Your husband says he loves you, but his kisses are cold and he barely looks at you as he mounts his horse and rides out to battle. You think maybe it shouldn't, but the sight of his back gives you much greater joy than that of his face lit up with victory or sunk in gloom because of defeat. Yes, it is probably wrong of you to enjoy sending your husband off to war more than welcoming him home, but you do, and he probably knows it, too, though neither of you mention it; you both prefer quiet over noise, uninterrupted thoughts over steady conversations, and only in that are you alike.

So you wave at his back and then retire to a cold bed, a fact you think you should probably mind, but don't.
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He has given you three perfect daughters, at least, and in that he is faultless. Your sly Morgause and proud Morgana and sweet-tempered Elaine – they love you like their father says he loves you, but theirs is a real and affectionate, warm and unconditional love, and being with them makes you feel like the world is a wonderful place and you are a wonderful being and no other emotion or state but joy exists.

Maybe that is why Gorlois feels nothing for you. Any attraction or affection he might have had for you was passed along to each of your daughters, and not even a little bit was left for him. Well, that's alright. You have your girls, and that is enough.
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He comes home far sooner than you – or anyone, for that matter – expected, and the first thing he does is scoop you up in his arms and kiss you like he is a dying man and only your lips hold the medicine that will save his life. You are shocked. Not even on your marriage day did he ever act like that. His hands are all over you and he refuses to let you ask about the battle; he wants only you, and like a good wife you oblige, confused and – you will admit – intrigued by this newfound passion.

His kisses start fires in your mouth and his hands leave bruises on your skin, and he whispers words of love into your ears and sings songs of pleasure with his body. What has happened to him? Maybe you don't want to know. In fact, you really don't care. Let him do as he pleases. The only thing wrong with this night is the fact that, if he plants a child in your womb, you know it will be a boy, and that saddens you, even though you know your husband wants an heir of his own flesh and not one bound to him by marriage to one of your girls.

You know this, but you don't care.
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The news of your husband's death comes quickly, just as the one you thought was him is gathering up his clothes. Clothes? On a ghost? Only living men have shame and seek to cover up their nakedness, and the man who loved you like an animal was warm and lively. You look at him as the servant sobs out from behind the door, "The king is dead!" He stares back, and says nothing; he does not apologize or beg forgiveness, and even though you know he should, you don't really mind that he doesn't. You should be furious, and ashamed, and grieved, but all you say to him is, "What is your name?" and he says back simply, "Uther."

Then he gets down on his knees and takes your hands and asks you to marry him. He tells you he has longed for you for so very long and would you most gracious lady please give him heartfelt joy and become his wife?

You think maybe you should slap him, or at least pull away, but his words intrigue you. He has hungered...for you? Imagine, a man driving himself sick for love of you! And now he begs you to accept him as your husband, even though he has already gotten what he wanted. Maybe a man who gives you sons instead of daughters is not so bad, after all.

You tell him yes, as long as you can keep your girls.
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He agrees to that – Morgause, Morgana, and Elaine are yours forever if you choose – but your son he takes away near as soon as he is born. "It is not safe," he tells you. "For the child's sake, we must send him away." You sink to your knees and clasp your hands in front of you, silent tears trailing down your face, and look at him, your tongue sealed inside your mouth because you do not know what to say.

Maybe you should have spoken – Uther doesn't understand your uninterrupted thoughts like Gorlois did – because it doesn't work and your little Arthur is sent far away. You lock yourself and your daughters away in your rooms for weeks, and they comfort you as best they can. After a month or two you emerge like the sun after a storm, laughs for your girls and smiles for the servants. A babe you knew not even an hour should mean nothing to you, and as long as your daughters are with you, you will never feel sad.
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You see your son for the first time in sixteen years, when Uther dies (as with Gorlois, you did not feel the urge to cry, though you always believed Uther when he told you he loved you). Uther's sword is sheathed within a boulder, enchanted so only those of his blood may draw it. How fortunate for Arthur, that his father was an only child and has no surviving kin but this fair-haired boy who has your cerulean eyes, a fact you are pleased with; not one of your beloved daughters inherited that trait.

The lad seems not even to realize the importance of the sword; sliding it out of the rock with ease, he tries to run off with it – a tool snatched up in a moment of need – and appears confused (and very, very embarrassed) when he is stopped and then everyone begins to bow to him. Morgause narrows her father's black eyes at him, displeased as she is with everything belonging to Uther; Morgana cocks her head, curious about this newfound brother; and Elaine just smiles at you and asks what you will wear at the feast tonight. But you do not focus on them, for once in your life. You have a son, you think with wonder. A strong and handsome son who looks like his father but also like you and whom you suddenly want to hold despite knowing him not even an hour.

You rise from your seat; the crowds part for you; and you reach your son in no time at all. He looks at you, gaze unwavering. "Come with me," you tell him, and turn away from him and begin walking. Immediately your hear footsteps behind you, steady and sure in their path. You smile to yourself, an intense joy overtaking you. Your son understands you, knows that you meant "Welcome home." He knows your uninterrupted thoughts.

Your girls will always be your girls, and they will always be flawless, but perhaps sons aren't so different from daughters. Maybe this boy can love you as wholly and truly as his sisters do. Maybe Uther's first gift to you will also be his last.

It pleases you to think so, and so you do.