Page 43 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

The door slammed so hard it rattled in its frame. Dust shook loose from the stone above it.

Then silence.

It wasn’t peaceful. It throbbed. It pressed in around them like a bruise.

Guinevere didn’t realize she was shaking until Lancelot touched her.

He reached for her slowly, reverently, as if she might break. His fingers brushed her cheek first, then curled beneath her jaw, tilting her face toward him. His thumb hovered near the bruising blooming on her throat.

“Don’t,” she whispered, flinching from his touch — not from him , but from the shame creeping up her spine. “Don’t look at it.”

His breath hitched. He stepped closer anyway. “I saw it,” he said softly. “I can’t unsee it.”

She closed her eyes, tears slipping free at last. “I didn’t mean to say yes.”

“I know.” He pressed his forehead to hers, both of them trembling, breath mingling. “I know. ”

“I couldn’t let him kill you.”

“And I won’t let him touch you.” His voice cracked around the words. “That’s all we’ve done, haven’t we? Kept choosing each other.”

She let out a sound between a sob and a laugh, hands clutching at his wrists. “I’ll say yes a hundred more times if it keeps you breathing.”

“I’ll slit his throat in the throne room if he lays a hand on you again.”

Her head dropped forward, forehead thudding against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her like armor, holding her tightly, rocking them both in place. He was still shirtless, still barefoot, still half-dressed from the chaos — but now he was fully hers again.

And she was his.

Blood and breath and bruises and all.

A long, heavy pause stretched between them.

“I meant it,” he said, voice low against the crown of her head. “What I said to him. About you being mine.”

“I meant it too,” she whispered. “I have already chosen you.”

Lancelot exhaled, like he’d been drowning and had just surfaced. His grip tightened for one long, trembling beat — and then he pulled back just enough to cup her face again.

“Let me see.”

“No-”

“Let me see you, Gwen.”

She finally lifted her chin, baring the side of her throat. The bruises were stark already, angry purple and mottled red. His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with something deadly.

“I will not let this be the end of it,” he said. “He will not hurt you again. I swear it. Not while I breathe. ”

“I don’t care about the bruises,” she said hoarsely. “I only care that he walked out of this room. That you’re still breathing beside me.”

His lips brushed her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. Like a benediction. Like a vow. “He called you barren,” Lancelot said at last, voice rough. “As if that was your sin. As if the gods don’t already weep for what he’s done to you.”

Guinevere didn’t answer. Her throat felt full of broken glass.

“I would rather you build a kingdom from the bones of our love than birth a son in his image,” Lancelot murmured. “You carry more power in your grief than he will ever hold in a crown.”

Something inside her cracked open.

She turned into his chest, curling her fingers into his skin, clinging to him like the only real thing left. He held her tightly, steady, unyielding. His hand pressed to the back of her head, shielding her.

They stayed like that for a long time. Just holding on.

Eventually, he spoke again, voice like the edge of a blade. “You chose me in front of him.”

“I will keep choosing you.”

A beat.

“You said you loved me.”

“I’ll say it again.” She vowed, “And again. Until the walls remember it better than they remember his name.”

He kissed her then. Soft, slow, full of fury and faith.

And though the room still stank of Arthur’s rot and rage, it began to feel, again, like sanctuary.

Later, when the fire had burned low and her hands had finally stopped shaking, Guinevere sat beside him on the edge of the bed. She spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can have children.”

She heard his breath catch, but he didn’t speak. His hand rested atop hers as they trembled in her lap.

“No one has ever told me outright,” she continued. “No healer or physician ever dared speak it. But it’s been so many years, Lancelot. Years with him and… not even once.”

A pause.

“His accusations have to be true.”

His hand curled tighter around hers. “Guinevere…”

“I know what it means,” she interrupted. “For a queen. For a woman. When the allegations started, before you, I thought it might not be the worst thing.” A sad sort of laugh escaped her lips. “Especially a daughter…” She blinked back tears. “But with you-”

He turned her face to him, gentle but firm. “With me?”

Her eyes brimmed. “I think about it, Lancelot. Even if we ran, even if we were in a different world where we found peace. I couldn’t give you sons. A legacy.”

He shook his head once, sharply. “You think I need a legacy ?”

“I wish I could give you everything.” She was crying now, tears falling gently down her cheeks. “I wish I could give you more than this.”

“You’re not a vessel for a legacy. Mine or otherwise . You are not a line to carry forward. You are the point. You are everything.”

A weak, broken sound left her lips, but he did not let her turn from him.

“If there were another world, a better world with no prophecies, no kings, no Arthur — do you know what I’d want?”

Guinevere shook her head, barely.

“You. In a cottage. Or a tower. Or a tent in the woods. I’d want to wake up beside you and fall asleep with your name in my mouth. If there were children, I’d love them. But if there weren’t — I would still die having loved more fully than I ever dared imagine.”

Silence.

Then… a sob wrenched from her chest. She covered her mouth with her hand, but he pulled it away, kissed her knuckles, kissed her palm.

He didn’t speak.

He just opened his arms.

She leaned into him slowly, like a tree bending towards the light. And she let herself be held.