Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lights are bright overhead as Mordred approaches Camelot, a stark, artificial noon. He still winces at the shine, but at least the weeks since leaving the Saxon's camp have been enough to discard the band of dark cloth he'd had to cover his eyes with, squinting against the glare, when he'd first entered the bright upper levels. He's glad, the pain he can bear but the cloth is too much of a risk. Arthur, his father, can not guess where he's from. Not until Mordred is sure he'll hear him out.

Mordred presses a hand to Arthur's badge, the five-pointed star, the only reminder he has ever had of the man who might have raised him, the man who is the only hope for his family of Saxons. It's heavy in its pocket, strapped to his chest and hidden. He wonders what the man will be like, he's only heard the tales. He wonders if Arthur will accept him. Mordred, a son.

He lets his hand drop to his side, pulls out his waterskin and take a careful swig of its dusty contents. And he walks into Camelot.

Camelot is as close to thriving as a town can be on the station. A dozen or so buildings line the main road, built of corrugated iron and all a deep rust red. The gunslingers leaning against them resting their hands on their guns as he walks down the street, running their eyes up and down him, assessing him. Mordred doesn't have a gun, and has left his seax behind, but he does pull the edges of his coat aside to show an array of a dozen glinting knives strapped across his chest, short and balanced for throwing. A bullet may be faster than a knife in the air, but they both still have to be drawn. And he's fast.

Mordred stops halfway down the street, fully aware he has the attention of every lowlife around.

"Where's the Sheriff?"

"What's it to you, kid?" one of the gunslingers drawls, a particularly mean looking one with a long scar running from his temple down his neck and under his shirt. His hair is cropped to dark brown stubble and a rifle is slung across his back, a pistol resting at each of his hips.

Mordred tries to shrug nonchalantly. He worries that he ends up just looking a little lopsided. "Want to sign up."

The gunslinger laughs, spitting a wad of dark tobacco to the ground and grinding it in with his heel. "Don't think the Sheriff needs a pipsqueak like you. What are you, ten?"

"Fourteen." Mordred bristles.

The gunslinger laughs again, but it's not cruel, merely amused. "Come back in a couple of years. And try to bring a gun. But here's a credit for your troubles."

He tosses the chunk of copper at Mordred. Mordred nails it to the wall behind the gunslinger, the knife quivering barely an inch to the side of the man's ear. The gunslinger whistles, long and slow, pulling a fresh chuck of tobacco from his coat and tossing it into his mouth. Mordred refuses the man's offer of the packet, pulling his knife from the wall and dropping the disc of metal into his hand, a broad slit carved out of the center.

"Maybe you are alright then, kid. What did you say your name was?"

"What did you say yours was?" Mordred bites back.

The gathered gunslingers howl with laughter and Mordred wonders what the joke is, but the man gestures them silent. "Come on then, if you want to meet Arthur."

Mordred follows the man down the street, past the clock tower and the waterless fountain and into the largest building in the town. This one looks almost original, not scavenged out of scrap like the rest, the sheet metal flat and painted a dark green. The man holds the door open for Mordred, a broad wooden double door twice the height of the boy.

Inside is a large round table, twenty four seats set around it. The seat directly opposite him, the most ornate of the set, its metal back finely engraved with scenes of hunting beasts and furnished in soft red velvet, is empty. The other chairs, made of plain welded steel are filled, bar one, the fighters in them pouring over the set of plans splayed out across the table. The leader is clearly the man next to the two empty seats, a shining gold badge on his chest and a heavy looking rail gun in front of him. The man looks up as Mordred enters the room.

"Who's this, Lance?"

"Some kid who wants to join, Art. Handy with those knives too, pinned a copper with them, and nearly split one of my hairs with it too." Lancelot scowls, almost pouts as he sits down nest to Arthur and Guinevere.

Arthur laughs, a deep throaty, infectious laugh and Mordred finds himself chuckling along. If he'd had any idea that he was pulling that stunt with one of the Pendragons, he'd have been far too scared to try.

"Sure, we'll have you kid. And an extra favor for giving Lance the fear of his life," the Sheriff elbows his scowling partner in the ribs. "What'll it be? We'll already be getting you a gun."

Mordred runs a hand through his hair. It's getting long now, curling into his eyes and tickling at his collar. He's never liked it this long, prefers it clipped short.

"A haircut would be nice?"

Arthur grins. "I can do that, if you'll wait for us to finish up here?"

He shrugs and proceeds to kick his heels as the men and women around the table continue debating the plans, Mordred doesn't quite follow the discussion, something about soil improvement and cost benefit analysis against imports. It's hours until they finally start to wrap up, the lights outside turning orange and starting to fizzle out before the Pendragons get up, thanking everyone and sending them out. Arthur takes Mordred by the shoulder, leading him to a small cabin behind the hall where there's little more than a bed, a table, a sink and a tiny little stove. It feels homely though, Lancelot sprawled out across the bed and Guinevere sat at the table, methodically dismantling and cleaning her pistols. Arthur pulls a box out from under the bed, opening it to reveal a battered looking pair of clippers and a small set of scissors and a comb. He gestures to a stool, waiting for Mordred to sit down.

"What'll it be then? And after we'll get you sorted with somewhere to stay, okay?"

Mordred is more than a little surprised that Arthur is offering to cut his hair himself; the Pendragon is... legendary, a myth of blazing guns and heroism. Hair cutting seems a little... mundane for the gunslinger. Guinevere must notice his hesitation, because she smiles at him. "Don't worry, he does all of ours."

He looks at the three of them, Lancelot's hair trimmed practically to the skin, Guinevere's long and black and tied back, and Arthur's sandy brown hair somewhere between the two of them. Arthur can't be too bad at this. "Short."

Arthur nods and starts the clippers up. Mordred feels the first hunk of hair fall off, his scalp suddenly chill. The clippers work quickly, shearing up and down, from ear to ear, heavy black hair dropping away, Arthurs hand gentle but firm as he holds Mordred's head in place. The sheriff whistles absentmindedly as he goes, Lancelot and Guinevere both joining in, and soon Mordred's hair has been shaved down to an even inch. He hops off the stool, ruffling the sharp cut ends of his hair and enjoying the ticklishness. He turns, and sees Arthur clutching a lock of dark hair.

"My child..." he whispers, and looks up at Mordred, eyes meeting with a look of recognition. "Morgause?"

Mordred tries not to flinch at the name, Arthur wasn't to have known. "Mordred now. Your son."

Arthur's eyes fill with tears, mourning for years lost between the pair and sweeping Mordred into his arms. "My son, you're home."

Chapter Text

Mordred winces as the weight of Lancelot crashes into his side, squeezing in between him and Arthur, arms about their necks. There's a trio of shot glasses in one hand, and an open bottle of whiskey in the other. "A shot to celebrate then? Our son, back from the dead!" Lancelot grins wild, eyes flashing, swigging from the bottle and cackling at Mordred's surprise. He'd barely dared hope for Arthur's acceptance, had been too scared to even plan to reveal himself before showing Arthur the man he was now. A whole new family was beyond dreams, but here they are opening their hearts freely. "If you're Art's, you're as much mine and Gwen's too kiddo. You'll learn to love us," Lancelot guides them to the table, slamming the shot glasses down.

"Arthur did," Guinevere pulls out a box of dusty brown beer bottles, setting them on the table in front of her. "Well, it was pretty quick and easy when it came to me. Practically fell head over heels the moment he saw me shoot. Lancelot was a bit of a wanker to start off with though, until the thing with the cart." The man in question sticks out his tongue at her, and she winks back. "I'm sure you'll have got the story out of him by the end of the night. Or the one about the deer and the very hungry seven lions. Just make sure you ask before he's on his second bottle, otherwise he'll just go on about how wonderous Arthur's eyes are for half an hour."

"Gwen," Arthur hushes her. He takes the whiskey bottle off Lancelot, splashing a single stream of the brown liquid across the three glasses, filling them to overflowing. He hands the bottle back to his partner and raises his shot glass.

"To those that we love. Now and then and for evermore. Those that are here, those that are lost. And especially, those that are not as lost as we thought."

Gwen raises her own glass. "To hope and happiness and building families."

"To whiskey and nearly killing family," Lancelot nods at Mordred.

The trio look to Mordred, who gingerly picks up his glass. He wonders what to say. What could possibly cover a situation like this.

"To finding more family than I could ever have hoped for."

Arthur and Gwen slam black their glasses, downing the spirits in a single mouthful as Lancelot guzzles down an inch or two of his bottle. Mordred sniffs suspiciously at the acrid liquid, gagging. He screws his nose up, tipping his head back and trying to pour the whiskey down his throat without touching too much of his tongue. He splutters, then coughs, doubling over as he tries not to hack the burning liquid back up. Lancelot laughs, clapping him heartily on the back and pouring him another shot. "Second ones the charm!"

Gwen snatches the glass away from Mordred, downing it herself. "He's just a kid, let off," she pulls out one of the beer bottles instead, snapping the lid off and sliding it across the table to Mordred. "Try this instead."

The beer froths at the bottleneck. It still smells sour and stings in his mouth but not as bad as the whiskey. He mangles a smile and takes another swig.

"So, what do you want to know about your old man then?" Gwen asks.

"How he knew I was his son, and just from a haircut!"

Gwen and Lancelot roll their eyes, Arthur sinking in his seat. The pair of them chant together, "because there’s something magical about a pair of scissors and love and you just know when someone’s family. You can’t not." They break out laughing, Lancelot giggling quietly, Gwen cackling, leaning into Arthur's shoulder.

She wipes at her eyes, wheezing. "No but, you should hear the thing about Culhwch. This was the first time Lance and I found out about Arthur's little party trick - this man gets carried into town, head pretty much totally smashed in. We end up helping the doc put him back together and Art is cleaning up the wound, cutting the hair back so it doesn't get stuck in the scabs when he bolts upright, like he'd just been shocked. Turned out Culhwch was some long-lost cousin or something. Then we got sent on a right merry runaround helping him, all because he wanted to marry Ysbaddeden's kid and had been set all these completely impossible tasks that he wanted Arthur's help with. And Arthur just couldn't say no."

"Remember trying to get the Cup of Llwyr?" Lancelot asks, “Arthur getting caught in the pig-sty?”

Mordred listens as the pair reminisce, Arthur occasionally chiming in. He notices as the pair keep up the conversation, never letting it lull, steering it to the happier of their tales. Mordred has heard some of them before, as hushed tales of sorrow and horror from the Saxons, or as mighty legends while he travelled to Camelot. None of the stories sound as frank, or life-threatening as when Lancelot and Guinevere tell them. They laugh, but Mordred notes every time they gloss over one of them dying, snapping jokes instead.

He notices too the way that Gwen leans into Arthur, her arm locked around his waist, the way that Lancelot's arm lies across Mordred's own shoulders, Lancelot's hand grasping at Arthur's shoulder desperately.

The evening blurs as his drink empties, his belly warm and laughter a little too close to his mouth. Lancelot really does tend to mutter poetry about his lovers' eyes when drunk, murmuring into his bottle far more eloquently than Mordred would expect from the cantankerous man. Until mid-sentence, he drops against the table, snoring. Gwen smiles and asks Mordred to help move him to the bed. Mordred stumbles a bit, his knees and feet pointedly refusing to stay under him but manages to slide under one of Lancelot's arms and shuffle across the room with Gwen. As he stands back up having put Lancelot down, Gwen leans down to him, locking eyes.

"You won't judge him too harshly, will you?"

Mordred shakes his head. Arthur has left his seat at the table and the door flaps open, dust. Mordred starts towards the door, Gwen giving him a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

Arthur is sat against the wall of the town hall, staring into the empty black of the night sky. A single flickering orange lamp is bolted above him, casting sharp shadows across his cheeks and onto the bottle between his splayed legs. He looks up Mordred wanly, eyes damp.

"Gawain told me you were dead. I shouldn't have believed him. There wasn't a body, I should have believed in you," he chokes, "I should have looked. I thought you were dead, like all of the others. Like your mother.

"I should have looked for you. You don't have to forgive me. I should have looked."

Mordred slides down next to Arthur. He sniffs, feeling his own tears starting to swell up. "What was my mother like?"

His father smiles sadly. "She was the light of my world. Not a fighter like my other two, but I didn't love her any less for it. I met her first, actually. In a bar, playing the piano. She sang so beautifully, and it was like the whole world just stopped... She had hair just like yours, you know. Black as night, and so silky soft.

"She loved you, Mordred. She'd have loved her son."

"What was her name?"

"Ygraine."

Ygraine. It is the first time he has ever heard it, ever known anything of the woman who birthed him bar that he had been found curled at her side, mewling and bathed in red.

It is the first time he wonders if there is more to the story, if Morgan had really only found him after Ygraine was already dead.

The Saxons kill on their raids, they have to. Mordred has already done so. It is how you survive in the lower levels, where there is not the light to grow anything, where the water is oily and metallic, or recycled from their own waste. Where no one will come to trade with you, so you have to take. And when they guard themselves, you have to kill.

It is the only way, the Saxon way. He trusts Morgan, doesn't he? And if it had been anyone else, he'd surely be dead, wouldn't he? Isn't this still better, even if she?

His stomach churns and he rolls to his side, heaving up the beer he's drunk. Swilling his mouth out, trying to hide the shaking of his hands from Arthur, he resolves to leave the questioning for a safer time. When he's not drunk, not in front of his father. "Guess all the beer didn't agree with me," he chuckles weakly.

Arthur isn't listening, is gripping his bottle so hard that Mordred is worried the glass will shatter, his eyes burning with maddening intensity. "I should have hunted them down. Killed every last fucking one of them, for what they did. Gawain was right, those fucking Ghouls are beasts not fit to live."

"Father..." Mordred's stomach is chill with the idea of Arthur killing his adoptive family, of killing Mordred himself. His own son, and not knowing. He pushes that thought away, like the rest.

"Father, you don't need to, I'm home," he grips the gunslinger's arm white knuckled, hoping Arthur will come back to the present.

"You are... You are..." Arthur rubs at his eyes, wiping tears away, staring at Mordred, seeing through him. "Thirteen years though, were you then? Where have you been?"

Neither Gwen nor Lancelot had pushed when he hadn't proffered an answer to his past, his survival. Arthur is asking now though, and Mordred can't turn him down. He just has to choose whether to tell the truth or not.

It is not much of a choice to make.

"The Ghouls missed me," he says, trying not to spit out the insult, knowing he can’t say Saxon. "A group of travellers found me the next day and took me in. They were decent enough - I grew up in the Mid-levels on a recycling plant. They didn't know who I was, just that I had an old sheriff's badge with Camelot written on it. I set out here to find my real family the moment I was old enough."

Arthur nods, and the two sit silently until Mordred’s breathing slows, calming, and he slides into unconsciousness, barely feeling the strong hands that pick him up, carrying him inside.

Chapter Text

Camelot takes some getting used to for Mordred. There are so many differences to the Saxon camps of his youth, he often thinks it would be easier to list the bare few ways they were similar instead. The way fighters both bicker like children in camp, but would die for each other on the battlefield; the singing and drinking about the campfires at night; the way children are no matter where they grow up, laughing and playing all around camp or town.  

The differences though – light and food and water. Not in excessive quantity, but ample enough. Mordred feels himself grow and fill out, gaining inches and pounds by the month. It will never be as much as he’d have had if he’d grown up in the town, not living off the scavenged, pilfered and looted scraps of the Saxons but food actually grown and traded for, fresh from the agri-hubs. He slowly stops being described as scrawny, while his skin loses its ashen dullness, darkening and gaining a healthy sheen to his skin.

Light and food and water. They spark change in Mordred and they spark change in the entire society of the Galfridians. Camelot thrives under Arthur and his policy of trade and protection. There’s not enough to pass out freely, there’s still a feeling that what they have must be guarded but there isn’t the desperate, driving need hoard and bicker and fight and kill over the barest morsel.

There is not the need to butcher and skin each other to survive.

Mordred hates the disdain the Galfridians have for the Saxon’s only method of eking out survival in the scant land the Galfridians have penned them into. He hates that they think them barbarians for the practise, yet still take advantage of it to dispose of their own dead, dropping rapidly putrefying corpses down into Annwn rather than deal with the stink of rot in their own homes.

He hates that he keeps his silence, taking full advantage of all the benefits of Camelot and doing nothing to improve the Saxon’s lot.

He hates that he is too hesitant, too scared to begin the work he set out to Camelot for.

He hates that he knows that the rest of the Saxons suffer every moment he delays.

He hates that it is so easy to come up with excuses.

…So much responsibility for a boy so young… Let him age a little, he can enjoy his childhood a bit, can’t he?

…Him a reminder of Ygriane, her death too fresh in Arthur’s mind… Let his father his time to grieve…

…So many minds to change, to bring around from genocide, and him so new… Trust in him would help…

…Time he can let it flow… until Arthur’s hurt is dulled… and ears are willing to listen…

Trust… He needs them to trust him…

It is at least not hard to start building good will in the other gunslingers, most of them are overjoyed with the idea of spending time with the Pendragon’s new son. Gwen and Lance teach him to shoot, Gawain to ride a bike. Bors and Tristan take him drinking, Owain gaming. Mordred knows many of them are trying to curry favour with Arthur, hoping that being friendly with the sheriff’s son – not only the Sheriff’s son, but the son who is being mentored to continue the Pendragon dynasty after Arthur and Gwen and Lancelot’s deaths – can be beneficial for themselves. It is an odd change, going from the outcast, the distrusted, pushed out boy who’s crime was not being born of Annwn but only carried into it to now being the favoured son, courted by all of Arthur’s vassals.

There is little enough time to dwell on it though, as Arthur keeps him busy from artificial dawn to artificial dusk, practising, fighting, raiding and watching the sheriff hold his court. Mordred spends days shadowing Lancelot out on patrol, learning about the land they control and those they fight to keep it; Gwenevere drills him in all of Camelot’s defence procedures, happily dropping simulations on him whenever takes her fancy, no matter if he’s sleeping or eating or doing anything else. And Arthur teaches him the politics of ruling – on the small scale the petty squabbles and feuds of the gunslingers of Camelot, the judgements he is expected to make; and on the large scale the treaties, the trade deals, the game of ever shifting alliances that the Sheriff must stay on top of or see Camelot over run. It is almost frantic the way Arthur expects Mordred to learn, cramming fact after fact into his son’s head, and Mordred has no idea what is so pressing that Arthur would work the pair of themselves to the bone. He sees the way Arthur’s cheeks slowly hollow, his hair greying, the way Lancelot and Gwenevere stand ever closer to him, flanking him protectively, a supporting hand on Arthur’s arm.

Mordred wonders what scares Arthur so.

One day, he asks.

It is almost two years into Mordred’s stay in Camelot. A hot day, as every day on the station is, and a little warmer, a little dryer than the one that came before. Mordred barely notices the permanent sheen of sweat he carries anymore, itching at it unconsciously except for when he rubs at his aching eyes and forces the salty liquid into them. Then he curses, and tries frantically to scrub it out with the hem of his shirt.

Arthur looks up at the noise for a moment, doesn’t say anything, and goes back to flicking through his data pad. He’s not done much else since the pair of them finished in the town hall for the day, except for pushing a second pad into Mordred’s hands – the screen covered in tiny numbers describing the water recycling efficiency stats of Camelot for the last decade – and telling Mordred to get studying. This is despite the fact the pair of them have already put in near a dozen hours of work that day, despite the fact that the lights are already beginning to flicker out for the night, despite the fact Gwen had him up last night, despite the fact that Lance is already puttering about the shack, a beer in his hand as he prepares dinner around them.

Mordred sighs, watching the text swim and blur in front of him. He aches, all the way down to his bones. He’s starting to forget a time when he didn’t.

The data pad clatters to the table, thin metal slipping through shaking fingers. Arthur glances up and pushes the pad back towards Mordred, but he shakes his head, pushing it back. “I need a break. Sorry.”

The Sheriff frowns, thin lips drawing even thinner. “We don’t have time for that,” he says, picking the pad up and holding it out across the table, hand wavering gently until Mordred sighs and takes it off him. “You need to know this.”

“Do I need to know it now though?

“Sorry – that was –” Mordred looks down at the table, abashed at the way he had shouted. He drums his fingers against the metal, aware of the looks Arthur and Lancelot are soundlessly exchanging over his head. Arthur just looks slightly empty, while Lancelot seethes… Mordred wonders. Then his stomach lurches. “You’re – you’re not dying are you?”

The silence is broken by the shattering of Lancelot’s beer bottle. The brown liquid froths against the metal floor and Mordred knows it will rust, but no one moves to clean it up. Lancelot himself steps closer to Arthur, hands on his partner’s shoulders as Arthur clutches back at his love.

It takes a while for Arthur to speak, and when he does, his words are slow and halting. “Me? No…” he shuts his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “At least… not me in particular…”

In his chest Mordred’s heart hammers, he grasps at the table, feeling the hard corners biting into the flesh of his fingers and squeezes harder. His breath catches in his throat. “’Not in particular’?” his voice breaks on the last word, squeaking high and shrill. “How many? Is it all three of you? More?

“When? Why? Can we do anything? Can I do anything?”

The questions tumble out of his lips, frantic and too fast, his tongue heavy and stumbling until he sobs and falls quiet, save for the occasional sniffle.

Arthur mutters some incomprehensible things about a talking dead man but Lancelot huffs and cuts him off. “Not helping, Art. Actually take him to see Merlin. And if we’re right lucky, he’ll be the next one.”

His father nods, slowly unfolding himself from his chair. “You’re right. Keep dinner warm for us?”

“Sure,” Lance squeezes Arthur’s arm and pushes him gently towards the door. “Look after yourselves.”

Mordred follows as Arthur leads the pair of them through the town, past the Joyous Guard, light and laughter spilling out of its doors into the gloom, past the clock tower and down towards the jailhouse. The jail is, alongside the town hall and the ‘Guard is one of the most maintained buildings in the town, squat and plain, with thin strip windows, every small hole religiously welded closed. Mordred isn’t sure what Arthur might want to show him there, the inside is as bare as the outside, just a couple of barred cells that Mordred has seen all of while dropping his bounties off. Arthur doesn’t come to a stop inside though, ignoring the pair of bandits who spit and curse at them, but opens a door in the backwall to a courtyard Mordred hadn’t noticed before.

Against one wall are a pair of stocks and a trio of pillories. The gallows are in the far corner, hidden in shadow.

There is a man hanging from them.

Not a man. Mordred sees as he creeps closer to the still figure that while it is humanoid, it is made not of flesh and blood, but metal. It wears trousers, tattered and torn and faded to grey under the lights of the station, but above that the metal of its chest and face is bared to the elements. Mordred is sure that it was once a sight to behold – sharp brass plates polished to a shine, with bright copper pipes and valves. Now though, the plates are dented and dull, an electric blue powder of corrosion stippled across them. The left arm hangs limply from a single servo-cord, ripped from its socket and exposing the flaking red cogs and gears within.

Mordred taps the cracked glass plate in the robot’s chest, wiping the grime away to see the humanoid heart within. It shudders, then convulses, sending a burst of liquid into web of tubes plugged into it.

There is a creaking, grinding noise from within the android. Then a sharp click as its eyes snap open.

Mordred stumbles backwards, falling to the ground, rust biting into his palms. He watches as the android shakes itself, swinging gently from the noose, and tries to move. It manages a slight tilt of its head, metal shrieking, but other than that it is still. It makes a frustrated humming noise, then seems to notice Mordred.

The mouth slowly shudders open.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to stare?” it asks, voice hissing and crackling like an old tape reel left too close to a magnet.

Mordred stumbles upright, dusting himself off quickly, “I – uh – sorry.”   

“No harm done, at least,” the robot’s mouth opens wider, trying to approximate a smile. “Who are you?”

Arthur steps forward past Mordred, clearly placing himself between the two. Mordred notices the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers creep towards the holsters at his belt but never quite touch the metal of the guns inside. “This is Mordred, Merlin. Mordred, this fucker is Merlin,” he hacks a ball of spittle at the ground beneath Merlin’s swinging feet. “Don’t let the look of the rust bucket fool you, he seems to know just about everything going on in this station, somehow. Sometimes he even deigns to tell us mortals a little bit of it. You’ll be damned if he gives you a straight answer though. We’ll all be bones before that happens.

“He knew you were coming, years before you found your way here. He knew you were my son too. I didn’t believe him then, but here you are,” for a second Arthur’s expression softens, becoming almost wistful before it hardens again, lips tearing into a scowl.

“You’re as complimentary as ever, Arthur. Back so soon though? You know I can’t tell you any more, I do keep telling you that,” Merlin sighs.

“Yeah, you do keep doing that,” Arthur hisses, “you tell us the stakes are so high, and then refuse to give any fucking hint as to why!”

The android chuckles, or at least Mordred assumes it is a chuckle. The lower jaw shutters open and closed as it makes a metallic hissing sound. “Oh, Arthur, I give people the answers they need. The others who need more will get it when they come.

“And you haven’t finished following my last advice.”

“What, I need to save the entire world before you’ll tell me how?” Arthur snarls, lashing out viciously at the base of the gallows with his foot. The metal rings dully, Arthur yelping and cursing as he gingerly puts his foot back to the ground.

The android laughs again. “Is that what I told you to do?”

Mordred crashes back to his knees. He is sure they scraped and bleeding by the way they sting, but he doesn’t care, is too busy clutching at the ground, grinding flakes of metal under his nails. Shaking he sobs, his entire body convulsing. “This is it then? The world’s ending and we’re all going to die?”

He feels a hand, warm and heavy in his hair as Arthur kneels down next to him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Mordred leans into the touch, feeling Arthur envelop him, as if his father can protect him from anything. “Mordred,” Arthur whispers, “I’m going to stop it. I promise.”

“You don’t know what’s coming though. When its coming.”

“We’ll still stop it. Me and Gwen and Lance,” Arthur tightens his grip on Mordred, blue eyes staring into Mordred’s brown. They’re soft, and so intense. “You’re our son, and we’re going to make sure you live.”

Arthur’s head snaps back to look at Merlin, quick and teeth flashing but says nothing until he is looking Mordred again. “That hunk of junk seems to think you might need to give us a bit of a hand, but your family is going to look after you. Understand?”

Mordred nods, and Arthur holds him tight.

Slowly Mordred feels his heart bet return to normal, his breaths coming deep and clean once again. He gives his father a weak smile, and Arthur ruffles his hair.

“Come on,” Arthur says quietly, helping Mordred to his feet. “I reckon Lance’ll have dinner by now, and Gwen will be back too. Lets get some food into you, then we can talk more?”

Merlin is still hanging there, silent, as Mordred looks back at him. Thinks bout the tendril of dread coiling in his belly and shakes his head. “You go on ahead. I’ve some questions for him.”

Arthur starts to argue but Mordred shakes his head again. “He said he’ll tell more to those who need it. And you said I’m involved. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

“You don’t need to do this alone.”

“I do.”

“If you’re sure,” Arthur hugs Mordred again and heads out of the courtyard. “Look after yourself. Lance and Gwen’ll kill me if something happens to you.”

Mordred watches him go. The courtyard seems bigger without him. Darker. He wipes his face with a rag, cleaning off snot and tears, then squares his shoulders and turns back to face Merlin, walking as confidently as he can, as if the android hadn’t just seen him crying on the floor.

“Merlin,” Mordred says. He’s barely a yard or so away from the android, straining upwards to look it in the face. With its feet dangling a foot above the ground, he barely comes up to its chest. “I’m assuming you know who I am?”

“Why of course. Arthur’s son. The lost child of the dunes. Either Saxon or Galfridian, or maybe both. Maybe neither.”

Mordred flinches at that. The android smiles and blinks down at him, and he’s close enough to see how the teeth are just one single engraved plate, how the eyelids close in a spiral like a camera. “You had a question?” Merlin asks.

Mordred picks at the hem of his shirt, feeling the rough weave of the fabric underneath his hands. He wonders how to ask the question that plagues him. The Saxons… his plans… were they more important than he thought… has he been dooming them all by waiting…

“Well?” Merlin tries to shake himself again and huffs. “Ask or go.”

The night is warm, and Mordred can hear the townspeople go about their business. Laughter and song floats across the air from the Joyous Guard, in the alley two dogs bark and yowl of two dogs in the alley next door while the residents shout. He can hear the giggles of playing children, and a baby’s lullaby.

Down in the lower levels, the Saxons might be having a feast, each there recounting great stories. Or they’ll be out hunting, and raiding. Maybe Gaheris and Agravain will be tussling around a fire, unless they’ve grown out of it. Teunu watching and rolling her eyes if they haven’t. Morgan, his mother laughing and joking with the others, scrapping when needed.

His mother, waiting for her son to return.

And it could all be wiped out, perhaps in an instant, perhaps in a series of long and bloody wars. He might hold the key to their salvation, he might have had it for years.

“The Saxons – Peace –” Mordred stumbles over the words, too fast, too frantic. He needs this answer. “Is that what will save us?”

On the android the mouth opens, and it hums three long, low notes. Then it begins to sing.

‘Mordred, my child, how long have you feared
The violence they say inevitable
Bullet on knife, your families lost, yet I know
The danger's in the sky not the deeps.

So build your bridge, try your peace
Win and the station surely will follow
Fall and your own hubris risks devouring
The light of all that you hallow.’

With that final ringing note, it slumps, hanging limply from its noose once more, leaving Mordred in a silent courtyard.

With a choice that should be so simple.

If only Mordred chosen wrong six hundred and eighty seven times already. If only he hasn’t just had the consequences of his actions spelled out line by musical line. He could be the destruction of them all…

But he thinks… He thinks… He thinks…

He thinks of Arthur, of Morgan, of Lancelot and Gwen.

He thinks of Ygraine.

And he chooses again.

The walk home seems to take no time, vanishing in a daze of unburdonedness. He barely notices as the townsfolk flitter around them, barely thinks how odd it is that they are so happy, unwitting of their fate. It doesn’t matter to him, he has chosen.

Arthur, Gwen and Lance are sat at the table when he gets there. Arthur watching the door, his lovers on either side of him. He stands, frowning, his eyebrows knitting with concern. He starts to speak, to ask Mordred if he learnt anything of the Hanged Man but Mordred shakes his head, shushing him.

“Father, I have something to confess,” he says, “those years ago, when you asked me how I survived, where I was before I came to Camelot? I lied.

“It was the Saxons, those you hate and call barbaric and shun for just surviving. They took me in and raised me, and we need to make peace with them now.”

Lance snarls, stepping forward and spitting curses about the fighters he’s seen fall, Gwen tenses, her shoulders tight and hands shaking. Arthur catches their arms, gripping them knuckles white. Mordred can see the liquid pricking at the corners of his eyes as he spits, “Peace? They killed your mother, Mordred!”

“I know. I know they did!” Mordred chokes out a sob, “but they’re my family as much as you three! We need peace with them.”

Arthur shakes his head, turning away from his son. “No. we can’t trust them. We can’t Mordred.”

“But we have to at least try.

“And I know how I can show that you can trust them. That they’re family.”