The nun was in no hurry as she ambled along in front of him, even, he suspected, trailing her feet a bit; she had made it quite clear by her scowl and glare that she disapproved of his presence here, but her superior had given him permission, and she must obey.

Finally, they came to a stop in front of a plain wooden door, which looked the same as every other they'd passed so far. The nun – Sister Mary, she was introduced as, though she'd said not a single word to him – nodded at him, her duty completed, scowl still in place. She then turned on her heel and left, leaving the door locked, though he knew her to be in possession of the keys. He watched her walk back down the hall, long veil trailing after her, until she disappeared around the corner; he then turned to look at the door.

Taking a deep breath, suddenly aware of a sense of unease in his stomach, Lancelot raised a fist and knocked.

There was no answer. After letting the silence stretch on for a few heartbeats, he tried again. Once more he was met with silence, and he sighed. Running a hand through his graying hair, the (former) knight called out, "I know you're in there. I do not believe Sister Mary hates me so much she would lead me to the wrong room."

At last, a sound was heard from within, a creaking of bedsprings as, he imagined, the room's occupant picked herself off the mattress. There was a shuffling noise, and then – and then! – her voice blessed his ears for the first time in many years,

"I told you never to come here." Guinevere sounded tired; a little guarded as well.

"I know," he answered, pressing his hand against the door, curling his fingers into the wood; they were pale and gnarled with age.

"And I am sorry for not respecting that, but I – but I recently found out I am not long for this world, and...and I could no longer bare being separated from you." He wondered if she could hear the slight tremble that had crept into his voice.

A few moments passed, and then she said, "I am sorry to hear that. I will pray your passing is not painful, and that God forgive all your sins." Footsteps started walking away from the door. Unsatisfied, and suddenly overcome, he slammed his other hand against the door, sending a vibration through it.

"Please, Guinevere, don't leave!" he begged, voice cracking completely; his whole body hurt, but it was his old heart that ached the most. "Please, for the love of the God you now diligently serve, please talk to me."

He heard her take in a shuddering breath. "And what would you have me say, Lancelot?" she asked, sounding pained. "That I have waited for this moment ever since I came to this convent? That my own life will be infinitely lesser when yours expires?"

"That would be nice to hear," Lancelot admits, "if it were true." He paused. "Is it?"

"Of course not!" she snapped, though it lacked the fiery anger she was once famous for. "I just know how fond you were for theatrics."
He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, relishing the acknowledgement of how close they once were.

(Too close, it was said, and they had been, it was true; it was the reason they had put so much distance between them now).

"Won't you open the door," he entreated, "at least a little? It would soothe my soul to see your face."

"You should seek the Lord instead of me for spiritual comfort," she answered, sounding exactly like the role she had been playing for the past decade and more. "And no matter what you say, you will never see my face again. I have since taken a vow to never be seen by any man, as long as I live."

Such words sounded wrong in her mouth, from her who used to love attention. Could this really be the same woman?

No, he thought, a darkness coming over him, it's not. And you know precisely why.

But to her, he said, "Such a punishment you give yourself. Why would you do that to yourself?" Why would you deny me my last wish, the thing I want more than anything?

"My Mother Superior suggested that as a penance," Guinevere answered, tone hard, defensive, clearly displeased at how he had described her vow. "And I agreed; I have much to atone for."

"My love, you should not shoulder all the guilt yourself," he replied gently.

Her reaction was unexpected: she let out a wail, and there was a thump against the door, as if she was slumped against it. "Oh, do not call me that!" she moaned. "Oh, are you really the devil, come to tempt me into evil? Have you come to torment me with my beloved's voice, torture me with so many painful memories?"

"My darling" he could not help the endearment that slipped from his tongue, "my darling, do not think so! I am no devil, not to you. I would never wish you pain."

"Then why did you disobey me?" she whispered back, so low he could hardly hear her. "Why did you come, Lancelot?"

He did not answer; he merely said, almost more to himself, "You called me your beloved."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Yes. Yes, I did, for who else living is worthy of that title?" She laughed again as he took in how she stressed the word living. "Who else would desire such a title?"

"You know I have desired it since we were small," he answered automatically, almost flinching from the sheer honesty in his tone.
For a while her only response was heavy breathing, as if just talking to him was exerting. "It's all your fault, you know," she said at last.

"It was your stories about your other neighbor, that funny, clever, cheerful boy on the other side of the lake, that made me fall in love with him."

Now it was his turn to pant, her words like a heavy burden on his body. "My fault..." he murmured. "Then everything is my fault. Because it was my stories about a curious, friendly, courageous girl that made that boy fall in love with you."

"Is that...is that so?" she asked, swallowing between her words.

"Yes."

"Oh, Lancelot," she moaned, "oh, you know I never intended any of this, don't you? I never meant to hurt you...or Arthur...or Camelot. I just – I just – " Her voice grew thick with tears.

"I know," he answered. "It was more my fault than yours, sweet Guinevere. I was a headstrong fool. I thought I knew better than the laws of kings, and even those of God." Still, he did not regret the time he spent with Guinevere, and he did not regret saving her from the fiery death her husband had been forced to sentence her to. In all his career as a knight, indeed, even in his life, it was the moment of which he was most proud.

"I was the fool," Guinevere argued. "I was the one who thought myself above reproach." She laughed again, but this one lacked mirth as well. "Look at us, still tied to the painful past. How soothed is your soul now, Lancelot?"

"Much, after hearing you speak to me," he answered. "Truly."

This silence was slightly more comfortable, wherein they simply shared breaths, and he, never truly a religious man, thanked God for allowing them to reach this point.

Then Guinevere spoke, destroying the peace, "You should go now, Lancelot. I must say my prayers."

His heart constricted. "Guinevere –"

"Now," she interrupted, and then moved away from the door. "As I said, I shall pray for a easy death for you, and quick entry into Heaven." A slight pause, and then she added in a lower tone, "And if you will allow me to be so greedy – if the Lord will forgive my selfishness – I humbly ask you do the same for me."

"Why must you speak of death, my love," he moaned, but she did not answer, merely began to recite the Lord's Prayer. Accepting that this was the end of their interaction, he finally removed his hand from the door. He stood there for a few moments more, not wishing to accept this would truly be the last interaction they had with each other.

But finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he began to walk back down the hall, past all the doors that hid women behind them, consecrated to God and devoted to prayer. He felt a flare of bitterness at how changed Guinevere was, and anger at the convent for being the catalyst. But as soon as the feelings came they dispersed, leaving him empty. He could not blame the convent, he knew; as with everything that had happened since Camelot's fall, he was the guilty one.

Sister Mary was not in the reception area, but another sister was; she was younger than Sister Mary, and her brown eyes were softer than the elder's piercing blue. "I am to escort you out, sir," she told him meekly. Lancelot nodded and began to follow her, his footsteps near thundering compared to her dainty ones.

At one point, however, Lancelot stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry," he said to the sister. "But can you – I mean, you have – may I see your chapel?" he finished stutteringly. The sister seemed surprised, but then she nodded and changed course.

The chapel was rather large compared to other ones he had seen, with five sections of six pews each, quite a few of which were filled. The sister who had brought him was still behind him, waiting, he realized, for him to enter first. He did so, selecting a completely empty pew in the far back, impressed that only one or two nuns turned their heads to look at him. He sat down on the wood as quietly as he could, wincing in pain as he did so. Once he was as comfortable as he could, he looked down at the kneeler, contemplating.

Guinevere had asked him to pray for her, and in all this time he still hadn't learned how to refuse her. He supposed he should truly pray for himself, but maybe God would look more kindly on prayers said on another person's behalf. With that in mind, he forced his body onto the kneeler, and clasped his hands together.