if i were to write guinevere, i think she'd have hands like overused fine grit sandpaper and a voice like smoke and eyes like stars that stare right through you, like she knows what you're thinking about her and she is not happy with it. she would be beautiful like hot blown glass and broken like a shattered ceramic ashtray. she is marvellous like the sweet pain of a dark bruise when it first forms and she is not nice. she would not be nice.
you can see, in the way she looks at arthur, that he's her anchor. you can see, in the way she looks at launcelot, that there is envy. there is love and lust but there is also envy, not least because she yearns to tear something apart with her hands just as he does. she is not violent, but she is full of a strength she's forced to repress, and isn't that the same thing?
she would know kay better than anyone else because, in essence, they are the same. nothing more than the king's wife and the king's brother---never guinevere, never kay. they hold the same anger and love, and for guinevere, that's enough for friendship.
she holds life like a broken bird in her broken hands and she breathes joy into kay, into arthur, into lancelot, into the rest of the court. because she knows her role as queen---as a woman. the only feeling she does not dilute and halve is love, and that's what brings her to her knees. she would be weary and she would be kind because she knows the world that arthur has built better than he himself does.
as an image
