She’d be the same as the others.

He should have expressly forbid Merlin from retrieving her rather than what he’d done: perpetually saying, “not yet,” leaving a window for exactly what happened today. Having not done that, he should have gone with Lancelot to retrieve her. Arthur was surprised that magic’s call on him as king had not fled his blood this past year. None of this was noble kingly behavior.

He reached for the pitcher of wine and filled his goblet again.

Now, it was nearly midnight. Merlin had come back to chide Arthur for staying behind, which devolved to an all-out shouting match, and (once cooler heads prevailed) the mage explained that Guinevere and Lancelot would be along shortly after.

That had been three hours ago. There was no good reason for them to be delayed this much. Arthur’s mind shot to worst-case scenarios. Was she already dead? Had she lost her mind straightaway? Had Lancelot been forced to kill her again?

He took another swig from his cup as the door on the far end of the hall opened.

Merlin came in the room, and even with the whole hall’s length between them, Arthur instantly saw the relief splayed across the mage’s features.

“Fuck,” Arthur murmured into his cup, certain this meant she’d arrived. “Is that it, then?” he asked when Merlin was close enough to not require shouting. “Is she here?”

“She is,” Merlin said. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t give Arthur an option to discuss it, just turned on his heel and strode away.

Arthur took a long, slow breath before he stood and followed Merlin, his heart raging against the inside of his chest.

He deliberately stared at the floor as he rounded the corner into the entry hall, but he could see the two of them standing there in his periphery. Lancelot.

And her.

When he could avoid looking at her no longer and tipped his eyes up to meet her gaze, Arthur saw that she was afraid, saw the way his harshness landed. It was easy to keep his face contorted in a scowl because all of this was wrong.

It was made worse because … because there was some … brightness there in her. Some spark shining from her that wasn’t there before—or that hadn’t been allowed to be there before. What would her life be if she could just have it elsewhere?

Merlin’s voice pierced through Arthur’s thoughts. “It’s not unreasonable that remembering His Majesty will take time.”

Arthur turned his sights on the mage, heat racing up his spine. Yes, it would take time, time enough for her to lose all the life in her.

“That’s not her,” he said.

Not her burden. Not her fate to suffer and … the last, a plea: that’s not the ailing woman whose fate is doomed.

Please. Please, God, please.

Arthur turned and left.

Lancelot found him in the great hall—with the wine again. The knight ignored the available bench and dragged a chair over, poured himself a goblet of wine, and sat down. Then, elbows on his knees, holding the cup between them, he stared at Arthur.

Arthur hoped Lancelot would tell him about her. Despite all his misgivings, he was curious. He didn’t want to own that. He didn’t want to have any interest in her, and Lancelot knew that.

“I’m not going to do this again,” Arthur said after a long stretch of silence.

Lancelot watched him and let the quiet have another moment before he broke it with a heavy sigh as he leaned back in his chair. “She’s very different. Good different.”

Arthur bristled. He resented the notion there’d been something deficient in her before. She’d been hurting. But she’d also taken on more than anyone should. And she’d endured more. He’d seen awful deaths in battle, yes, but she’d seen her share of trauma, too. She’d watched her own mother die.

“Well, father says I was there, but I don’t remember it. You can’t be hurt by something you don’t remember,” she’d told him. And she’d smiled when she said it, which was the final tell that it was something that made her very sad to say. And he was quite certain she was wrong too. He was quite certain her wounds were so deep she’d convinced herself they didn’t exist.

But.

Different. Good different. This time, he couldn’t resist the temptation. “How so?”

Lancelot’s lips tilted nearly imperceptibly up, and Arthur knew he was pleased that he’d gotten what he hoped for: enough interest from Arthur to continue the conversation. “She likes me, for one.” Lancelot’s smile broadened.

“Really?” Arthur colored his tone with disbelief and quirked an eyebrow, surprising himself by indulging the levity, but more so that Lancelot’s instinct to show up for Guinevere had been a good one. Maybe, in a turn none of them could have guessed, Lancelot had been what she needed all along.

“She does,” Lancelot said proudly. “And she’d just left her whole world behind. Everything, Arthur. And she still seemed happy. Not thrilled by the circumstances, obviously. But different from the others. It’s not just wishful thinking, I know it. I just … I know it.”

Arthur’s muscles had relaxed. He realized he was no longer clenching his jaw. But this woman being different didn’t fix anything. “That’s all the more reason I should stay away.”

Lancelot sighed. “She’s going to need your help, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur said. He’d never gotten used to hearing the formal title from his oldest friend, and it landed heavy, especially now. “I tried to help the others. It ended poorly.”

“I know.” This, his friend offered more gently. “So maybe you do it different this time. Maybe you tell her.”

“Tell her?”

“Yes.” Lancelot’s eyes lit as he took a long drink, emptying his cup. “Tell her about the others. Tell her all of it.”

Everything in Arthur jolted like he’d been knocked sideways. “Are you mad? That’s the surest way to damn her. Merlin said—”

“I know what he said. It doesn’t mean he’s right.” He turned the cup in his hands, seeming to study it for a long moment. “She’s going to need you.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. Lancelot’s instincts were unmatched, and Arthur trusted him implicitly—but in this matter, Arthur could not trust himself. “I can’t help her.”

Lancelot scoffed. “What is she supposed to do? She’ll need someone who isn’t Merlin. He’ll be gone half the time anyway.”

“She’ll have you. I’ll stay as far from her as I can.”

Lancelot shook his head as he released a long breath through his nostrils. “It’s a mistake, Your Majesty.”

“Stop calling me that.” Arthur drained his own cup and set it down on the table harder than he meant to. Nearly slammed it, really.

“You’re still king, Arthur,” Lancelot said softly. “Even when you’re feeling ashamed. And when you’re three sheets to the wind. You’re still my king. You’re still her king.” He took the pitcher and refilled Arthur’s cup and then his own. “If you think staying away will protect her, I’ll try it. Nothing else has worked.”

He wasn’t sure of anything, but Lancelot had gotten her safely here. Lancelot had been a friend to her and—Arthur blinked. “Did you just leave her out there?”

“Yes.” Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Shut up. So did you.” He wasn’t wrong. “Merlin’s out there. She’s fine. She knows how to hold her own.” He gave a lopsided grin, and his eyes glimmered.

“You really like her,” Arthur said.

“Very much. And you will too.”

Arthur’s insides lurched, but he nodded.

“I’m going to bed. You should too.” Lancelot took one last swig from his cup before he stood. “You don’t sleep enough.”

Arthur huffed. “I’m not the one running through the woods before daybreak.”

Lancelot grinned, tilting his head to the side. He looked like he swallowed something he’d thought to say and started to leave.

But Arthur couldn’t resist. “What?”

Lancelot turned back quickly and sat back down in his chair. “She runs, mate. Brought shoes with her—snuck them in her bag. She laughs really easily.” He raised his eyebrows with a chuckle. “And she curses rather a lot.”