Chapter Text
When he got the email, Galahad was sitting in the corner of a rather posh cafe in Paris, sipping his very indulgent cup of coffee— black, sugarless, no milk, but it had cost him a whole four euros— and celebrating his graduation from Terminale. It was not an easy accomplishment, and indeed he had scraped through his bacs with 10s across the board, save for a brilliant 17 in philosophy that had aggravated his professor to no end. Today’s celebration was, he admitted to himself, only 60% about the fact that he had survived secondary education in adverse circumstances. The remaining 40% was about the look on Prof. Hily’s face when he’d read out Galahad’s mark.
He was in a very good mood, or at least as close to Galahad got to a good mood. The day was crisp and clear. No one else in the cafe had noticed the scuff marks on his shoes, or that his laptop was at least six years old and cheap as could be, or that there was a faint stain on his black turtleneck from the time he’d had tea spilled on him two years ago. And— this was the most important part— he was the proud holder of various exams which amounted to a successful baccalaureate in Social Studies and Economics. The fact that his success had been marginal was of no concern; any employer who looked at his record would agree that the fact he had made it to lycée at all was a miracle. Galahad took satisfaction in the idea that they thought that was an idiom.
And then the email. He knew it would be bad from the second he saw it was from Arthur— Arthur who hadn’t contacted him since a lengthy and seemingly genuine apology a scant two weeks after Galahad had remembered everything. The subject line read simply: Funeral. Galahad’s heart sank further.
Dear all (the email read)—
I’m very sad to contact you all out of the blue, and I wish we could gather in happier circumstances, but I must inform you that Emett MacPherson, once known as Sir Calogrenant, is dead. He passed away on Tuesday afternoon in a motorboat accident off the coast of Skye.
Calogrenant was a great man with many dear friends, and he will be greatly missed. His wry humour and care for...
Galahad scoffed and scrolled down to the bottom of the email. Over a thousand years ago Calogrenant had told him that he should “loosen up and have a little fun with the ladies,” a sentiment which didn’t have a name then but certainly did now; and besides, Galahad had been fifteen. Now he was eighteen and had never had fun with anyone, himself included. Deep down he worried that he was too broken to have anything in him God wanted, and that had a name as well, he knew, a name with ‘internalized’ in front of it. Of course, this didn’t mean that Calogrenant had deserved to die. Galahad was very firm on the point that no one deserved to die.
...the funeral will be held on March 5th at the Mallaig and Morar Community Center. I would greatly appreciate it if you all would come, as in the end we should hold on to old friends. Please be at the Center by 9am. The funeral will run from 10 to 12, at which point we will have a free buffet (kindly funded by Guinevere) to celebrate Calogrenant’s presence in our lives.
He closed the tab. Sat back against his thin chair and stared straight ahead of him until the man who occupied the space he was staring at noticed and said something very impolite. Took a sip of his coffee, rallied his suddenly fraying nerves, and opened another tab to his email.
One new email had arrived in the time he had been staring at the rude homophobe across the room, and it was from exactly who he had expected to be contacted by— Gawain. Or Giovanni, or whatever the hell his name was now.
Hey, I wanted to shoot you a message as soon as I heard about Calogrenant, but L said I should wait until the funeral info went out. I know things are rough right now, and I also know you don’t like taking handouts, but I wanted to offer to cover your train tickets and a hotel room if you’re going. Consider it a family expense or something, ya? I think you’re my son if you really stretch the law a lot.
Hope the exams went well.
Gawain xoxo
Then, below that, there was his little automated sign-off:
Giovanni Cunningham, PhD.
Université de Rennes
Faculté de Philosophie
That got Galahad to smile, just a little bit. Not because he wanted anyone else’s money— least of all Gawain’s— but it wasn’t an offer Gawain made lightly. He had been born solidly working class this time and according to everyone’s stories he chafed at it in the beginning, rubbed up against the limits of his funds at every turn with an irritation that would have been highly vindicating to his associates if it wasn’t that he was so pathetic about it. All of that had faded by the time Galahad met him. His doctorate had put him so deep in debt even he had been forced to learn budgeting.
Outside, a gaggle of kids rocketed past on scooters, blasting pop music. Galahad watched them go. It might be good to see people, he thought, or at least to see the handful of people who had kept in touch with him over the five years since he had remembered everything— Gawain and Bors, as might be expected, but also Guinier, Lanval, Torec and Miraude, Lucan. People whose names he had barely known the first time around but had watched him and seen something that needed a steadying hand. It was patronizing, and part of him loathed it. The rest of him knew they were the best of a ragged crew and that pride was a deadly sin.
He wrote a response email to Giovanni Cunningham, PhD; it should have taken thirty seconds and instead it took him an hour. It would be nearly two hundred euros, with both trips and the hotel factored in. He had thought today’s coffee an incredible luxury. Two hundred euros, to see people who were the worst sinners he knew.
He pressed send.
Yvain and Masha had driven all the way from Bournemouth for the funeral. The traffic at the end of the week was always dreadful, especially going through Liverpool, and even without the holdups it was a good ten hour drive. Yvain had pointed this out with as little overt terror as he could; Masha, who was from Siberia, had said he was a coward and needed a glimpse of what suffering truly was. That had earned her a laughing kiss and a more contemplative embrace afterward, because there was something in this gathering that worried Yvain greatly.
But he acquiesced. And now they were sitting in their little hotel room in Mallaig, stiff and exhausted after a full day of driving, and Yvain did not know how to say what he knew needed to be said.
“TV?” asked Masha, who could tell something was wrong.
No, not the TV.
“There’s an electric kettle,” she said, “and— looks like decaf Earl Grey.”
That would be nice.
“It’ll be great to see the town in the dayli—”
“Masha, I need to warn you about my family,” Yvain managed, forcing the words out in an interruption and then blushing, lifting his hands to apologize. He knew he was behaving oddly and couldn’t help it.
Fortunately Masha just gave him a concerned glance and pressed the switch on the kettle before flopping down next to him on the bed. “You have warned me about your family,” she said. “Look, it will be fine. I know how bad family is. You know I left Novosibirsk so I could transition. I understand.”
Yvain wanted to laugh. It wasn’t funny, of course, but bigoted relatives would have been infinitely preferable to the reality, which was so unbelievable that the explanation had chased away his first girlfriend in uni. I’m a reincarnated 6th century knight from a blood-stained family tree and everyone at this funeral killed one another was a hard pill to get people to swallow. He thought for an instant about what Masha would say if he told her his cousin alone had done things that would get him put before the Hague if he did them nowadays. Probably she would check him for a fever. “I just— I worry what you’ll think of me.”
She gave a little sigh like she was disappointed in him, just a bit, and she rolled over onto her stomach. “What I think of you…” Reaching up, she brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his cheek. “I think you’re funny, and kind, and handsome, and I love you very much. Your family isn’t going to change that, yes?”
“Right,” sighed Yvain, because it was easier than trying to explain further. He let himself be pulled down into a long kiss which Masha eventually broke to check her watch and point out, slyly, that it was only nine and they didn’t have to be up until eight or so. The prospect of a pleasant distraction cheered him up considerably. Don’t think about the family thing, he reasoned, that’s the best tack, just don’t worry about it. So, smiling, he scooted up to the head of the bed and made space for Masha on his lap, straddling his hips, sliding her hands under his shirt, kissing him and whispering into his ear.
And he tried not to think about the worst fear he had, which was that it wasn’t what his family might reveal about themselves that would be the problem— it would be what they might reveal about him.
The flowers for the funeral cost a hundred pounds. The buffet was nearly a thousand, because they’d had to have it shipped from Inverness, and the little cards and decorations were another hundred, plus nearly three thousand she’d shelled out— via the appropriate subsidiaries— to ferry various attendees over from wherever they were skulking. Laura Nichols, née Laura Nicolosi and née Guinevere Queen of the Britons a thousand five hundred years before that, stood in the lobby of the Mallaig and Morar Community Center with her hands on her hips and a smile on her face. Today was going to go exactly as planned. If it didn’t, then she had spent over four thousand pounds on nothing.
Well, she would have spent four thousand pounds on Calogrenant’s funeral. But that wasn’t worth anything.
Arthur had been hovering around like a concerned bumble bee all morning, and she wanted to punch him, but that would do no good. Now he drifted over from the pathetic instant coffee machine and offered her a styrofoam cup. “Uh, this is— milk and sugar. I didn’t know how you liked it.”
With milk and sugar, as it happened. She took a polite sip. “Thank you, Arthur.”
“Ah. I’m glad it’s okay.” He glanced around the lobby in case anyone else was there. “So, I was wondering if we could talk.”
We are talking, Arthur, thought Guinevere, and didn’t say it, because he really didn’t deserve it anymore. But old habits died hard. “I’d love to.”
“Thank you. So, I’m starting to wonder if this whole gathering thing was a—”
“Dinadan!” said Guinevere brightly, as the front door clattered open to admit an exhausted-looking man in a brown jacket. He had one of those haircuts that looked like a tragic World War 1 captain, and he sort of pulled it off if you squinted and were kind. “Welcome, it’s lovely to see you again.”
“Laura fucking— whoever!” said Dinadan brightly. “Niccolini? Niccolo?”
Right, this. She forgot most people did not follow her career. “Nichols, professionally.”
He gave her an easy grin, entirely ignoring Arthur beside her. “You traitor! Government’s treating you that bad, huh?”
“Well. I’ve got to make whatever compromise I can.” ‘Laura’ was the bigger problem. In the hierarchy of things that kept you back in the Department of Transport, transgender ranked infinitely higher than southern European. “I note you escaped to the States.”
“I escaped to Phoenix, which is sort of like the States but baked in the oven for a couple hours. I own an ostrich now, you know?”
“Oh?”
“Nah, I don’t. Shitty assholes.” For the first time, he seemed to notice Arthur, and clucked his tongue. “You don’t look too happy.”
Arthur gave him a miserable look. He had always been terrified of Dinadan, Guinevere knew, which hadn’t been called for back in the day when swords determined everything, but nowadays was probably a wise instinct. “We’re at a funeral.”
“Ah.” Dinadan softened, shot Guinevere a pained look. “You did all you could for him, you know that?”
What?
“I know,” Arthur said, his voice subdued.
“It’s a rough world out there,” said Dinadan, and gave him a pat on the shoulder which nearly knocked him over. “Keep your head up, king.”
“I’m not a—”
“Figure of speech. Here.” He rummaged in the pocket of his notably not black pants for a second before producing a crumpled envelope. “Tristan wanted me to give you this. He and Iseult are tied up in— it’s complicated. But he thought you might appreciate some good old fashioned mail. What I think that means is he printed out images of birds and put them in an envelope, but who knows, maybe there are some inspiring words in there alongside the tits.”
Arthur blanched. “The— the what?”
“The bird,” said Guinevere, sighing. “Dinadan, get out of here, you’re being a bother.”
“I aim to delight,” he said, but he acquiesced and made for the door to their left. For a second he turned back and caught Guinevere’s eyes. “Look after him, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Guinevere sourly.
More people arrived as the clock approached nine, tumbling through the doors in small groups or all alone, familiar faces, faces she knew very well, and faces she barely recalled. They all knew her. She waited patiently, playing the gracious queen, and beside her Arthur— well, he hung around and tried to be supportive, she supposed. He was a good man. Deep down, under the layers of hatred and anger and memories, she wanted him to be happy. Of all people, he deserved to be happy.
Arthur had, a little under forty years ago, sprung back into existence— well, he had been born, like any other baby, but there was surely something magical about it— in southern Wales, somewhere in between Swansea and Cardiff. On his 18th birthday a certain event had occurred on a hike involving boulders, swords, and sudden recollections of past lives. The day before he had gotten a job at Tesco, and that had made him a lot happier than the fact he was sort of the king of Britain.
Raised on Chumbawamba and Billy Bragg, it had taken him about five minutes to find a handy pond and drop the sword in. Britain was in dire trouble, surely (Arthur was certain it was Margaret Thatcher whose existence had summoned him back from the dead), but monarchy was, in his opinion, not the best solution. So he had shown up at Tesco the next day and never said anything to anyone about being King Arthur.
But, over the years, he had bumped into hundreds of his old courtiers. He didn’t do it on purpose, he insisted. It just happened. It had happened to Guinevere first, when she was fifteen years old and lost in a national park, confused and disoriented and very glad to meet a hiker who could point her back in the direction of the main trail. Arthur hadn’t even recognized her. Things came back, though, in fits and starts, and by the end of the week she remembered enough to understand why she hated her parents for criticizing how long she grew her hair.
Then, at precisely 9:27 am, the doors swung open to admit a solitary figure in a crisp black suit— not designer, Guinevere noted, but clearly chosen with care— with an old-fashioned messenger bag over his shoulder. His face did something odd as soon as he saw her, like he was caught between joy and anxiousness. “Ah— Guinevere, Arthur. Nice to see you.”
The funny thing about Giovanni Cunningham was that he had somehow managed to be born even more northward than Gawain had, in some miniscule dot on the Shetlands map with a name Guinevere could never remember. His accent vacillated wildly depending on who he was talking to. She gave him as brilliant a smile as she could. “Hello, Gawain! Lovely to see you here on time.”
He shook that off with a laugh and crossed the lobby to stand by her and Arthur. “I’m fashionably late. Arthur, you’re looking less tired than the last time I saw you, which is an improvement. Guinevere, you look— good.”
“Thank you.”
“So, uh— the funeral starts at ten?” He shifted and shoved his hands in his pockets as they nodded. “L sent me in to talk to you guys— I don’t know if we’re going to make it, he’s been mid panic attack for, like, the last half an hour. He’s in the car.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Guinevere, and immediately regretted it because it made her sound like an asshole. She meant it in a sympathetic way. “Should I—”
Gawain gave her an exasperated look. “No, you really should not. He’ll get over it or he won’t. We have until noon for the buffet, right?”
“The funeral is at ten!” Arthur piped up.
“But, like— the food isn’t until noon.”
“If you consider the food more important than the life of Calogrenant,” said Guinevere earnestly, and ignored Arthur’s sad little expression beside her. “But I thought you were different now.”
He didn’t react to that, just gave her a wide smile with nothing in the eyes. “Calogrenant’s dead. I’m here for everyone else.”
Arthur, bless his heart, took this as his queue to put himself between them. “That’s very nice of you, Gawain. Tell L he can stay in the car as long as he needs.”
“Of course,” said Gawain, gave them both another smile, and then left back out the door.
Five, thought Guinevere, four, three, two… one—
Arthur coughed. “You should—”
“No,” she said crisply, and was saved from having to justify herself by the arrival of a gaggle of latecomers.