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Friends don’t look at friends that way. Guinevere knew this when she married Arthur. Friends don’t look at one another as if the other’s eyes held all the world’s answers in them – thirsty. As if in a second more of unrelenting gazes, they could drink up all of the other to leave nothing but their own flesh behind.
But Guinevere took all of it in stride. She knew from the start. How could she not? How could anyone not? She ought to be angry. She ought to feel humiliated by such open affection hidden behind sharp barbs and retorts – she was Queen. And it was awfully unfair how noblewomen could hold such honor while sitting idly and not be tested to prove their worth.
Every day, part of her feels as if she has failed Camelot, the council, Arthur. Sure, her King assures her the opposite but in such matters, she believes she holds the authority. In her time as Arthur’s chosen, she has been enchanted not once but twice. She has endangered her people. Endangered Merlin, for heaven’s sake! Councilors tolerate her. But she knows the moment her back is turned they all but call her worthless for her blood.
It has been three years since they’ve wed. In those years, she has barely gotten Arthur to look at her with that primal sort of hunger, of longing outside their first months. Yet Merlin does it so effortlessly, that she questions how is she never able to get Arthur to look at her like that? What would it take for Arthur to bare his soul to her the way he does with Merlin? When will Arthur stop with his façade of strength when with her?
How long will she have to prove herself as Queen?
She ought to be angry. To yell at Arthur for once to look at her. To see her. And yet, how could she begrudge Arthur? When Arthur himself knows not who he truly loves? Nor who he sees when he whispers ‘I love you’ in her ears? How could she begrudge Merlin? When she knew exactly what it is like to love Arthur?
It is hard to have a servant fill in the shoes of a queen. But she knows she can fit them well. They were meant for her. And even if the councilors tolerate her, her people love her. And she loves them.
So, even if her husband knows not who he truly loves; Even if her husband’s servant looks at him like that, she takes it in stride. She looks in the mirror and practices the impassive looks she has long gotten used to seeing in noble women. She practices their walk, their talk. Their grace. And slowly, unknowingly… the servant girl is forgotten. The smiles once sweet and carefree, now jaded and controlled. And a mind that once dreamt of princes and knights, now dreams of treaties, magic, and war.
Friends don’t look at friends that way. She loved Lancelot once, daresay more than Arthur. She knows intimately the high that love brings. If she cannot be truly content in her marriage, she can take comfort in the love of the people. She is the Queen. And that is enough.