#the way that gawain has nothing to be forgiven OF in lancelot's eyes. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

akampana · 3 years

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Prompt n.24 sounds very interesting. Arturia is a king, but also a knight. And the one thing a knight has by their side, is their trusted weapon...

But we know that sometimes, a weapon is not just a weapon. Sometimes its much more...

Right, Cu Alter?

24. “You will never lose me. I will always be right here beside you.”

Cu Alter x Arturia

One-shot, set in a world where Cú Chulainn and King Arthur exist in the same time period. Enjoy! Thanks for the ask!

___

A loud clang resounded within the stone confines of the throne room, and yet it was quiet compared to the storm raging hell outside, and quieter still to the turmoil that wracked King Arthur’s mind.

Tristan’s desertion was followed by those of a number of knights. The first crack in the glass foundation that kept Camelot’s flag flying high. The exposure of Lancelot’s affair, however, was the hammer that finally smashed it to smithereens. Now here she was left amongst the rubble, with an aggrieved Gawain, a conflicted Bedivere and the cold, dead body of poor Agravain, who fell victim to her excommunicated First Knight. Arturia did not know where Merlin was. Kay had left months ago with all his fortune. She needn’t be a genius to know he wasn’t coming back.

What the people demanded was revenge for King Arthur’s cuckolding: the hunt and execution of the treacherous French knight that fled to his homeland, to whom Arturia held no grudge. Her logic demanded she carry out the farce, but what remained of her sealed-up heart did not.

From this derived her conflict, which she wrestled in solitude, here at the glaringly empty Round Table that used to seat her comrades.

Pursue the man she’s forgiven or stay her hand? Give the people what they want or stand by her own beliefs?

Arturia flinched as cool metal brushed against her fingertips, her startled eyes climbing to meet orbs the color of the wine she just spilled.

“King—!” the glare he sent her stilled her tongue at once, his inhuman crimson eyes glowing in the dim candlelight.

“Cú,” she corrected herself, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. Her thinner night garbs did little to hide the secret of her sex. In the dead of night, she wasn’t expecting any visitors. Especially not at the Round Table, which was devoid of all life at this hour.

“Has your fire gone out for the night?” she said, twisting her father’s silver ring around her thumb as she spoke, “I will arrange for a servant to assist you at once—”

“Forget it,” interrupted the brutal warrior, reclining himself into Lancelot’s former seat as he poured his own goblet. “Can’t sleep in all this racket.”

She knew instinctively he didn’t mean the storm. Regretful green eyes inspected the mess in the corner, wasted wine that was a victim to her ire. Briefly, she wondered how the foreign king could hear her from all the way in the east wing, but it was hardly important. Cú was already a man of few words. He wouldn’t waste any on small talk.

“Yer gonna chase the bastard, aren’t ya? It’s what yer subjects want,” came his raspy declaration, cutting in through the silence just before a crack of lightning illuminated the room. Their eyes clashed in the glaring white light, blood orbs against evergreen.

“I can...I cannot deny them the justice they expect of me,” she answered, grief lacing the small voice that barely carried itself through the thunder.

“So you deny yerself. Just like you’ve done all yer life. Ain’t that right, Arturia?”

It took King Arthur a moment to fully grasp what had come out of his lips. Her breath began to labor as she wracked her brain for an excuse. Panic settled into her bones faster than the snow outside seeped into the grass. Before she could formulate anything, however, she felt Cú’s fingers encircle her wrist.

“Relax. I ain’t telling no one. Weapons don’t talk, remember?” he soothed, as much as an emotionless killing machine could, anyway.

“You are not just a weapon. We have been over this.” Arturia shot back, momentarily forgetting the source of her stress.

As her frantic breaths began to still, she managed a small question. “How long have you known?”

His claws released their grip, lamenting the small indents they left on her skin. “Since ya wasted yer fourteenth seat on a foreign king that once would have torn yer land asunder.”

Cú reached past her arms, lifting the wool cloak from the short king’s chest. Sure enough, he now had his confirmation, a modest chest that was so cleverly hidden behind her armor plates.

“‘Tis of little consequence to me,” he voiced, replacing the garment she pulled so closely around herself. She watched him as he gave her another glass of wine, trying to discern if he spoke the truth.

“I don’t bloody care about what’s between yer legs, the same way you never cared for this fucking tail that trails behind me. All I need to hear are yer orders,” her allied king continued, flicking away a loose strand of hair with the scaly appendage.

“If ya wanna kill Lancelot, Arturia, I’m with ya. Point me in the way of France. But if not, then gimme some other fucking command. I don’t give a shit, as long as it’s what ya want.”

The King of Knights pursed her lip, still unaccustomed to hearing her real name from one who wasn’t supposed to know her secret. Especially when the one who used it was someone she did not expect: the displaced King of Connacht, who was more frequently an envoy serving at her court as an allied Warrior of the Round Table than the ruler of his late queen’s territory. The latter job, Cú had delegated to Fergus, as the “Mad” King had chosen to dedicate his freedom to the one that liberated him.

Arturia shook off his crass manner of speech. After nearly a decade of having him by her side, she’d grown accustomed to his language, even if he was frequently scoffed at by Agravain and Gaheris when the siblings still lived.

The reminder of her knights’ deaths led her gaze back to her table and its empty seats. There were so few that still belonged to the living. Some of them were never to be filled again. Arturia turned to her right, to where Lancelot once sat, meeting ruby eyes instead of onyx ones.

“Then how about this,” she suggested, imprinting the Irish King’s face into her memory the same way she’d done for the rest of her knights. Slowly, she slipped off the silver ring she’d been fiddling with and slid it onto his pinky.

“Return to your homeland with as much gold as you can carry and my eternal gratitude. Take a fourth of the cattle. Reward each of those in your service with one and keep the rest to enrich Connacht.”

Thunder raged on outside the castle walls, but it was the silence of the king before her that unnerved Arturia to a ridiculous extent. For while neither were as talkative as her remaining nephew, the quiet had never been quite so tense.

“The hell?” Cú finally asked, glaring at the Pendragon ring with disgust instead of honor. “You’d have me run? Do ya think me a coward—”

“—I think you are a king that should not die for the flag of a kingdom that is not his,” she cut him off, grasping his hand before he could tear her father’s ring off. “You asked for an order. This is it.”

Cú Chulainn’s claws dug into the collar of her cloak, as he pulled her to his face, a menacing look upon his countenance.

“An order?” he grunted harshly, “Or a feeble attempt at driving me away before I can leave you?”

Arturia’s struggles suddenly ceased, her limbs going limp before the foreign king finally let go of her clothes. The chairs screeched as each ruler fell back onto them, the older one far more irate than the younger.

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Cú murmured, his voice soft as his fist thudded onto the circular table. “Ya’ve been an absolute tool since that depressing redhead turned in his rank, and some thoughtless fools followed. Then ya let Lancelot leave, don’t even bloody try to tell me he got away.”

Arturia turned her head, hiding her eyes behind her hay-colored hair. It mattered not how her charisma could sway crowds, her tongue knew not how to lie. Green eyes searched the empty room, counting the few chairs that would be occupied tomorrow. Her sister’s remaining sons’, Bedivere’s and...oh, how very few.

Arturia rested her hand on his fist, urging him to keep the heirloom as proof of the great service he gave Camelot.

“Go home, Cú. I cannot...I cannot lose you, too.” the British king sighed, getting used to the chill of solitude. She’d always known that a life as king was a life alone. At least with Cú, she could choose the day he left, instead of spending her time counting the days till he made his exit, just like her knights, her wizard, her brother.

“Don’t ask something so fucking stupid then go looking so damn pitiful,” he responded, flipping their hands and dragging her into his space till her lips touched his.

There was a reason Cú had stayed, pawning off Connacht to someone else that deserved it more and joining Camelot’s court instead. Not only had Arturia broken the geis that kept him tied to Medb, but she also gave him purpose.

Cú never spoke of it, but he remembered their first meeting like it was yesterday.

It was on the battlefield, back when he was still bound by geis to serve another mistress. Medb, the sly vixen, had tricked him into her service, forcing him into the frontlines till he’d slain every single one of his former comrades.

Bathed in the blood of his friends, the red clouding his vision, the man who was once Ulster’s proudest warrior was no more. His valiant face was replaced by a monstrous visage, his armaments were stained black. Upon his head sat a crown of thorns, forced onto his head by a queen who knew nothing but chaos.

Before long, the name he was proud to take up had been given new meaning. He was no longer Ulster’s guard dog, but Medb’s rabid hound, who sunk his teeth into anything and everything that so much as irked the devilish queen. Cú Alter, she called him, now that she’d bent him to her tastes. Cú Alter, a fitting name to a warrior forced to tarnish his own title.

As the bodies piled up around him, no rhyme nor reason for their slaughter, Cú began to see himself in a darker light, grasping at straws for some sort of purpose behind all the mindless killing.

He must have been a monster. A monster that massacred all that stood in his way regardless of honor and glory. Yes, that must have been it, he convinced himself, finally submitting to the dark cage that his hated loathsome queen had put him under.

As the black chains dragged him deeper and deeper into his own personal hell, he took up his spear once again. It lashed out whenever he touched it, staining itself dark till the vibrant red he used to wield was nowhere to be found. Once more, to the battlefield, said Medb. Once more, he tore across it with a godlike ease.

Then suddenly the cursed spear collided with its match, a sword of shining light that glowed as bright as its wielder. He remembered the moment so clearly, his breath hitching at his throat as his strikes were pushed back, the wind pressure whipping his hood out of his face. His heart pounded with adrenaline as his gaze fell down to his opponent: a tiny little thing, so small they should have fallen to his last strike, but there they still stood, defiant green eyes staring up at him with no fear.

Rage overtook his figure, fueling his strikes as he tried to cast the small warrior back, but all his efforts were met with equal force.

“My name is Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot.” a small voice, too fragile to have been a man’s, rung out across the battlefield. Spear met sword once again, pausing in their dance.

“Your name, knight.”

Even though he stayed on his feet, it was like the king had pulled the rug from under him. Their eyes locked once more, and he saw himself within the green irises, staring mouth agape at his opponent.

His name? His name? How long had it been since he’d been asked for his name? How many foes had he slain since then? How many nameless faces had he sent to the grave? How could this person, this puny king, take one look at his monstrous form and face him like a knight regardless?

“Cú Chulainn,” came his raspy voice, which too often had been used to roar like a beast. It felt foreign on his lips, which had ‘til then spoke nothing but bitter resentment.

That day, Arturia saw more than the monster. More than the weapon he’d disillusioned himself into being. Cú followed the king after Medb’s defeat, intending to find some proof that it was all a fluke, but it never happened. Arturia never treated him or her knights like a weapon or a tool. Arturia treated him like an equal.

And now, years spent the line, she was robbing him of that feeling, sending him away with glory and riches. If he were younger, he’d have jumped at the prize of heroic fame, but that was no longer what he wanted. What he wanted was to be right here, right next to the person that made him feel human again.

As their lips parted, Cú sent a glare through the empty seats of each of the deserters. He’d never understand how they could leave their king behind. He’d met his fair share of monarchs— hell, he technically was one—and even as belligerent a person he was, he wouldn’t wield his spear for any other.

“You will never lose me,” Cú declared in between rough kisses. “I will always be right here beside you. Understand?”

The Irishman returned her ring as she nodded, breathless, into his shoulder. She had one. Even if the world were to turn on Arturia, she still had one. One that would stay forever beside her.

Beside her...

Beyond Cú, the shorter king saw the backrest of Lancelot’s former seat, and finally, she knew just what to do to settle the people and follow her heart at the same time.

“Disregard my previous orders. Heed this instead…”

As the words left his king’s lips, Cú Chulainn proudly grinned.

#and then the two of them make sure the battle of camlann never happens #the end #hahahaahh #akampana asks #love confession prompts #tysm for the ask!#cuturia #cu alter x arturia #cutoria #cu alter #arturia pendragon #artoria pendragon #arturia #artoria #saber #berserker #fgo #fate

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mythologyfolklore · 3 years

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We're adopting you, sign the papers - introduction

(A/N: A modern AU for Arthurian mythology, where Arthur is a temporarily blind pop star, the Knights of the Table Round are his band, body guards and friends. Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot are in a romantically supportive polyamorous relationship (there are not enough threesomes out there). Morgan Le Fay doesn't dislike Arthur, she's just not so fond of Guinevere (doesn't hate her either, though). Mordred (Arthur's nephew, not his son) is a scarred teenager with abusive parents, who has a parental relationship with Arthur and Gwen. Also, Morgan and the Lady of the Lake are still Fae and Merlin is now one too, because why not, and Avalon exists. And Mordred is transgender. Deal with it.)

In a big mansion near the Welsh town of Newport, Lancelot was standing at the hearth, cooking and making tea for Arthur and Guinevere, who were out for groceries. No thanks to the Table Round, the previously stuffed fridge had gone empty within less than a week, so his two lovers had gone out to refill the supplies. And Arthur's half-sister Morgan was coming along to help, because there was going to be a LOT of stuff to be carried.

Lancelot silently prayed that Gwen and Morgan would not engage into a spat like they did almost EVERY TIME THEY WERE TOGETHER!!!

The water boiled and the Frenchman poured three separate cups, Darjeeling for Arthur, peppermint for Guinevere and coffee for himself. Also a glass of vodka for Morgan, because nothing cheered the crazy, headstrong Fae up like hard alcohol (she didn't get drunk easily either, so Lancelot wasn't too concerned).

Just as Lancelot had set the table in the living room, someone rang at the door. He frowned; there was no way they could be back so quickly.

“Coming!”, the brunet Frenchman called out, before setting down the tablet and going to answer the door. One the way he picked up his gun; one could never know if it wasn't some stalker here to creep on Arthur or Guinevere. Or him, for that matter.

But when he looked through the spyhole, he sighed in relief and opened the door to reveal a flaxen-haired teenage boy with silvery eyes, who was wearing an over-sized grey hoodie and worn-out jeans and looked like he had run the whole way here.

“Hello, Mordred”, he greeted kindly, but his smile vanished instantly, when he saw the kid's state: his face was flushed from running, he clearly couldn't breathe and was on the verge of passing out and his eyes were red and filled with grief.

“Hey … Lancelot”, he gasped hoarsely, “Is … uncle …?”

“Come inside first”, Lancelot said and supported the boy's weight with one arm. “Warm up and catch your breath, before you faint on me!”

Mordred was too out of breath to protest or agree. He just let the older man help him into the nearby kitchen, only to collapse before they even neared the table.

“Merde!¹”, Lancelot cursed and laid the teenager down on the floor.

“I'm really sorry for this”, he apologised, then stripped the younger of his hoodie and shirt, then undid the bandages around his chest (bandages! Why was the boy not wearing a binder?!), before administering first aid.

At last Mordred's eyes fluttered back open.

“What …”

“You fainted!”, Lancelot snapped – and instantly regretted it, when he saw the other wince. He sighed and continued more gently: “Pardon. I mean, you collapsed and fainted, because you couldn't breathe. Come on. I'll help you into the living room and you can lie down on the couch.”

Lancelot had to help him put his shirt back on, because Mordred was still a bit too out of it. Then he helped him into the living room and onto one of the couches, then folded the boy's hoodie and placed it on the table.

“Stay here and breathe deeply”, he told Mordred, “I'll be back.”

And hurried back into the kitchen, this time to make the other some hot chocolate, heat up the tea for Arthur and Guinevere and gather his own nerves and thoughts.

This was the third time this week that Mordred had run away from home. It was nothing uncommon (unfortunately) and often Mordred's older brother Agravaine would be with him, when things became too much at their parents' home.

Lot and Morgause Orkney led one mess of a family life. Lancelot didn't know details, but it had to be awful. When their eldest son Gawain had left home, he'd taken Gareth and Gaheris with him (they had been nine and seven at the time). But he hadn't been able to take Agravaine and Mordred with him too and neither had forgiven him for leaving them behind.

The two never specified, what happened at home.

Lancelot wished Mordred and Agravaine would trust them enough to tell, but to pressure the boys into doing so would do no good.

He sighed and returned back to the living room to bring the boy his hot chocolate.

Mordred smiled just a little bit, when he accepted the cup.

“Arthur is out shopping with your aunts Gwen and Morgan, they'll be back soon”, Lancelot informed the flaxen-haired boy, who nodded in acknowledgement.

“Until then”, the Frenchman continued and put a chair next to the couch, “you and I will have a little talk, jeune homme.²”

Mordred tensed up, clearly afraid. It made Lancelot's heart crack a little.

“Easy, mon cher³”, he cooed. “I'm not angry. It scared me a bit, when you suddenly dropped back there, but I'm not angry. I promise.”

Mordred relaxed and finished his hot chocolate.

“Still though. We need to talk about your bandages.”

“I …”

“Listen, I know you have … uhm, what's the English term for it?”

“Gender dysphoria?”, Mordred supplied.

“Oui! That! Anyway, I won't pretend to know how that feels like. I can imagine that your breasts make you uncomfortable, but … bandages?! Sacré, Mordred, mais á quoi pensais-tu?!⁴”

“… English please?”

Lancelot sighed in frustration; sometimes his brain refused to supply even the simplest English phrases or words, so he'd say it in French instead. He took a deep breath to sort his mind and remember the translation.

When it came to him, he tried again: “I said: Dammit, Mordred, jus what were you thinking?! Surely you must know that there are binders for that and you use bandages to flatten your chest?! That's dangerous! I have seen the scars where they cut into your flesh! They were so tight they cut off your air supply too! You're lucky I knew CPR, because an ambulance wouldn't have made it in time! You could have suffocated, Mordred! Are you aware of that?!”

The flaxen-haired boy let out a small whimper.

Lancelot sat next to him on the couch. Then he hugged the younger tightly and they both cried.

After they had calmed down, Lancelot gave Mordred a pack of tissues to wipe his face.

“I will make us both some tea”, he said. “Chamomile is good for the nerves and we need it. Do you want more hot chocolate?”

Mordred nodded, smiling. “Yes. And thank you, Lancelot. You're an amazing uncle.”

Lancelot couldn't help but grin like an idiot.

It was nothing new, that Mordred and his siblings called him “uncle”, but being reminded that he was seen as part of the family felt good every time.

At first the children of Morgause had been apprehensive towards this outsider. But after seeing his loving and functional relationship with their uncle and aunt-in-law and how genuinely he cared about them all like they were his own children, they had quickly warmed up to him. And before he had known it, he was part of the family. One day Mordred's oldest brother Gawain (who was only twelve years Lancelot's junior) had just strode up to Lancelot and declared, that he was their uncle now and there was nothing he could do about it. The younger four Orkney brothers had followed suit (it was one of the few things they all unanimously agreed upon) – to their uncle Arthur's great delight and their parents' chagrin.

Lancelot gave Mordred another brief hug and went to make more tea and chocolate.

With chagrin he noted, that his coffee and Arthur's and Guinevere's tea had got cold and he had to warm the latter two up for the second time (his coffee could stay cold, he didn't mind that). Oh well, at least the stew hadn't burned, while it had been left by itself.

As he came back into the living room, he saw that Mordred was reading one of his uncle's books.

“What are you reading?”

“A collection of poems by William Blake”, Mordred replied. “I want to get better at reading Braille, for uncle Arthur.”

“That's sweet of you. He'll appreciate it.”

Arthur had gone blind ten years prior and hired Lancelot for help. They had become friends quickly. But then Lancelot and Guinevere had fallen for each other, complicating things. After a year of secret and shameful pining, they had chosen to come clean in front of Arthur – both of them loving him too much to want to go behind his back. To their surprise he had taken it well, especially after Guinevere had assured him that she loved them both equally. That was how they had ended up in a polyamorous relationship. Along the way Merlin and Morgan had offered to magically restore his eyesight, but Arthur had made clear, that he didn't want to rely on their magic to fix everything. Instead he had adjusted to his blindness, acquired books in Braille and learned to read them. But he was going to have an eye surgery in a few months and hoped that soon he'd be able to see his wife again and “get to know Lancelot's colours”, as he'd put it.

Back to the story, Lancelot had just turned off the stove and Mordred had struggled through the Auguries of Innocence⁵, when they heard the front door open and close, two women's voices bickering and the next moment three people came into the room, each of them carrying two heavy, over-stuffed shopping bags.

First a tall woman with purple eyes and purple extensions in her long raven hair, clad in black from head to toe and with an air of mystery around her. That was Morgan Le Fay.

Then a petite woman with auburn hair and brown eyes, who was struggling with her bags. That was Guinevere.

And finally a stocky man with short flaxen hair (just like Mordred's), who evidently had no problem with the heavy bags, but clearly relied on the voices of the two women to orientate himself.

“We're back~”, Arthur announced.

Lancelot laughed: “Bienvenu⁶. I just finished dinner, so bring the stuff into the kitchen and sit down with us.”

Arthur immediately listened up. “Us?”, he echoed.

Now Mordred quietly spoke up: “Hello.”

The older man beamed: “Mordred! What a nice surprise! What are you doing here?”

“'Sup, nephew!”, Morgan said flatly, though her eyes betrayed her pleasant surprise.

Guinevere greeted the boy with a smile.

Mordred smiled weakly and waved back, but apparently didn't want to speak. So Lancelot waited, till they all had stored the food, then chose to brief Arthur on the situation: “He came about half an hour ago and looked like a complete mess, but he didn't tell me what the matter was, so I made him some hot chocolate.”

The boy only lowered his head, sighed and hid his face behind his long and messy flaxen hair.

Arthur stopped smiling, felt his way over to where his nephew's voice had come from and found him, carefully feeling down his arms and crouching down before him.

“What happened, Mordred?”, the blind man asked concerned, “You're so quiet. Who hurt you?”

Mordred mumbled something that sounded like: “My father.” Then he bit his lip, obviously trying to hold back a sob.

Now Morgan stepped forward, her brows furrowed, but her eyes soft with concern.

She knelt before him and asked him to show her his arms.

Lancelot wanted to object, as it was obvious that the teenage boy didn't want to do as she said, but there was no arguing with Morgan Le Fay.

Her nephew hesitated, before rolling up his sleeves, revealing direly bruised and scratched arms. Guinevere looked deeply disturbed and hurried to get a first aid kit to tend to the bruises and cuts.

Mordred winced, as his aunt-in-law applied the disinfectant to the sore wounds. Once she had finished cleaning them, she allowed Morgan to magically heal them.

“There”, the Fae said. “Can't do anything about the psychological hurt though, that's old man Merlin's thing. Shit, Mordred, what did your father do to you?!”

“I …”, the boy swallowed, “… he hit me with a chair. Kicked me some. Choked and punched me … called me things …” He trailed off.

“Does this happen a lot?”, Arthur questioned, frown increasing.

“… Yes.”

“And your mother doesn't intervene?”

“Never.” A sniffle. “She thinks it's right … that he disciplines us, my brother and me.”

“Where is Agravaine anyway?”

“He's staying over at one of his friends”, Mordred told his uncle. “I have to call him later and tell him I'm here.”

“The phone is all yours”, Arthur offered and his nephew mumbled a thank you.

Then Lancelot asked tentatively: “What about the cuts? Why did you do this to yourself?”

“…”

“Sweetie”, Guinevere spoke gently. “It's awful enough that your parents hurt you. Why do you feel like you have to hurt yourself too?”

“…”

Lancelot felt his heart crack.

He had known that it was bad, but he never would have imagined that it was this bad! What more happened at Mordred's “home”, that he was too ashamed and Agravaine too proud to mention? How long had they gone through this and none of the four adults here had known?!

Guinevere sighed sadly: “Why didn't you tell us sooner?”

“Because I … I …”

The rest was cut off by a whimper and Mordred curled in on himself, sobbing hysterically. Arthur embraced his nephew loosely, mindful of his state. Guinevere, Lancelot and Morgan made it a group hug.

They waited until he had calmed down, before letting go.

Arthur cleared his throat: “I think that's enough questions for today. Either way you're staying here, Mordred. I know you're not comfortable with hiding away here, but we're not letting you go back there. I will not stand for that. Not with how terrible people they are. One should expect that Morgause – my own sister! – would've had the common sense and decency to dump that scumbag and take you with her. But no, she just stands by and lets him hurt you and your brother in the worst ways possible. That's unforgivable. You deserve better, Mordred. I promise, you do.”

Mordred sighed shakily. Clearly he wasn't believing it.

Lancelot deduced, that the boy had been made to believe the opposite for pretty much his whole life, that his parents had drilled into him, that he was worthless, useless and whatnot. Agravaine likely had to deal with the same shit.

This was wrong, so terribly wrong.

Family was supposed to be a safe haven, loving, nurturing and supportive. Not … this.

The Frenchman felt his blood boil and it took a lot of self control not to show in Mordred's presence just how angered he was.

Instead he took a deep breath and stood back up. “It's dinner time. We're having stew. Later you can call your brother and we'll give you a room where you can sleep. You must be tired. We also should find you some spare clothes, since you had none with you.”

The boy shuffled awkwardly at the reminder, that he had run away from his parents' home without thinking to pack spare clothes.

“We'll worry about that later”, Arthur decided. “Personally, I'm starving!”

“As usual!”, Morgan scoffed.

“Oh shut up, you eat more than I do!”

“Hey, magic takes a lot of energy! I need to eat as much as possible to keep my magic and body functioning!”

“Excuses! You just don't want to admit, that you have a black hole for a stomach!”

“You take that back!”

“Never!”

Guinevere chuckled: “When you two are done, let's sit down and eat already, before dinner gets cold.”

Later, after Morgan had washed the dishes (meaning she had magicked them clean and levitated them back into the cupboards), Guinevere showed Mordred one of the guest rooms.

“One of your cousins was here for a visit last weekend”, she said and handed him pyjamas. “These are Yvain's. He's your age and currently at boarding school, so you can wear his spare clothes for now. You take a nice, relaxing bath and get some rest. Tomorrow we will get you new clothes. The ones you wear are atrocious.”

“And good binders”, Morgan added, “Lancelot told us about the bandages and you gotta stop. We'll find some binders that won't cut off your air supply at the slightest physical activity. What do you say?”

Mordred swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, smiling weakly.

“Sounds good”, he mumbled.

Guinevere smiled gently and gave him a hug, before handing him the phone. Then she and Morgan left to give him privacy, while he talked to his brother.

Mordred took a deep breath, before dialling Agravaine's mobile phone number.

A few anxious seconds later, a gravelly voice answered the phone: “Hi, uncle Artie. What's up?”

“Aggie, it's me.”

“Momo? What are you doing at uncle's place?”

“I …”

Three seconds of trying to come up with an answer were too long, apparently.

Agravaine started freaking out: “Mordred, what happened?! Are you okay!? Are you hurt?! Wait, of course you are, that's why you're at our uncle's place! Shit, answer me, what's wrong?!”

“Bro.”

“Are Artie, Gwen and Lance taking care of you? Are you in pain? Who hurt you?! I will fucking kill-”

“Agravaine!”

“What?!”

“Calm down. I ran away, but now I'm safe at our uncle's home. Our uncles and aunts fixed me up.”

Mordred heard Agravaine sigh: “Alright. But still, what happened?”

He was hesitant, but he also knew, that he couldn't lie to his older brother.

“Father happened. He got mad and beat me up.”

For a few seconds, there was silence.

Then: “He whaaaaat??? That's it, I'll murder him! … My friend here says he'd help me hide the body and get rid of the evidence.”

“Aggie, no! He isn't worth going prison for murder! And our uncles and aunts promised, that I won't have to go back there and neither will you. They'll sue him, Arthur said.”

“… Fiiine. Say hi to them from me.”

“Will do.”

“Love you, little bro.”

“Love you too. I'll get some rest. You and your friend have fun.”

“Thanks, bye. I'll come by tomorrow.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Mordred hung up and went to return the phone.

He was looking forward to a warm bath and a good night's sleep.

1) "Merde" - French: "Shit!" 2) "jeune homme" - French: "young man" 3) "mon cher" - French: "My dear" 4) "Sacré ... mais á quoi pensais-tu?!" - French: "Damn it ... what were you thinking?!" 5) The Auguries of Innocence is a moralistic poem by William Blake that was published after his death. 6) "Bienvenu." - French: "Welcome."

A big thanks to @saemi-the-dreamer for her help with the French. <3

#arthurian mythology #king arthur #lancelot #guinevere #morgan le fay #mordred #agravaine #tw: child abuse #tw: self harm #tw: gender dysphoria

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akilice · 3 years

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just a saber x guinevere au

Guinevere cursed her luck.

What are the odds of the weather turning sour right when Artoria asked her to ride with her out of nowhere?

On top of that, they were now stuck together hiding from the rain.

Making a run for it to the castle would end up in a disaster, so she would have to endure the awkward silence.

Guinevere sighed, and rubbed her arm. She should've dressed better just in case.

Well, too late to regret it now.

"Are you cold?" Artoria asked her. And without waiting for an answer, she took off her cape, and rested it on her wife's shoulders.

Guinevere froze, not out of cold, but surprise at the gentle action.

Somehow, this made her feel worse.

She moved closer, and wrapped the cape around them both. Artoria gave her a questioning gaze, but she only looked away.

"You will get cold too." She muttered.

"Thank you."

They stood in silence again.

Guinevere stole glances at her 'husband', trying to read any sign of emotions. Her poker face was too good and it frustrated her.

Her eyes however, seemed distant.

Not the usual distant, but the tired kind.

She sighed.

"I'm sorry." Guinevere said, pulling the cap closer. "For slapping you." She winced. It was not her finest moment.

She was so angry, and so scared, knowing that Artoria meant every word.

Knowing that Artoria was slipping away.

When she received no response, she turned to her 'husband', who gave her a surprised look.

"...Artoria?"

Artoria blinked.

"Ah. All is forgiven." She said, before touching her cheek. "It did hurt."

Guinevere frowned.

"I am so sorry, that was out of line."

"Please do not do it again, you hit harder than any of my knights." Artoria's voice came out as both teasing and concerned, and for the first time in days, Guinevere laughed.

She then reached out and gently rested her palm on Artoria's cheek. "I'm really sorry." She insisted, unconsciously tracing her thumb on her face. "And.. I didn't mean what I said. I don't hate you. I couldn't bear to hear you talk about your death."

"Do you fear my death, my queen?" Artoria asked softly, and Guinevere paused.

"I do."

She didn't know what it was. Perhaps the fact they were so close, or the fact Artoria placed her hand on hers, keeping it in place.

Or perhaps calling her her queen while they were alone made her heart skip.

Whatever it was, Guinevere moved without thinking, and kissed Artoria.

She expected her to push her away, but instead, her 'husband' placed her arm on her waist, and pulled her close.

Guinevere couldn't love Artoria. Their marriage was fake, existing only to keep appearances.

So why was her heart racing this way?

Did it ever beat this loudly when she kissed Lancelot? Did she ever feel this warm?

There was no guilt as she kissed Artoria, no feelings of fear, or worry.

Only safety.

No. Guinevere did not love her. Surely there had to be another explanation.

She was the first to pull away, panicking over what she has done, but despite her attempt to escape, Artoria still had her in her arms.

"That was out of line. I am sorry." She spoke quickly, cursing herself for what she has done.

This was a loveless marriage. It has been for a decade. Nothing would change now.

It was useless-

"Guinevere." Artoria spoke firmly, yet her eyes were vulnerable. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

"What...?"

Artoria took a deep breath.

"Is it possible for you to love me?"

What?

"I don't quite follow."

The hand on her waist loosened.

"Is it possible for you to love me? Not as a facade or an act. Can you find it in your heart to do so?"

Artoria stared at her, expecting an answer, yet Guinevere could not find any. Not when she was still trying to make sense of this.

"I... why are you asking me this?" She asked instead, gently pushing her away. "Why now?"

Her 'husband' remained silent. Her eyes conflicted.

"The fate of Britain has been prevented. If you are worried about Lancelot, I already cut my ties with him." She explained, feeling cold again and bitter. There was no other possible explanation, so she attempted to create a distant, the only fitting thing for them.

"Please wait!" Artoria's panicked voice stopped her, and before she realized it, she was pulled into a tight hug. "Please listen to me."

"Artoria?" At this point, she stopped trying to make sense of this situation.

"I know that it has changed, but that is not my reason." Artoria tightened her grip. "I have always wished for your happiness, ever since our wedding, but I could only push you away." She whispered the last part, and she wished she could see her wife's face, to understand what she was feeling or thinking. "I could not tell you. I do not know how to be human."

The queen never pretended to understand her husband, or perhaps she never tried to. Perhaps she gave up at some point on trying to reach someone who was never there.

However, right now she could not stop herself from hugging back.

She did not understand, but she wanted to try.

"That still doesn't answer my question." She stated. "Didn't you want us to keep an act?"

"I did not know my heart was capable of feeling. I could not promise to be here when I had to be perfect. A perfect king cannot feel."

"You can never be a perfect king then." Guinevere sighed, burying her face in her 'husband's shoulder. "You feel too much. You feel for everyone, while depriving yourself of what you want. It made me angry."

"I'm sorry."

"It made me angry to see you beaten down and hurt." It was her turn to grab onto Artoria as tightly as she could. "I am your queen. You should rely on me."

"I know."

"Then why didn't you?" It came out as a desperate whisper.

Artoria pulled away, and Guinevere was suddenly scared that she has gone too far, that Artoria would hide away again, and wear a mask.

"I'm afraid I could not burden you... for I have fallen for you, my queen."

Oh.

Guinevere could not answer right away. She thought of the past decade, looking for any indication.

She was still fond of some of her first memories with Artoria. She was more human, more open. She was horrible at dancing with men, yet was graceful with women. Something she used to complain about often.

Over the years she began to harden, but Guinevere could recall some things. She could recall how Artoria would press her lips together whenever Gawain served something, dreading his meals.

She could remember the times she would check on her whenever she was sick, and would ask her to rest, before disappearing again, and how in the next morning, she would find flowers in her bedroom.

She could also remember the fear and exhaustion whenever Artoria was on a battle.

And how could she forget the pain she felt when she fell into a deep sleep, with no sign of waking up.

"I can love you." She answered, her blush betraying her casual tone. "I think it's possible... but I have a few conditions."

Artoria, who turned to her hopeful, ended up giving her a wary look.

"Conditions?"

"Yes. For one, take better care of yourself." Artoria opened her mouth to protest. "Two! Don't you die on me, if you leave me alone I will haunt you in the afterlife."

There was a pause.

"Why do I sense a thr-"

Three!" Guinevere smiled and moved closer. "You have to make up for ten years' worth of kisses."

It was a ridiculous condition, and she was still confused about her feelings, but it was worth seeing the blush on her husband's face.

"Wha- Guinevere!" Artoria protested. "Why are you like this?"

"I have to be difficult and stubborn to marry King Arthur."

"That is... fair."

"And I want to confirm my feelings for you." Guinevere explained, softly. "So don't go anywhere I can't follow."

Artoria sighed, knowing she could not argue against that. So she pulled her queen into her arms again, and looked at her with determination.

"I will start making up now."

Guinevere scoffed.

"I was joking about that."

"I take my promises seriously." Artoria steeled her resolve, and pulled her wife into a kiss.

Soon, the rain would cease, and they could return to their castle, but for now, they could share a rare quiet moment.

#artoria pendragon #saber #saber x guinevere #guinievere(fate)#guinevere(fgo)#fgo guinevere #fate guinevere #sabergwen #arturia pendragon #altria pendragon

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