The great hall fell silent as Lord Agravaine stepped forward, his voice ringing with accusation. “I charge Sir Lancelot with treason! He has dishonored Your Majesty by conducting an illicit affair with Queen Guinevere!”
Gasps rippled through the assembled nobles. Lancelot stood pale but steady, his hand nowhere near his sword. Guinevere sat rigid upon her throne, her face a mask of composure though her knuckles were white against the armrests.
Arthur leaned back in his seat, studying Agravaine with an expression of mild curiosity. “An affair, you say? Tell me, Lord Agravaine—does my queen not have the right to take a lover?”
The accusers sputtered, exchanging bewildered glances. “My lord, she—that is—the sanctity of marriage—”
“I see,” Arthur interrupted smoothly. “So the queen may not. How interesting.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “And what of me? May I take a lover?”
Agravaine’s face flushed. “You are the king, sire. Certainly you may—that is, it has always been accepted that a king might—”
“Ah.” Arthur’s smile was sharp as a blade. “So I may, but she may not. How very convenient.” He rose from his throne, his voice carrying across the hall with absolute authority. “Sir Lancelot, attend me.”
Lancelot moved forward like a man walking to his execution, stopping before the dais. Arthur descended the steps with deliberate grace, each footfall echoing in the breathless silence. When he reached Lancelot, he cupped the knight’s face in both hands and kissed him—deep, unmistakable, claiming.
The hall erupted in shocked murmurs. When Arthur pulled back, Lancelot’s eyes were wide with astonishment, but Arthur’s gaze was fixed on Agravaine.
“Let me make this abundantly clear,” the king said, his voice like steel wrapped in silk. “Who I have in my bed—be it Guinevere, Lancelot, or both—is no concern of yours. This audience is concluded.”
He turned away, leaving the court in chaos, Agravaine gaping like a landed fish.
That evening, Arthur stood at the window of the royal chambers, staring out at Camelot’s lights without really seeing them. His hands gripped the windowsill hard enough to make his knuckles white.
Guinevere sat by the fire, her embroidery untouched in her lap. The silence between them was suffocating.
“That was…” she began, then stopped, unsure how to continue.
“Necessary,” Arthur said flatly. He poured wine with mechanical precision, his movements too controlled. “They won’t trouble either of you again.”
“Arthur—”
A knock at the door made them both freeze.
“Enter,” Arthur called, and his voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.
Lancelot stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He looked uncertain, almost afraid. “My lord, I… you summoned me?”
“I did.” Arthur handed him a cup of wine, then one to Guinevere. He took his own and drank deeply before speaking. “Sit. Please.”
They sat, the three of them arranged like chess pieces, each afraid to make the first move.
Arthur set down his cup and pressed his palms against his eyes. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve known for a long time. You love each other.”
“Arthur,” Guinevere whispered, but he held up a hand.
“Please. Let me… let me say this.” He lowered his hands, but couldn’t meet their eyes. “I know you love each other. And I—” His voice cracked. “I protected you today. I made them believe Lancelot is mine, so they wouldn’t destroy you both. So Guinevere wouldn’t be accused of adultery. So Lancelot wouldn’t be executed for treason.”
“My lord—”
“Just…” Arthur’s hands trembled as he reached for his wine again. “Just be discreet. Please. I’ve given you the perfect cover. The court thinks Lancelot shares my bed, so no one will question why he’s always near us. You can be together. You can have your happiness. Just… be careful. That’s all I ask.”
The silence that followed was crushing. Arthur couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t bear to see the pity in their eyes, or worse—the relief that they could now love freely while he…
“Is that what you think?” Lancelot’s voice was raw. “That I would use your protection to—Arthur, look at me.”
“I’d rather not.” Arthur’s laugh was bitter. “It’s easier this way. If I don’t see the two people I love most looking at me with—”
“With what?” Guinevere asked softly.
Arthur’s control finally shattered. “With tolerance! With gratitude for the fool king who loves you both so desperately that he’ll humiliate himself before the entire court, let them think what they will of him, anything—anything—to keep you safe!” His voice broke. “I stood there today and kissed Lancelot in front of everyone, and all I could think was how much I wanted it to be real. How much I’ve wanted both of you for so long that it feels like dying, and you—you have each other, and I’m so glad you do, but God help me, I’m so alone—”
He turned away sharply, pressing his fist against his mouth to stop the sob that threatened to escape. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding himself together.
“I thought I could do this,” he whispered. “I thought if I just gave you to each other, if I protected your love, it would be enough. That watching you be happy would be enough. But it’s not. It’s not, and I hate myself for being so selfish, but I can’t—”
“Arthur.” Lancelot’s voice was thick with emotion.
“No, please, just go—both of you, just—” Arthur’s voice broke completely. “I can’t watch you leave together. Not tonight. I know it’s childish, I know I have no right, but please just let me have tonight to—”
Suddenly Lancelot was there, dropping to his knees before Arthur, his hands grasping the king’s with desperate strength. “You beautiful fool,” he said, his own eyes bright with tears. “You absolute idiot. I love you. I have always loved you.”
Arthur froze, staring down at him in disbelief. “What?”
“I love her,” Lancelot said fiercely. “God help me, I do. But I love you too, Arthur. I have loved you since the day I knelt before you and swore my sword to your service. You think I stayed in Camelot for her? You think it was only Guinevere who made breathing difficult, who made me lie awake at night aching? It was you. Both of you. Always both of you.”
Arthur couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. “But you and Guinevere—”
“Found comfort in each other,” Guinevere said, and suddenly she was there too, moving behind Arthur’s chair, her arms wrapping around him from behind. “Because we both loved you and thought we could never have you. Because we were both so lonely for you, Arthur.”
Her cheek pressed against his hair, and he could feel her tears. “I fell in love with you the day we wed. You were so kind, so gentle. And then I watched you with Lancelot—the way you looked at him, the way you smiled—and I loved you even more for having such a generous heart. And I thought… I thought you could never want me the way you wanted him.”
“And I thought you could never want me,” Lancelot said, his voice breaking, “the way you wanted her. Your queen. Your wife. How could a knight ever compare?”
Arthur made a sound between a laugh and a sob. His hands came up to grip Lancelot’s desperately while Guinevere held him from behind. “You thought—both of you thought—”
“That you didn’t want us,” Guinevere whispered. “Not the way we wanted you.”
“I thought the same,” Arthur choked out. “I thought I was alone in this madness. That I loved you both and neither of you could ever—” His voice shattered completely. “I was so sure you only tolerated me. That you were kind to me out of duty while you loved each other, and I tried to be happy for you, I tried—”
“No.” Lancelot pulled Arthur’s hands to his lips, pressing desperate kisses to his knuckles. “No, my king. My Arthur. Never alone. Never unloved.”
“Never,” Guinevere echoed, her arms tightening around him. “We are here. We love you. We have always loved you.”
And Arthur broke. Years of loneliness, of watching them from afar and believing himself unwanted, of loving in silence and shame—it all came pouring out in great, wrenching sobs. He pulled Lancelot up and turned in Guinevere’s embrace, gathering them both to him, holding them as if they might disappear if he let go.
“I love you,” he gasped against Lancelot’s shoulder. “I love you both so much I can’t breathe. I thought I was going mad with it.”
“We’re here,” Lancelot murmured, his own tears falling. “We’re here, and we’re yours, and we love you.”
Guinevere pressed her face against Arthur’s neck, her hands tangled in his hair. “My king. My husband. My heart. I love you. I love you both.”
They held each other as the candles burned low, three hearts that had beaten in lonely parallel finally finding their rhythm together. Arthur’s sobs gradually quieted, but he didn’t let go, couldn’t let go, kept them both pressed close as if to convince himself this was real.
“The court thinks Lancelot is my lover now,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse.
“Good,” Lancelot said fiercely. “Let them think the truth.”
Guinevere pulled back just enough to cup Arthur’s tear-stained face in her hands. “We are lovers. All three of us. If you’ll have us.”
Arthur laughed, broken and beautiful and free. “Have you? I staged that entire scene today hoping—praying—that maybe, somehow, it would make it real. That if everyone believed it, perhaps it could be true.”
“It is true,” Lancelot said, pressing his forehead to Arthur’s. “It’s always been true. We were just all too afraid to say it.”
“No more fear,” Guinevere whispered, her hands still cradling Arthur’s face. “No more silence. We’re done hiding from each other.”
Arthur pulled them both close again, and this time when he trembled, it was with relief, with joy, with the overwhelming wonder of being loved. “No more hiding,” he agreed. “From each other, or from the world. Let Camelot talk. Let them whisper. I don’t care anymore.”
“The scandal will be magnificent,” Lancelot said with a wet laugh.
“Let it be,” Arthur said, and kissed him properly this time—not for show, not for protection, but because he could, because he was wanted, because this beautiful man loved him back. Then he turned and kissed Guinevere with the same desperate tenderness, tasting her tears and his own.
“I thought I’d lost you both before I ever really had you,” he whispered against her lips.
“Never,” she promised. “We’re yours, Arthur. We’ve always been yours.”
They moved to the bed together, not for passion but for comfort, for the simple joy of being close. They lay tangled together, Arthur in the middle for once, held and holding, loved and loving. And for the first time since he’d taken the crown, Arthur Pendragon felt truly, completely whole.
Outside, Camelot whispered with scandal. Inside, three souls who had loved in silence finally came home.