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His mouth was dry, and his eyes were hot, but Lancelot kept an easy smile on his face as he navigated through the throng of people. This was, after all, a celebration—the grandest across the land. The great King Arthur and his lovely paramour Guinevere were finally wed. Ector had tried to act as the strict and disapproving chaperone during the length of the courtship, but even he could not help but melt when faced with their utter adoration towards each other. Lancelot himself had been privy to the almost sickening sweetness that all but poured out from the lovers when they were in reach of the other.

This was the happiest day of Arthur’s life, and by extension, it should have been Lancelot’s too.

But if so, why did he feel as if he were attending a funeral instead of a wedding? Why then, did he feel as if the very breath had been stolen from his lungs? As if a void had made itself known in the space where his heart had been?

“Dance with me, ser knight?” a merry voice called from behind him. Almost mechanically, he turned, bowed to the woman, and reached out a hand. She was lovely, in her own way. Were his mind not utterly entranced with another, he would have given her a charming smile and flirted his way into her bed.

Alas, his traitorous heart would not allow him. If only—

Do not, he viciously cut off this thought just as it formed in his mind. He could not fall into that abyss of longing and heartache, though his heart dangerously danced along its edges. It was a betrayal to even entertain it in thought—a betrayal of his friendship to Arthur. He had once thought that there would be no love that could eclipse his care for his long-time friend, but his feelings for Guinevere threatened that stability.

As if God himself wished to punish him, the next portion of the dance had the men twirling in place and switching partners, pushing the very woman he had been avoiding straight into his arms.

He caught the faintest scent of something floral in her hair, and it took all his might not to swoon.

“Lancelot!” the new queen laughed with joy as she placed her hand in his and looped an arm around his neck. “I have been waiting to dance with you all evening!”

Did the Lord truly have no mercy for him? He managed to gather himself enough to respond with a smile. “As have I, my Queen.”

Her tinkling laugh could be heard above the music, and he cursed as his heart leapt at the sound. “No need to be so formal with me, my dear! How many times must I remind you? I am Guinevere to you, always and forever.”

Always and forever, the phrase echoed mockingly in his thoughts.

“At least once more, my Queen!” he winked at her, pulled her in as close as propriety allowed him, and twirled her expertly across the floor. Her cheeks were flushed as the dance picked up in speed. The flames from the wall sconces glinted off her golden hair, and she smiled at him so sweetly. Here, with her in his arms, he could almost pretend they were something…more.

He found himself so utterly entranced, he almost missed her next words.

“Soon we will have another celebration like this! When you are married to the woman you love.”

A heavy weight settled in his gut at her words, shattering the illusion.

“I do not believe that would be possible, my queen,” he fought to keep his voice light; he could not react in any way that would reveal his true feelings.

“And why not?” she pursed her lips, almost into an adorable pout—and by everything that was holy, he truly loved this woman.

The song ended, and yet, he could not find it in himself to drop his hand from where it was curled on Guinevere’s waist.

He wet his lips, hoping his nerves did not show. “She already belongs to another.”

She frowned, a small divot appearing on her lovely brow. “Then perhaps it is time to find another who would wholeheartedly appreciate the love you would lay upon her.”

He could not let his smile falter…he could not.

“Perhaps,” he said softly, agreeing only in principle. But he already knew—this was a torch he would carry until the day he passed.

Lancelot was unsure if he was relieved or disappointed when Arthur strode up to them, beaming and dragging them both into a warm hug.

“Why, if it is not the two people I love most in the world!” he exclaimed joyfully, unknowingly driving the knife further into Lancelot’s heart.

He swallowed thickly as he leaned into Arthur’s embrace, drawing comfort in his friend’s happiness. The blonde only allowed himself a brief moment of respite before pulling away gently and smiling at the married couple.  

“The two people I love most in the world,” he countered, and Arthur’s booming laugh echoed across the hall.

Guinevere all but huffed. “Come now, my dears. I love you both too!”

The three of them descended into chuckles at their absurdity, with Lancelot laughing harder than necessary to hide the tears gathering in his eyes.

When the next dance started, Lancelot begged off and settled himself in one corner of the ballroom, nursing a drink as he wallowed in his misery. Perhaps it was why he had almost missed the assassin that had infiltrated the festivities.

And there, as he watched his dearest friend lose his father in a vicious attack, he cursed himself; he did say he had felt like he was attending a funeral, though he did not think it would be so literal.

In the days that followed Ector’s death, a madness—for lack of a better term—had fallen over Arthur. There was a fervid single-mindedness in his actions, refusing to attend to anything except the preparation for war. Lancelot himself was run ragged as he trained with his men during the day, and holed up in the war chambers with the rest of the knights at night, speaking of plans and strategy. On one such evening, when the rest had been dismissed, he and Arthur had stayed behind to study their maps in more detail.

When he realized he had been looking at the same mountain range for far too long, he blinked the sleepiness out of his eyes and glanced up, across the round table towards Arthur. Lancelot’s lips thinned in displeasure as he took in his friend’s exhausted form. The man was slouched in his seat, a book held up close to his face as he was trying and failing to keep his eyes open.

With a barely concealed sigh, Lancelot rose from his seat and winced as his muscles protested the movement. He was still in his chainmail, though he had already shed his heavier armor. Perhaps it was his mind fogging from exhaustion, but he removed whatever protection he had left in a bid to be more comfortable. The rustling of chains seemed to startle Arthur out of his reverie.

“What are you doing?” he asked blankly.

“Getting comfortable?” Lancelot answered his question with a hint of exasperation. “I know we shall be here until the dawn breaks.”

“But…is it safe?” His question was asked almost quietly, and it gave Lancelot pause. This was a side to Arthur he had not seen since that fateful wedding day. He sounded uncertain and vulnerable, and the knight’s demeanor immediately softened.

“Yes, Camelot is the most secure it has ever been,” Lancelot said confidently. He put away the chainmail and walked the edge of the round table to approach his king. “We worked on these plans together.” He stopped in front of his friend, and placed both his hands on Arthur’s shoulders in reassurance. “You are safe here.”

There was a beat before the king all but sagged in relief.

“Forgive me—,”

“Nothing to forgive”, he said firmly.

Arthur gave him a weary smile. “What would I do without you?”

“Staring at musty old maps alone, and mourning the lack of a handsome, dashing, young knight assisting you!” He teased as he plucked the book from Arthur’s hands.

“Hey—,” he protested half-heartedly.

“Up you get, my king. And divest yourself of all this,” Lancelot gesticulated wildly at his friend’s armor.

“I…do not think I have the strength,” he muttered sheepishly.

“Then,” he bowed in exaggerated deference, “your most loyal servant shall assist you in this daunting task.”

“My hero,” Arthur said mockingly, but he accepted Lancelot’s hand and stood. He braced his hand on his chair and allowed the knight to slowly remove his armor piece by piece. Once the task was done, Lancelot took note of Arthur’s drooping eyes and wavering figure.

“You need rest, my friend.”

“I need to continue working.”

“You will kill yourself; Loth will be overjoyed to learn that you are doing his work for him.” He said severely and Arthur gave him a glare. Its effect was greatly diminished by the yawn that followed immediately after.

Lancelot raised his eyebrow pointedly and Arthur grumbled.

“Very well, but I shall be resting here.”

“On this chair? Does my king wish to be a hunchback too?”

Arthur swatted him away playfully. “Don’t be ridiculous, there’s a perfectly serviceable chair there,” he pointed to the large, plush lounge chair that had been gifted by the woodworkers of the kingdom. Though it was out of place in the war room, Guinevere had insisted it be placed there, as a reminder of the generosity of the townspeople. Personally, Lancelot believed it was simply a way to ensure Arthur managed to rest on something more comfortable than a stiff chair.

“Well then, let me escort my king to his—ah—throne.”

It was a testament to how weary he truly was that he simply let Lancelot half carry him across the room. Arthur groaned as he hit the soft chair, and all but melted onto it. Lancelot gazed down at him in amusement as he made himself comfortable. The blonde turned to leave and intended to stay guard near the entrance, but a hand shot out and grasped his.

He looked back at Arthur in surprise, and it took only a moment to understand the silent plea in his friend’s eyes. Without another word, he settled beside Arthur and pressed close until their shoulders touched reassuringly. The man relaxed immediately, and after a beat, could be heard snoring. Lancelot ruffled his friend’s hair affectionately before closing his eyes, and falling into a deep sleep.  

He woke to a sunbeam seemingly directly targeting his eyes. For a moment, Lancelot was disoriented—where was he? There was an arm draped across his waist and something weighty settled across his chest. He blinked in confusion for a moment, until he remembered all but carrying Arthur to the overlarge lounge chair in the room.

Looking down confirmed that Arthur had shifted in his sleep, likely seeking the warmth of Lancelot’s body in lieu of a blanket. His friend’s face was peaceful in a way he had not seen in a while. He slowly reached down and gently brushed a stray lock away from Arthur’s face. The man stirred and blearily opened one eye.

“Lancelot?” Arthur asked, his voice husky with sleep.

“Good morning, my King,” he said teasingly. “I did not wish to disturb you, you rested so peacefully as you lay across my chest.”

Arthur groaned and dragged a hand across his face, and moved away. “Piss off, Lancelot.”

The knight looked at his suffering friend in delight. He propped one hand under his head as he grinned at his king, “Perhaps you wish to be cradled in my arms more often?” he jested.

The look that he was given would have cowed a lesser man, but Lancelot had known Arthur for a long time, and he merely laughed.

“I jest, my friend. I could not resist,” he chuckled as he stood. As he prepared to leave and get ready for the day, Arthur suddenly spoke.

“Lancelot…”

The way Arthur said his name made Lancelot look back at him in askance.

“I hope you know how much I cherish you.”

Lancelot could not help but stare. Arthur was sitting up and he was giving him the gentlest, most tender smile he had ever seen in his life. Sunlight was cascading through the window from behind him, catching on his hair, making the man almost glow ethereally.

He was suddenly struck with the thought that he was one of the few to ever see his king in such a state: rumpled, rested, and content.

Some madness must have overtaken his mind, for when Arthur’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his eyes were immediately drawn to it and followed its movement.

“Lancelot?” Arthur said asked in amusement, “are you all right there?”

It was as if he had been snapped out of a trance. “Oh,” he frowned. “Forgive me, I was lost in thought.” He was obviously still mired in a haze of sleep. “I shall take my leave now, though I believe we shall be poring over maps this eve?”

“You believe correctly,” he said in amusement. “I shall see you tonight, then.”

Glory of all glories, he bumped into Guinevere on his way back to his quarters.

“Lancelot!” she greeted, then paused and eyed his open chemise, and disheveled hair. “Did you have an enjoyable night?” she said teasingly, though there was something that looked like mild disapproval in her expression.

His poor mind was obviously still struggling to keep up, for he replied, “I—what? I spent the night with Arthur.”

Guinevere’s eyebrows rose and her mouth opened in surprise.

Only then, did Lancelot realize how his words could be construed. Heat started pooling in his cheeks and he dearly hoped he was not as red as he thought he was. “We were tired after our research and rested on the lounge chair in the war room.” He hastened to explain.

“Oh.”

Now he was certain his mind was playing tricks on him, perhaps some wicked magic by Morgana? For there was no reason for him to think that Guinevere would sound disappointed at those words.

“Well then,” Guinevere said with some cheer returning to her voice.  “I shan’t keep you from your quarters any longer, and I shall go attend to my husband. Farewell, Lancelot!”

For the past months since he had nursed his love for Guinevere, he had always walked away from their conversations feeling as if he had betrayed Arthur.

For some inexplicable reason, he strode off that day feeling as if he betrayed Guinevere.

The realization came to him, as is custom for a man of his luck, during the most inopportune moment. He stood to the side as Arthur addressed the crowd of soldiers with Guinevere from the parapets. The two looked the very picture of a royal couple, standing tall and proud, speaking words of encouragement that served only to fan the flames of fervor. Gazing at them, heart full of affection, Lancelot could not help the swell of emotion that threatened to make him misty-eyed.

How could one not be loyal to them?

Arthur—strong, confident, righteous; Guinevere—kind, generous, merciful.

Both devastatingly lovely, and deserving of his unending adoration.

His eyes shifted to look at Guinevere, and his heart jumped, as it was wont to do whenever he gazed upon her. Her golden hair was shining in the sun, as if she were crowned by the Heavenly Father himself. The way she smiled upon the crowd, embarrassingly made him a little weak in the knees.

To banish his wandering thoughts, he focused on Arthur instead. However, instead of cooling the heat in his belly, it did the absolute opposite. Arthur was full of passion as he spoke, his face shifting through emotions that made one feel his drive and dedication down to their very bones. Hearing him speak and watching him delivering his words, Lancelot felt as if he himself could be swept up and taken onto heights he had only ever dreamed of. He was only just aware of how dry his mouth had become as he continued to stare at him.

He tore his eyes away from the tantalizing pair. It could not be. And yet—he glanced over at the pair, and his heart did a merry jig in his chest.

No, he thought in denial. And yet, faced with the bitter truth, he found that he could no longer turn away and ignore it.

He loved them—by all that was holy, he loved them. Not just Guinevere. But Arthur as well, a man that called him brother in all but blood.

Panic threatened to overtake his mind, and he was suddenly aware of how quickly and shallowly he was breathing. No, he could not make a scene, he could not jeopardize everything that Arthur and Guinevere had been fighting for.

Someone calling his name made him snap out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see that Arthur was gesturing to him, beckoning him to approach. The very last thing he needed, after his unfortunate epiphany, was to approach the two people who had upended his world in mere moments.

He made his way stiffly towards them, smiling blandly in a horrid attempt to mask his brimming emotions. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder with a laugh and pulled him close, while on his other side, Guinevere looped an arm around him and rested a hand on his waist. In that short span of time, his heart shattered and healed many times over.

There existed: the gleam of her hair under the morning sun, the fire in his eyes as he spoke with passion, and the sundered heart of a man who was doomed to yearn for two people who could never be his.

Lancelot, he thought to himself as he suppressed tears, you utter fool.

It was the worst time to disappear, but if Lancelot did not have time to himself, he would burst. Once it was over, he extricated himself from the crowd of people and distanced himself from Guinevere and Arthur. He took his horse and sped off—uncaring of where he might go, simply knowing he wanted to be away.

What he needed, as he had once mentioned to Arthur, was rest. A quiet moment away from everything, a safe space where he could comprehend the depth of his emotions for the royal couple, and grieve for his poor heart.

He stopped at an unremarkable clearing and leaned against a tree in exhaustion. His emotions threatened to overwhelm him, and with no one else but the forest to bear witness, he let them.

Once the first sob escaped, he could not stop the tide of tears from overtaking him. It was not pleasant—he exploded into heaving cries, cursing his treacherous heart. His love for them hurt him like a physical wound. Was it possible to die of a broken heart? Lancelot did not know, but the pain would not end.

He had thought loving Guinevere from afar would be the height of his shame, but his growing desire and affection for Arthur had let him know—his betrayal of the pair knew no bounds. How can he go on, pretending to be their friend when all he wanted was to envelop them in his arms, and slip into their bed in the dark of the night? That he loved both a woman and a man in equal measure—both of whom were married, to each other no less?

Head in his hands, he paced the clearing, attempting to put his thoughts into some measure of order. He could not take too long, he needed to return to the castle and help Arthur with the final touches to the plan. And yet, the very thought of being confined to a room with only Arthur after the day’s events was enough to make him keen in panic.

When the deluge of tears was over, he sat at the base of the tree and leaned back, exhausted. He would only rest his eyes for a moment and plaster over the hole in his chest before heading back into reality.

The guards at the front gates looked at him curiously as he arrived back to the castle in the dead of the night, but they knew better than to ask questions and simply let him in. He returned his horse to the stable and took the long way back to his quarters, in hopes that the lesser-known path would mean he would be able to avoid bumping into others. He opened the door to his quarters and was startled to find someone already in them.

“Guinevere?” he called to the figure seated at the edge of his bed.  

“Lancelot!” she exclaimed, standing quickly. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

He was suddenly aware of his current state—eyes red from crying, hair in disarray from where he had been pulling at it constantly, and clothes dirty with sweat and dust from the road. Immediately, looking away, he busied himself with shutting the door and moving towards his closet.

“My apologies my queen. It is late, and I must prepare for the coming day.”

“What?” she asked in surprise. “Lancelot what is the matter?”

“Nothing my queen, I am simply…overly tired. I took a ride to clear my thoughts. Now if you please,” he spoke dismissingly, still keeping his back to her. He knew he was being incredibly rude towards his queen, but seeing her in his quarters immediately after his emotional breakdown—it was throwing his mind into disarray.

“If I please—,” she repeated almost incredulously. “No I do not…please!” she spluttered, and were it another time, Lancelot would have chuckled at the flustered nature of her tone. “Now tell me, where have you been, and what is the matter?”

“My queen, I am begging you. Leave me in peace.” He turned and was surprised to find them almost chest to chest. His hand twitched, eager to reach out and touch her, but he clenched it into a fist instead.

“Lancelot,” Guinevere pleaded. “What is wrong? Why do you suffer in silence?” She raised a hand to his cheek and his body immediately betrayed him and leaned into the comfort provided. He squeezed his eyes shut, and took deep breaths to calm himself.

A gentle hand caressed his face and his eyes immediately filled with tears. He opened them and gazed upon the face of the woman he loved. She looked up at him in concern, her doe eyes disarming him with ease.

“Oh, Guinevere,” he whispered. “Surely you must know.”

Her eyes widened further, but to his surprise, she didn’t pull away. “How…how long?”

Lancelot swallowed thickly. “Since…the forest.”

“I…I had not known…”

“I did not wish it to be known,” he said quietly. Giving into the temptation, he threaded his fingers with hers, and pulled her hand away from his face. “You are in my very soul, and every day, you fill my heart with equal amounts of joy and despair.” He took a shuddering breath as he braced himself for his next words. “You and Arthur both.”

A small gasp escaped her.

“You both burn so brightly, Guinevere, and I am but a moth to your flame. Tantalized and enticed, yet unable to draw near as I might perish in the attempt.” He sighed in wonder. “And yet, what a sweet death that might be.”

Guinevere licked her lips, and he felt heat coiling within him almost viscerally.

“Do you understand, Guinevere?” Lancelot whispered hotly. “Why I suffer so?” He allowed himself this one moment of weakness as he lightly dragged his hand over her cheek, down to her neck and to her arm. Guinevere trembled, and she flushed as her breathing quickened.

“I love you both,” he finally admitted, and it was a relief, and a death sentence in one fell blow. “And yet I cannot have either of you.”

They stood so closely to each other, he could feel the very warmth emanating from Guinevere. Neither of them had been moving, and yet they were both breathing heavily. With a shaky inhale, Guinevere slowly raised her hand. Lancelot watched as it drew nearer and slipped through the opening on his thin shirt, settling directly upon his breast.

A small groan left his lips and both he and Guinevere froze at the sound.

He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself cut off as Guinevere surged forward and sealed their lips together.

No amount willpower could stop him from pressing closer and deepening their kiss. He felt drunk and overwhelmed with emotion and lust. The warmth he had felt earlier swelled into a searing heat, and he devoured Guinevere’s lips with a single-minded focus. It was as if nothing else mattered in the world—not the war, not his loyalty, not his morals.

The small noises she made as his lips disconnected from hers and made its way onto her neck made him even more lightheaded. Unwilling to separate her from him, he picked her up in one smooth move and slowly carried her towards the bed. All the while, Guinevere suckled at his neck with fervor.

This was better than any fever dream, better than anything his imagination had been able to come up with. It paled in comparison to reality. Guinevere was in his bed writhing beneath him, moaning in delight. Arthur would—

The sudden memory of his dearest friend and other love was akin to being dipped into a pond during winter’s morning. He froze suddenly, and the horror and the realization of what he had done, what he allowed himself to do, washed upon him immediately. His pause seemed to allow Guinevere to gather her wits. And her eyes slowly turned from glazed lustfulness to concerned nervousness.

“Oh, my Lord,” Lancelot trembled. “What have I done?”

“Nothing that I did not want myself,” Guinevere said if a little wobbly.

“Arthur,” he moaned in despair as he drew his knees to his chest and buried his head in his hands. “What have I done?”

“Oh Lancelot, do not blame yourself! It was I who took the leap,” she gathered him into her arms and shushed him.

“I did nothing but encourage—,” he seethed at himself. “I should not have said—,”

“That you loved me? That you loved us?” Guinevere said, uncharacteristically harsh. Lancelot swallowed thickly as he gazed into the eyes of the woman he cherished. “Never apologize for loving us, Lancelot. Never. I am glad to know,” she whispered fiercely, “that my regard for you is returned, even more so than I could have imagined.”

“You—,” Lancelot gasped, and Guinevere smiled and nodded.

His heart surged with delight, even as the feeling of despair still bubbled close to the surface. He could not stop himself from leaning forward and planting a light kiss on her lips.

Which is, naturally, how Arthur found them.

The door opened with a bang and the two separated with haste, but not before the man in question was able to catch a glimpse of them together. He stood still at the doorway, both his hands covering his mouth in silent shock. Behind him, Lancelot caught a glimpse of red hair and purple silks before the figure disappeared.

“You—you and him?” he whispered, the despair in his voice enough to crack his heart open once again.

“Arthur—,” Guinevere started to say placatingly as she and Lancelot stood.

“No!” he unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards them. “No!”

“I am at fault Arthur,” Lancelot immediately pushed forward, blocking Guinevere from the sword. “She is innocent!”

“Neither of you is innocent, friend,” Arthur said viciously. He came closer and pressed the tip of his sword onto Lancelot’s neck. The knight flinched but otherwise did not move away.

“Arthur, please…”

“How could you do this to me?” he whispered.

Lancelot had thought that his heart could not shatter further, but the desolation in Arthur’s voice, the anguish in his eyes—he was responsible for all that.

“I should cut you down where you stand you…you traitor.”

“Arthur…” was he doomed to only say his love’s name? He could not say a word to defend himself, knowing his king’s words to be true.

“TRAITOR!”

The guttural scream stole Lancelot’s breath, and behind him he could hear Guinevere sobbing in dismay.

“My King—what?” Bedivere and Tristan appeared at the doorway, hearing the commotion, and a heavy weight settled in Lancelot’s stomach. Their sharp eyes took in the scene quickly and they saluted Arthur with one hand on their chest, their faces betraying no emotion.

“Your orders, my King?”

There was a long pause as Arthur struggled with his decision visibly. At long last, he put down his sword, cast them one more look filled with hatred and longing, before turning away and saying wearily, “Take them away.”

“Arthur!” Guinevere pleaded as the two knights advanced and bound their hands.

“They are to be banished—never to set foot in Camelot, upon pain of death. Send them off separately, that they may feel the pain, loneliness, and heartache they have cast upon me. So mote it be.” Arthur said flatly, looking away as if he could not bear the sight of them.

Just before they were dragged off, Arthur stopped at the doorway, and visibly shuddered before speaking, “Tell no one of this.” And he swept off, but not before a quiet cut-off sob reached the blonde’s ears.

Lancelot allowed himself to be dragged around numbly, almost dizzy with the realization that he had just lost both people he loved most in the span of a few moments.

The knights dropped him off not too far away. Bedivere had been nothing but caustic in his remarks, and Lancelot said nothing to defend himself. When the knight stomped away, eager to be rid of the traitor in his midst, Lancelot was left with just Tristan for company.

“I suppose this is farewell,” Lancelot murmured.

To his surprise, Tristan let out a sigh and handed him his sword.

“Tristan—what—?”

“I know you will do the right thing in the end,” he said firmly. And without another word, he turned around and headed back to Camelot, leaving Lancelot alone by the road with nothing but a blade and the shirt off his back.

For a horrid moment, Lancelot had thought Tristan meant ending himself—and oh, the temptation was there. What was he now without Arthur or Guinevere? Without Camelot and all he had built for himself? What was he now that he was not Arthur’s Knight or Guinevere’s Protector?

He contemplated the blade before looking at the road leading away from Camelot.

What was the right thing? Leave and accept the fate his king had doled upon him? Or what—Death?

Longingly, he gazed upon the road back to Camelot. When he took up his sword, he swore to be Arthur’s knight, to protect his king until the day he died.

And if it meant that Arthur and Guinevere were safe from harm, Lancelot would walk into Death’s arms more than willingly. His place was at his King’s side, now and forever.

There was a blurry quality to his vision, as if nothing but Arthur was real, and he grasped onto his neck like a lifeline, pulling him closer.

“Arthur…”

“Don’t speak,” Arthur said forbiddingly, tearing his sleeve and attempting to use the cloth to bandage his wound.

“Arthur please,” he all but whispered, pleadingly.

“I’m here, Lancelot. Save your strength.”

“Arthur…”

His vision was filled with Arthur’s tear-streaked face and his heart ached for his love.

“Guinevere…loves…you…”

Arthur shook his head and started to look away. In a burst of panic, Lancelot managed to gasp out, “Look at me!”

The man’s eyes widened, but he kept his gaze on Lancelot. It was getting difficult to breathe, and the edges of his vision were darkening. Arthur was his light, and so he clung to him desperately, dragging him closer until their foreheads were touching.

Tears were now flowing freely from Arthur’s eyes, splashing down onto Lancelot’s face in a mocking approximation of rain washing away his sins.

“Guinevere loves you…” he whispered.

Lancelot knew that these were his last moments, and he wished for Arthur to know—his greatest shame, his greatest triumph. His breathing was turning shallow, but being there, in Arthur’s arms, was the sweetest balm to his wound.

“As do I.” he said softly. He watched as Arthur started to comprehend the depth of his emotions—his love’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened in silent shock.

Perhaps it was selfishness, perhaps it was hoping for his final wish to be fulfilled. But he used whatever remaining strength he had to angle his head just so, and push their lips together.

It was utter bliss, to finally have something he had denied to himself for so long. Arthur’s lips tasted of tears, but oh, how sweet it was. There was a sense of rightness to this—and the burst of emotion that crawled up his chest made tears spring onto his eyes.

Darkness overtook his sight; all strength was sapped from his limbs, and his head fell limp. Distantly, he could hear someone calling his name, but he could not carry on.

Knowing Arthur and Guinevere were safe, Lancelot willingly surrendered to the void.

At no point did Lancelot ever think he would wake again, so when he opened his eyes to familiar stone walls, he felt disoriented. He tried to speak, but nothing came out except a very dry cough, which alerted the only other occupant in the room.

“Lancelot, oh God, you’re awake!” Guinevere’s gentle face entered his vision for a brief moment before disappearing once again. Some words were exchanged with someone, but it was as if he were submerged in water—he could barely comprehend what was being said, and his vision was still partly blurry.

Guinevere entered his sight once more, this time bearing a cup with water. She helped him sit up, and Lancelot sipped on the water greedily. He drank another two cupfuls before managing any words.

“What happened?” he croaked.

He had been prepared for quite a lot of things—but Morgana wearing Guinevere’s face, and Guinevere shooting her with a crossbow had not even crossed his mind once. He should have known though, he thought fondly, that just like him, Guinevere would have gone back to Camelot to be with Arthur, no matter the consequence. And speaking of…

“Guinevere…what is to happen to us?”

She opened her mouth to speak but the sudden opening of the double doors made Lancelot look up, startled. Arthur stood in the doorway, cape tangled on his shoulders, and crown slightly askew. His chest was heaving, as if he had run all the way to the chambers.

The three of them stared at each other for a moment before Guinevere broke the silence.

“I believe it’s best to let the two of you speak. I shall return with a light broth for Lancelot.” And to his utter shock, leaned down to kiss Lancelot lightly.

He was too flustered to do anything but stare at her in abject horror, though she missed it as she all but skipped towards Arthur. Lancelot felt his world tilt as she planted a kiss onto the king as well, before ultimately leaving the chambers.

Lancelot turned his aghast expression towards Arthur, expecting him to once again draw Excalibur, but the man was only looking at him neutrally.

The silence that followed Guinevere’s departure was uncomfortable, and Lancelot did not know what to say. Arthur seemed content to gaze at him from afar; his eyes swept over his bedridden figure many times over, as if assessing his well-being. Lancelot took the opportunity to truly look at Arthur.

The man seemed tired, but there was none of the deep-rooted anger he had come to know since the king’s quest for revenge began. Instead, there seemed to be a quiet contentment in his features, even if he appeared as if he had not had a good night’s sleep in a while. As he scanned the man from top to bottom, his eyes caught on something by his waist that made Lancelot blink in surprise.

“Are you…wearing three belts?” he blurted out. The neutral expression on Arthur’s face turned into a glare.

“Those are your first words for me? Truly?” Arthur said flatly.

“I—I only meant—,”

“My friend, whom I have known for more than half my life, who: kissed my wife, was then banished, still returned to fight in the war, took a sword to the gut for me, then almost died—that friend’s first words to me upon awakening are ‘Are you wearing three belts’?” he asked incredulously.

“…Well, are you?” Lancelot said weakly.

Arthur seemed to be struck speechless by his audacity before slowly responding, “Yes, Lancelot, I am, at this very moment, wearing three belts.”

Lancelot laughed hysterically at the absurdity of the situation. And once he started, he couldn’t stop, even when his chuckles slowly transformed into sobs. He held a hand up to his mouth to quiet himself, but the overwhelming feeling of relief, joy, and guilt could not be quelled.

The bed dipped as Arthur took a seat near him. Warm hands cupped his face and gently brushed away his tears.

“Oh, Lancelot, shush now. Everything is all right, my friend.”

“Arthur—I beg for your forgiveness,” Lancelot wept. “I had been swept away by my emotions and my selfishness! It caused me to betray you and Guinevere in the worst possible way.”

Arthur kept shushing him gently, but Lancelot could not be silenced. “What I had done to you, I understand if you shall never forgive me. But please, I implore you! Do not send me away from your side! My heart will not survive it!”

“My knight, my Lancelot,” Arthur said gently but firmly, “you are not being sent away.” He drew him into a warm hug that the blonde immediately melted into. “Guinevere and I spoke in length while you were…indisposed. I should not have acted out of anger, and instead given you both the chance to explain.”

“No, your response was more than reasonable. It was an act of treachery.”

“And having known you for so long, I should have at least given you the chance to defend yourself. But I did not listen.” Arthur ran a comforting hand through Lancelot’s hair.

He shifted and pulled away slightly to look Lancelot in the eye. “I forgive you, my knight. And I hope you would, in turn, forgive me for my hasty judgement.”

“Nothing to forgive, my king.” he managed a tremulous smile.

A minute uncertainty then entered Arthur’s expression, which made Lancelot concerned. “What is it?”

“What you said to me…was that simply a—,”

“I love you.” Lancelot said plainly, and Arthur looked as if he had been poleaxed. He reached out and grasped his king’s hand, like a lifeline, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “You have been my dearest friend for years, but I had not known the true depth of my regard for you until that fateful day in the parapets, when you spoke to the men. I was arrested by your very presence—your words igniting a flame in me that could not be put out. I looked at you and I realized, I greatly desired you,” he admitted. “Your courage, your conviction, your strength—it entices me, but more than that, your kindness, your great capacity for love,  your—your beauty has me bewitched.

“Guinevere is the soft wind that caresses and soothes my soul, while you are the very sun that provides me warmth and gives me purpose…Until the end of my days, I will love you and Guinevere in equal measure.”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times throughout the length of his impassioned speech, seemingly at a loss for words. His cheeks had steadily grown redder the more Lancelot had spoken. After a long moment of silence, Arthur cleared his throat.

“Well, now I understand Guinevere’s reaction quite a bit more.” His voice had gone husky, and Lancelot’s pulse picked up as Arthur leaned forward to crowd him on the bed until there was barely any space between them. He hooked a finger underneath Lancelot’s chin and titled the knight’s head towards him.

“If…if this is some twisted attempt at an apology—,” Lancelot started to say.

“My dear, Lancelot,” Arthur’s voice seemed to take on an exasperated quality. “I did not carry you all the way back to Camelot myself, move heaven and earth to find a way to heal you, let you recover in my quarters, and stand vigil by your bedside for more than a fortnight to just ‘apologize’.”

Lancelot’s heart was beating so quickly, he was surprised the other man could not hear it. Arthur’s thumb traced his lips, and it was making him feel lightheaded.

“It took almost losing you, for me to come to terms with how much you mean to me.” Arthur continued to say tenderly. “And now that I have you here, I am not about to lose you again.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot breathed, and there was a flash of heat in Arthur’s eyes before he leaned forward. The first press of lips onto his made Lancelot groan in relief. It was pure ecstasy; he felt utterly consumed. His mind blanked out when he felt Arthur nip at his bottom lip and immediately soothe it with a swipe of his tongue. He was certainly making quite a lot of embarrassing noises, but he would survive a hundred moments of humiliation if it meant he could have this.

“I see the discussion went well,” Guinevere’s lilting voice came from behind them, and the two sprung apart in surprise.

“Guin—!”

“Do not feel the need to stop on my account,” she giggled. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and the thought that she had been watching them made Lancelot’s stomach flip.

Arthur raised a brow at her imperiously, though he did not look as composed as he likely thought he did, what with his face utterly red.

Uncowed, she merely smiled at them sweetly and raised the tray she was carrying, “I come bearing gifts.”

Arthur gently moved around and sat behind him, helping prop him up as Guinevere held the soup bowl and fed him slowly. Once he was done, she set the bowl on a side table, and, in one smooth move, straddled him. Lancelot let out a choked cough in surprise as she gave him a grin, then bent down to kiss him. Behind him, Arthur buried his face in the crook of his neck and started suckling. Both sets of hands started wandering, leaving a trail of warmth wherever they brushed past.

Lancelot felt like he was dying and was being reborn simultaneously. His senses were overwhelmed with lust, joy, and relief. Unfortunately, all good things had to come to an end, as his body betrayed him. A yawn escaped him, making him accidentally break the kiss. Both his lovers chuckled as he did.

“You seem to have tired out our darling knight very quickly, my king.” Guinevere jested.

“It seems so.”

Lancelot tried to apologize but they both waved him away.

“It’s quite late, and I do believe we must all retire to bed.” Arthur said, moving to stand. Lancelot immediately protested the lack of warmth.

“He’s just blowing the candle out, my darling,” Guinevere said reassuringly. She tucked herself on one side of Lancelot, stretching out until she enveloped him in an embrace. On his other side, Arthur slid back into the bed and pressed himself close, slotting his leg between Lancelot’s and draping an arm across his chest.

Between Guinevere’s fingers lightly brushing across his chest, and Arthur’s hand gently carding through his hair, Lancelot finally succumbed to sleep.

He woke slowly, warm and comfortable. The morning sun was only beginning to peek through the clouds, bathing the room in a soft glow. On either side of him, his lovers still slept, the soft puffs of breath the only sound in the room. He used the quiet moment to reassure himself of this reality, tucking away a strand of hair behind Guinevere’s ear, and lightly caressing Arthur’s cheek.

There existed: the softness of her skin against his, the warmth of his breath upon his neck, and the heart of a man brimming with joy, hope, and love.