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There are a great amount of treasures in the queen’s chambers: delicate trinkets that glisten in the candlelight, golden bracelets wrought into intricate shapes and patterns absolutely begging to be draped upon Guinevere’s wrists, necklaces and diadems and dainty rings absolutely ensconced by large, glimmering jewels far too precious, too rare, too worthy for a woman like her, or at least, that is what some ladies at court say to one another in lilting tones, not bothering to hide the malice, the encroaching jealousy, in their words. Arthur’s knights too speak of her in a similar fashion in fields far away from Camelot’s own, and even then, Guinevere is not so naive to believe that noblemen do not mock her to her own face, before her own seat, even in their own minds as they bow before her, blinded by the resplendent halo of the circlet placed upon her brow.
Guinevere’s trove has more than stones that gleam and glimmer: in her wardrobe hangs heavy ermine cloaks and mink lined gloves, dresses made of soft shimmery fabric, the silk dyed an alarming shade of vibrant purple. Her bed is lined with furs to keep the chill out of her bones during the harsh winter, the stone floor covered with pelts, and tucked away in a corner is a mahogany vanity. In one of the compartments lies a mirror — it is laid in polished wood and unadorned with no gold nor jewels nor carvings upon the slender handle. Perhaps the only remarkable thing about it is just how polished it is, how it gleams dark and shiny like spilt blood in the flickering candlelight.
It is a mirror, nothing more and nothing less.
(Guinevere is not a fool. In fact, Guinevere is the furthest thing away from a fool, despite what front she puts up, despite what it is that Arthur’s court says of her, speaks of her, of her cruelty and beguiling charm.)
(Guinevere has never been an easy to understand woman; she will give no one the luxury now, not ever to understand her without first trespassing through the thorns before the roses. She has given far too many pieces of herself away despite her fervid desire to hold herself as close as possible, as tightly knit as the day she was born, and she owes herself this.)
(Truth is variable, there are so many truths in this world — Guinevere knows one that is unchanging and preserving, something that is for her and her alone.)
The mirror is not enchanted with spells, not laced with magic, never has been dipped into a vat of potions, a priest nor a priestess has ever laid their hands upon her mirror — the mirror is just a mirror for Guinevere has never dealt with, never dirtied her hands with magic, has never thought to and never will. Her power lies in something else, something just as abstract and elusive: honeyed words and a carefully placed hand, a burgeoning smile, and her thoughts whirring away in her brain, a tea that has been steeped for far too long and grows bitter, more aromatic by the second.
(She can hardly wait for a maidservant to see it, can already hear the ringing in her ears, the whispers that will decorate the halls like vines that will constrict the castle’s walls and creep down to the throne room and attempt to strangle her in her own seat.)
Guinevere rises, languid. She gracefully crosses the room and reaches in and retrieves the mirror. She peers into it and sees herself — sees herself the way she is, the way she was, the way she will be, the way she must be.
She wishes she had a drink in her hand, something cold to sink into the aches of her joints. She smiles as she shifts the mirror around in her hand and as the cold glass catches the falling light, warping and refracting, Guinevere sees green.
“Gawain,” Guinevere chides. “You’re blocking the light.”
Gawain lays atop her bed, feet dangling over the edge as he tosses a small ball in the air, catching it with a flick of his wrist before throwing it back up again and again and again. Ever courteous Gawain, one of the finest knights to ever walk the Earth, the flower of chivalry himself — he is unusually jittery today, the nervous wracks of anxiety normally more align with Lancelot’s predilection.
“The lights are all blown out for they know they cannot compare to your beauty,” Gawain says.
Guinevere clicks her tongue at him; to the untrained ear his words are soaked in sincerity, but Guinevere knows Gawain, and she can hear the unrestrained smirk in his voice.
(Yes, Guinevere knows Gawain well — they had met when he was painfully young and desperate to prove himself, clothed in the arrogance that youth can only provide. She remembers how withdrawn he had looked afterwards, how pale his face, how he would stare at the corners of the room in disbelief, unconsciously rubbing at his neck, almost hurt by the fact that he still existed with his head upon his shoulders, whole.)
(Gawain had never told her all that had happened on that one winter’s day aeons ago; she suspects that she will never find out. But that is okay, Gawain can keep his secrets for Guinevere has her own.)
Gawain’s reputation precedes him, such is the consequence of all great knights and Gawain is greater still. His rigid courtesy clings to him even now despite the lackadaisical way that he stretches on her bed. For all his appearances, for all his toothy grins and shimmering eyes, Guinevere knows that he wraps himself in a cloak of courtesy. Despite all their years, Gawain has never fully been able to fully shake off that cloak around her and as Guinevere catches his eyes, she knows that he knows this just as well.
(But Gawain has always been special, Arthur’s beloved nephew and favorite. Has always been granted extra permission, has always had a considerable influence upon Arthur, has always had more placed upon his shoulders than should be carried upon any mortal man. Guinevere wonders sometimes if it is similar to the Green Knight’s axe arcing down towards Gawain’s neck: duty forever a blot upon his sunny existence.)
(And Lancelot, well Lancelot is — )
“Lancelot’s late,” Gawain murmurs, so quiet and so unmistakably lonely that it makes Guinevere’s teeth ache.
“Are you surprised?” Guinevere asks. “It would be an occasion, a reason for celebration if he was on time today.”
“If he was ever early I’d suspect him to be on death’s door.”
Guinevere sighs, “Always off gallivanting.”
“He’s on time when it counts,” Gawain says.
“Yes,” Guinevere agrees, placing the mirror back on the vanity with a heavy thunk. “He is.”
(Camelot’s court and the poison that swims out from it, dizzying in the fatality of its venom, and almost unconscionable, a betrayal against the very golden hue of Arthur’s reign. Kay’s breathy whispers under his breath of Lancelot’s affairs, of Lancelot and his preoccupation with the queen that borders on obsession, or at least, an obsession in the eyes of those prone to gossip and twisted variations on truth.)
(To lie well, to lie convincingly, to lie and to make it into a truth, one must know the truth. And Guinevere knows them all, keeps them tucked secretly away in the hidden chambers of her heart for her mind races faster sometimes than she can even think sometimes, and Guinevere needs all the safety nets she can get.)
(Nevermind the fact that it is Gawain who darkens her doors far more often than Lancelot, but Gawain is allowed more tolerance, more leeway in certain things than Lancelot.)
(But the same could be said of Lancelot of Gawain.)
Gawain’s face is open, unguarded, and there is a glint of guilt in the tightness of his mouth, in the way his brows scrunch up on his forehead. Guinevere crosses the room and sits next to him on the bed; the mirror lies between them and Guinevere’s hands twitch once, twice. She reaches her hand to smooth the wrinkles on his brow, a silent apology washing over them as they stare at one another.
(Between the three of them, it is Guinevere’s leash that is the shortest, the tightest. A yoke.)
(Arthur is a just king, a better king than his father before him. But Arthur is not a just husband.)
(“He has to be impartial,” Gawain had said as if Guinevere had not known. “He can’t have favorites.”
The words had hung heavy in the air, like smoke but denser, like the fires of hell. Like Guinevere who had sat down in front of the fireplace in her rooms nightly and stroked the fire, the floor cold beneath her knees and feet, and choked on the embers and flint.
“He has you.”
Gawain’s answering smile was sardonic. “You know where my loyalties lie.”
“You have to forgive me,” Guinevere had said. “There is only so much that I can have and I need to know.”
Lancelot had spoken then to break off any bickering amongst them. Quiet Lancelot, Lancelot and his clumsy words, Lancelot who deliberated more than he spoke, and when he did open his mouth, everyone leaned in to listen . To soak him in, to understand, to bask in his shame and his glory. “Enough. It’s us, it’s always been us.”
“Inevitable,” Gawain had responded and Guinevere murmured her assent.
There was something there in the brokenness of the inevitable, the dawning of it, the rising crescendo and the fall —
— there wouldn’t be one. Not with Guinevere there, steadfast as ever, solitude still clutching at the frayed edges of her soul.)
(Guinevere looks at Arthur sometimes and wonders, if this is the time that she will finally burn. Lancelot’s name bubbles up in her throat, Gawain’s radiant face behind her closed lids and she knows that she will burn for her own reason and no one else’s. But she has never been afforded dignity until Lancelot and Gawain had given her a blade each marred with blood and promises to be fulfilled, and her eyes had glittered ominously, the smile adorning her face too open, too real, and too beatific.)
There is a knock, once, twice, thrice before the door opens. Lancelot with his square shoulders scrunched up to his ears and his haunted eyes, his gauntlets and boots stained are with dried blood. He stares at the two of them, almost forlornly until Guinevere beckons him to come closer with a flick of her wrist. Lancelot’s eyes swing over to Gawain and he relaxes minutely, his posture less severe, his smile less melancholic but his eyes are a bit too damp.
“I’m sorry I was late,” Lancelot says softly, gently reaching out to press Guinevere’s hand in his and then to grasp Gawain’s tightly, intertwining their fingers together. “Have you been waiting long?”
“No,” Guinevere lies because Lancelot is afforded this one mistruth. “Not at all.”
“You kept me waiting,” Gawain complains as he attempts to drag Lancelot onto the bed despite Guinevere’s reproach at the state of Lancelot’s clothes.
The skin around Lancelot’s eyes crinkle as he dips his head to whisper something in Gawain’s ear.
(Something unfurls in Guinevere’s chest, warm and light and happy and true in a way that Guinevere has barely known. She had felt it before, when she had worn those fine dresses for the first time, had seen it echoed in Lancelot’s face as she had pulled him aside one day years ago and vouched for him when no one else would, in Gawain when he has reprieve from the haunting specter that trails him even now.)
She reaches out and her fingers curl around the mirror. She holds it up high and is entranced by what she sees.
“A new dawn,” Guinevere mutters, her fingers tracing the mirror’s edge.
The mirror cracks and Guinevere smiles for she can see the miles and miles of her kingdom calling her back, calling her home.
(“Welcome home,” Gawain says.
“It’s not home yet,” Lancelot responds, easily.
“It will be,” Guinevere says as she closes her eyes, an eternity resting in a heartbeat. “Just give it time.”)