Page 134 of Propriety
“You’re abandoning me,” he mumbled into the crook of his arm.
Guinevere snorted. “I’m getting dressed, you dolt.”
He lifted his head just enough to peek at her, hair tousled, cheek creased from the blanket. “Your legs sore?”
“None of your business.”
He smirked, then winced as he sat up, joints popping. “Gods, everything hurts.”
They dressed in silence, the warmth fading from the tent with every movement. Lancelot swore quietly as he tightened his sword belt, eyes scanning the flap like he expected Arthur’s men to come crashing through it at any moment.
Guinevere tightened the ties of her cloak with brisk fingers. “About ready?” She asked quietly, upset to know their secret haven was about to be torn down.
He nodded. Serious now. “We’ll cover the tracks. Circle east before heading north.”
She paused. “You’ve already planned a route.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Her eyes softened. “You were holding me,” she whispered, gently placing her hand on his cheek.
“That’s probably the only thing that kept me from bolting.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m going to build a small fire, burn our clothes from yesterday.” His smile faded quickly into a grimace. “There’s… something else.”
She turned, quirking an eyebrow as she rolled their bedding up. Gwen stepped out of the tent as Lancelot dismantled it, avoiding her gaze. “Lance,” she asked, looking pointedly at him. “What is it?”
“It was Lunete’s idea… really. She cares much for you.” He busied himself with folding the canvas up tight.
“Spit it out, du Lac.”
“We need to cut your hair.” He still wouldn’t look at her. “Lunete and Delphine put together a concoction for you, too. Said it would darken the color.” His voice had dropped to a mumble, cheeks flushed.
“Oh,” Gwen tied the bedroll to the horse. “Of course, it makes sense.” She didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Lancelot busied himself with tying knots that didn’t need tightening. He could feel her staring at him.
At last, she exhaled. “Well,” she said, voice thin, “I suppose it was never mine to begin with.”
That made his head snap up.
Guinevere was still facing the horse, hands clenched around the saddlebag strap. Her back was very straight. Her knuckles white.
He crossed to her slowly, cautious as if she might bolt. “Itisyours,” he said softly. “That’s why we’re cutting it.”
She didn’t answer. Just stood there like stone.
“I’ll do it,” he offered, voice rasping. “But only if you want me to.”
She turned then. Her eyes were glassy.
“You’re not going to let me take the blade myself?”
“You’d butcher it.” His fingers brushed over her cheek.
A ghost of a smile. “Probably.”
He reached into his pack and pulled out a short dagger. Held it out flat in his palm like a peace offering. It wasnotArthur’s dagger.
“Sit,” he whispered.
