Page 137 of Propriety
He pulled her in, lips brushing hers like a secret. “Then we’re wed.”
“Illicitly,” she whispered.
“Blissfully,” he answered.
They sealed it with a kiss that felt like laughter — like something stolen and sacred all at once.
She was still breathless from their moonlit vows when he reached into the pouch at his hip, suddenly bashful.
“I’ve got something,” he muttered. “It’s stupid.”
Guinevere leaned in, smiling. “We just pretended to marry each other under a pine tree. Try me.”
“Not pretend.” He pulled out a ring — worn, small, the silver dulled and smoothed with age. No jewels. No crest. Just a faint, almost-vanished engraving she couldn’t quite read.
“This was with me when they found me. The knight. I didn’t have a name or a family, just this.” He looked down at it, something quiet and strange in his voice. “They said it might’ve been my mother’s. Or my father’s. I used to think maybe it meant something important.”
Her smile softened, fading into something tender. “Itdoes.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never worn it. Never gave it to anyone. Didn’t even think I’d ever tell anyone I had it.”
And then, carefully, he took her hand.
“I want you to have it, Guinevere. Not as a queen. Just as the woman who stood by a fire and vowed to be mine.”
He slid it onto her finger. It was warm from his palm. It went on easily. Like it had been waiting for her.
Guinevere stared at it, breath caught. “You carried this through Camelot. Through hell.”
“I didn’t know what it was meant for,” he said softly. “Until now.”
Her eyes burned. Not with grief this time—but something older. Something holy.
“I know,” she whispered, “that whoever left it for you would be proud of who it found.”
His hand cupped her cheek, and he smiled—not with mischief or swagger, but something shaken, something deeply moved.
“I can’t give you anything else.” He whispered, his eyes dropping to the ground.
Guinevere leaned in, nose brushing his as she smiled. “I don’t need anything else. Just you. Just forever.”
“I bind myself to you,” he whispered. “Name or no name. Crown or no crown. In shadow and in sun. Until the end of the world.”
She exhaled, full and trembling.
“I bind myself to you,” she echoed, voice fierce. “In fire, in flight. In whatever name we choose to wear. Until the world forgets we ever lived — and longer still.”
Lancelot kissed her like a man starved. And the moon bore witness.
51
Days passed much the same. They travelled during the day and camped at night. They had been out of Camelot for over a week now and hadn’t seen even the faintest glimpse of the knights.
There had even been talk of staying at an inn when they found the next town.
But for now, they set up the tent each night, finding solace in each other and in the night sky.
The fire was low, their camp quiet. Guinevere lay curled on his cloak beside him, not quite asleep… just drifting. Safe in the rhythm of his presence.
