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They were inexplicably different, and infuriatingly the same.
And irreparably broken.
They had always been so. For over a thousand years their equivalent forces had been tearing, rushing, floating, and dancing through the landscape of time, but they were indisputably different in the marks they left behind and the history they carried.
At times, these forces would meet: two rivers, mirror images of each other, would converge at a single place in time. Would the meeting be brief: two individuals passing by with very little exchange before separating again? Would one overtake the other? Or would they merge into one, and come through the experience changed but stronger?
“Galahad,” the man was mostly bald save some short white hair around his ears that met in the back of his head. His voice was almost cheerful as he sat in the chair across from the man he’d addressed. He smiled up at a young dark-haired waitress who placed a glass of water in front of him, “Thank you, my dear.”
The man called Galahad barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Lancelot.”
“Delightful little place, isn’t it?” He gestured vaguely to the elegant tea room decorated in light blues and silver. Their table by the window looked out onto a lush green landscape. “I found it about a hundred years ago or so. It hasn’t changed all that much. The woman who owned it was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. She took in children during the war,” he chuckled in remembrance, “had them working the place.”
In contrast to Lancelot, Galahad’s head was covered in full white hair that ran in waves he tried to push back. Where Lancelot exuded calm and false translucent - belying an undercurrent that could pull the strongest of swimmers under in a moment - Galahad was the opposite. His outward nature - clouded and intense gave testament to the dangers that resided below opaque waters.
Galahad’s voice held more sarcasm than was usually heard in the quaint little tea room, “Ah, yes, the joys of child labor. Such a shame that mortals passed so many laws to try and prevent it.”
Silence fell between them for a moment as the waitress approached, “Is there anything specific you gentlemen are wanting, or are you here for the full service?”
Lancelot smiled up at her, “Full tea, love.” He answered her next question before she could ask, “And a bottle of sparkling rose, for the table.”
“Of course,” she smiled back at Lancelot, “been here before?”
“A few times,” he answered with a smile that had charmed more women than he could even remember.
The waitress turned her attention to Galahad clearly expecting his response. “This is my first visit to this particular tea room.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. We’ve got the best scones in England.”
Galahad smiled gently, “Thank you. I look forward to trying them.”
The waitress smiled back at him, “I’ll be back in a minute with that rose.”
Galahad turned his attention back to Lancelot, “Do you intend on enlightening me on why you asked me here before we get to the scones?”
“It truly is a lovely little place. I wish that I could come more often.”
“If I agree with you, can we change topics?”
Lancelot glowered at him, the same glower as the man sitting in front of him. “You’ve no appreciation for the little things. Never have.”
A slow outward breath was the only sign that Galahad had taken incise with the comment. “To the point, if you would be so kind.”
The forced casualness of the situation was not lost on either man. They had done this dance for the entirety of their knowing one another. Resentment and bitterness and contempt had been held in their hearts for one another for as long as either could remember.
Lancelot remembered the waif entering into King Arthur’s court and sitting in Siege Perilous. This boy — this bastard of his — had been dubbed the greatest of the Knights of the Round Table. He was the Holy Knight, the one untempted by any darkness. He had resented the boy not just for this, but for the fact that he had never known he’d had a bastard until after said bastard was already well entrenched in the court.
Galahad remembered the noble knight whose dark eyes were like his own, piercing as they took in everything about him and judged him for it. It was not until then he’d learned that this man was, in fact, his father. He’d thirsted to prove himself, to earn the esteem of this father he’d learned he’d had. Over time, he’d come to realize that this was impossible and had grown to resent his father for casting such a large shadow he could not possibly escape.
“Can’t a father check on his son without hostile intentions?” Lancelot asked smoothly, glancing up briefly at the waitress and dazzling her with a smile before she could think too much on his words as she set down their tea tray and a bottle of rose. “Thank you, darling.”
She smiled back. “The food should be ready soon.”
When she walked away, Galahad replied with no small amount of hostility, “Not in my recollection.”
“I’ve no ill intent,” Lancelot insisted as he poured himself a glass of rose and made no move to offer it to the other man. It wasn’t as if he would accept anything other than tea anyway. “This is simply a check-in.”
“I will not join your cause.”
Lancelot took a long sip of rose before sighing as if it were the most delightful thing he’d ever experienced. “I didn’t have that expectation.”
Galahad’s eyes narrowed.
“Will you not drink your tea? I’ve not poisoned it or anything of the like.” He thanked the waitress when she brought the sandwiches. He turned and sighed wearily when Galahad had not made a move to touch his cup. “I’m aware you enjoy tea. That is why I had us meet here, after all.”
“I prefer to have tea with friends.”
Lancelot shrugged and picked up a sandwich. “More for me, I suppose, as I’m not one of your little friends.”
Galahad’s lips twitched downward as if they wanted to scowl, but he gave a sharp, sarcastic smile in return. “Nor are you one of my significant ones. Isn’t it fascinating how little you matter to those around you when you overindulge?”
Lancelot had always indulged even when he wasn’t supposed to. Food, drink, women. Oh, it was the women that got him into the most trouble even in his youth. First with Guinevere, which had ended in disaster, and then with any other woman regardless of their marital status. The man had received more death threats from irate husbands and belligerent fathers than any other man on earth.
“You’ve gone mad. The fiasco with the dragons proved that well enough, but I hadn’t thought you so idiotic as to try and pretend you cared about my well-being. Now, if you would get to the point.”
“Why did you accept my invitation then?” Lancelot tried to hide a smirk behind a teacup.
Galahad clenched his teeth for a moment before a sly smile tugged his lips upward. He didn’t like playing these games the way Lancelot did, but sometimes one had to fight fire with fire. “I saw Morgan the other day. She stopped by the Library.”
Lancelot’s cup rattled as he placed it on the saucer, but he showed no other sign of distress. “Did she? And how is the little witch doing?”
“She prefers sorceress now, actually. Witch has too much gender baggage.” Galahad almost reached for the cup of tea. Somehow making the older man uncomfortable relaxed him. It was familiar. It was how their world worked. “She said something big was coming. Mentioned the Loom of Fate. I don’t suppose you know what she meant by that?”
“It’s Morgan,” Lancelot waved a hand dismissively, “listening to her predictions is as unwise as listening to Merlin’s as we both know.”
Galahad could only incline his head to the side at the statement. Predictions of any sort tended to work as self-fulfilling prophecies, it was best not to hear them at all. “She said something else interesting, as well.”
Lancelot sighed, “You really should choose your friends with greater care.”
With no small amount of restraint, Galahad replied, “She advised Colonel Baird not to fear the villain, fear the hero. Which hero do you think she was referring to?”
Lancelot’s calm demeanor broke just slightly like a fish jumping suddenly from the water to catch a bug. Anger flashed in his eyes as his control slipped just slightly. The anger was directed not entirely at the words, but that they would be used against him this way. The insolence at his own methods being mirrored back at him.
Galahad almost grinned in victory but kept his smirk firmly in place as he watched the once great knight seeth from across the table. It was like watching an alligator angry that the approaching creature was too large to attack unless further provoked. And although he would never admit it Galahad enjoyed the feeling in a way that - had circumstances been different - probably would have made Lancelot proud.
With great effort, Lancelot forced his anger down below the surface. He smiled, taking a sandwich from the tiered tray, “Do you remember the stream that ran near the south wall of the castle?”
Galahad remained silent.
“We used to hold so many celebrations by that river. And in the winter we would go sliding on the ice,” he chuckled lightly. “Those were better times,” Lancelot lamented, and his eyes traveled to the window but seemed to look through the glass and into the past.
Galahad hesitated, “You and I remember those days differently.”
“Perhaps,” Lancelot turned back to face him, “nevertheless, those days were filled with wonder and magic. Some part of you must miss that. Must have enjoyed the rush of magic when the ley lines were reactivated.”
“Do apologize to our waitress for me that I won’t be staying for the scones.” Galahad made to stand.
“Why did you agree to come here? And without any Librarians or Guardians for backup?”
He’d asked himself that same question before he left. Why had he come? The invitation had been a simple handwritten note delivered to the Annex by a man in an expensive if ill-fitting suit. It provided a location, a time, and a simple request to tea from Lancelot. Nothing outright threatening. Yet, the very act of sending the invitation was suspicious.
He hadn’t told the Librarians or the Guardian where he was going. When they asked where he was taking the Back Door to he simply told them he was going to meet someone. He half expected them to try and follow him, so he’d taken a rather roundabout way to get here (and blocked the Door with a bit of magic so if they did follow him they’d have no place to go except back through the Back Door). Regardless, he was sure he hadn’t been followed.
And he didn’t need any sort of backup. Both he and Lancelot knew which was the better fighter if it had come to that. Really, Lancelot was the one who needed backup. Not that it would do him any good. So why hadn’t Lancelot brought someone or something just in case the occasion arose?
“Either answer the question and leave, or sit down.”
Galahad had forgotten that Lancelot’s voice could be sharp and quiet at the same time as his face smiled gently up at him.
That voice had been able to halt Galahad from the time he’d stepped foot into Camelot to the present day. He’d bent to its will more times than he cared to count — likely more than he could count. Lancelot held a power over him that he was unable to shirk. The man was once his leader, was his sire.
He was tired.
He was tired of living like this. Tired of the constant internal war. He had chosen his side over a millennia ago and he’d chosen it again and again and again. He’d chosen it at the Conclave and he would choose it again now.
“No. You don’t dictate my life anymore, Lancelot,” he quietly spewed like a dragon’s warning fire.
The rage that was hidden under hurt and sorrow reared up with such ferocity that he could see genuine fear flicker in the other man’s eyes at the sight of it.
Lancelot seemed to have forgotten that Galahad could also speak in as sharp a tone as he could and back it up when pushed. Forgotten that as patient and humble a man Galahad could be that he was a fearsome entity that had ravaged armies.
And in that moment Lancelot knew he had pushed too far. He could say nothing as his son towered over him.
“Should our paths ever cross again, I swear on the graves of our dead that I will not hold back,” Galahad hissed, stepping forward with fire and brimstone in his eyes. “I will cut you down just as I should have done centuries ago.”
Lancelot’s calculating eyes stared up at him, but that fear remained as he softly said, “I see.”
“Goodbye, Lancelot.”
He turned on his heel and marched away, anger and triumph fighting for dominance within his chest when he realized Lancelot didn’t follow.
He retook the circuitous route to the Library so that he’d have time to neatly tuck the rampant emotions away. And the emotions were rampant. Somehow he knew that his and Lancelot’s rivers through time had met and diverged for the final time.
His Librarians and Guardian needn’t know about this meeting. He had chosen them, had made the conscious decision to step in should Lancelot try to kill them.
Because if Lancelot managed to kill one of his, he would raze the hellfires of heaven upon him and do it with a smile on his face.
He entered the Annex with this conviction that only grew stronger as his heart softened at the sight of them waiting for his return. Each watched him with varying degrees of wariness and concern.
“I take it nothing’s happened since I left,” he said as he turned off the globe.
“The Clippings Book’s been quiet,” Eve admitted.
“Did you have a good meeting?” Cassandra asked, wide eyes staring up at him as if she was worried he’d not had a good time.
“It was productive,” he reassured.
“What'd you do?” Ezekiel asked, sharp eyes likely catching more than the rest.
“I had tea,” he answered simply as he walked to his desk. “Have we gotten correspondence from Santa yet? Gretchen said he'd sent something.”
“Not yet,” Jacob said from his place at the center table where he sorted through the mail, seemingly content with letting the subject drop.
Luckily no one pressed further despite his deflection. He thanked the heavens for little mercies such as this. It would not be comfortable to make effervescent declarations/confessions of loyalty. Telling his father as much had been enough.