Page 125 of Propriety
“Ah,” the king smiled, “We should have expected such moves from the Queen’s champion.”
The sun was cruel — high and bright, casting the arena in gold and sweat and sharpened steel.
Lancelot stepped forward from the line of knights, already drawing his sword. His eyes met hers across the tiltyard, and for a moment, Guinevere’s breath caught. He bowed — not to the king, but to her.
The first horn blew.
His first challenger charged quickly, youth in every swing. The fight was swift — three strikes, a turn of the shoulder, and Lancelot sent the boy sprawling. He did not draw blood.
Her hands lay still in her lap, but her knuckles ached from how tightly she pressed her fingers together.
The second knight was older, heavier. His blows rang off Lancelot’s shield like thunder. One caught his ribs, and Lancelot staggered. Guinevere’s spine stiffened. Her jaw tensed, her lips pressed to a thin line — but her face did not move.
Breathe,she told herself. Do not blink too long. Do not let the world see you watch him bleed.
Lancelot rose, spitting blood. His grin was almost feral. When he felled the knight, it was with a cry she could feel in her chest.
The third opponent came with something to prove. He struck Lancelot’s face — clean and brutal. Blood bloomed across Lancelot’s cheek, a red line from temple to jaw. Guinevere inhaled sharply through her nose, head tilting slightly as though listening to a distant voice. It was the only movement she allowed herself. Her vision blurred for a breath. She swallowed it down.
You promised to come back to me.
By the fourth fight, Lancelot’s shield had cracked. The crowd had started to cheer for him — his name murmured in time with the pounding of hooves and boots.
But no one spoke her name. Only his.
The fourth challenger struck low, catching Lancelot’s thigh. He faltered. She saw the way he favored that leg — saw it before the crowd did. Her heart thudded painfully. She moved one hand to her cup, fingers trembling just enough to make the wine ripple. She did not drink.
When Lancelot disarmed the man with a roar and a backhanded blow, the crowd erupted. Guinevere’s throat clenched.
Enough.
Let him be done.
Let this be over.
But it was not over.
The final knight stepped forward. A tall man in dark armor, with a crest she did not know. Arthur smiled. A small, pleased thing.
Guinevere did not move. Did not look at her husband.
She only watched as Lancelot bled from the brow, the lip, the thigh — and lifted his sword again. She wanted to scream at him to stop, to run, to let her burn alone.
He didn’t.
He never would.
The last fight was not graceful. It was brutal — shieldless now, Lancelot fought close. Teeth bared, breathing hard, sword flashing in the sun. Blood sprayed across the dirt. Guinevere didn’t know whose.
She had a hand pressed lightly over her chest now, her thumb grazing the edge of her collarbone as if testing whether her body might cave in around her heart.
And then the challenger dropped.
Lancelot stood alone, swaying. His blade wavered in his grip, then lifted high.
“I have stood for her,” he said. His voice cracked but did not break. “And no man here could unmake my vow.”
The crowd roared.
