Title: A Long Way
Character/s: Mordred, Galahad(OC)
Summary: In which two different sorts of assumptions occur
Word Count: 700
Author's Notes: I think I've been thinking too much about the legends...
Camelot is a long way from Heaven. In Camelot, though the streets are cleaner than many other cities, piss still runs down in the gutter and animals make themselves as comfortable as they can in the streets on market days. There is no adequate waste disposal system and the stink from the tanneries and the blacksmiths’ fires drifts over the city. Heaven, the Christians say, smells of roses. The roads are paved with white marble that glistens in the sunlight.
Mordred could never bring himself to believe in such a place. But Galahad did. Always the idealist. And, it appears at least, that Galahad is the one who was right.
The report came back with Bors, after the quest was over. Galahad is departed from this world. Gone, with not even a goodbye for Mordred. He sits in his rooms and he rails, against the world, against the quest that took the love he could never quite acknowledge from him. He misses Galahad, and he blames Arthur. Arthur, who couldn’t just leave things be, who had to find some entertainment for his knights. Though some entertainment it was, to kill so many who undertook the quest.
Most of all he blames Arthur for letting Galahad leave, not letting Mordred go with him, not letting them stay together so Mordred could keep him safe. So Mordred could stop him doing something so stupid.
He has gone to be with his God, they say. No death, no pain, just a disappearance from this world. One moment he was within reach, not matter how physically far from Mordred he was, and then the next.
Not even a body for Mordred to mourn. He finds himself on his knees in the Church sometimes, just to be where Galahad once was, to bring himself a little closer.
But it does no good.
Sometimes he thinks it would have been easier had he felt Galahad’s death. Were he able to feel, like the loss of a limb, the agony of his absence. But sometimes he forgets. Makes plans for when Galahad will return to Camelot. Private feasts and celebrations or some sort of gift he could give to him, all wrong, all jarring, even before he remembers that Galahad will never, ever be back.
Until the door to his chambers opens, and a hooded man walks in. His hands are the only thing about him that shows from under the fabric, callused and scarred. Mordred snaps at him, but he just walks closer.
And then Mordred thinks. Long ago, he’d enchanted that door to only let himself, Galahad or his servant enter without his permission.
His eyes flash to shield himself, because Galahad is dead and it isn’t his servant so the spell must have been broken.
But then the hood falls back, and the hands are held up in surrender, and the brown hair hits the light only a little more sun bleached than Mordred remembers.
“Mordred?” Galahad asks, his voice small.
Mordred throws himself out of the chair and over to Galahad, pushing him back to the bed and pinning him there, kissing him like Galahad is his air. Galahad moans a little, trying to hold him back just long enough to get speech out. Mordred nibbles at his jaw, and he begins.
“I tried to get word to you, but it can’t have reached-” he breaks off to groan his appreciation when Mordred finds a sensitive spot on his neck, “It’s better this way. We can be together like this, nothing is expected of me- Do you understand?”
Mordred doesn’t understand. Not now, when his senses are too flooded of Galahad after being starved for so long. Not now, when he finally has him back underneath him, almost unchanged and completely loved. But he will, in the days and the weeks and the years after, when Galahad leaves the glory and the fame and stays in the shadows of Mordred’s life, the darkest of the shadows, and makes them light and bright and welcoming again, and loves with all he has, for as long as he lives.
Of course, he’ll leave eventually. But he will never stop loving. And Mordred will neither.