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Galahad was dreaming of flames. Burning up in the fires of hell. Flames, flaring up around his chest, and rusted hands encasing his heart.
Galahad was dead, and whether these nightmares were a precursor to salvation or hell he did not care. He’d served his purpose.
Which made him wonder why he could suddenly hear voices, and a faint touch upon his cold cheek, that had been shot away what felt like moments ago.
“You’re really going to keep him?” a stranger asked.
“Not much of a choice now, is it?” Galahad knew that voice. The beautiful, rhythmic voice of the hanged man, who had granted him his fate.
“Fine. But if your pet preacher tries to convince me to pray or jump in a lake I’ll gladly be the first to shoot him.”
That was all Galahad got to hear before reality slipped away from him once more. He felt heavier, but his heart seemed to beat within his chest nonetheless. Was this salvation? If his hanged man was there, it had to be.
The flames turned into a comforting darkness. To a void, a cosmos Galahad had briefly seen in his visions, with his hanged man close to him. His hands were no longer rusted as he pulled Galahad into a gentle kiss, making the space around them dissolve and those mythological stars glow brightly.
Then Galahad opened his eyes, and he did not recognize where he was. It didn’t look like the station he was so accustomed to, which made sense, of course, considering he was dead. Except he didn’t actually feel dead at all. He was lying on a soft surface that somehow didn’t quite agree with his body. He felt he should be in pain, but he was not. Perhaps his nerves had been shot numb.
He turned his head, and was met with beautiful amber eyes. His hanged man, no longer rusted, right there at his bedside. Merlin’s eyes widened for a moment as they met Galahad’s, though he quickly appeared composed and calm as he’d always been. It was the first time Galahad had seen the hanged man, sitting upright instead of hanging from those familiar gallows, and moving as if it was second-nature.
“Hanged man?” Galahad’s voice was weak and sounded too strained to be his own.
“Galahad…” the hanged man responded, and oh Galahad desperately wanted to hear his name from Merlin again and again.
“I… I did it,” Galahad stated, clenching his fist, only to find that there was something off about the movement, “I feel- why does my body feel-“
“Don’t think too much about it. Rest up, alright?” the hanged man said calmly, “You did well.”
The words settled comfortably around Galahad’s body. At ease, because he’d done as his God had asked of him.
So why was his heart still beating, if he’d died as intended?
“Am I dead?” Galahad asked.
“You’ll get answers after you’ve rested.”
No. No that didn’t make sense, “Where- where exactly am I? Where are the pendragons? I was with them. Did they find the GRAIL?”
“We can discuss it la-“
“What happened to them?” It didn’t feel good to demand things of the mysterious hanged man, but how could he not when the fate of his world had been at stake?
Merlin looked Galahad in the eyes, several emotions crossing his face in a matter of seconds. It was strange, how many emotions could be conveyed when his body was entirely metallic.
"They're dead," his voice was quiet and defeated, and Galahad felt as if whichever room he was present in fell apart around him, leaving him all alone in the void. He thought of Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot and their love for each other running deeper than the darkest levels of the station.
"No. No, you told me I would save them!"
"I did not. I implied you might save them," the hanged man specified, "You did everything you could."
Why was Galahad's heart still beating? Why did it feel louder than every other vein in his body? Why did his blood seem cold in the face of the flames of hell, "I... You should've let me die. I was willing to die."
The hanged man’s voice turned harsher for a moment, "It wouldn't have changed anything, and you did die."
"What are you talking about?" Galahad's eyes were wide, just as they'd been when he'd received those visions what felt like ages ago, "Why is my heart still beating? This is no salvation or hell. You’re lying again! I am right-" and then he saw his hands for the first time since he'd woken up. Perhaps he'd glanced at them before, hadn't granted them much thought despite everything, but now he fully saw them.
Metallic. Shining new technology that should barely be possible with the limited resources of his world. Creeping from his hands to the sleeve of his coat, which was far cleaner than Galahad remembered it, without a single stroke of blood.
No, those hands couldn't be his. This had to be some sort of dream, much as that dream of the kiss among the stars, except horrifying instead of shamefully alluring.
The hanged man sighed, "I told you to rest. This will be easier to discuss when you have."
Galahad couldn't breathe. His head was spinning. What was this place? Why was his hanged man here , speaking so openly and clearly when he hadn't uttered a single word in the years Galahad had known of him? Why was he saying that the Pendragons were dead when they were so close to finding the GRAIL last time Galahad had seen them?
Then, he felt a metallic hand on his, the colliding metal feeling so much softer than it should, and his heart that was somehow still beating, seemed to halt for a single moment. "You're safe, Galahad. This is... You're on a space vessel known as the Aurora."
"Why- why is my body- you're lying again."
"I'm not. I mean this truthfully. Your body is... I saved what I could."
The hanged man had saved Galahad's life.
Galahad's world had mostly likely burned up in flames, the pendragons gone, their love lost to time.
And Galahad was still here, because the hanged man had saved him. "Why?" Galahad asked.
This question clearly caught Merlin off guard, though Galahad had no idea why. Surely it was a reasonable question to ask, when something so beautiful had salvaged what was left of Galahad, the mad preacher of Fort Galfridian? When a friend who'd only once answered his call, would suddenly turn around and take a mere sinful man along for a ride in a space vessel.
Galahad had never been in a spaceship before. All he knew was the station. The world beyond was mysterious and the subject of countless myths from the ancients, but not something he'd ever get to see . Not until he was dead. And yet here he was, alive somehow, with a body that wasn't quite his.
"I liked it... When you spoke to me," the hanged man explained, "I saw so much during the years I was there, and I heard so many voices even as my eyes were closed. But few people spoke to me like you, and no one as frequently," he withdrew his hand, and Galahad already missed the pressure that came with a certain kind of warmth despite the notable lack of it, "And I suppose I didn't quite like the idea of not being able to know you. See you more than once."
This left Galahad speechless, his mouth gaping as he stared at those amber eyes. He felt as if he was being pulled out of the darkness, out of the familiar wastelands, and into a beautiful amber ocean that shouldn’t exist.
What did his God make of this? Was this a part of their plan? To let Galahad survive the great damnation? It couldn’t be, because Galahad knew more than anyone that the great damnation was well-deserved, for himself as well. He was not one to doubt his God’s plan, not anymore, but how exactly did the hanged man fit into it?
Galahad had thought Merlin a prophet. A beautiful prophet, sent to guide Galahad on his quest towards his final fate, to guide Fort Galfridian to its final chance at salvation.
But maybe that wasn’t what the hanged man was. Maybe the hanged man was something not for heaven nor yet for hell, something dangerous and tempting. And what would that make Galahad, in the end? When his body mimicked that of the hanged man he’d spent so long admiring, even if the metallic limbs objectively suited Merlin much better and much more naturally. Galahad was terrified of the reflection briefly staring back at him from Merlin’s glistening metallic arm.
The hanged man was right, in the end. This would be far easier if Galahad rested. He had no idea why he was exhausted, as far as he was concerned he’d been sleeping for days, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to drift away and leave the world to figure out this series of terrifying contradictions.
The hanged man took Galahad’s hand again, and Galahad so desperately wanted to lean closer, but had long since learned to view wants as secondary to shoulds . “I’ll be here when you wake up, Galahad. Rest.”
And so, Galahad drifted off into a dreamless sleep with the touch of the hanged man near him, and a strangely beautiful mix of terror and comfort hiding deep within his chest, and his heart that never ceased.