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“I need to talk to you.” Mordred prompts, glancing meaningfully at Lancelot. The older man raises an eyebrow, nodding slowly. Mordred hesitates, before glancing over at where he can see Guinevere and Arthur talking quietly at the other end of the bar.
“Gwen too. Not- not Arthur, though.” That gets him another eyebrow raise, but Lancelot complies, standing up from their seat, and walking over to the two. Mordred watches anxiously as they talk quickly. Arthur appears to protest, but his partners both stop him from getting up. Lancelot says something else to him, and Arthur seems to relax a bit, letting them leave.
Before he can change his mind, Mordred retreats into the night, trusting the others to follow him. Judging from the steady sound of boots on the steel ground behind him, they do. Once he trusts he’s far enough away from the tavern to dissuade any prying ears, he turns, nervously playing with the ring that weighs heavy on his middle finger, fashioned of old bones and a small chunk of shiny green glass, the bone smooth from years of him rubbing at it. It was a gift from his adopted family on Annwn, in commemoration of 10 years spent among the ghouls. Now, it remains his only real keepsake from his old home, aside from the Seax knife that he keeps in his boot.
Lancelot and Guinevere catch up a moment later, watching him with twin curious expressions. Mordred takes a shaky breath, launching into the speech he’s been running over in his head for the past week, praying he doesn’t fuck up what he’s trying to say.
“Arthur’s told you about his daughter, right? Mor-Morgause, she was killed by ghouls.” Mordred’s voice catches on his old name, the shape all wrong in his mouth, but he pushes forwards. “They never found her body, but he just assumed- he figured they’d killed her too?” Lancelot nods slowly, while Guinevere winces at the story, grief passing over her face.
“I’ve uh- I’ve heard him talking about how there’s a chance she survived, but he usually gets shot down by someone, because, y’know, it’s been years, and she was alone. All that stuff.” Lancelot places a gentle hand on his arm, and Mordred startles, glancing over at them.
“We know this, son. Just say what you’re trying to say, it’s alright.” Okay. Okay, alright. He can do this. Mordred takes a deep breath, nodding.
“Morgause, she… when she disappeared, so did Arthur’s badge. It was always assumed that the ghouls took it, for whatever reason. In reality, she kept it, and it served as a- as a reminder of her family, of her life on the surface.” Mordred digs in his pocket for a moment, fingers closing around the familiar worn star, and he withdraws it, holding it out face up in his palm.
“It’s also worth mentioning, Morgause decided to change her name when she was thirteen. One of her adopted family members suggested Mordred, and it stuck.” There’s a shaky gasp from Guinevere, and she gently takes the star from his hand, holding it carefully, as if she’s afraid it’ll break. Lancelot looks frozen in place, eyes flicking back and forth from the star, to Mordred’s face, to the bar where they’d left Arthur. Finally, they seem to break from their trance, stepping forwards slowly, like Mordred was a scared animal, and he’d bolt when startled.
When he doesn’t immediately protest, or pull away, the older gunfighter pulls him into a hug. They smell like smoke and gunpowder, and Mordred can feel their breath stutter in their chest as they hold him. The younger man wraps his arms around their torso, gripping their old leather coat tightly. Distantly, he’s aware of Guinevere joining the hug as well, a comforting weight at his side. Eventually, his parents (his parents!!) pull away, both grinning like crazy. Guinevere hands him the star back, and he takes it appreciatively, placing it back in his pocket.
“Are you going to tell Arthur as well? You have to at some point, he’ll be delighted to know.” Lancelot asks, and Mordred hesitates.
“I will. I just- it’s a bit different, you know? Give me a little bit, I’ll tell him soon enough.” Lancelot nods, Guinevere mirroring the motion. Mordred smiles back at them, ignoring the twist of something in his gut, telling him he won’t get another chance.
(Mordred’s glad for the shooting lessons Lancelot gave him after that night. It means that when he emerges from the shadows of the doorway, his parents are already dead, and they don’t have to see the look on Arthur’s face when he calls the aging gunfighter father. Nor do they have to see the way he pleads when Mordred gently affixes the sheriff’s star to the front of his coat, placing his Seax knife in his father’s hand, before stepping back, hitting the button that will send the older man into space, locked in a life pod with no way to get to his son.
As Mordred sits with his parents as the station descends into the sun, he says nothing. He settles on the cold steel ground between their cooling bodies, and he regrets nothing except not telling them sooner, for wasting so much time that could have been spent with them.)