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“Your son yet lives, he’s drawing near you,” is what the Hanged Man had said.
He continued on after that, though Arthur was only half listening as it was. Rage and confusion warred inside him; what the fuck was the Hanged Man going on about? He’d had no son, and the accusation felt like a knife twisting somewhere old and raw. Of all things, why would he taunt him with something like this? Almost everyone in Camelot knew Arthur’s wounds when it came to his kid, but the Hanged Man twisting the blade, drawing out old grief, was unconscionably cruel. Once, Arthur had trusted him; once, they’d talked before badges and tombstones. Before Arthur had lost his daughter. It was a betrayal, plain and simple. Asshole move if you asked him.
The bastard was lucky Arthur didn’t decide to shoot him then and there. He tried to imagine what it would feel like; the recoil, the crack, the faint hope that it might shatter something inside the Hanged Man, or at least let Arthur vent the ache in his chest. Still, he knew it would do little good; it would never truly fix what was broken. Arthur had said his piece, venom barely held in, and meant to finish, but already the urge to escape clawed at him, each breath growing tighter with anger and old loss. He barely managed to keep his voice steady before turning and storming out, heart pounding.
Along with what the Hanged Man had told Arthur, he’d also told Galahad to sit at one of the seats at the great, round table; the same seat known for never-ending screaming. Luckily enough, it didn’t seem to have its normal effect on Galahad. Which was good, he supposes, except now he was preaching about the “end times,” and that all Arthur had ever known would soon fall to the fiery madness of a God. According to him, the only way to escape this fate is through something called the “GRAIL”. Now, sitting across from Galahad, being told this information, he didn’t believe him.
He still doesn’t believe him, but after stewing on it silently by himself, he eventually made the poor decision to tell Guinevere and Lancelot, and of course, they wanted to protect their people. Arthur did too, but he didn’t really see Galahad’s prophecy as a threat. Despite this, and the fact that Arthur was almost positive they didn’t believe in either, the two of them had decided it was something they should look into anyway, leaving Arthur outnumbered.
“We can’t afford not to act,” Guinevere reasoned.
Later that evening, the mood shifted as the three lovers gathered in the saloon, drinking the night away. This was objectively not the best of ideas, starting their journey with a hangover, but they’d live. On a further note, considering Lancelot’s current state, he may not want to live to deal with tomorrow’s hangover, but he’d still be fine. Arthur wants to make fun of him, and he does so lightheartedly, but truth be told, he isn’t looking so well, either. Definitely better than Lance, but good was a long shot away. Guinevere was on the same page as Arthur himself for the most part, and all seemed to be well. A few of the other patrons had even bought their drinks, so they weren’t spending a dime. It was great, really.
“So, who’s in charge?”
Arthur looks up to find the sound of the voice, seeing a rough-looking young man, around mid-twenties, sitting down next to him. After a few moments more, Arthur realizes the question is directed at him, and he speaks.
“Oh, Mordred and Gawain.”
“Huh,” the man considers. “Little of an odd pairing, ain’t it?”
“Eh. Gawain’s a little hot-headed, but with Mordred, they should even out. Was actually gonna leave Mordred in charge, but I thought he might be a little too peaceful for that.”
“A little more than just hot-headed, but yeah.” Then, almost as an afterthought, just in case, he adds, “Not like I’d judge your decision, though. Good choice.”
Arthur begins to speak before being interrupted.
“He’s kinda similar to you, actually.”
Arthur chuckles at this, really chuckles. “Kid’s too peaceful to be anything like me, son. That man couldn’t kill someone to save his life.”
“No, but I mean-” he stops to take a swig of his own drink, something that Arthur didn’t notice he’d ordered. “Kinda looks like you, in a way.”
Arthur thought about this for a long moment. He hadn’t thought about it before, but now that he was, Mordred did somewhat look like him. They had the same nose and eye shape for sure, and there was something slightly deeper in the sense of familiarity that Arthur couldn’t quite wrap his head around.
“Yeah, I guess so. Huh.”
‘You really didn’t see it? I thought it was kinda obvious. I’m pretty sure a few of the townsfolk heard you call him “son” once and thought you were serious when they were still new to town.”
That surprised Arthur more than he’d like to admit, though he said nothing.
“Now that you say so, yes, but I wouldn’t have thought anythin’ of it.”
It’s around here that Arthur has noticed just how drunk his partner was, as Lancelot attempts to stand up and stumbles backwards. Arthur really didn’t think he could get any worse, though clearly he was wrong; he’s making a fool of himself.
“Well, I best be going. Nice talking to ya,” Arthur says to the man, getting up to stabilize Lancelot. Guinevere seems to have the same idea, and between the two of them, they stop drinking for the night, opting instead to ensure their partner gets home safely.
***
Currently, Arthur is staring at the ceiling. For whatever reason, whether it’s fear for tomorrow’s quest or from something else, sleep won’t take him. He’s done everything he can think of to do, but nothing changes. After an hour or two of this, he finally gets up, being careful not to wake any of his partners in the process, figuring it was probably better to do up and about doing something than lying in bed. He decides to make himself a glass of tea and head out to the front porch, planning to grab his 10 caliber railgun to clean it. Not like there was anything better to do. For a short while, it works. He isn’t necessarily more tired at the moment, but his brain is finally winding down as he repeats the same task over and over. It’s an oddly relaxing thing, and as tedious as it is, he really does enjoy it.
Slowly, his mind crept back over to his conversations at the bar. At first, it’s Lancelot and Guinevere, talking about their adventure, but very soon it switches to his conversation with the man about Mordred. He hadn’t ever gotten his name, now that he considers it, which wasn’t the best since he was the sheriff and, as such, prided himself on his people and wanted to get to know them the best he could, but that wasn’t the point.
He said Mordred looked like his son, out of all things.
It hurt a little, if he was being honest, being reminded that he, at one point, had been a father; he missed it more than anything. They hadn’t even managed to make that many memories together in her short life span. She wasn’t even old enough to learn how to properly shoot, which bothered him the most. He had a gun picked out and everything, the same gun his father had given him as his first. It was honestly a miracle that he managed to keep up with it for all those years. Not like it mattered now. Arthur does not want to dwell on it for any longer than he has to, and so he tries to go back to thinking about nonsense, Guinevere, and the bar, but he can’t. His mind can’t stop going back to the little girl that used to be.
It’s practically his fault she’s dead, Arthur supposes; he’s the one who didn’t ride fast enough. He knows Guinevere and Lance would discourage this line of thinking, but he can’t help it. It was his job to protect her, and now he was the reason that little girl would never get to experience life as it was meant to be. If the odds were in his favor, maybe it would’ve been okay. Maybe, he thinks, Ygraine and Morgause both could’ve had a home in Camelot, one where they’d never have to worry about water or traveling bandits, but the fact of the matter was that they would never get that life. It was his fault. Gwen and Lance riding with him, or how they rode as fast as they could, didn’t mean anything; it was his fault.
He can’t believe the Hanged Man would use that against him, especially when he didn’t do anything to him.
And then he starts thinking about it, really thinking about it. Mordred wasn’t the most like him in personality, but he definitely was in looks. Now, with a head less clouded by whiskey, the features Mordred has that don’t resemble his own seem to resemble those of Ygraine’s. The Hanged Man did say he had a son after all… Maybe it was wishful thinking, but what if the Hanged Man was right? Arthur didn’t want to get his hopes up, but it would fulfill the prophecy. Possibly the Saxons took him in? He guesses that’s the only way it would be possible. His son. The thought makes his heart ache, though for the very first time in a long time, he too feels hopeful. It’s only when Guinevere and Lancelot get up for the day that Arthur seizes his thinking.
“Art? You alright?” questioned Lancelot, making his way outside, glass of tea in hand and a painkiller for his headache in the other. He hadn’t noticed him getting up.
“Hm?” Arthur hums, still distracted.
“You alright?” Lancelot repeats, setting down the glass. He looks slightly more concerned.
He needs to tell the two of them, but that’s easier said than done. He also needs both of them to be there when he does, not just Lancelot.
“Not really, no. Gotta talk to ya.”
Lancelot raises an eyebrow at this. “Somethin’ happen?” He looked at him intensely.
“You didn’t do anythin’, if that’s what you’re after. Still need Gwen though.”
Lance would like to argue with him, but he knows it’s of no use. He wouldn’t say anything unless she was here, too. He doesn’t blame Arthur, though he wishes he’d just talk.
“I’ll go get her,” he finally decides, kissing him softly. He does not let Arthur argue against waking her up.
It takes less convincing than Lance would’ve figured to get Guinevere up, though that’s partly because they already needed to rise early and because he mentioned Arthur. Still, it would’ve figured that she would want as much sleep as she could get before they ride. Oh well. She sits across from him, opting to say nothing. Arthur’s hands shake.
“I had somewhat of a realization earlier, and I think y’all need to hear it,” he begins.
Neither of them says anything this time, though Lancelot too takes a seat. Gwen nods.
“Before Galahad had started talkin’ about the GRAIL, I went to see the Hanged Man. I didn’t say much to him, but he gave me somewhat of a prophecy. Said that my son had lived; said he was saved ‘by those they blamed through fear.’ Said he felt deceiving.” Arthur pauses; takes in a breath.
“Why didn’t you say anythin’?” asked Guinevere.
“Because I thought it was bullshit, truth be told. I don’t have a son, and-” He swallows. “Morgause has been dead for a long time. Years.”
“We know, Art, whatcha getting at?” Lance speaks softly.
“I’m thinkin’ maybe I was wrong.”
A silence falls over the three of them, and time seems to freeze for a moment.
“Maybe it’s an airy hope, but whatever-his-name-was at the bar was saying Mordred looked a little too much like my son.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.
“I mean, it’d make sense,” Guinevere agrees.
“Don’t know if you should get your hopes up, though. I know you want to see her again, we all do, but the Hanged Man is a rusty old thing. I don’t want you gettin’ hurt any more than you already have been,” adds Lancelot.
“He used to be reliable, back in the day. He’s the reason I have my gun.”
Tears well in Arthur’s eyes, though they do not fall. He won’t let them. At least, he thinks, it’s too dark for anyone beyond Gwen and Lance to see them, unless it’s by the light of their own porch.
“It’s worth a shot.” Then, after a beat, she adds, “I always thought the boy somewhat looked like you, just didn’t wanna upset you.”
***
Their original plan was to deal with it in the morning, if only to stop Arthur from losing any more sleep than he already had. However, very shortly after waking up for the last time that night and exiting their house, it quickly became apparent that the townsfolk had decided to wish them farewell on their journey. This would’ve been fine, great even, except it also meant they wouldn’t be able to say anything to Mordred about it before leaving, or not without someone noticing and asking questions. Arthur, as it was, was already a private person. He didn’t want to share anything he didn’t have to, especially about his potential kid. From their porch, they could see the few knights from the round table that the Pendragons decided to take with them, along with Galahad, were already outside, talking with the citizens of Camelot.
“Good mornin’, Sheriff!” Galahad calls from below.
At this, the Pendragon’s presence is noticed, and before they know it, people are surrounding them. In the midst of all this, Arthur notices someone familiar. Standing in the distance, far away from all the commotion, is Mordred. He isn’t doing anything, just standing by idly and watching everyone. After a few seconds, he and Arthur make eye contact, and Mordred quickly turns away, walking off to what Arthur assumes is his own house. An odd sort of panic surges through Arthur as he begins attempting to get away from the crowd, feeling almost like he’s losing Mordred again. It’s fairly easy to flee, all things considered. He tells the young child he’s speaking to that he’s going to get something, and that he’ll be right back before heading inside.
Since there are people swarming their front door and porch, the only way to leave without anyone noticing him is to go through the house and leave out the side door instead. Peaking out the side door, he checks a few times back and forth, looking for anyone, before deciding to go around his own house and the houses next to his, figuring it would be the easiest way to avoid any people. It works, and after a bit of walking behind his neighbor’s houses, he’s standing outside the door to Mordred’s home. He lifts his hand up to knock, though it takes him a bit of standing there before he gets the courage to knock.
“Hello?” Mordred questions, opening the door ever so slightly. Arthur can’t see in.
“It’s me.”
“Oh, Sheriff! What can I do for you?” Mordred asks, now opening the door. He looks slightly surprised.
“Wanna talk to you,” he says, voice trying to stay as neutral as possible.
“Is it about the GRAIL quest? Because if so, I can assure you I’ll be alright governin’ while you’re gone, even if it’s with Gawain.”
“It’s not about that, though I’m sure you’ll do fine. Can I come in?”
That’s odd, Mordred thinks. Usually, people aren’t ones to invite themselves in, especially at random like this. That said, it’s Arthur, so he assumes it’s for good reason.
“Of course,” Mordred invites, standing to the side.
Arthur enters without much word, and if he’s being honest, Mordred is beginning to get worried as Arthur sits down at his small kitchen table, gesturing for Mordred to sit across from him. He does so, and neither of the two says anything for a while. Finally, Arthur speaks.
“I’ve been thinkin’ a lot recently,” he starts, like that gives much context. Arthur sighs. “My kid’s been gone for a long time. Over two decades, if you can believe it.”
This caught Mordred off guard, both in the sense that Arthur never liked to talk about his kid and in the sense that Mordred was his kid. Why Arthur was bringing this up was beyond him, but it’s not like he could’ve known, Mordred thinks. Right?
“We left her along with her mother, Ygraine, while we took over Camelot. Me, Lance, and Gwen, I mean. When we went back for her, we found her and her mother dead. Cannibalized by the Saxons.”
Mordred wants to say something, but he holds his tongue.
“Why are you tellin’ me this?” Mordred inquires instead.
“Because I’m startin’ to think you may already know it.”
Mordred’s eyes widen slightly, though he tries his best to hide it. He tells himself that it’s fine; that there has to be a reasonable explanation for this. After all, he had heard a few people in passing talking about his supposedly deceased kid, so it would make sense. Nevertheless, he can’t shake the feeling in his chest.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Sheriff,” claims Mordred.
“And I’m not sayin’ you do, necessarily, but I was talkin’ to Merlin the other day, and he seemed to have a lot of thoughts about the subject.”
Mordred’s jaw clenches. The Hanged Man knew he was Arthur’s son, and Mordred was well aware of that. However, when The Hanged Man called him out on it in his first few months of being in Camelot, he swore he wouldn’t say anything. He remembered this clearly because when Merlin had uttered the words, his heart dropped. Mordred opens his mouth. Closes it again.
“He said my son was still alive, that he was saved, and that he ‘came though feelin’ deceiving.’ Now, for all my years, I still don’t know much. I don’t know how she felt, if she knew it would be her last few moments alive, or if she thought the pain was only temporary. But what I do know is that maybe that’s not what actually happened. Her mother still passed, of course, and as devastated as I still am, as I always will be, I’m also starting to think that maybe she escaped. I’m not the wisest man, but that description sure sounds like you, son,” Arthur finishes, looking him in the eyes.
Mordred does not look back, choosing to keep his gaze on the floor. He doesn’t know what to do. His father doesn’t seem angry, but it could always be a facade. He can feel tears begin to well up in his eyes, and as much as he doesn’t want to, he can’t stop them from showing.
“Mordred?”
No response.
“I-”
“So he told you, then?” Mordred interrupts. He can’t do this today.
“He didn’t tell me, but I figured.”
Without warning, Mordred stands. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing until his body is actively doing it, but soon enough, he realizes he’s reaching for the doorknob. Realistically, he knows this will do nothing and that Arthur will only stumble across him again somewhere in Camelot, and it’ll repeat all over again, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
Arthur stands up.
Mordred does not know why, but Arthur’s walking towards him. It doesn’t seem violent, or even like he wants answers, just scarily neutral. Mordred turns around to say something, anything, though in a moment Arthur’s arms are wrapped around him tightly. Mordred does not know how to respond to this, previously scared that his father would reject him, and subsequently breaks down. Arthur does nothing but pull him closer.
“My son,” Arthur mutters, making Mordred cry harder.
“The Saxons took me in, after my first mother passed,” Mordred begins when he’s collected himself enough to speak again, still bear-hugging Arthur. “I was taken out of her cold arms and brought with them. My adoptive mother raised me alongside her own. She never treated me differently either; she knew I was of your descent and hoped for peace. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, peace, and with your blessin’, I plan to do as much.”
Arthur stays silent for a while before stepping back from him. “And what if I don’t?”
“Then I do it without.”
For the first time in a long time, Arthur doesn’t know what to say. Arthur wasn’t as savage as Gawain when it came to the ghouls; he didn’t know if that was possible, even, but that doesn’t mean he liked them, either. He had seen what they had done, had seen the half-eaten bodies on the outskirts of town. He’d also heard the stories of friends and family being slain by their uncaring hands. Had assumed his kid died to them, too. All the same, his kid stood in front of him, kept safe by the same people he resented so dearly. He opened his mouth to say something, anything. Shut it again.
Then, “When I return, I’ll see about making arrangements.”
Mordred pauses, eye wide. “When you get back?” He confirms.
“When I get back,” Arthur says again, wondering if this is the right idea, nonetheless putting his son first.
Speechless, Mordred stands there. The only thing he can think to do at the moment is hug Arthur again.
The two of them want nothing more than to stay like this, to love and acknowledge each other as family for the first time in so very long, but all good things must come to an end, and soon enough, someone knocks. Mordred jolts at the sudden noise and pulls away after a moment to answer it.
“Hello?” Mordred asked, cracking the door so as not to let whoever was outside see him in this state, eyes red from crying, face still wet.
“Is Arthur with you?” he hears one of the knights, Bors, call. “We’ve been looking everywhere for him, Guinevere and Lancelot included! We need to get going if we want to make it back sooner!”
Mordred does not respond, instead looking at Arthur.
“One moment, please,” Mordred responds softly, shutting the door again.
Arthur looks at Mordred. Mordred looks back.
“I’ll be back, and if you’re willin’, when I return, I would love to reintroduce you to everyone. As my son, the way it is supposed to be,” Arthur says, voice steady.
“I’ll be here,” Mordred confirms. A beat. “Do the other Pendragons know?”
“I told them my suspicions, yes. Didn’t know what else to do.”
Mordred pauses, thinking. “Do they mind?” he finally decides on, looking down again.
“Not beyond that you’re alive and well, no.”
Another beat. “That’s alright, then.” Mordred’s trying not to cry again.
Silence falls over the room before quickly being ripped away by more knocking. Arthur sighs, lets go, and opens the door.
“Goodbye for now, Mordred,” he says, shutting it behind him.
***
The quest for the GRAIL had gone surprisingly well, all things considered. They managed to get up to the captain’s chamber, though they’d definitely raided their fair share of the dead and killed a few others. The possibility of dying of drought was starting to become a problem until they stumbled across a small group of travelers a few days later. From the looks of it, they had been dead for a while, possibly a week or so. However, all the stuff in their tents was still intact despite their decaying bodies being riddled with gunshot wounds, and even luckier, it seemed nobody else had found the supplies before they did. They were definitely still going to be rationing, but even a little more food than before would have been helpful.
Upon reaching the captain’s chamber, Bors and Percival very quickly became aware of the still active gun turrets guarding the place; The two of them almost got shot to bits because of it. Percival had originally gone first, with Bors following behind him. Everyone else in their group was supposed to follow when the noise of something whirring to life began. Percival started running only a second after the noise began, desperate to get to the other side. Then, the first gun fired. Percival did not make it out unscathed by any means, but when Bors pulled him back, he did so just enough that one of the bullets only grazed his shoulder.
Now, anyone in their right mind wouldn’t have gone through that area, especially with the guns still actively shooting. However, Galahad was not in his right mind; he hadn’t been since he sat down in that chair, really. He didn’t know if he could live with himself knowing he could’ve done something to save the station, or, more importantly, he didn’t know if God would look down on him for such a thing. He was a preacher, after all; he was supposed to protect his people. If he wouldn’t sacrifice himself for them after preaching about putting others before yourself, what kind of a preacher was he?
It took a few tries for him to force himself out of their small safety zone, but once he did, he began to walk, covering his vital organs as best he could. One foot after another. No matter how hard it was for him to keep going, he managed. Even as he watched in horror as the blood drained out of him from what felt like a thousand bullet holes, even as his vision began to fade to black. It was only when he finally reached the end, when the adrenaline had made its course, that he collapsed on his knees against the cold, metal door.
The whirring comes to a halt, and Arthur goes to check on him. If his decision on leaving Galahad behind wasn’t already clear enough, the extent of his wounds definitely made it a lot clearer. It’s not like he didn’t care; he did, but he also didn’t have the energy to waste on it. Not like he’d be crying, he only cried for his kid nowadays, but their little group had gotten closer over the past few weeks, and Galahad was part of that. He wasn’t a friend, but maybe something akin to it.
That said, they didn’t know how long they had to keep going for, and Galahad would only slow them down, so he voiced this, saying they should leave him behind. Bors, however, didn’t feel the same way. He, too, had gotten close to Galahad, very close, and considered him a friend; he wanted to take him with him anyway. Arthur tried to convince him otherwise, yelling about it being too risky. Bors didn’t care, though, deciding he’d use his own supplies on him. Arthur thought it was a waste, especially if it brought Bors down with him, but as long as he didn’t have to deal with it, he didn’t care.
Bors threw him over his shoulder, hearing something thump against the floor in the process. He looks down to see what it is, and he spots a small pocket bible lying on the floor. The leather on the front is flaking away, and it’s now covered in holes, but it’s still very clearly a bible. Bors stares at it for a moment before choosing to take it with him, shoving it in his pocket and walking off still with Galahad in his arms.
Sliding the door open, the Pendragons carefully survey the room. A few seconds into their entrance, a light flashes on, and a man begins to stir. From the looks of it, this room had not been used for decades, maybe even centuries, assuming that the station had been here that long, so there should’ve been no way for anyone to be alive, let alone starting to move. But there he was, slowly but surely opening his eyes. The three Pendragons share a loom and collectively aim. They would shoot the man just to be safe, but his uniform defined him as important enough, and there’s always a chance he could know something. Almost in unison, they slowly put their guns back into their holsters. The man still seems too out of it to speak, or maybe even register other people besides himself, but they could always ransack the place in the meantime.
Looking around, it quickly occurs to the three that there’s probably nothing of much worth here, or if there is, it’s covered in too thick a layer of dust to notice it. That is, until Arthur opens a small, unremarkable drawer in the room and, peering into it, spots it. The GRAIL, almost entirely unassuming beyond a faint glint of light reflecting off it, presuming you didn’t already know what you were looking for. Wordlessly, he takes it out and holds it up, showing it to the others. The group stares back with the same amount of awe that he had.
“Is this it?” Guinevere asks him, before redirecting her question to the waking man, now seemingly conscious.
“Hm?” he mumbles.
“Is this the GRAIL?” she reiterates.
The man, who is now recognized by the group as one Captain Joseph Robert Mathea, only just now seems to register what Arthur’s holding, immediately standing up in alarm. His balance doesn’t seem to be so great, however, and he steadies himself on the arm of the captain’s chair.
“You aren’t supposed to have that,” he finally manages to stutter out.
“Mhm. But we do,” Guinevere responds, unamused. “Now, what is it?”
He stands up again, moving towards her, and as a result, Guinevere’s gun is soon pointed directly at him. To his fear, so is Lancelot’s and Arthur’s. The captain raises his hands above his head as a motion of surrender, sitting back down ever so slowly. She doesn’t lower her gun, only slightly relaxes her grip at the sight, and takes her finger off the trigger. Her partners follow suit.
“It controls the station.”
“How?” she inquires.
“The lights, systems, location, everything.”
“That it? You keepin’ anythin’ from me?” Guinevere interrogates.
“No ma’am,” he responds, putting his hands ever so slightly higher to get his point across.
“So if we had it, we could move the station away?” questions Arthur.
Slowly, he nods.
She takes this as an acceptable answer. Wordlessly, she gestures for Arthur and Lancelot to lower their guns, despite raising her own. She still doesn’t have the best grasp on it, like she’s not actually planning on using it. Arthur appears to understand, as he moves towards the center of the chamber. He places the GRAIL inside before stepping in as well. Lancelot follows alongside him, and the rest of the knights follow him. Lastly, Guinevere slowly backs up, gun still aimed at the man, until she joins them. It’s crowded, as things go, but there’s still enough room to manage to fit them all inside. With a hum, the machine begins to go upwards. When it opens, the group finds themselves at the center of the group table, back in Camelot. Guinevere smiles, realizing that she, among her partners, had made it back. They file out cautiously, and as the door begins to shut, a voice cuts through the room.
“Please designate a captain for final authorization.”
The room falls quiet as they collectively come to the realization that there can only be one true holder of the GRAIL. Most of the knights understood that this probably shouldn’t be their role, and those of them who didn’t, or wanted the GRAIL for themselves, also understood fighting the Pendragons over it wasn’t a good idea. However, which Pendragon was going to hold the GRAIL was still an unknown. The three lovers had always ruled as three, despite Arthur technically being the sheriff, because it was understood that they were, too. Guinevere reaches for her gun, with her partners aiming theirs, too. She aims it at Arthur, finding she can’t look him in the eyes and point the damn thing. So she switches, points it at Lancelot, and too finds she can’t comprehend the idea of either of them dying, especially at her own hand.
As swiftly as her gun was raised, she lowered it, clearing out the rounds from the magazine and throwing them to the side. As she looks back up, she realizes that her lovers are doing the same. The three of them look each other in the eyes, and Guinevere and Lancelot both nod before Arthur steps forward, declaring himself as the captain. He places his hand on the scanner and enters his name.
“New captain designated. Welcome, Arthur,” The voice rings out.
Tacitly, the three Pendragons move close, gathering to the center. Lancelot grasps Guinevere’s hand in his, simultaneously grabbing Arthur by the collar to kiss him. It’s a gentle thing, softer than it probably had any right to be. Lancelot pulls away when he feels his chest still, gasps, and kisses Guinevere. To his dismay, he can’t stay like this forever, and soon he had to pull away again. They don’t leave, though, basking in each other’s light.
After a period of time, Arthur notices a few things. The first is that the knights are talking amongst each other, though about what is unclear. The second is that Bors is now missing, and a trail of blood, presumably from Galahad, follows where he went. The third, however, is how the knights cease their chatter, looking at something beyond the group of Pendragons, though it doesn’t seem to be out of malice. Fond, almost. He turns to look, only to find Mordred looking back at him. He leaves the other Pendragons abruptly, begins walking towards Mordred, and stops halfway between them.
“Saw Bors leaving to get help and came as quickly as I could. I’ve been waitin’ for you, father,” he mumbles that last part, so much so that Arthur can barely hear it. But he does.
Arthur can’t manage anything, and so Mordred continues.
“I’m leavin’ today to propose peace. That still fine?” he asks, like he still can’t believe he truly does have Arthur’s blessing.
“Course. You told Gawain yet?”
“About what?” Mordred responds.
“About any of it. About peace. About you and me,” he mumbles, hushed to ensure no one but the two of them could hear what they were talking about.
Mordred looks away, wringing his hands together. “About peace? Not yet, but I will. Once he can’t try to convince me otherwise, I will.”
“You told the townsfolk, at least?"
“Yep. Told everyone but Gawain, truthfully,” Mordred adds, swaying slightly.
“And?”
Mordred looks at him, confused.
“The rest?”
“Oh. About the father-son thing…” Mordred trails off, still inaudible to the surrounding people.
“I’m sure we can make arrangements.”
Mordred smiles, although hesitant. Someone coughs from behind Arthur, and he looks.
“Don’t know what y’all are discussing over there, but I do know we need to move the station away from that ‘orb of damnation’ before it’s too late,” Percival comments, doing little air quotes around “orb of damnation.” Not like there was anything better to call it.
Arthur looks back at Mordred, solemnly. “Good luck, Mordred.”
***
Controlling the station was surprisingly easy, all things considered. After fiddling with the controls for a while, the three Pendragons managed to fix the oxygen levels in hydroponics and otherwise, figured out what was wrong with the radiation shielding so it could be fixed, and most importantly, set a new course. One that took their station away from their sun, Avalon, though they didn’t truly know what that meant. It would take a little time to move the station a safer distance from the sun, and an even longer time for the oxygen levels to even out, but the station could move surprisingly fast; it could only get better from here. That same day, sitting in the town saloon with whiskey in hand, Lancelot begins to speak.
“So, what’s up with Mordred? Overheard someone saying he was goin’ someplace. Sounds important.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. “He’s makin’ peace.”
“With the Saxons?” Guinevere exclaims, suddenly realizing her volume immediately after.
“With the Saxons?” she repeats, whispering this time.
“Did you know this was gonna happen? Before we left?” Lancelot adds.
“I did. The boy has his reasons. Good ones, too.”
“They killed your young ’un,” Lancelot says, barely above a whisper.
“They couldn’t have if I was speakin’ to him this mornin’,” states Arthur.
And all at once, they understood.
“So you were right, then? He’s your kid?” Guinevere questions, sounding surprised despite their earlier conversation.
Lancelot shushes her, looking around to see if anyone heard her. They didn’t, so she continues.
“Is he?” she rushes.
Arthur nods, and the two of them go quiet, astonished. After a moment of nobody speaking, he decides to fill the silence.
“I figure if you’re amenable, we can talk about it once he gets back. Figure it’s not exactly my story to tell.”
Guinevere and Lancelot look at each other before nodding.
***
Around a week later, Mordred returns, and with him so do hundreds of the Saxons. The townsfolk of Camelot are lined up, too, almost twice as many of them. In front of them stands Arthur, with Lancelot on his right and Guinevere on his left. Mordred approaches them slowly, with the Saxons following behind him. Arthur holds out his hand for Mordred to shake, and he does so firmly, bringing the start of a new era of peace, one where the Saxons and the people of Camelot could live side by side, together. One where no one would have to be sickly from the low levels of radiation shielding from the outer levels of the station, and one where nobody would have to worry about the other.
Gawain watches from slightly behind the three Pendragons. When the woman adjacent to Mordred raises her Seax knife, Gawain’s hand reaches for his gun. But then he sees the scorpion crawling towards Mordred and the woman clearly trying to slay it, and slowly moves his hand away from the holster. He could shoot, and he might even be able to get away with it, but something sweet comes over him, and before he knows it, the crowd is clapping for their treaty. Mordred’s crying, and it almost looks like Arthur’s about to join him. The people are still cautious of each other, but slowly, so very so slowly, they approach the other, no malice visible within their expressions. From this, chatter begins to bloom until the Saxons and townsfolk both seem to be getting along. If you didn’t know any better, from the noise, you could almost conclude it was a celebration.
Once the crowd is broken up enough, people dispersed on either side, or lack thereof, Arthur urges Mordred over to him, conversation breaks out among them. To Gawain’s surprise, after a bit of not-so-discreetly looking at him, they urge him over, too.
“Yes?” Gawain begins, gritting his teeth so as not to let something he probably shouldn’t say escape his lips.
“We wanna talk to you, son. Figured you were basically like family.”
“Me? Mordred? Family?” Gawain grins, trying to mask his confusion behind the joke, though it just ends up making him sound more like an asshole than he’s trying to be.
The Pendragon’s silent glance at his words doesn’t help the situation.
“Come on,” Guinvere urges, not leaving much room for discussion. He knew he’d probably be able to make up an excuse and get out of it if he really wanted to, but he also knew Guinvere hated more than anything but someone bleeding out as lying, and that was only if the person really mattered. Gawain follows them silently, if only to find out what’s happening.
Eventually, they reach the Pendragon’s door, the deep brown color slowly deteriorating, and Lancelot opens the door for them, with Guinevere ushering Gawain inside. Mordred follows, with Arthur behind him. Guinevere slips in, and lastly Lancelot enters, shutting and locking the door behind him. The five of them sit down at their small, cramped table. Lancelot gets up to make them a pot of tea. He sits back down, mugs in hand. Silence passes over the room.
“What’s this about?” Gawain asks, irritated after some time.
Another shared glance between the lovers. Then, at Mordred. Mordred only looks back.
“This is my son, Mordred,” Arthur finally begins, unsure where to start.
Gawain looks at him, then back at Mordred, confused. Arthur called Gawain “son” too, but it didn’t warrant this.
“The Saxons took him in, after Ygraine went. We thought he’d died with her but…” Arthur trails off, “Here he is,” he finishes, putting his hand on his shoulder. Mordred doesn’t look up at him.
And all at once, Gawain understood. He stares at the two of them in disbelief, then at Guinevere and Lancelot, then back at them.
“Thought you’d wanna know, considering y’all used to be so close,” Arthur adds.
“Like siblings, almost,” Mordred utters.
Gawain doesn’t know what to say.
“Is this why you wanted peace? To save those fuckers?”
“Gawain!” Guinevere scolds, despite having previously thought the same.
Mordred finally looks up at him, tears in his eyes, though he seems angry. Disappointed. Something breaks in Gawain at the sight.
“I just- I thought they had killed you, you know? If you’d told us, maybe it wouldn’t have gotten this far.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
Gawain, for what might as well be the millionth time, doesn’t have the slightest idea of what to say. Mordred was right, though; they were like siblings. Gawain loved Morgause as much as he trusted her; so who’s to say he couldn’t view Mordred the same?
“So you’re my brother, then? Basically, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Mordred responds.
The air between them is thick, and Mordred clenches his jaw, waiting for Gawain to speak again. But then Gawain grins, and while it’s not the same as if he were to apologize or hug Mordred as Arthur did, Mordred knows it’s the best he’s going to get from the man. More importantly, he knows it's acceptance.
“The three of you already knew this?” Gawain questions.
“Not the last part about the Saxons, but otherwise, we figured,” Guinevere states.
“And were technically told,” Lancelot adds. Guinevere glares at him, but there’s no real malice behind it.
Nothing much more is said between the five of them, except the sentiment that they’re lucky to be related to him, or basically so, in Gawain’s case, and that they’re proud of him. Mordred has never felt like crying so much in his life, though he holds back.
***
Mordred still hasn’t told the rest of the townsfolk of this revelation, but he thinks it’s probably fine. Not that he’d really want, or that it was really their business, except for the fact that he wanted to be seen as his father’s son. The knights of the Round Table, minus himself and Gawain, had congratulated him on making peace shortly after, though none of them ever got an explanation as to why Arthur was so accepting of peace all of a sudden. He seemed happier, though, so they mostly kept to themselves.
Galahad did as well, despite it being from a cot in Bor’s house, covered almost head to toe in bandages. He said it was just what his flock needed. Mordred tried to check on him while he was there; the man looked like hell, after all, but Galahad kept brushing him off. No matter how persistent Mordred was, all he said was that God had already saved him from the real danger, and that he’d be fine now that the hard part was over. Mordred had his doubts, though, considering Bors was still taking care of him, he eventually, although hesitant, let it go. As it was, Mordred had what he had wanted all this time. Peace with the Saxons, the same people who had brought him in as one of their own all those years ago, and acceptance with his biological family, being able to call Arthur his dad again.
And somewhere on the edges of Camelot, with the sun setting behind him, sits Arthur. He looks down into the Hanged Man’s eyes.
“You were right; thank you,” Arthur says earnestly.
The Hanged Man says nothing, but for the first time in a very long time, he smiles.