As she slept she dreamed. Possibly amnesias, perhaps of something she had read, most likely remembering her guilt.
Her long tangled hair spread across the pillow, red in the emerging sunlight. Thin curtains separated her from the dawn as she imagined her lover and her husband. She had killed them both, The lance Lord and the Bear. She smiled as remembrance uncalled for touched her. Cold fingers, rough and calloused, brushed against her soft skin.
But those days were now gone. Dust and death were all that awaited her now.
The groan escaped from her lips as she woke to the dawn; remembering all.
The warm skins that had formed her bed she pushed aside, naked in the chill of a western morn; she stood.
Tall and beautiful, naked, pale as the moon, slim as a willow, hair; red as the rowan berries in autumn.
Gazing upon the bed where once they lay.
There she had laid in love with Arthur and In lust and love with the lance Lord. The remembrance carried her old and tired legs over the pasture to the tree; there was the bower where she would lay her head to die. I fell to my knees beside it praying for her though i did not believe
Death comes to us all but it does not dance to our tune. The lady lived long after the orchestra stopped playing and the characters had retired into the wings. Guinevere, in a way, exists still in the soul of every woman.
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