow purplish from where Arthur had slammed it against a tree, “Your prince does not frighten me, boy,” he spat.

Merlin cocked his head, “Who frightens you then?”

He staggered towards him, reeking of stale sweat and blood, “Its you who should be frightened, servant. You and every piteous soul who bends a knee to the Pendragon line.”

In the semi-darkness Merlin caught the gleam of his teeth in a humourless smile, “They are coming. They are coming to claim what’s theirs.””

***

Guinevere never quite remembered their ride back to the castle, enwrapped as she was in a daze of contented joy. Arthur stopped outside of her chambers, enfolding her in his arms again with a long, slow kiss.

“I’m so afraid,” she breathed when they parted, “ Afraid I will wake up to find I dreamed this night.”

Arthur kissed her temple softly, brushing away stray curls, “I will send a message to your King tomorrow, asking for your hand.”

Her eyes widened, not daring to believe in elusive hope, “What of your father…? And the courtiers - ,”

His mouth captures hers again, so sweetly the tears melted in her eyes, “ I allowed you to be torn away from me once, Guinevere.  By the blood in my veins I swear it shall not happen again.”

Lips crashed together once more, and he suckled her mouth with renewed hunger, feeling the familiar stir in his loins. Arthur wanted her again.

Soon, he told himself, soon we will share a bed, a home, a life.

He drew away reluctantly, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm, “Goodnight, Guinevere.”

***