“Oh. Erm, no. I …” She looked at her feet, Lancelot’s worry about what Arthur would think springing to the front of her mind. “I saw them together, but I didn’t think you knew—”
“Vera,” Arthur said sharply, “I need to be clear before you say anything else. I’m not sure how you feel about Lancelot’s proclivity or if that changes your opinion of him. I realized this about him when we were young and decided that it did not matter. You may feel how you want, and I won’t try to change you, but I will not hear a word against Lancelot on this matter.” His confidence fell as soon as he finished speaking. He glanced at her worriedly from the corner of his eye.
She’d thought she couldn’t possibly adore Arthur more, and there he’d gone and proven her wrong.
“What did you want to say?” he asked more gently.
Vera stared at him. As long as they were being boldly honest, there was only one thing left to say. She shook her head. “I love you,” she said. “I’m in love with you.”
He hadn’t been expecting that. His smile lit every part of his face as he moved his mouth soundlessly, looking like a man drunk on goodness itself. He bent his head and rested his forehead on hers. He was happy and also … relieved.
“I love you, Vera,” he managed to say through the obstacle of his joy.
When his lips found hers, they moved deliberately. There was no rush to their embrace, no sense that it could be stolen away. They said nothing else to mar this perfect bliss for quite a while.
“I heard you asking your father about how magic might manipulate emotions,” she finally said, hearing her voice quiver and willing it to be strong. “The way Merlin transferred my feelings for Vincent onto you frightens me. And I knew the potions have had a hand in desiring one another, but I’ve been wondering about how deep it’s taken us.” He gazed at her with so much yearning that she could hardly breathe. “Because,” and this part was difficult to say, “it’s also more than what it was with Vincent. I haven’t felt anything like what I feel for you in my whole life.”
He nodded. “I feel that, too. And what if it comes from magic?”
What if. Vera let all the questions hang there: what if it was puppetry? What if nothing they felt was real?
Arthur took her hand.
“Even if it’s all magic,” he said, “knowing right now that you feel the same is more than I could hope for.” Goosebumps raised all over Vera’s body. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers.
There was no telling what tomorrow might bring. For all that they’d lost—for Gawain, who was likely enduring horrors, for their dear friend, the protector who could not protect his beloved, for a kingdom which teetered on the edge of disaster—and for a love that might fall apart and betray them both as pawns in the mages’ game. It all hung in a horrible balance.
But today, tiny dots of yellow flowers waved in the tall grass under a clear sky. The sun shone. The three of them were safe. Arthur and Vera loved one another.
They were alive.
And for now, that was enough.
Meeting Vera
A B
ONUS
S
CENE FROM
A
RTHUR
’
S
POV
When Guinevere left for her respite in the countryside, Arthur had been relieved—accompanied by a wash of guilt. He was used to being able to fix things. If he showed up to a task with integrity, with humility, with the inevitable power that once only came from his gift and was now magnified by his throne, he could find a way to win the unwinnable.
Except with Guinevere.
It all started so well. She arrived in Camelot (with her awful father) and right away it was clear that she and Arthur were a well-suited pair. She every bit the poised and noble queen to help establish their new kingdom, he with his raw gift for the leading of a nation—and both sharing the vision to build something new, something better than what had been.
It was all but decided before she’d arrived, and it solidified with Guinevere and Arthur’s meeting: they’d be married. But the wars were not all won yet. They didn’t know it, but there was a year yet to go of battle—and the fiercest they’d face. On the precipice of losing it all, when all truly seemed hopeless, Guinevere had been the one to find a way to win.
And then she stood on the smoldering battlefield and saw the wreckage of her designs.
And slowly (so slowly at first that Arthur could convince himself it was her ordinary poise), she grew sad. It was the beginning of the melancholy. If he’d not ignored it then … if he’d stopped everything then to care for her, he still wondered: would it have made a difference?
She was the one to finally tell him. On a rainy morning when Arthur had been awake since before sunrise preparing for audiences with lords and then having the audiences with said lords, he returned to their quarters for a treaty draft he’d left lying on his desk and hardly noticed her sitting there.
He’d done a double take when he realized she was there—perched on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor and eyes cast down between them. It was only when she looked up that he could see her eyes were red-rimmed from a good long while of crying. She insisted there was no direct cause of her sadness, that it was just a general feeling, though he knew the devastation she’d wrought to end the wars had ignited it—and it took off like a wildfire within her, sadness devouring everything it could reach.
For a while, Arthur dropped many of his duties. Delegated tasks and audiences and kingdom responsibilities to others so he could try to help Guinevere—with the full expectation that he could help her. That care would be enough.
It was not, no matter what Arthur did, said, or offered. She assured him she just needed time. Slowly, he slipped back to the things he could make better, back to the kingdom building.
And then her sadness changed. She stopped sharing it with him, instead becoming hyper critical and angry about … about everything. That was harder. Like the sadness, he couldn’t fix it. Unlike the sadness, she seemed to come to abhor his very presence.
Then it changed again. She retreated into herself. He’d thought (hoped, really) that it was the beginning of her getting better, but it was worse. She stayed in bed for days at a time. Merlin was able to cheer her some … she’d rouse herself for regular sessions with him. But he travelled often, especially in those early days. So it was back to bed for Guinevere.
The alarms screamed within Arthur, a very correct instinct that something terrible was on the horizon (though he never in a million years would have guessed what was coming). He cared for Guinevere very much. He loved her—not in any sort of nonsense way, but grounded and real care.
And it went far deeper than any sense of possession. Arthur knew that she’d loved someone before … in all the ways. Grounded and real—and the stunning nonsense of great stories. He’d taken her from Tristan. Of course, she’d come willingly. But maybe that was it. Maybe she was sinking into sorrow for the love she’d lost.
She could have him.
Arthur would turn a blind eye to an affair at this point. Hell, he sent for the man across the far reaches of the damn nation, put Tristan in his room with his wife, offered the plea, “Help her. However you can, please help her,” and left. That wasn’t turning a blind eye, that was facilitating an affair. It didn’t matter if it would work to help her.