Work Text:
When he had first been invited to the tavern by Gawain and Gaheris, Mordred, a fresh arrival, faintly hopeful of the possibility of bonding with the older knight he so fondly remembered (and others, too, if he's lucky?) made the mistake of accepting blindly.
His reticence belied his willingness to make friends, who, even if they were older than him, were supposed to be similar to him. After all, he grew up an only child fawned over despite the conditions around them, then became a changeling, to be kept apart to be protected. These two positions left him with a yearning to blend in, to feel that sense of belonging so many at Camelot seemed privy to.
However, once at the tavern, the illusion faded. Once again, he was too late of a newcomer to a town founded by newcomers. His unfamiliarity, his unwillingness to laugh at something unless it was funny, his hesitancy to draw leather would soon alienate him from others to be kept at a respectable distance.
And it was already obvious at this first gathering. The first signs of it became apparent within the first hour. After being forcefully included by everyone into whatever conversation he had little to add, the knights saw he was unlikely to loosen up with booze, and resorted to ignoring him. The feeling of being ignored was not as strange as it should have been for this fresh arrival. Although he made himself accepted enough not to get killed among the Saxons, for some members of the community, even ten full years of his presence among them did little to remedy the mistrust they harbored. Wishing to escape the same treatment from people whom he believed to be far more dangerous and equipped, the young gunslinger revealed as little as possible about his origins, where he was from or his parentage. He was soon to discover, this was a far more common approach than he assumed around the Round Table. While some prided themselves upon being one of the first arrivals to Camelot after the Pendragon takeover, and a few youngsters placed faith in their kinship to some older gunslinger, most people were uprooted with only their own deeds to speak for them. If he were a bit more disinterested, less willing to laugh at jokes at the Saxons' expense and not so eager to cause havoc, that was fine. Mordred could live with a few sideways glances in his direction and some jeering comments as long as no one could deny his marksmanship or sense of duty.
That is precisely why he is caught off guard when Gawain invites him for a drink. Especially now, after they both have been declared co-deputies in the Pendragons absence and so many petty arguments over the settlement of disputes took place, he is taken aback. Gawain, whom he is sure now hates him, is asking him for a drink?
"Thanks for the offer but I guess I'll pass. I'm tired after all those hours of sitting more than a day of training." Mordred declines after a momentary lapse, and hopes his refusal will put an end to the other's attempt for a friendship that doesn't exist.
But Gawain, for whatever reason, is determined. "Come now, a few shots will only help you sleep better." Gawain objects before adding, "Listen, for once, to your elders."
It is one of his half-playful taunts about Mordred's age, although Mordred assumes he must know how it feels not to be taken seriously for a lack of years. Yet, this once, the peculiarity of the insistence when he doesn't have to feign friendliness and the brotherly tone strike a chord of sentimentality in him.
"As you say then, why not?" Mordred says as he reaches for the brown leather jacket that hangs on the back of his seat. Gawain, however, stops him.
"I was thinking we drink here, like the Pendragons. Some indulgence we can afford after a hard day, no? And you say you're tired, doubt much good the noise will do you."
Mordred just nods and slinks back down on his seat. That, sure, was weird? It was one thing for Gawain to drag him out to the real world, as he liked to say, to make some point Mordred would disagree with, or just to get wasted. Another to want a heart-to-heart when they could barely stand each others' presence during the day these past weeks.
"Sure, pour us a drink then." Mordred feels like he must brace himself for whatever is going to happen, which annoys him more than Gawain's behavior. What man trusted with governing a town fears his fellow ruler? He is really letting all those petty squabbles and his disagreements with Gawain get between his position as a promising member of the knights and that will not do. If with some careful treading, he has managed to make himself accepted enough to be trusted in the absence of the Pendragons, more importantly his father's, then he can have some chat with Gawain at the very least. When the older knight returns with two bottles of whiskey, and no glasses, Mordred can't help but raise a playful brow and smirk. Whatever it is that Gawain needs to (wants to?) speak must be ennerving for him too. As nervous as he can imagine Gawain ever being.
"I think you actually want to drink here to save up on your pay if you want to down a whole bottle." He says, just to have said something.
"Oh, you have seen nothing of me if you think this is something. What? Think you can't handle?" Gawain's laugh rings hollow to Mordred's ears, but he attributes it to not being the only tired one.
If there is anything Mordred will own up to as a similarity with Gawain, it is how well both men hold their liquor, so he just laughs at that. It is a habit he acquired after his arrival in Camelot, alcohol being scarce in Annwyn. While he feels guilty for every single thing he can consume here with ease, things they would kill for in Annwyn, alcohol has the effect of, if not making him forget entirely, then momentarily care less.
"Have you ever seen me drunk drunk? It's not because I don't drink. Pass the bottle."
This, Gawain, obliges, after taking his customary place next to Mordred and for a few minutes, the sound of sips they take is the only thing that prevents silence from swallowing them up. Mordred leans his head back, closes his eyes and tries to stop the throbbing headache slowly starting to manifest itself, all the while Gawain's weird behavior begins to worry him.
Does he know about him? Is this what this is going to be about? Shouldn't be possible but that's Gawain.
"You must be wondering 'What has gotten into Gawain?'"
It is Gawain that breaks the silence. The ever-impatient. Cringing at the thought that what was never supposed to happen is coming to pass, Mordred sits up and opens his eyes to face with reality. But Gawain is not at all like how his mind conjured him up to be in this moment. His posture lacks most of his usual bravado. Leaning on the arm of the chair to get nearer, he lets both his bright hazel eyes and his wide-frame, both without weakness at all times, show some boyish insecurity.
"I'm not going to lie, yeah." Mordred answers truthfully.
"I just wanted to tell you a story, I guess. You know we fight a lot and I think your idealism is going to get us killed, but you're an alright lad and I love to tell stories, at least when I'm drunk."
Mordred wants to say I know as the hazy image of Gawain, younger than Mordred is now, telling stories to someone who no longer exists because all the other adults are busy and the girl is starting to get fussy instead of going to sleep appears in his mind.
Not knowing what to say to this, he just nods and offers a smile he hopes is encouraging. "Go ahead, I'm listening."
As much as Gawain looks like he wants to leap out of the hole he dug for himself, he also seems determined to talk.
"You keep telling me I'm too harsh, cruel, and would rule with an iron fist. And these, these are fine. You're a young man, we all don't like how people who aren't us act when we are young. Don't we? I, for one, didn't have your instinct for wanting to save every bastard and give them flowers, but I've been there too, bud."
He is rambling. Which, instead of relieving Mordred, just makes him more nervous. If Gawain is losing composure, what the hell is it that he wants to talk?
"You say all this to me during the day, y'know. And it's fine. I mean I know you don't like my approach to things and I don't like yours." Mordred replies, hoping he'll finally come to the topic. His hands are starting to get sweaty and prickly.
"Yeah, yeah. Not one for story build-ups, are you? Anyway," Gawain takes a deep breath and with an actually vulnerable stare catches Mordred's eyes, "it is about what you said today. About the ghouls."
Here we go. He somehow found out. Can I even handle him on my own? If I do, what explanation would I have? If I can't, all this has been in vain—
"You're nice. Too nice. It makes me mad, because you think the world owes everyone kindness and understanding when you didn't see the things I saw or lived through what I did. That is what I wanted to talk about."
It takes everything in Mordred not to get outright defensive, maybe because Gawain, who is so often accusing, doesn't sound accusing. He just sounds passionate about what he has to say, as if it is a confession, not an accusation.
"When I was young, as young as you, or younger probably, I saw things no one should've seen and lived to tell the tale."
If it weren't for the conflicted state Gawain was in, Mordred would be panicking in a different way, but now he is just simply concerned about whatever it is that brings a man like Gawain to vulnerability as much as he is capable. He knows it's not that some new kid in town made an offer of adopting a new strategy in diplomacy.
"Imagine the time you first arrived in Camelot, the hope, the excitement. Now, imagine you are one of the first to arrive here after those Stone bitches had been dealt with and you are given a simple task: to get your people here safely."
Mordred just nods, starting to feel the ground this conversation is built on start to give way. He is still not at all sure where this conversation is going because he was expecting accusations of being a traitor, living with the enemy, being the enemy, not a story that's almost as old as him. He also can't help but feel he knows where this story leads too.
". . . You have lost your own blood family so what is left there is people who have cared for you, people for whom you care, and you are proud to be entrusted with some mission that'll get them to safety. Things go haywire, wagon accident, you need to leave them temporarily, so you can get help, because you're young and you have a bike. Now imagine having a friend there among the crowd, a little girl, who looks up to you and says she wants to learn how to ride a bike like you and loves the stories of adventure you tell. You promise to her that everything will be fine."
"Enough, stop!"
Mordred feels as startled to realize it's him who's telling Gawain to stop as he is shocked that Gawain is telling this. He doesn't register that he got up from his chair, sending the bottle in his hand crashing to the floor. Losing the solitary focus he had on the story, Gawain looks very hurt that a personal memory would get interrupted. But before he can say something, Mordred is filling in the silence.
"I don't want to hear about your tragedy. Don't you think people don't have wounds of their own, things they'd rather not remember? God, Gawain, why are you telling me this?!"
After the shock wears off, Gawain's attitude turns defensive, retracting all the kindness and vulnerability he offered earlier.
"Not fond of the truth? So you do know what happen to people like I described in the hands of your ghouls. They are cannibals! Wrong as it is, I'd let them wallow in their own filth, if they slaughtered and roasted each other on a spit. But they kill people like me, like you, like that little girl. Whole caravans, whole lives. And you want to have a treaty with them! Why not sup at their table as well?!"
This is Mordred's breaking point, the idea that his childhood is being used to hate on those whom he strives so hard to save, to give a chance. All the food he's eaten earlier that day feels more disgusting than anything Gawain implies. He doesn't find it in him to care if this seems just like another fanaticism. If Gawain can use whatever was important to him to destroy what is important to him right now, he doesn't think he can sit and idly nod.
"How many men have you killed, Gawain? Do you count? You never ate them so that's not wrong, is it? What would you stoop down to if you had been hungry if you, or hell, I'm not going to play the saint, I can kill when we are not left in darkness, deprived of everything."
"Oh, new preacher man. You should've joined Galahad."
"It is you who is preaching, hoping to catch me off-guard, telling me we should hurt others because you've been hurt! How proud do you think these people would be of you using their memory?"
And this is Gawain's breaking point. Walking toward Mordred, he lets it all loose. "Don't even dare to use them against me, Mordred. You might trust your smarts or Arthur's trust, but I have a temper and you keep misdirecting it, and I swear, if you keep doing that, one day it will land on you. I wanted to make you see the truth. These people, they're not even people, these creatures, these refuse of the world deserve nothing, and every day they get by without punishment is their blessing. If you intend to keep going at it, keep the savior complex limited to petty thieves."
He isn't much taller than Mordred, but Gawain knows how to use his presence as a weapon and in his anger, he has already crossed the respectable distance between the two, standing steps away from the younger man with unfiltered disappointment and fury in his expression colored red.
Instead, at this cruelty of words, Mordred's own rage cools down to freezing temperatures, the momentary reaction having left its place to his natural defense of shutting out.
So staring directly into the face distorted by rage that, minutes ago, looked at him like a true brother, he asks: "Or what, Gawain?"
Gawain cackles and takes an instinctive step back even though Mordred knows he wants to punch him in the face.
"Or you'll realize I see those who stand with them no different!"
Mordred's response is as curt as his question. "That is, by all means, fine by me. If there's nothing else you want to discuss, I'm taking my leave."
After saying that, he just strolls out of the room. To the outsider eye, he is perfectly composed. Lancelot once told him this composure was a strength in itself as fierce as any other display of power. But at that moment, he doesn't feel strong. Mordred wishes there was no argument to be won (there isn't, just sides), to be had. He just wishes he could be someone who could listen to Gawain finish his story, even if it meant the defilement of the memory of people who cared for him. He can't betray his own past even if he wishes Gawain was still the young man he knew, the one who channeled this hotheadedness of his into passion and action, helping older people carry things, make the little kid at their camp laugh, go the distances no one was willing to undertake so that people could be more at ease.
This person he has become can't bear the thought of letting the one who made sure he'd survive, that he'd have at least one person that cared for him, the one who after making sure of his survival, wanted to ensure he'd live a life that he could call his own be insulted like this. He can't sit and listen when people he broke metaphorical bread with become othered for what they are forced to put in their mouth, for not choosing to die in painful silence.
Yet he hopes he hasn't ruined one thing he set out to do for Morgan, for all those people whose suspicion now he can understand after seeing Gawain, for the boy who became an outsider everywhere he went.
That night, a few hours later, when Mordred finally drifts into an alcohol infused sleep, he sees a nightmare where everyone is sitting at a dinner table down at the tavern, where Mordred is sitting at the head and Gawain at the other end. All those faces he knew from Annwn sit between them, even Garet's face unfaded by time on one side of Morgan, and Ywan on her other, Orel next to Mordred as an encouraging presence.
Then he blinks and it shifts, people replaced by residents of Camelot, drinking broths from bone bowls he's familiar with, with the dream awareness that it is made of all those who were by his side before he blinked. The sickening nausea that settles into his stomach is nothing like that he felt at Garet's funeral as a child, or earlier at Gawain's words, but clammy and cold in the endless pit of his stomach.
As he jolts awake, eyes adjusting to the darkness he has started to forget, his breath catching up to its normal rhythm, he knows that he will do anything to prevent the implications of his nightmare from becoming a reality, even if that means making an enemy of an old friend.