Chapter Text
“Daddy.”
Lancelot has since learned that Galahad only uses ‘Daddy’ when he wants something, or when he’s in desperate need of comfort. Galahad is lying on top of his chest right now, watching him so intently his son’s nose is almost pressed against his own. The boy is fine, so he’s obviously after something.
… Even so, Lancelot lifts his arm from over his eyes to give Galahad a quick once over, making sure there isn’t anything immediately wrong.
His boy just stares right back with a thoughtful, pinched expression that means he wants something “daddy” isn’t going to like. Lancelot puts his arm back over his eyes, braced for a very unpleasant request, “What do you want?”
“When can I see Mama?”
Lancelot should be used to it by now. When he first brought his son to Camelot, the boy would ask for his mother several times a day. As the days grew colder, Galahad would only ask to see her once a day. Now that it’s winter, it’s down to once a week. (A selfish part of him hopes in the next few months, Galahad will stop asking about his mother altogether.)
Lancelot tries very hard to keep himself from reacting, but he can’t. Just the thought of
that
woman sends a cold shiver down his spine, and every single needle on his body raises in response.
“M’Sorry-“ The boy starts to say, but Lancelot cuts him off.
“Don’t apologize.” It comes out much sterner than he intended, more of a reprimand than a reassurance. Galahad flinches, and presses his face against Lancelot’s chest with a whimper.
Damn it.
Lancelot pushes those complicated emotions to the back of his mind and tries once more to erase them from his memory. He wishes Gawain were here. Gawain has always been much better at this kind of thing.
“There is no need,” Lancelot gentles his tone as much as he is able, using his free hand to rub behind the boy’s ears in silent apology. He holds back a sigh as he moves his hand off his eyes to rest against his forehead instead, “You can always ask, Galahad.”
He frowns up at the ceiling, holding back a sigh, “I cannot promise I will grant your request, or that I will like what you ask for, but you can always ask.”
Lancelot can’t get his body to relax fully, a deep set tension in his shoulders that refuses to go away, but he tries. His effort doesn’t go unappreciated, and Galahad’s ears pop up as his son nods solemnly, “Okay, Da.”
They sit in silence for a moment, Lancelot still staring up at the ceiling while Galahad stares at his face. At length, he looks back down at his son, “...Why do you want to see her?”
“I
miss
Mama,” Galahad doesn’t hesitate, crawling closer and throwing his arms around Lancelot’s neck to snuggle, “I want Mama to hug me, kiss me, tell me stories and sing to me. I want to hold her hand and walk in the garden and pick her flowers.”
“Mmm...” Lancelot doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he keeps silent. Truthfully, he can’t picture the boy’s mother doing any of those things. But… she did raise Galahad for the first few years of his life, after all. Elaine seemed to have been a good mother to have raised such a cheerful, loving boy...
Until she decided Galahad was old enough to show off. Lancelot returned at her urgent request, and she paraded the poor boy around like a prized pet.
Lancelot knew she was dangerous. His lack of interest drove Elaine to a mad passion where she was willing to do anything to have him. And Lancelot is not afraid of many things, but the thought that his failure to live up to the
fantasy in her troubled mind, Elaine would end up taking it out on their son...
(Lancelot wishes they had never met. As much as he loves the boy, as much as he can’t imagine his life without his son anymore- Galahad would have been better off if he hadn’t been born. Or at least was born to a different couple, one joined by a willing bond of love. What kind of mother threatened to make her son an orphan or a corpse? All in an effort to ransom the love of the father? Unforgivable.)
“Daddy...” Galahad headbutts his jaw in a manipulative nuzzle, though it’s not particularly gentle, “Can I see mama? Please?”
How does Lancelot explain this to a child?
Should
he expose Galahad to the truth of his mother, or would it be kinder to let him keep the unsullied memories of her love and care? Lancelot’s life was enriched by his mother’s presence and guidance in his life. Lancelot couldn’t imagine his life without his mother…
Does he have a right to keep Galahad apart from his mother, even if it’s the safest course of action for him? For all of them?
“Daddddddy...” Galahad starts to whine, shaking Lancelot’s shoulders in an effort to get attention. The boy doesn’t like feeling ignored, “Pleaaase...”
“I’ll speak with Gawain,” Lancelot makes the only concession he feels he can. He doesn’t trust Galahad’s mother, but he does trust Gawain to safeguard their son’s welfare and best interests, “When it’s convenient for him, he can escort you to see her and then back.”
Galahad’s eyebrows furrow together as he asks, disappointed and sad, “You won’t come?”
I can’t,
Lancelot doesn’t say, refuses to acknowledge even in his own thoughts, shaking his head with grim resignation, “No. I have other business to attend to here.“
Galahad is obviously disappointed by the answer, sucking in an angry breath as he pouts.
Ugh. Lancelot tamps down on his frustration, reminding himself that Galahad cannot understand unless he explains the situation to the child-
and he will not.
“Gawain will take you, or you won’t go at all,” Lancelot tells Galahad with finality, giving the boy a sharp look, “What will it be?”
“...G’wen,” Galahad relents, moving to sulk at the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his chest angrily. Lancelot watches him with a raised brow, wondering what he should say or do.
“Food,” Lancelot mutters to himself, choosing to ignore and move on from this topic entirely, sitting up and rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes, “Are you hungry? Do you want an apple?”
At the promise of his favorite food, Galahad immediately perks up, “Yeah!”
All thoughts of sulking are temporarily forgotten as the little hedgehog throws himself off the bed, running over to grab his father’s sabatons from the corner. Galahad drags them over with great difficulty, loudly scraping them against the stone, “Here, hurry, hurry!”
Lancelot works on putting them on as Galahad bounces in place, striking the ring decorations against each other impatiently.
“Do you intend to go to the kitchens barefoot?” Lancelot takes the rings when he can’t stand the noise anymore, pushing his son towards his own boots in the far corner of the room, “Put on your boots.”
He misjudges his strength and Galahad stumbles, but the child doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed, “No, sir!”
Lancelot slides the rings in place over his ankles as Galahad dashes across the room, nearly tripping on a raised stone and catching himself at the last minute. Galahad dashes back over when his father stands up, tugging him by the hand towards the door. The boy’s boots are on the wrong feet, but it doesn’t seem to slow his son down at all.
“Hurry up, let’s go!”
“Mmm,” Lancelot makes a noncommittal grunt back as he’s pulled down the hallway towards the stairs, leaning backwards to counteract Galahad’s momentum and keep them from both tumbling down the steps.
“I want it like a bunny!”
“A request better suited to my lady mother and her magicks, I would think,” Lancelot replies absentmindedly, instinctively moving Galahad to the right where the step is thicker. He’s more preoccupied with how to make this request of Gawain, appropriately warn him on what to expect and what to look for, without having to explain the whole… situation.
“Noooo, not like taste!” Galahad makes a face and lets go at the bottom of the stairs, walking backwards as he gestures with his hands, “Gawain can do it! He cuts the Apple like- like this!”
Galahad mimes a chopping action in several directions that don’t seem realistic. “And then he cuts like this, and then he shaves half the apple!”
Galahad continues talking animatedly, oblivious to his father’s inner turmoil, and Lancelot will do everything in his power to keep it that way. He nods along as he half listens, “And that tastes like rabbit?”
“Noooo, Da, it looks like a bunny! It tastes like an apple!" Galahad wrinkles his nose, sticking his tongue out in a way that would have Lancelot smiling if he were in a better mood, "And apple tasting like a bunny is gross!!”