The Saxon incursion had been repelled, as they always were. Yet, no sense of triumph followed the victory. A heavy air lingered over the halls of Camelot.
Ever since the incident with Sir Tristan, Artoria's countenance had remained frozen in a mask of stoic melancholy. Even today, I saw the same shadow haunting her features. With a heavy heart, I finished processing the final stack of ledgers and turned my gaze toward the window.
Outside, the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, bathing the world in a bruised purple twilight. I let out a soft breath. It seemed I had finished my duties early today.
In truth, considering this was an age where only candlelight stood against the encroaching dark, it was already quite late. For me, however—a man who frequently bartered his sleep for the kingdom's stability—such a distinction mattered little. I gathered my things and stepped out of the solar to return to my quarters.
As I moved through the corridors, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, I spotted a lone figure in the distance.
It was the daughter of King Leodegrance and the current Queen of Camelot. In the original tales, she was the woman whose tryst with Lancelot acted as the catalyst for the Round Table's ruin. After Artoria and I became close, I had kept a discreet eye on her, fearing she might already be meeting Lancelot in the shadows. Yet, I found no such thing. Unlike the legends, her relationship with Artoria was remarkably harmonious.
She was so different from the Guinevere I knew of that I often wondered if she were truly the same person.
Regardless, the Queen was walking the halls alone, without a single attendant in sight. It was far too late for a woman of her station to be wandering unescorted, and I felt a prickle of concern.
"I pay my respects, My Queen. What brings you out at such an hour...?"
"Ah, Sir Elius. I see you have been working hard. It is just that Artoria has not yet returned. I grew worried, and so..."
"I see. I shall go and find her, My Queen. It is growing dark, and the corridors can be treacherous at night. Please, return to your chambers; it would be best if you did not wander alone."
"I am sorry. I seem to have added to your burdens."
"It is no trouble at all, Your Majesty. Allow me to escort you back."
"Thank you, Sir Knight."
After seeing the Queen safely to her quarters, I went to Artoria's study, but it was empty. I stood in the doorway and let out a long sigh. It seemed Tristan's parting words had cut deeper than she let on.
She was likely at the ramparts. Whenever the weight of her crown became unbearable, Artoria would climb the castle walls to watch the sun disappear into the horizon. It was a small secret, known only to myself and Sir Kay.
I ascended the stone stairs to the battlements. Sure enough, she was there. I stopped and watched her back—a silhouette that looked painfully fragile and lonely against the fading light.
"...I truly do not understand where I have erred."
Artoria spoke without turning, perhaps having recognized the sound of my footsteps. Her eyes remained fixed on the horizon.
"I believed I had chosen the most optimal path—the one that would eliminate the threat while minimizing the loss of life as a King should. But I no longer know if that path was right. Tell me... was I wrong?"
"No. At the very least, I believe you were right. I know the heart behind your judgment and the weight of the decisions you must make."
The wind whipped fiercely across the heights, cold and biting. I stepped forward and draped my cloak over her shoulders.
"Artoria. No matter what path you choose, I will always remain by your side. I became a Knight of the Round Table to support you from the shadows and to share the burdens you carry. You do not have to carry it all alone. Lean on me. Ask for help. I am always on your side."
At my words, Artoria finally turned her head to look at me. Our eyes met. Whether it was the reflection of the sunset or something else, her face seemed slightly flushed as she whispered softly.
"...Truly, I... you..."
"What was that? I didn't hear you."
"It is nothing."
"?"
I opened my mouth to ask for clarification, but before I could, she had already turned and headed down the stairs. I watched her go, puzzled for a moment, before following after her with a small smile.
As I descended, I watched the final embers of the sunset and offered a silent prayer. *Gods, please. Do not let any more trials befall her.* The dying light was hauntingly beautiful.
***
Guinevere was once a princess who had deeply admired the legendary King Arthur. However, she had harbored no hope of ever being joined with him. He was a being far beyond her—a hero surrounded by those far more brilliant than herself. The possibility of the King choosing her was nothing more than a dream.
But the impossible dream had become reality. King Arthur had chosen her. When she heard she was to marry the King, her joy was beyond words. To be joined with the one she longed for was more than she had ever dared to ask.
Yet, that joy soon crumbled into despair. Their love could never be realized. The King known to the world as a man was, in fact, a woman. Despair took root in Guinevere's heart, for her romantic love was destined to go unfulfilled.
Even so, she did not resent the King. It was not a lie born of malice, but of a noble necessity—the salvation of the people of Britain. What a beautiful, radiant, and tragic dream it was. Moved by the scale of that ambition, Guinevere forgave her. She asked, instead, that they be friends.
Artoria, grateful beyond measure for Guinevere's forgiveness, had accepted. Thus, they lived as husband and wife to the public, but as close confidantes in private. They shared tea and walked the gardens together, forming an ideal bond of friendship. Yet today, Guinevere had not seen her.
She knew Artoria's heart well enough to recognize the sorrow in her expression earlier. The King's face had been clouded with agonizing doubt. Guinevere desperately wanted to cheer her friend up, but she suddenly realized she didn't know what Artoria truly liked.
*To not know what my own friend likes... I am a failure as a companion.*
With a bitter, self-deprecating smile, Guinevere searched her mind for someone who might know the King's preferences. The answer was obvious: the Knights of the Round Table who spent every waking hour by her side. As the Queen, meeting them was a simple task. She wanted it to be a surprise, so she had gone alone late at night to find them.
In the quiet of the night, she encountered a single knight who still remained in the common hall. Guinevere approached him and spoke.
"My name is Guinevere. I have come to speak with a Knight of the Round Table. Are you perhaps one of them?"
At that moment, Guinevere could not have known the weight of this encounter, or the consequences it would one day bring.
"Ah, yes. I am Lancelot du Lac, of the Round Table. It is an honor to meet you, My Queen."
The wheel of destiny, upon which the fate of Britain turned, had begun its inexorable rotation.