Work Text:
Arthur - pure, true, radiant as the sun.
Guinevere, his queen.
Lancelot, his brother in arms.
Together, they dreamed of Camelot, perfect, eternal.
Yet tonight, she lies in another’s arms.
The armor burns against his flesh.
Her voice devours him like a raven’s cry.
The night is hollow; his prayers meet only silence.
She had sworn never to bring him shame.
Yet the vow was broken.
Truth blazed forth, wife and knight, unveiled in passion.
His dignity stripped, his heart torn in silence.
He was too perfect, too blinding.
And Guinevere whispered: who can stare at the sun forever?
So she sought warmth in shadow,
and cast the kingdom into endless night.
Still, in his shattered gaze, their love shone
pure as a diamond, ruinous as fire.
“How can you hate the one you love more than yourself?”
“I forgive you.”
Not because the wound had healed,
but because forgiveness was his soul’s instinct.
Lancelot, hero to her, traitor to him.
A criminal to the realm.
Yet Arthur forgave.
His mercy, a mirror of their guilt and shame.
They survived, but their love became a monument
engraved with his agony, their regret, and the fall of Camelot.
Arthur - pure, and utterly alone.
He won no happiness, only legend.
Not for the battles he fought,
but for the mercy he gave in the face of ruin.
And so, history remembers him.
The king who chose forgiveness
and was forever denied joy.