The light slants in through the eastern windows, its swords of fairy dust cutting slashes of gold into the silvery satin of the sea-weathered pine boards. The breeze twirls around the room, carrying memories of waves.
The ocean calls, a seagull cries. And I am Guinevere standing in the light.
My shadow stretches from my bare feet to the bare bodies of the two men lying entwined in the low bed The sun of many days still lingers in their skin, the breeze has stolen the moist pearls that crowned their foreheads, the soft white cotton sheets guard them against the early morning chill.
I watch them with forbearing eyes and a wan smile. My King, my knight; rulers of my heart, guardians of my soul. And I am Guinevere standing in the light.
My King is broad as an old-grown tree. He sleeps with a smile, his arm around the chiselled shoulders of the younger man beside him, and there's nothing but peace and safety in his face. Often I have sought refuge in the depths of his watery eyes and fell asleep in his straggling arms, as his hands caressed my body and his voice whispered in my ear words of a long-lost language.
He is the oak in the middle of the forest, laughing at the thunderstorm; he is the white cliff that rises from the sea, smiling patiently at the rushing of the waves. He is my father, my liege, my love. And I am Guinevere standing in the light.
There is no smile to lighten my knight's delicate features, and each line that furrows his brow seems to bear the weight of the world. He is slender and supple as a reed. There are times when he crosses the sands to sit by my side, looking into me until the sunlight has turned both my eyes and his to gold. Then he breathes in my hair and falls into my body as if my skin could heal all that ails him.
He is a reed growing in marshy grounds, refusing to sink, bending in the harsh winds; he is the traveller lost in the night, drawn to the illusory glow of the Unseelie court. He is my brother, he is my child, he is my love. And I am Guinevere standing in the light.
The black cat in the windowsill, impassible, stretches her lean body, as her sapphire eyes follow my every move. The dogs lying at the foot of the bed lick the salt off my skin, the affection off my fingers. The breeze comes round once again in its unseen dance and tousles my dark hair. There is silver now, blooming among the mahogany, as I come to the turning of the season. But am I wise enough now? Am I strong enough? Will I pay the price?
I stand by the bed and watch as they sleep entwined. They are my haven, they are my answers, they are my love. And I am Guinevere standing in the light.
They stir and wake; their eyes find me as the light rises, pulling away the breeze. As one they open their arms to welcome me into their communion. Sweetest of men. Dearest of friends. Brightest of souls. I step into their warmth and their tenderness wraps itself around me among the soft white cotton sheets.
The ocean calls. A seagull cries. And I am Guinevere standing in the light.