Chapter Text
Mordred had spent enough time around Sir Lancelot - as much as anyone could, on the few occasions that the Queen’s Champion chose to grace the court with his noble presence - that he thought he knew what to expect of the youth with Lancelot’s eyes, who rode through the city gates one afternoon in late April. He only caught a glimpse of him, that first time, and striking though it was, said glimpse was brief enough that Mordred was able to fully forget about him for a while. There were much more pressing matters than the arrival of a boy who was certain to become a favorite of the King purely by virtue of his parentage. Their first real meeting was two weeks after, and he hadn’t been looking for Lancelot’s son at all. It was thanks to his brother that they were ever acquainted.
Gawain’s laughter reached across the practice yard, such that it was impossible for Mordred to pretend he hadn’t heard it. In recent years, slowly but with a very clear surety, the two of them had grown increasingly further apart. Where once they had been closer than twins - indeed, Gawain had been closer to his bastard half-brother than to his own twin, the irascible Agravaine -, now they barely spoke outside of necessity. It caused a twinge of envy and resentment toward whomever was the recipient of that effusive laughter: laughter that used to be his.
“Who were you with?” It came out like a demand, ragged and sudden, without his consent, when Gawain passed him by later that afternoon. His brother was nearly half a head taller than him though he was a full year younger; Mordred tried to make up for the height discrepancy by lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders, but it made no difference. He was slight of build, narrow in the shoulders and the waist, and had more in common physically with the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting than his own brothers-in-arms. Gawain stopped on his way, blinking owlishly. Morgause’s secondborn wasn’t precisely the most intelligent of the lot, but even so, he couldn’t have been faulted for his confusion in this instance.
“I’ve been with a lot of people today. Not in that sense, of course, God forbid, but - Mordred - I don’t understand?” One of the few things they still had in common was an inability to properly organize their words from brain to mouth. Mordred could be eloquent when he had to be, sometimes insidiously so, but he and his emotions were rarely on equal terms with one another. Gawain simply had trouble framing what it was he wished to say a majority of the time.
“This morning, in the practice yard. Someone must have been uproariously funny, to make you laugh so loudly.” Piece by piece, Mordred watched understanding dawn on Gawain’s broad features, and something like relief - or perhaps it was pity? hard to tell with Gawain sometimes - relaxed the tension around his mouth and in his shoulders.
“It was Galahad, Lancelot’s boy. I hadn’t meant to laugh at him, but he’s so serious about everything. A bit like you, really.” Mordred’s brow furrowed in consternation. He wasn’t serious about everything; he had a perfectly good sense of humor. It was simply that there were too few people these days who were worth laughing with. Perhaps it was likewise with this Galahad, he mused. Mordred had learned how to close his ears to idle court gossip (when one’s the bastard eldest of five brothers, one finds selective deafness very handy) so he knew precious little about Galahad at all. The fact that he was the bastard of Lancelot and Elaine of Corbenic was universally known, and was the extent of Mordred’s understanding.
“As you say,” he huffed, taking a bit longer to answer Gawain than he ought to have done. Gawain looked puzzled again, shrugged, and walked on. It didn’t bother him, since now he had a purpose to attend to. All in all, locating Galahad was not a difficult task: the first person he asked gave him good advice, and he found him on his knees in the palace chapel.
Now that he was able to take a proper look, Mordred thought that Galahad barely resembled Lancelot at all. His eyes, which Mordred remembered were most clearly his father’s, were squeezed shut in fervent prayer; the rest of him must have come from Elaine. They had that in common: Mordred mostly took after his mother, only taking from Arthur the spray of freckles that cluttered nearly every visible patch of skin and then some. He leant against the side of a pew, watching the hunched figure at his pious murmurings. He himself thought little of religion of any kind nowadays: all of it had failed him in some respect or another.
It didn’t take long for him to grow impatient.
“Are you reciting back the Bible? Because I’m fairly sure He knows what’s in it.” Galahad started and whipped about, half-kneeling still and looking too much like a frighted deer. Absolutely Lancelot’s eyes, but set into a much different face. His features seemed mismatched, with a nose too narrow and a mouth too broad; sharp, hollow cheekbones; and a heavy brow that, on closer study, also looked like it had been donated by Lancelot. His mousy hair was cropped so haphazardly that Mordred suspected he’d done it himself, without the benefit of a mirror. Although he was still on one knee, Mordred could tell that Galahad would be taller than him on standing, just like most everyone else.
“You’re the bastard.” For all that Mordred couldn’t decide if Galahad was attractive or not, there was no question whatsoever about his voice. It was pitched much lower than it looked like it ought to be, but that only made it more attractive to the ear. It was a voice clearly made for song, though without a doubt, the only songs it sang were hymns. He was so struck by it that, for a long moment, he forgot that he was supposed to be offended by the words it had made.
“That’s what they call me,” he replied eventually, sounding less perturbed than he wanted. By comparison, his own voice (which was called pretty, but more often than not in the same pejorative manner as was his face) was more akin to the bray of an ass. “Though I do have a name, too, if you’ll condescend to hear it.”
“I know your name. I know all about you. But before I speak of it, let us leave the church.” Galahad stood up, brushing invisible dirt from his knees, and pushed past Mordred with a purposeful stride that somehow lacked the pompousness that it would have carried with it on anyone else. Undeniably curious, Mordred followed. Again, he ought to have been offended, and this time he was, without a doubt, but it was outweighed by fascination. In this short space of time, he was positive that there was something uncanny about the son of Sir Lancelot, and he was determined to puzzle it out.
They walked quite a few yards in silence before they came to an abrupt stop. It was approaching evening now, and no one else was around, which was generally how Mordred preferred things.
“We’ve left the church, I think it’s safe to say my name without offending the ears of your God. Or did you just want an excuse to get me alone?” It was worth the crude joke to see Galahad turn red, from the tips of his ears down to his neck. Laughter bubbled up from his lips unbidden at the sight, eyes streaming, breath in short gasps between cackles. At length, he sighed, finally on the way to regaining his composure somewhat.
“Are you quite finished? That was entirely uncalled-for, and I would like an apology. I am not a sodomite, and to even insinuate -”
“Gawain was right. You are serious about everything. You can rest at ease: I have no interest in deflowering you, or anyone else for that matter, man or woman. There are a multitude of more interesting ways for me to spend my time. Now, you were about to tell me all the things you know about me that were unfit to be said within holy walls? I’m listening.”
He watched Galahad flounder, clearly frustrated and embarrassed at having been made sport of. He didn’t quite feel guilty, but it was a near thing. In the end, Galahad just shook his head and stayed silent, possibly realizing that he had nothing to say that wouldn’t make him a hypocrite. The lack of anything he could answer to brought his amusement crashing down, replaced with a sudden, sharp fury.
“That’s what I thought. You know as much about me as anyone else: I’m ‘the bastard’ and that’s enough for you, never mind that you’re a bastard yourself. I expect you’ll receive the accolade soon, too, though you’ve done nothing to earn it except you’re the right man’s byblow.” The bitterness wove through his words like a snake, though he knew that Galahad had done as little to deserve it as he had to deserve knighthood. If they spent any more time together, Galahad would learn that he was prone to such fits of rancor, and that it was not for him that they were meant.
“Perhaps so,” Galahad said after a space, far more patient than he had a right to be. Nothing at all like the startled creature in the church, or the mortified boy of moments ago, he seemed altogether removed from the tone of the conversation. It was unnerving. “I haven’t earned anything yet. But if the Good Lord sees fit to bestow upon me a gift, who am I to deny it? I have to go. Good night, Sir Mordred.”
It was like this that Mordred was left standing alone in a courtyard, the night growing steadily more complete, as he watched the retreating figure of Galahad until it disappeared from view.