“Shooting sharp, pointy arrows is less dangerous than making metal?” I put my hands on my hips, my brows lifting as I stared back.
“A forge is very, very hot, your highness,” Bedivere reminded me as if I was a child. “You could get burnt.”
“Not if you tell me how not to,” I pointed out stubbornly. “Why won’t you teach me?”
There was an underlying question in my words that made him stiffen. It was the question I had wanted to ask ever since he stopped showing up to accompany me throughout my daily life. His steady, comforting presence was something I hadn’t known I’d miss so much until it was gone.
Why are you avoiding me?
I wanted to ask that out loud, but I was afraid he would shut me down.
“There are many other things for you to be doing, your majesty,” Bedivere said, his tone placating.
It grated on my nerves.
Frustrated, I turned to look at the workshop to look for something, anything that I could do.
“I’ll help you collect your tools—no heat necessary!” I chirped with false cheerfulness as I skirted around Bedivere’s bulk and reached for a strip of metal that was sitting on the workbench.
And that was precisely where I fucked everything up.
Metal sliced through my fingers making me yelp with pain as I dropped it, sending it clattering to the stone floor underfoot as I crouched into a ball and held my hand to my chest.
“Your majesty!” Bedivere’s voice held more emotion than I’d ever heard as I focused on my throbbing hand.
The sound of his boots approaching and crunching on stray pieces of straw filled my ears as he crouched down in front of me. “Let me see it.”
I ignored him, afraid to be scolded for something he had explicitly warned me not to do.
“Let me see,” he repeated, more softly this time.
I shook my head.
There was a heavy sigh, before his hand gripped my shoulder lightly. “Guinevere, please let me see your hand so that I may take care of it.”
With a little whimper, I held my bleeding hand out to him.
Bedivere’s silver eyes took in the wound for a moment before he reached out and scooped me up into the crook of his good arm.
“I can walk!” I protested as he carried me through the workshop.
“Hush,” was all he said as we ascended a short set of steps and entered into what looked like a bedroom.
I hadn’t realized before where the alpha actually slept. Most of the knights either slept in rooms in the castle or in the barracks that were situated on the side of it—but Bedivere’s workshop was just outside of the castle gates.
It was almost as if he was separating himself from the rest of the knights of the round table.
Gawain and Arthur hadn’t told me much about Bedivere’s injury, but Arthur always looked sad when he spoke about the alpha who now served as one of his closest advisors… even if he couldn’t fight next to him in battle any longer.
Bedivere deposited me on one of the comfortable looking chairs that faced the fireplace that was just barely lit as he rifled through a wooden trunk at the foot of his bed, pulling things out and sticking them in a small basket.
I watched him silently, observing the way the dim light played on the planes of his jaw and lit up his broad nose as he focused intently on what he was doing.
Eventually he turned and slipped the baskets over the forearm that was missing a hand before using the other arm to help himself stand. He faced me, his face still a mask of neutrality as he knelt in front of me and began to treat the cut.
“It is shallow,” he said as he wiped it down with a honey soaked cloth. “So it will not need to be stitched.”
Shame filled my gut. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to help.”
