Galahad tournament fight POV shift

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Before we begin, please set your Mordred's appearance. Eyes: <<cycle "$eye">> <<option "green eyes" "green">> <<option "blue eyes" "blue">> <<option "gray eyes" "gray">> <<option "brown eyes" "brown">> <<option "hazel eyes" "hazel">> <<option "violet eyes" "violet">> <<option "black eyes" "black">> <<option "amber eyes" "amber">> <</cycle>> Hair color: <<cycle "$hair">> <<option "dark brown, deep and rich and almost black." "dark brown">> <<option "chestnut brown, dark and lush." "chestnut brown">> <<option "light brown like honey." "light brown">> <<option "lush, dark blond." "dark blonde">> <<option "icy blond, cool and lush." "icy blonde">> <<option "golden blond, warm and lush." "golden blonde">> <<option "auburn, deep red." "auburn">> <<option "copper red, fiery." "copper red">> <<option "pure black like the midnight sky." "black">> <</cycle>> Hair type: <<cycle "$hair_type">> <<option "straight" "straight">> <<option "wavy" "wavy">> <<option "curly" "curly">> <<option "coily with corkscrew coils" "coilycurls">> <<option "coily and cloudlike" "coily">> <</cycle>> Complexion: <<cycle "$complexion">> <<option "ivory" "ivory">> <<option "warm beige" "warm beige">> <<option "cool beige" "cool beige">> <<option "rosy" "rosy">> <<option "tawny" "tawny">> <<option "olive" "olive">> <<option "light brown" "light brown">> <<option "sepia brown" "sepia brown">> <<option "golden brown" "golden brown">> <<option "russet brown" "russet brown">> <<option "dark brown" "dark brown">> <<option "warm black" "warm black">> <<option "cool black" "cool black">> <<option "deep black" "deep black">> <</cycle>> Mordred's agab (at this point in the story, trans Mordred is not yet out): <<cycle "$gender">> <<option "male" "male">> <<option "female" "female">> <</cycle>> [[Next, some questions about your Mordred's personality and dynamic with Galahad|SetMordred]]

<div class="titlelettersone" style='font-size: 100%;'>Llamagirl</div>

<<link "Stats" "stats">><</link>> <<link "Credits">> <<script>> Dialog.setup("Credits"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("credits").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>>

<<set $eye = "unknown">> <<set $hair = "unknown">> <<set $gender = "unknown">> <<set $magic = 50>> <<set $swordsmanship = 0>> <<set $persuasion = 50>> <<set $intimidation = 50>> <<set $deceit = 50>> <<set $independent = 50>> <<set $pendragon_magic = "1">> <<set $water_magic = 50>> <<set $honest = 50>> <<set $confident = 50>> <<set $impulsive = 50>> <<set $calm = 50>> <<set $kind = 50>> <<set $defiant = 50>> <<set $emotional = 50>> <<set $affable = 50>> <<set $complexion = "none">> <<set $age = "a few days old">> <<set $controlled_magic = 50>> <<set $hair_type = "no">> <<set $chapt3_meet_gawain = 0>> <<set $chapt3_trick_add = 0>> <<set $Gawain = 50>> <<set $magictrick = "no">> <<set $chapt3_sorcerer = 0>> <<set $chapt3_salute = 0>> <<set $friend = "">> <<set $Galahad = 10>> <<set $cried to false>> <<set $chapt3_destroy = "">>

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Name: Known as Mordred Leudonus of Lothia - but more often than not called Mordred Le Fay Age: You are 10 years old. //A description of your likeness// You have $eye eyes, much like your parents, $hair $hair_type hair alike your mother's, Morgana and $complexion complexion like your father's, Arthur. <<link "« Return to game" $return>><</link>>

<div class="titlelettersone" style='font-size: 150%;'>The Bastard of Camelot</div>

His father had woken up in a sour mood. Galahad couldn't say that Lancelot was a particularly cheerful person in his day to day life. He offered smiles sparsely, as if too expensive to carelessly give away. The same could be applied to words, which he was few of. Since they'd come to Lothia for the tournament, however, the smiles turned even rarer. Lancelot loathed Morgana. That had been clear to Galahad since he was little. His father spoke of her with contempt, and taught him that there were many and good reasons to distrust the woman. It was one of the subjects that could keep him talking longer than usual - that and the duty they owed to Camelot and Arthur. After all, these two matters came hand in hand, for Morgana had plans to destroy the Kingdom and its King. As a result, Lancelot's disposition had already been soured by their arrival to Lothia. This morning he was dourer than usual, which only strenghtened Galahad's belief that something transpired the night prior. There had been clues. He'd seen Lancelot quarrel with Kay at the feast, in a corner. He'd watched from a distance as they talked animatedly, heads drawn close. He could tell it was an argument by the deep etches on his father's brow and Kay's humourless face. He'd seen the men argue before. Most often than not, their fights seemed to concern Arthur, one way or another. Kay had a bad habit of helping Arthur evade his guards to wander on his own. //Doing him a favor,// he'd called it. //Putting him in danger,// Lancelot retorted. "You know Galahad, sometimes Kings do stupid things," his father said. He hadn't said anything else up until now. When they met in his parents' quarters Lancelot merely inclined his head in greeting before going back to frowning at his plate. His mother chatted with Galahad easily, voice still groggy from sleep, asking him about the tournament and the feast and Gawain. She poured him another cup of tea and made sure he ate a hearty breakfast. Then she retreated to the bedchamber with Kerstin - her lady in waiting - to get ready for the day while Galahad remained in the lounge to help his father into his armor. Then the two of them set off in a silence broken only by their footfalls as they climbed down the hill. "That's why the need us to protect them," Lancelot continued. Galahad nodded, shifting his eyes from the gray morning sky to his father's equally grave face. The King had definitely done something reckless again, and he ventured to ask, "Did something happen last night?" It was all the encouragement Lancelot needed. He surveyed their proximity, but at this early hour there were very few other knight-squire pairs headed for the pavilion. Gawain himself had only barely kicked his sheets off and sat up while Galahad was leaving. Deeming it safe to talk, Lancelot still dropped his voice to a raspy whisper as he said: "Arthur met up with Mordred in the dragons' lodge." He massaged at his temples as if the mere memory was enough to summon a headache. "He keeps going on about making it up to Mordred. About acting more like ?their uncle." Galahad's brow furrowed as understanding trickled through. His father had recounted before how the King felt guilty for casting Morgana and her youngest child away, despite her swearing revenge and making ridiculous demands. Arthur still refused to entirely heed Merlin's words and prophecy, which Lancelot feared could prove his undoing. Lancelot went on with a convinction as unbreakable as steel, "I must make sure they keep away from Arthur. Make it clear to Morgana that I won't take it." They crossed the rest of the way to the dragons' lodge in silence. Melker was already awake by the time they arrived to his chamber, reading a book. The faint morning light fell in strips across the lushly carpeted floor, coming in through high, narrow windows, and the dragon had claimed such a streak to place his book. Melker shared a lodge room with Bridget - Kay's partner - who was still slumbering atop her bed of furs, one blanket draped over her head to block the light. Galahad quietly pulled the door behind him. Melker closed the book with a graceful flick of his tail. A gilded title winked from the cover, written in the human language. All knight dragons were expected to learn to speak, read and to some extent even write in the human language, but Melker's dilligence and fluency exceeded expectations. Publicly, he proclaimed it would have been shameful for a Champion Knight to do anything but excel in everything that was requested of a knight. In truth, while Galahad didn't doubt for a moment that Melker was as dedicated to knighthood as Lancelot, he also knew the dragon to be dearly fond of leisure reading, and learning the human language had opened the doors to a whole new metaphorical library. The dragons required little armor owing to their sturdy scales, but Melker wanted to be adorned with jewelry. He insisted that it was only dignified of someone of his status. That entailed golden cuffs for his horns, studded with precious gems, and rings for his long, sharp talons. Galahad fetched the jewelry box - itself a richly embellished affair fit for its contents - and went about helping Melker put on his accessories as silently as he could. Lancelot attempted to lend a hand, but as he clunked and clanged about in his armor, Melker shushed him, glancing meaningfully at the still sleeping Bridget. "She should be awake by now, anyway," Lancelot grumbled as Galahad pushed a ring up Melker's talon. Melker studied it, green eyes glimmering like the emeralds of his horn cuffs. Then he glanced at Lancelot at the look he gave him was enough to keep the knight from further protesting. Once done, Galahad headed to rouse Callum, who was too still sleeping in his coccoon of blankets. He gently nudged him until his eyes fluttered open and he nuzzled his hand back with his snoot. The four of them made their way towards the pavilion nestled next to the tournament arena. By now more knights, humans and dragons alike, had roused. Galahad spotted Kay and Gawain in the distance, coming down the hill; the latter was talking energetically to his father, fully awake now. Lancelot stood firmly by being up as early as possible, as well as being quick and efficient in getting ready. It was setting a good example, as Champion Knight, of dedication and preparedness. It also left them with a lot of time on their hands before the tournament started proper. Time which Lancelot used to have Galahad check the weapons for any fault, and quizz him on sundry fighting knowledge while Melker stretched his limbs outside the pavilion. [[Continue|Story1]]

<<silently>> <<if $gender == "male">> <<set $pgen to 0, $child to "boy">> <<else>> <<set $pgen to 1, $child to "girl">> <</if>> <</silently>> One Galahad questionnare, coming right up! These are important; the way Mordred's acted so far has shaped Galahad's opinion of them, for better or worse. Question: Did Mordred play a malicious trick on Gawain when they first met him? (set his cloak on fire) <div class="choice">[[Yes.|NextQuestion][$Galahad to $Galahad-2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[No|NextAltQuestion]]</div>

Question: When Galahad warned Mordred to stay away from Gawain on the first night of the feast, did Mordred admire his eyes (romantic options)? Alternatively, did Mordred burst into tears? <div class="choice">[[Admired his eyes.|NextQuestion1][$Galahad to $Galahad+2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Cried.|NextQuestion1][$Galahad to $Galahad+2, $cried to true]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Something else.|NextQuestion1]]</div>

Question: Did Mordred smile shyly or genuinely at Galahad when they first met? Or did Mordred threaten to gouge his eyes out? <div class="choice">[[Smiled shyly.|NextQuestion][$Galahad to $Galahad+2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Smiled genuinely.|NextQuestion][$Galahad to $Galahad+2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Threatened him.|NextQuestion][$Galahad to $Galahad-2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Something else.|NextQuestion]]</div>

Question: On the first day of the tournament, did you join Gawain and Galahad watching the trials? If you did, did Mordred mention that they're learning magic of the Lady of the Lake? Alternatively, did Mordred take a genuine interest in Galahad practising it and asked him if he enjoys learning? <div class="choice">[[Took a genuine interest in Galahad practising the magic of the Lady of the Lake.|NextQuestion2][$Galahad to $Galahad+2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mentioned they're learning to; trying to bond with Galahad.|NextQuestion2][$Galahad to $Galahad+2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Something else.|NextQuestion2]]</div>

Question: Has Mordred befriended Gawain? Or are they polite/neutral? Or are they rude towards Gawain? <div class="choice">[[Befriended Gawain.|NextQuestion4][$Galahad to $Galahad+1, $friend to "yes"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Polite/neutral.|NextQuestion4][$friend to "polite"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Stay away from Gawain.|NextQuestion4][$friend to "away"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Rude to Gawain.|NextQuestion4][$friend to "rude"]]</div>

Question: How has your Mordred reacted to finding out the prophecy was kept from them? Were they mad at Morgana and Accolon, feeling betrayed? Confused and torn? Or understanding and fine with it all? <div class="choice">[[Betrayed and mad.|NextQuestion4][$betray to "betrayed"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Just very confused, mixed feelings.|NextQuestion4][$betray to "confused"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Fine with it, understanding of them keeping the secret.|NextQuestion4][$betray to "ok"]]</div>

Now on to the story! [[Galahad witnesses the duel between Accolon and Lancelot and confronts Mordred (Story for October 2022)|StartStory]]

Gawain, Kay, Bridget and Ariawen arrived not long after. Bridget chatted easily with Melker as she furled and unfurled her smooth tail in a stretching exercise. Ariawen looked still too sleepy for much conversation, but she settled close to Callum, giving him a friendly nod of her head. And while Gawain bounded to Galahad, Kay gave them a wide berth. Keeping a cool distance uncharacteristic of the easy-going man. Yet it was not the first time he'd seen Kay evade his father. Last night's disagreement must have still been fresh. Still bleeding like a poorly tended to wound, poisoning their friendship like a spreading infection. Even Gawain took notice of the strain, shifting uneasily as he looked between his father and Lancelot. Then he pushed it all away as if it was merely a low-hanging bough in his way, replacing the worry with a smile. It wasn't that Gawain didn't care - in fact, Galahad knew he cared with every fiber of his being, and that the tension must be taking its toll on him. Yet the boy preferred to be the light where it was too cloudy for the sun to shine through. Yet not even he could chase away the gloom that descended upon Galahad as he spotted a familiar figure weaving through the crowd. //Mordred.// The one at the center of this web of tension and intrigue and betrayal. ?They may not be bringing down Camelot and raining terror upon the land, but ?they's already putting a wedge between the people around ?them. Mordred didn't look particularly thirsty for destruction, though. No, far from it, Galahad thought as his gaze racked over ?them, taking in the bags under ?their eyes, dulling their $eye, and the strained lines of ?their forehead and mouth. It looked like last night had taken its toll on Mordred as well. Somehow, it made ?them look even younger than ?they was, like a little child who had spent the entire night wandering the woods, lost. <<if $Galahad >= 15>> An ill-defined feeling tugged at Galahad. Confusion...and sympathy welling up in him with overwhelming force. It was followed by a new wave of confusion. Enveloping Galahad in a thick fog, leaving him fumbling for an answer. Why would he feel sympathy - concern, even - for Mordred? For someone set on destroying the Kingdom and its ruler, someone posing a threat to all Galahad swore to protect. His brow furrowed as the beffudling emotions swirled inside him like a bird caught in a cage, frantically looking for a way out. <<elseif $Galahad >= 12>> Something akin sympathy welled inside Galahad's chest, like water spilling through the cracks in a glass. It was quickly followed by a tide of confusion. Why would he feel sympathy for Mordred? For someone set on destroying the Kingdom and its ruler, someone posing a threat to all Galahad swore to protect. His brow furrowed as the beffudling emotions swirled inside him like a bird caught in a cage, frantically looking for a way out. <<elseif $Galahad >= 10>> ?They didn't look dangerous. But Galahad couldn't let himself be fooled. Mordred was set on destroying the Kingdom and its ruler, everything that Galahad swore to protect; Morgana was sure to see to it, planting the seed of hate and vengeance in Mordred's heart. His brow furrowed as he looked on at ?them, determined to protect all Mordred stood against. <<else>> But Galahad knew Mordred to be a little menace. A child, like him - younger than him, and even Gawain - but already capable of cruelty. Hadn't ?they proved so much when ?they set Gawain's cloak on fire? Blazing a way of ruin and viciousness. His brow furrowed as he looked on at ?them. Cold anger lanced his chest, spreading like ice through his veins. <</if>> The tournament properly commenced and Galahad turned his attention to his tasks. Help his father, hand him his weapons, fetch him water. Check both his and Melker's armors after battles. Every now and then, his gaze would slid towards Mordred. As if he might gauge what ?they was thinking. <<if $friend == "yes" or $friend == "polite">> Mordred looked no less tired as the morning stretched into noon, but plowed on with ?their own squire duties. When not attending to Kay, Gawain would flit between Galahad and Mordred, looking a lot more cheerful than either of them. <<else>> Mordred looked no less tired as the morning stretched into noon, but plowed on with ?their own squire duties. <</if>> "Now let's welcome into the ring Sir Lancelot du Lac, our very own Champion Knight, and Sir Accolon Istrate of Lothia!" That was his father's cue. Galahad handed him his greatsword and trailed after him, stopping just at the edge of the ring, flanked by guards. Mordred too stepped up to the edge, the width of the pavilion extending between them. [[Continue|Story2]]

<<silently>><<set $Galahad to $Galahad+1>><</silently>> Lancelot strode on towards the center of the ring like a man on a quest. A hulking mass of garnet red armor, menacing in his size alone, towering over the Lothian knight clad in moss green plates. The men raised their swords, ready to strike. The announcer gave the signal, and the duel started with a ringing clash of metal as their blades met. Lancelot's strikes came quick and strong and unforgiving. Galahad knew his father's fighting intimately. He knew to differentiate between his attacks and the intent that guided them. He was stern in training, but never meant to wound - not anything other than egos, anyway. He was competitive in the trials since he upheld them as an opportunity to prove one's skill. But this was different. Lancelot wasn't holding back. Each attack, each hit, each swipe - it was all meant to damange, to dent, to bite. He wasn't dueling in a friendly trial - he was out on the battlefield, determined to take down his foe. Accolon parried, more on the defensive than the offensive. Struggling to get in that many hits - and seeming reluctant to strike back as fiercely as Lancelot. In a tournament, knights were expected to conduct themselves honorably. The fights were meant to be held in good-faith, in the spirit of competitiveness and sportmanship. One must not act out on petty rivalries in the ring. That's what he's been taught. //That's what his father had told him.// But this wasn't petty revenge, was it? This was Lancelot carrying out his duty to the King, above anything else. At least that was what Galahad told himself as he watched, rooted to the spot in horrified stupor. Each strike clang against his skull, rattled in his bones along with the dreadful realization that, regardless of motive, his father was bludgeoning this man. During what was supposed to be a friendly match. And the people cheered on. //I must make sure they keep away from Arthur. Make it clear to Morgana that I won't take it.// His father's words rang in his head like metal against metal, loud and severe. This was Lancelot's message to Morgana - to Mordred. A warning. //A threat,// a part of Galahad whispered, horrified. As if pulled by a string, Galahad turned his head to look at Mordred. ?They'd come as close as ?they could to the ring, distress painting ?their features. Eyes widened in horror as ?they watched, unable to do anything. In that moment, Galahad forgot all about the prophecy. Forgot all about ruin and revenge. All he could see was a scared child, forced to witness ?their father battered to a bloody pulp as an entire arena rooted for the one dealing the blows. Galahad snapped his head back, only for his eyes to fall again on the brutal beatdown. Accolon's helmet flew off, but Lancelot didn't stop. The green-clad knight was still on his feet, despite the dents in his armor, despite the blood he spit to the ground. He said something, but no one save for Lancelot would have been able to hear. Galahad's gaze shifted away as he felt as if he himself was struck, and fell on the royal booth. Morgana looked desperate, sitting at the edge of her seat, ready to spring up at any moment. Flinching with every hit. At her side, her husband //smiled//, a vile, twisted smile. And on her other side stood Arthur, head turned away from the violent display. //Arthur could put a stop to this,// it occured to Galahad, but the idea vanished just as quickly as it came. Sometimes a Champion Knight must do less than pleasant things to protect his King, Lancelot had said. And the King seemed to understand. Or perhaps the King, too, was frozen in horor. Accolon still held his ground. At this point, all he could do was block Lancelot's blows, till even keeping upright was starting to become a challenge. He swayed, dangerously close to falling, yet still standing, sword up and ready to block. Until Lancelot dealt the winning blow. It brought Accolon to his knees with a resounding clang and a pained yell that speared the sky like a blade through flesh. Lancelot took off his helmet, looming over the man. He slipped the tip of his sword under his chin and pushed it up, forcing Accolon to face him. To look upon his face, sweat sheening its harshness, as he spoke words that were lost to the audience. Then he pulled back his sword and marched off to the victorious chorus of applause. Behind him, Accolon collapsed to the ground. A healer was already running towards Accolon, blond braid whipping against their back. Mordred too set off sprinting, while Morgana leapt from the royal booth in a flurry of cobalt skirts. <div class="choice">[[Propelled by rage and hurt, Mordred stepped in Lancelot's way, yelling, "You took it too far!"|Story3.1]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Propelled by rage and hurt, Mordred summoned a gust of wind to push against Lancelot, yelling, "You took it too far!"|Story3.2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Propelled by rage and hurt, Mordred summoned water to splash Lancelot, yelling, "You took it too far!"|Story3.3]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred ignored Lancelot, heading straight to Accolon.|Story3.4]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred stopped to glare at Lancelot. "Such a noble knight."|Story3.5]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred sent a subtle gust of wind towards Lancelot.|Story3.6]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Propelled by rage and hurt, Mordreds summoned fire to attack Lancelot, yelling, "You took it to far!"|Story3.7]]</div>

But while Morgana ran directly to Accolon and flung herself at his side, Mordred positioned ?themself in front of Lancelot, forcing him to halt. Galahad couldn't hear his father's words, but he saw his sneer. What he could hear, however, were Mordred's shouted words. "You took it too far!" ?They sounded harrowed, but underneath the pain simmered fury. Fists raised as if ready to challenge the man to a duel of their own, to inflict upon him the same pain Accolon had endured. Lancelot made a quick reply. They stared at each other, his father's scowl still all Galahad could see. Then the fallen knight moaned and Mordred broke the stare, rushing to Accolon. Two guards had promptly joined the scene, fetching a stretcher to carry the injured man, while Mordred and Morgana hovered close, fussing and fretting over him. Galahad watched the chaos unfold, transfixed, trying to make sense of the tumult of emotions that'd been stirred within. Lancelot reached the ring and thrust his helmet in Galahad's direction. The boy took it, instincts and training kicking in over everything else, like swimming to the surface after being flung in a lake. Then he extended his father a cloth to wipe the sweat off his face. Red had bloomed on his jaw, a bruise in the making. But it was nothing compared to Accolon. Knights and squires jumped out of the way, forming a passage through the pavilion to the healing tent as the guards rushed by with the knight, trailed by the healer and Mordred. Up close, Accolon looked worse: face bloodied and bruised and contorted by pain. Split lips, swollen eyes, bleeding gashes along his cheeks. Lancelot's message had been delivered, loud and clear in a lurid display of violence. Galahad snapped his gaze away as sharp claws dug into his chest, his own ribcage feeling like a dented armor pushing painfully against him. Now that Accolon had been carted away and the crowd had simmered down, the swordfighting trial resumed. And a different kind of fighting picked up under the pavilion. Kay stormed through the crowd, Gawain hot on his heels. "Lancelot!" Kay lashed out like a whip, tone biting and booming and demanding attention. Attention which Lancelot was in no hurry to afford as he finished chugging down water. He set the jug down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his now unarmored hand and leveled Kay with steely, hard eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Kay hissed when he was close enough, though if this was an attempt at discretion, it was a poor one. The people around them had noticed the commotion, and either stared or pretended not to be staring. Lancelot pushed his chin forward. "Sending a message." "Don't tell me you've done all this because-" Kay cut himself off, shook his head in aggrived disbelief. "You battered that man, and for what? For what, for something that doesn't even concern him - doesn't concern you, Lancelot. Accolon didn't deserve this." "That man isn't innocent," Lancelot retorted, standing firm on his position. "He didn't deserve this," Kay echoed, each word straining with the effort of keeping his voice quiet. "And Mordred shouldn't have had to watch." Lancelot didn't respond. The men simply stared at each other; Lancelot's gaze steady and unyielding, like a raised shield, while Kay's fire slowly seeped away. Sword lowering, a battle lost. When the anger drained away, all that was left in Kay's brown eyes was disapointment. Bitter and immeasurably sorrowful. As if he looked at Lancelot and as much as he wished to see something else in him, the truth staring back at him hurt. And, Galahad realized with a sharp pang, it hurt him too. Kay shook his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line. He spinned on his heels but before he left, he said over his shoulder, "You're not that innocent either, Lance." He walked away without a look back. Galahad, however, looked at his father. Watched his face for a reaction to the words that had landed like a swift thrust of a sword. But all he found was that same raised shield. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, sensing his silent observation. "Kay doesn't understand," he said. "But it needed to be done." His father held his gaze, secure in the belief that he'd done what was needed to be done, unsavory as it was. It was like Lancelot had told him, wasn't it? You must do anything in your power to protect the King. If the King himself can't make a difficult decision, it is up to them to right things. Then why did this feel so wrong? He had to know. He had to know if this was truly needed. If the violence was warranted. Lancelot would say he was faltering. He'd reprimand him for it, he'd call him as naive as Arthur and Kay. And if he was like that, who would protect them? No, Galahad steeled himself. He needed an answer. And the only one who could afford it was Mordred ?themself. Lancelot had a little time to spare before the dragon racing trial, so Galahad excused himself under the pretense of heeding nature's call. Instead he hurried to the healing pavilion, looking for Mordred and trying his best not to linger on Accolon, laying battered on his bed. He spotted a retreating head of $hair hair in the distance and followed. Galahad caught up with Mordred at the edge of the fair, just beyond the pavilions. It was quiet here, the cheering and chattering and clamor of the tournament distant. "Mordred!" he called out and Mordred stopped, spinning to face him. For the split moment it took ?them to whirl around, the image of the child, standing restless at the edge of the ring flashed behind his eyes. <<include StoryChoice>>

Mordred ran, raising a cloud of dust, cloak billowing behind ?them, blazing a furious path. ?They lifted ?their arms, crying out in anguish: "You took it too far!" The words reached Lancelot on a gust of wind that caught him square in the face. He stumbled back, flailing helpelessly before falling to his knees with a clatter of metal. Gulping down air and coughing like a drowning man. "Father!" Panic jolted through Galahad like lightning, sending him running to Lancelot. Lancelot had pushed himself up by the time Galahad reached him and offered him a faint smile, a silence reassurance. As relief washed away the initial alarm, it cleared a path for the tumult of emotions to floor Galahad, crashing against him with dizzying force, leaving him adrift and confused; and so he reached out and grasped the one feeling most familiar, most stable to keep him afloat. Anger, closely intertwined with hate and aimed at the one responsible for this. For starting all this in the first place. //Mordred.// He glared at ?them, letting the anger bubble to the surface, cold and biting. Mordred barely spared him a glance as ?they made ?their way, hurried, to Accolon. Galahad's gaze trailed after ?them, to the chaos unfolding in the center of the arena. Two guards had promptly joined the scene, fetching a stretcher to carry the injured man, while Mordred and Morgana hovered close, fussing and fretting over him. The guards hoisted up the man and rushed towards the pavilion, the healer and Mordred trailing after them. Up close, Accolon looked worse: face bloodied and bruised and contorted by pain. Split lips, swollen eyes, bleeding gashes along his cheeks. Lancelot's message had been delivered, loud and clear in a lurid display of violence. His stomach roiled. The tumult stirred again, drowning the fury in overwhelming terror. Galahad snapped his gaze away as sharp claws dug into his chest, his own ribcage feeling like a dented armor pushing painfully against him. Lancelot extended his helmet and Galahad took it, trying to make himself focus on his tasks rather than the turmoil he felt. They made their way back to the pavilion, where he handed his father a cloth to wipe the sweat off his face. Red had bloomed on his jaw, a bruise in the making. Otherwise, he looked merely worn-out. Now that Accolon had been carted away and the crowd had simmered down, the swordfighting trial resumed. And a different kind of fighting picked up under the pavilion. Kay stormed through the crowd, Gawain hot on his heels. "Lancelot!" Kay lashed out like a whip, tone biting and booming and demanding attention. Attention which Lancelot was in no hurry to afford as he finished chugging down water. He set the jug down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his now unarmored hand and leveled Kay with steely, hard eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Kay hissed when he was close enough, though if this was an attempt at discretion, it was a poor one. The people around them had noticed the commotion, and either stared or pretended not to be staring. Lancelot pushed his chin forward. "Sending a message." "Don't tell me you've done all this because-" Kay cut himself off, shook his head in aggrived disbelief. "You battered that man, and for what? For what, for something that doesn't even concern him - doesn't concern you, Lancelot. Accolon didn't deserve this." "That man isn't innocent," Lancelot retorted, standing firm on his position. "He didn't deserve this," Kay echoed, each word straining with the effort of keeping his voice quiet. "And Mordred shouldn't have had to watch." Lancelot didn't respond. The men simply stared at each other; Lancelot's gaze steady and unyielding, like a raised shield, while Kay's fire slowly seeped away. Sword lowering, a battle lost. When the anger drained away, all that was left in Kay's brown eyes was disapointment. Bitter and immeasurably sorrowful. As if he looked at Lancelot and as much as he wished to see something else in him, the truth staring back at him hurt. And, Galahad realized with a sharp pang, it hurt him too. Kay shook his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line. He spinned on his heels but before he left, he said over his shoulder, "You're not that innocent either, Lance." He walked away without a look back. Galahad, however, looked at his father. Watched his face for a reaction to the words that had landed like a swift thrust of a sword. But all he found was that same raised shield. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, sensing his silent observation. "Kay doesn't understand," he said. "But it needed to be done." He held his gaze, secure in the belief that he's done what was needed to be done, unsavory as it was. It was like Lancelot had told him, wasn't it? You must do anything in your power to protect the King. If the King himself can't make a difficult decision, it is up to them to right things. Then why did this feel so wrong? He had to know. He had to know if this was truly needed. If the violence was warranted. Lancelot would say he was faltering. He'd reprimand him for it, he'd call him as naive as Arthur and Kay. And if he was like that, who would protect them? No, Galahad steeled himself. He needed an answer. And the only one who could afford it was Mordred ?themself. Lancelot had a little time to spare before the dragon racing trial, so Galahad excused himself under the pretense of nature calling. Instead he hurried to the healing pavilion, looking for Mordred but trying his best not to linger on Accolon, laying battered on his bed. He spotted a retreating head of $hair hair in the distance and followed. Galahad caught up with Mordred at the edge of the fair, just beyond the pavilions. It was quiet here, the cheering and chattering and clamor of the tournament distant. "Mordred!" he called out and Mordred stopped, spinning to face him. For the split moment it took ?them to whirl around, the image of the child, standing restless at the edge of the ring flashed behind his eyes. <<include StoryChoice>>

Mordred ran, raising a cloud of dust, cloak billowing behind ?them, blazing a furious path. ?They lifted ?their arms and, with a sploshing, so did the water in the basin at the center of the ring. Then Mordred pulled back ?their arms and the water followed as if pulled on a leash. It drew a wide arc, hurtling towards Lancelot as Mordred cried out in anguish, "You took it too far!" Lancelot's head snapped to Mordred, but there was no time to evade the water attack; the furious wave overcame him and Lancelot fell to his knees like a sunken ship, gulping and coughing. "Father!" Panic jolted through Galahad like lightning, sending him running to Lancelot. Lancelot had pushed himself up by the time Galahad reached him and offered him a faint smile, a silence reassurance. As relief washed away the initial alarm, it cleared a path for the tumult of emotions to floor Galahad, crashing against him with dizzying force, leaving him adrift and confused; and so he reached out and grasped the one feeling most familiar, most stable to keep him afloat. Anger, closely intertwined with hate and aimed at the one responsible for this. For starting all this in the first place. //Mordred.// He glared at ?them, letting the anger bubble to the surface, cold and biting. Mordred barely spared him a glance as ?they made ?their way, hurried, to Accolon. Galahad's gaze trailed after ?them, to the chaos unfolding in the center of the arena. Two guards had promptly joined the scene, fetching a stretcher to carry the injured man, while Mordred and Morgana hovered close, fussing and fretting over him. The guards hoisted up the man and rushed towards the pavilion, the healer and Mordred trailing after them. Up close, Accolon looked worse: face bloodied and bruised and contorted by pain. Split lips, swollen eyes, bleeding gashes along his cheeks. Lancelot's message had been delivered, loud and clear in lurid display of violence. His stomach roiled. The tumult stirred again, drowning the fury in overwhelming terror. Galahad snapped his gaze away as sharp claws dug into his chest, his own ribcage feeling like a dented armor pushing painfully against him. Lancelot extended his helmet and Galahad took it, trying to make himself focus on his tasks rather than the turmoil he felt. They made their way back to the pavilion, where he handed his father a cloth to wipe the sweat off his face. Red had bloomed on his jaw, a bruise in the making. Otherwise, he looked merely worn-out. Now that Accolon had been carted away and the crowd had simmered down, the swordfighting trial resumed. And a different kind of fighting picked up under the pavilion. Kay stormed through the crowd, Gawain hot on his heels. "Lancelot!" Kay lashed out like a whip, tone biting and booming and demanding attention. Attention which Lancelot was in no hurry to afford as he finished chugging down water. He set the jug down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his now unarmored hand and leveled Kay with steely, hard eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Kay hissed when he was close enough, though if this was an attempt at discretion, it was a poor one. The people around them had noticed the commotion, and either stared or pretended not to be staring. Lancelot pushed his chin forward. "Sending a message." "Don't tell me you've done all this because-" Kay cut himself off, shook his head in aggrived disbelief. "You battered that man, and for what? For what, for something that doesn't even concern him - doesn't concern you, Lancelot. Accolon didn't deserve this." "That man isn't innocent," Lancelot retorted, standing firm on his position. "He didn't deserve this," Kay echoed, each word straining with the effort of keeping his voice quiet. "And Mordred shouldn't have had to watch." Lancelot didn't respond. The men simply stared at each other; Lancelot's gaze steady and unyielding, like a raised shield, while Kay's fire slowly seeped away. Sword lowering, a battle lost. When the anger drained away, all that was left in Kay's brown eyes was disapointment. Bitter and immeasurably sorrowful. As if he looked at Lancelot and as much as he wished to see something else in him, the truth staring back at him hurt. And, Galahad realized with a sharp pang, it hurt him too. Kay shook his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line. He spinned on his heels but before he left, he said over his shoulder, "Your not that innocent either, Lance." He walked away without a look back. Galahad, however, looked at his father. Watched his face for a reaction to the words that had landed like a swift thrust of a sword. But all he found was that same raised shield. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, sensing his silent observation. "Kay doesn't understand," he said. "But it needed to be done." He held his gaze, secure in the belief that he's done what was needed to be done, unsavory as it was. It was like Lancelot had told him, wasn't it? You must do anything in your power to protect the King. If the King himself can't make a difficult decision, it is up to them to right things. Then why did this feel so wrong? He had to know. He had to know if this was truly needed. If the violence was warranted. Lancelot would say he was faltering. He'd reprimand him for it, he'd call him as naive as Arthur and Kay. And if he was like that, who would protect them? No, Galahad steeled himself. He needed an answer. And the only one who could afford it was Mordred ?themself. Lancelot had a little time to spare before the dragon racing trial, so Galahad excused himself under the pretense of nature calling. Instead he hurried to the healing pavilion, looking for Mordred but trying his best not to linger on Accolon, laying battered on his bed. He spotted a retreating head of $hair hair in the distance and followed. Galahad caught up with Mordred at the edge of the fair, just beyond the pavilions. It was quiet here, the cheering and chattering and clamor of the tournament distant. "Mordred!" he called out and Mordred stopped, spinning to face him. For the split moment it took ?them to whirl around, the image of the child, standing restless at the edge of the ring flashed behind his eyes. <<include StoryChoice>>

Morgana ran directly to Accolon and flung herself at his side, as did Mordred. Two guards had promptly joined the scene, fetching a stretcher to carry the injured man, while Mordred and Morgana hovered close, fussing and fretting over him. Galahad watched the chaos unfold, transfixed, trying to make sense of the tumult of emotions that's been stirred within. Lancelot reached the ring and thrust his helmet in Galahad's direction. The boy took it, instincts and training kicking in over everything else, like swimming to the surface after being tossed in a lake. Then he extended his father a cloth to wipe the sweat off his face. Red had bloomed on his jaw, a bruise in the making. But it was nothing compared to Accolon. Knights and squires jumped out of the way, forming a passage through the pavilion to the healing tent as the guards rushed by with the knight, trailed by the healer and Mordred. Up close, Accolon looked worse: face bloodied and bruised and contorted by pain. Split lips, swollen eyes, bleeding gashes along his cheeks. Lancelot's message had been delivered, loud and clear in lurid display of violence. Galahad snapped his gaze away as sharp claws dug into his chest, his own ribcage feeling like a dented armor pushing painfully against him. Now that Accolon had been carted away and the crowd had simmered down, the swordfighting trial resumed. And a different kind of fighting picked up under the pavilion. Kay stormed through the crowd, Gawain hot on his heels. "Lancelot!" Kay lashed out like a whip, tone biting and booming and demanding attention. Attention which Lancelot was in no hurry to afford as he finished chugging down water. He set the jug down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his now unarmored hand and leveled Kay with steely, hard eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Kay hissed when he was close enough, though if this was an attempt at discretion, it was a poor one. The people around them had noticed the commotion, and either stared or pretended not to be staring. Lancelot pushed his chin forward. "Sending a message." "Don't tell me you've done all this because-" Kay cut himself off, shook his head in aggrived disbelief. "You battered that man, and for what? For what, for something that doesn't even concern him - doesn't concern you, Lancelot. Accolon didn't deserve this." "That man isn't innocent," Lancelot retorted, standing firm on his position. "He didn't deserve this," Kay echoed, each word straining with the effort of keeping his voice quiet. "And Mordred shouldn't have had to watch." Lancelot didn't respond. The men simply stared at each other; Lancelot's gaze steady and unyielding, like a raised shield, while Kay's fire slowly seeped away. Sword lowering, a battle lost. When the anger drained away, all that was left in Kay's brown eyes was disapointment. Bitter and immeasurably sorrowful. As if he looked at Lancelot and as much as he wished to see something else in him, the truth staring back at him hurt. And, Galahad realized with a sharp pang, it hurt him too. Kay shook his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line. He spinned on his heels but before he left, he said over his shoulder, "Your not that innocent either, Lance." He walked away without a look back. Galahad, however, looked at his father. Watched his face for a reaction to the words that have landed like a swift thrust of a sword. But all he found was that same raised shield. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, sensing his silent observation. "Kay doesn't understand," he said. "But it needed to be done." He held his gaze, secure in the belief that he's done what was needed to be done, unsavory as it was. It was like Lancelot had told him, wasn't it? You must do anything in your power to protect the King. If the King himself can't make a difficult decision, it is up to them to right things. Then why did this feel so wrong? He had to know. He had to know if this was truly needed. If the violence was warranted. Lancelot would say he was faltering. He'd reprimand him for it, he'd call him as naive as Arthur and Kay. And if he was like that, who would protect them? No, Galahad steeled himself. He needed an answer. And the only one who could afford it was Mordred ?themself. Lancelot had a little time to spare before the dragon racing trial, so Galahad excused himself under the pretense of nature calling. Instead he hurried to the healing pavilion, looking for Mordred but trying his best not to linger on Accolon, laying battered on his bed. He spotted a retreating head of $hair hair in the distance and followed. Galahad caught up with Mordred at the edge of the fair, just beyond the pavilions. It was quiet here, the cheering and chattering and clamor of the tournament distant. "Mordred!" he called out and Mordred stopped, spinning to face him. For the split moment it took ?them to whirl around, the image of the child, standing restless at the edge of the ring flashed behind his eyes. <<include StoryChoice>>

But while Morgana ran directly to Accolon and flung herself at his side, Mordred positioned ?themself in front of Lancelot, forcing him to halt. Mordred must had said something, for Lancelot snarled at ?them, but the ?child didn't wait around for a reply, resuming ?their dash towards Accolon. Two guards had promptly joined the scene, fetching a stretcher to carry the injured man, while Mordred and Morgana hovered close, fussing and fretting over him. Galahad watched the chaos unfold, transfixed, trying to make sense of the tumult of emotions that's been stirred within. Lancelot reached the ring and thrust his helmet in Galahad's direction. The boy took it, instincts and training kicking in over everything else, like swimming to the surface after being flung in a lake. Then he extended his father a cloth to wipe the sweat off his face. Red had bloomed on his jaw, a bruise in the making. But it was nothing compared to Accolon. Knights and squires jumped out of the way, forming a passage through the pavilion to the healing tent as the guards rushed by with the knight, trailed by the healer and Mordred. Up close, Accolon looked worse: face bloodied and bruised and contorted by pain. Split lips, swollen eyes, bleeding gashes along his cheeks. Lancelot's message had been delivered, loud and clear in lurid display of violence. Galahad snapped his gaze away as sharp claws dug into his chest, his own ribcage feeling like a dented armor pushing painfully against him. Now that Accolon had been carted away and the crowd had simmered down, the swordfighting trial resumed. And a different kind of fighting picked up under the pavilion. Kay stormed through the crowd, Gawain hot on his heels. "Lancelot!" Kay lashed out like a whip, tone biting and booming and demanding attention. Attention which Lancelot was in no hurry to afford as he finished chugging down water. He set the jug down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his now unarmored hand and leveled Kay with steely, hard eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Kay hissed when he was close enough, though if this was an attempt at discretion, it was a poor one. The people around them had noticed the commotion, and either stared or pretended not to be staring. Lancelot pushed his chin forward. "Sending a message." "Don't tell me you've done all this because-" he cut himself off, shook his head in aggrived disbelief. "You battered that man, and for what? For what, for something that doesn't even concern him - doesn't concern you, Lancelot. Accolon didn't deserve this." "That man isn't innocent," Lancelot retorted, standing firm on his position. "He didn't deserve this," Kay echoed, each word straining with the effort of keeping his voice quiet. "And Mordred shouldn't have had to watch." Lancelot didn't respond. The men simply stared at each other; Lancelot's gaze steady and unyielding, like a raised shield, while Kay's fire slowly seeped away. Sword lowering, a battle lost. When the anger drained away, all that was left in Kay's brown eyes was disapointment. Bitter and immeasurably sorrowful. As if he looked at Lancelot and as much as he wished to see something else in him, the truth staring back at him hurt. And, Galahad realized with a sharp pang, it hurt him too. Kay shook his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line. He spinned on his heels but before he left, he said over his shoulder, "Your not that innocent either, Lance." He walked away without a look back. Galahad, however, looked at his father. Watched his face for a reaction to the words that had landed like a swift thrust of a sword. But all he found was that same raised shield. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, sensing his silent observation. "Kay doesn't understand," he said. "But it needed to be done." He held his gaze, secure in the belief that he's done what was needed to be done, unsavory as it was. It was like Lancelot had told him, wasn't it? You must do anything in your power to protect the King. If the King himself can't make a difficult decision, it is up to them to right things. Then why did this feel so wrong? He had to know. He had to know if this was truly needed. If the violence was warranted. Lancelot would say he was faltering. He'd reprimand him for it, he'd call him as naive as Arthur and Kay. And if he was like that, who would protect them? No, Galahad steeled himself. He needed an answer. And the only one who could afford it was Mordred ?themself. Lancelot had a little time to spare before the dragon racing trial, so Galahad excused himself under the pretense of nature calling. Instead he hurried to the healing pavilion, looking for Mordred but trying his best not to linger on Accolon, laying battered on his bed. He spotted a retreating head of $hair_type $hair hair in the distance, and he followed. Galahad caught up with Mordred at the edge of the fair, just beyond the pavilions. It was quiet here, the cheering and chattering and clamor of the tournament distant. "Mordred!" he called out and Mordred stopped, spinning to face him. For the split moment it took ?them to whirl around, the image of the child, standing restless at the edge of the ring flashed behind his eyes. <<include StoryChoice>>

Mordred ran, raising a cloud of dust, cloak billowing behind ?them, blazing a furious path. Making a frenzied dash for Accolon, as did Morgana. Mordred passed by Lancelot, who walked on steadily, sparing no glance ?their way. Lancelot swayed, without any seeming obstacle to cause the imbalance. Then, with a clatter of metal, he fell to his knees. Alarm jolted through Galahad like lightning, sending him running to Lancelot. Lancelot had pushed himself up by the time Galahad reached him and offered him a faint smile, a silence reassurance. The fight must have taken its toll on him, too. As relief washed away the initial fright, it cleared a path for the tumult of emotions to floor Galahad, crashing against him with dizzying force, leaving him adrift and confused; the //fight// had been more of a one-sided battering, a brutal beatdown. //A message.// Galahad's gaze trailed after Mordred, to the chaos unfolding in the center of the arena. Two guards had promptly joined the scene, fetching a stretcher to carry the injured man, while Mordred and Morgana hovered close, fussing and fretting over him. The guards hoisted up the man and rushed towards the pavilion, the healer and Mordred trailing after them. Up close, Accolon looked worse: face bloodied and bruised and contorted by pain. Split lips, swollen eyes, bleeding gashes along his cheeks. Lancelot's message had been delivered, loud and clear in lurid display of violence. His stomach roiled. The tumult stirred again, drowning the fury in overwhelming terror. Galahad snapped his gaze away as sharp claws dug into his chest, his own ribcage feeling like a dented armor pushing painfully against him. Lancelot extended his helmet and Galahad took it, trying to make himself focus on his tasks rather than the turmoil he felt. They made their way back to the pavilion, where he handed his father a cloth to wipe the sweat off his face. Red had bloomed on his jaw, a bruise in the making. Otherwise, he looked merely worn-out. Now that Accolon had been carted away and the crowd had simmered down, the swordfighting trial resumed. And a different kind of fighting picked up under the pavilion. Kay stormed through the crowd, Gawain hot on his heels. "Lancelot!" Kay lashed out like a whip, tone biting and booming and demanding attention. Attention which Lancelot was in no hurry to afford as he finished chugging down water. He set the jug down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his now unarmored hand and leveled Kay with steely, hard eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Kay hissed when he was close enough, though if this was an attempt at discretion, it was a poor one. The people around them had noticed the commotion, and either stared or pretended not to be staring. Lancelot pushed his chin forward. "Sending a message." "Don't tell me you've done all this because-" Kay cut himself off, shook his head in aggrived disbelief. "You battered that man, and for what? For what, for something that doesn't even concern him - doesn't concern you, Lancelot. Accolon didn't deserve this." "That man isn't innocent," Lancelot retorted, standing firm on his position. "He didn't deserve this," Kay echoed, each word straining with the effort of keeping his voice quiet. "And Mordred shouldn't have had to watch." Lancelot didn't respond. The men simply stared at each other; Lancelot's gaze steady and unyielding, like a raised shield, while Kay's fire slowly seeped away. Sword lowering, a battle lost. When the anger drained away, all that was left in Kay's brown eyes was disapointment. Bitter and immeasurably sorrowful. As if he looked at Lancelot and as much as he wished to see something else in him, the truth staring back at him hurt. And, Galahad realized with a sharp pang, it hurt him too. Kay shook his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line. He spinned on his heels but before he left, he said over his shoulder, "Your not that innocent either, Lance." He walked away without a look back. Galahad, however, looked at his father. Watched his face for a reaction to the words that have landed like a swift thrust of a sword. But all he found was that same raised shield. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, sensing his silent observation. "Kay doesn't understand," he said. "But it needed to be done." He held his gaze, secure in the belief that he's done what was needed to be done, unsavory as it was. It was like Lancelot had told him, wasn't it? You must do anything in your power to protect the King. If the King himself can't make a difficult decision, it is up to them to right things. Then why did this feel so wrong? He had to know. He had to know if this was truly needed. If the violence was warranted. Lancelot would say he was faltering. He'd reprimand him for it, he'd call him as naive as Arthur and Kay. And if he was like that, who would protect them? No, Galahad steeled himself. He needed an answer. And the only one who could afford it was Mordred ?themself. Lancelot had a little time to spare before the dragon racing trial, so Galahad excused himself under the pretense of nature calling. Instead he hurried to the healing pavilion, looking for Mordred but trying his best not to linger on Accolon, laying battered on his bed. He spotted a retreating head of $hair hair in the distance and followed. Galahad caught up with Mordred at the edge of the fair, just beyond the pavilions. It was quiet here, the cheering and chattering and clamor of the tournament distant. "Mordred!" he called out and Mordred stopped, spinning to face him. For the split moment it took ?them to whirl around, the image of the child, standing restless at the edge of the ring flashed behind his eyes. <<include StoryChoice>>

Mordred ran, raising a cloud of dust, cloak billowing behind ?them, blazing a furious path. ?They lift ?their arms, crying out in anguish: "You took it too far!" The harrowed words sprang out at the same time as flames erupted from ?their palms, hurtling fiery and red towards Lancelot. He snapped his head in Mordred's direction and seeing the incoming fire, threw himself to the ground in a clatter of metal. The fire missed by a hair's breath, shooting through the air where Lancelot's head used to be. It landed on the ground and was doused in water by the healer before it could expand. "Father!" Panic jolted through Galahad like lightning, sending him running to Lancelot. He'd pushed himself up by the time Galahad reached him and offered him a faint smile, a silence reassurance. As relief washed away the initial alarm, it cleared a path for the tumult of emotions to floor Galahad, crashing against him with dizzying force, leaving him adrift and confused; and so he reached out and grasped the one feeling most familiar, most stable to keep him afloat. Anger, closely intertwined with hate and aimed at the one responsible for this. For starting all this in the first place. //Mordred.// Galahad glared at ?them, letting the anger bubble to the surface, cold and biting. Mordred barely spared him a glance as ?they made ?their way, hurried, to Accolon. Galahad's gaze trailed after ?them, to the chaos unfolding in the center of the arena. Two guards had promptly joined the scene, fetching a stretcher to carry the injured man, while Mordred and Morgana hovered close, fussing and fretting over him. The guards hoisted up the man and rushed towards the pavilion, the healer and Mordred trailing after them. Up close, Accolon looked worse: face bloodied and bruised and contorted by pain. Split lips, swollen eyes, bleeding gashes along his cheeks. Lancelot's message had been delivered, loud and clear in lurid display of violence. His stomach roiled. The tumult stirred again, drowning the fury in overwhelming terror. Galahad snapped his gaze away as sharp claws dug into his chest, his own ribcage feeling like a dented armor pushing painfully against him. Lancelot extended his helmet and Galahad took it, trying to make himself focus on his tasks rather than the turmoil he felt. They made their way back to the pavilion, where he handed his father a cloth to wipe the sweat off his face. Red had bloomed on his jaw, a bruise in the making. Otherwise, he looked merely worn-out. Now that Accolon had been carted away and the crowd had simmered down, the swordfighting trial resumed. And a different kind of fighting picked up under the pavilion. Kay stormed through the crowd, Gawain hot on his heels. "Lancelot!" Kay lashed out like a whip, tone biting and booming and demanding attention. Attention which Lancelot was in no hurry to afford as he finished chugging down water. He set the jug down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his now unarmored hand and leveled Kay with steely, hard eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" Kay hissed when he was close enough, though if this was an attempt at discretion, it was a poor one. The people around them had noticed the commotion, and either stared or pretended not to be staring. Lancelot pushed his chin forward. "Sending a message." "Don't tell me you've done all this because-" Kay cut himself off, shook his head in aggrived disbelief. "You battered that man, and for what? For what, for something that doesn't even concern him - doesn't concern you, Lancelot. Accolon didn't deserve this." "That man isn't innocent," Lancelot retorted, standing firm on his position. "He didn't deserve this," Kay echoed, each word straining with the effort of keeping his voice quiet. "And Mordred shouldn't have had to watch." Lancelot didn't respond. The men simply stared at each other; Lancelot's gaze steady and unyielding, like a raised shield, while Kay's fire slowly seeped away. Sword lowering, a battle lost. When the anger drained away, all that was left in Kay's brown eyes was disapointment. Bitter and immeasurably sorrowful. As if he looked at Lancelot and as much as he wished to see something else in him, the truth staring back at him hurt. And, Galahad realized with a sharp pang, it hurt him too. Kay shook his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line. He spinned on his heels but before he left, he said over his shoulder, "Your not that innocent either, Lance." He walked away without a look back. Galahad, however, looked at his father. Watched his face for a reaction to the words that have landed like a swift thrust of a sword. But all he found was that same raised shield. Lancelot glanced at Galahad, sensing his silent observation. "Kay doesn't understand," he said. "But it needed to be done." He held his gaze, secure in the belief that he's done what was needed to be done, unsavory as it was. It was like Lancelot had told him, wasn't it? You must do anything in your power to protect the King. If the King himself can't make a difficult decision, it is up to them to right things. Then why did this feel so wrong? He had to know. He had to know if this was truly needed. If the violence was warranted. Lancelot would say he was faltering. He'd reprimand him for it, he'd call him as naive as Arthur and Kay. And if he was like that, who would protect them? No, Galahad steeled himself. He needed an answer. And the only one who could afford it was Mordred ?themself. Lancelot had a little time to spare before the dragon racing trial, so Galahad excused himself under the pretense of nature calling. Instead he hurried to the healing pavilion, looking for Mordred but trying his best not to linger on Accolon, laying battered on his bed. He spotted a retreating head of $hair hair in the distance and followed. Galahad caught up with Mordred at the edge of the fair, just beyond the pavilions. It was quiet here, the cheering and chattering and clamor of the tournament distant. "Mordred!" he called out and Mordred stopped, spinning to face him. For the split moment it took ?them to whirl around, the image of the child, standing restless at the edge of the ring flashed behind his eyes. <<include StoryChoice>>

<div class="choice">[["Are you here to make my day worse?" Mordred asked sharply.|StoryChoice1]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Not him, Mordred thought, groaning inwardly.|StoryChoice2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[If Galahad were there to pick up on Mordred too, they were going cry.|StoryChoice3][$Galahad to $Galahad+5]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred flinched. After seeing his father beat Accolon, Mordred wouldn't have been surprised if Galahad were here to beat them too.|StoryChoice4][$Galahad to $Galahad+5]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Yes?" Mordred asked, genuinely willing to hear him out.|StoryChoice5][$Galahad to $Galahad+5]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I hope you're here to apologize for your father's behavior, otherwise leave," Mordred said.|StoryChoice6][$Galahad to $Galahad+4]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred was exhausted. "Yes?"|StoryChoice7]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Please just leave me alone," Mordred said quietly.|StoryChoice8][$Galahad to $Galahad+5]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred slapped Galahad.|StoryChoice9]]</div>

Mordred regarded him as if he were the last person ?they wanted to see - and he must have been, or at least second after Lancelot. "Are you here to make my day worse?" Mordred demanded of him with a tone as sharp as ?their $eye eyes, its severity lancing right through Galahad and making him flinch. Perhaps this had been a horrible idea, approaching Mordred after what had happened in the ring. After what ?they had to endure. But that was exactly why he came - Galahad had to now if it truly were just senseless violence, had to know it was warranted, had to quiet that horrified voice within himself. He stepped forward, clenching his fists so hard it hurt. He needed answers lest he would drown in this tumult of emotions. <<include Answers>>

Mordred regarded him as if he were the last person ?they wanted to see - and he must have been, or at least second after Lancelot. Yet ?they stood waiting for Galahad to go on. He stepped forward. Galahad had to now if it truly were just senseless violence, had to know it was warranted, had to quiet that horrified voice within himself. He needed answers lest he would drown in this tumult of emotions. <<include Answers>>

Mordred swallowed heavily and bit on ?their quivering lower lip as ?they regarded Galahad, waiting for him to speak. ?Their brow scrunched up in concentration. Galahad hesitated, his own brow furrowing. Was Mordred holding back tears? Perhaps this had been a horrible idea, approaching ?them after what had happened in the ring. After what ?they had to endure. But that was exactly why he came - Galahad had to now if it truly were just senseless violence, had to know it was warranted, had to quiet that horrified voice within himself. He stepped forward. He needed answers lest he would drown in this tumult of emotions. <<include Answers>>

Mordred flinched and hugged ?themself, shoulders drawn taut around ?their head. Withdrawing within ?themself like a scared hedgehog. The reaction took Galahad by surprise - but it was soon overtaken by the disturbing realization of its root. Mordred was //afraid of him//. Afraid he'd come to hurt ?them, as Lancelot had battered Accolon, and it made Galahad's stomach roil as he imagined the two of them in the ring instead of their fathers. Raising his arm to deal merciless strikes one after the other. It made Galahad feel uneasy and slimy and unlike the knight he was taught to be so he grasped onto the first thread of thought he could find: Mordred was hoping for this reaction. For this faltering, for this pity on Galahad's part. Morgana was a great actor, Lancelot had told him, and Mordred must be taking after her. He narrowed his eyes at Mordred as wariness took hold and gave him back his footing. He had to be careful around ?them. He stepped forward, determined to get answers. <<include Answers>>

Mordred greeted him with an open, patient expression. "Yes?" ?they asked, perfectly civil. Curious, even. Waiting to see whatever could it be that brought Galahad here. Galahad hadn't expected that. It almost made him feel //worse//. As if he were the villain, coming to pester someone who could still extend tolerance even after all that transpired in the ring, all ?they had to endure. Mordred wasn't supposed to be like this - so Galahad grasped onto the first thread of thought he could find: Mordred must be measuring him. He couldn't afford to show vulnerability. He took a step forward, weighing ?them carefully. <<include Answers>>

Mordred crossed ?their arms. Raising a shield - no, a sword, for ?they were not trying to protect ?themself, but steeling ?themself for a possible battle. Tone as hard as ?their ?eye eyes, ?they spoke: "I hope you're here to apologize for your father's behavior, otherwise leave." //His father's behavior.// The bloody memories of the fight, fresh as a bleeding wound, flashed before his eyes and he hesitated. Perhaps this had been a horrible idea, approaching Mordred after what had happened in the ring. After what ?they had to endure. But that was exactly why he came - Galahad had to now if it truly were just senseless violence, had to know it was warranted, had to quiet that horrified voice within himself. He stepped forward. He needed answers lest he would drown in this tumult of emotions. <<include Answers>>

If Mordred had looked tired this morning, ?they was beyond exhausted now. Utterly spent. ?They summoned enough energy to offer a weak, "Yes?", waiting for Galahad's response as if ?they was already down and one more strike would make no difference. Perhaps this had been a horrible idea, approaching Mordred after what had happened in the ring. After what ?they had to endure. But that was exactly why he came - Galahad had to now if it truly were just senseless violence, had to know it was warranted, had to quiet that horrified voice within himself. He stepped forward. He needed answers lest he would drown in this tumult of emotions. <<include Answers>>

Mordred looked utterly drained and defeated, as if ?they ?themself had been battered in battle. Woeful $eye eyes looking at Galahad, pleading with him not to deal yet another blow as ?they said quietly, "Please just leave me alone." Perhaps this had been a horrible idea, approaching Mordred after what had happened in the ring. After what ?they had to endure. But that was exactly why he came - Galahad had to now if it truly were just senseless violence, had to know it was warranted, had to quiet that horrified voice within himself. He stepped forward. He needed answers lest he would drown in this tumult of emotions. <<include Answers>>

Mordred's face twisted, ?their chest rising and falling in frantic succession, fists curling at ?their side. ?They swooped down on Galahad, pulled back ?their arm and struck down hard against Galahad's cheek with ?their open palm. "How dare you!" ?they yelled, voice breaking. Galahad cupped his face, dazed. It stung, but what stung more was the way Mordred looked at him, as if he were the villain here. It made Galahad feel uneasy and slimy and unlike the knight he was taught to be. So he desperately clung to the words of the prophecy, a reassurance that Lancelot's violent message was needed. Donning an armor of ice, picking fury out of the tumult of emotions that swirled him and directing it at Mordred. <<include Answers>>

<<if $Galahad >= 20>> Galahad made his way back to the tournament for the upcoming dragon racing trial, the confrontation playing again and again in his head, interwoven with the duel and Lancelot's words, trying to make sense of it all. Uncertainty had sunk its sharp teeth in him and refused to let go. Gnawing at him like some hungry wolf. He could not work it out. What did Mordred want? Was this all a mask, some intricate play? Galahad had this vivid image of Mordred already painted, long before he met ?them, by Lancelot's words and Merlin's prophecy. And now that he'd met ?them it was cracking like glass, barely holding itself together. Galahad was desperately trying to hold onto it, to stop it coming apart, but all he got was cut by the sharp shards. Cutting through what he thought Mordred was - should be - leaving bleeding gashes filling him with doubt, because what he saw, what he was slowly coming to learn was a very different picture. He'd confronted Mordred in an attempt to prove to himself that ?they was who his father made ?them up to be, looking for something to anchor him in the beliefs he'd never wavered in before this trip. He was now feeling lost and adrift. <<else>> Galahad made his way back to the tournament for the upcoming dragon racing trial, the confrontation playing again and again in his head, interwoven with the duel and Lancelot's words, trying to make sense of it all. Uncertainy tugged at him, shifty hands trying to pull him from his path. The right path. Lancelot may have been overzealous - to the point of being brutal - in his delivery, but Galahad had to remind himself there was a reason the message was needed in the first place. Morgana and Mordred posed a threat to Arthur, and none of them - Lancelot, Arthur, Kay - should be allowed to be lulled in by whatever...whatever act they put on, whatever sympathy this had evoked in Galahad. Morgana preyed on vulnerability, so if he faltered - if any of them did - the results could be disastruous. And he would not allow Morgana, or Mordred for that matter, to use him as a pawn in their games. <</if>> [[The End|End]]

"My father told me about last night," Galahad said. "That Arthur sought you out, that he wants to be your uncle." It was still a mystery to him why Arthur was insisting on this matter. Galahad took in Mordred, as if looking upon ?them now might reveal the answer, but all he discoverd was growing frustration. At Arthur, at Mordred, at himself. "I don't understand why he would. You and Morgana only want to destroy him." <div class="choice">[["Yes. And I'd appreciate it if he left me alone to plot," Mordred said with a derisive smile.|Answers1.1][$chapt3_destroy to "1"]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I don't want him to be my uncle." The word Mordred meant, that Galahad wouldn't know, was 'father'. "But I wouldn't go as far as to say I want to destroy him."|Answers1.2][$chapt3_destroy to "2", $father to "no"]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I don't want to destroy him. I want him to be my uncle." The word Mordred meant, that Galahad wouldn't know, was 'father'. |Answers1.3][$chapt3_destroy to "3", $father to "father", $Galahad to $Galahad+3]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I don't want to destroy him. I want him to be my uncle." Mordred couldn't see him as a father - not that Galahad would know.|Answers1.4][$chapt3_destroy to "4", $father to "uncle", $Galahad to $Galahad+3]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred just left without a word.|Answers1.5][$chapt3_destroy to "5"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred cried. "I just want him to be my uncle." The word Mordred meant, that Galahad wouldn't know, was 'father'. |Answers1.6][$chapt3_destroy to "6", $crybaby to $crybaby+1, $cry_gally to $cry_gally+1, $Galahad to $Galahad+5, $emotional to $emotional+3, $father to "father"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred left, crying.|Answers1.7][$chapt3_destroy to "7", $crybaby to $crybaby+1, $cry_gally to $cry_gally+1, $Galahad to $Galahad+5, $emotional to $emotional+5]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I don't want to destroy Arthur!" Mordred didn't know what he was to them - a father or uncle, but they knew they didn't want to hurt him. Not that Galahad knew any of it.|Answers1.8][$chapt3_destroy to "8", $father to "confused"]]</div>

Mordred's lips tilted sardonically. "Yes. And I'd appreciate it if he left me alone to plot." Galahad snorted. Of course. So flippant, so dismissive. So derisive. He clung to it, redirecting his rising frustation to Mordred instead of himself for allowing himself to falter. Taking ?their mocking smile as evidence that Lancelot had been warranted in his actions. That Mordred was the villain in the making from Merlin's prophecy. Steeled by newfound resolution, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion1]]

"I don't want him to be my," - Mordred paused, as if looking for the right word - "uncle, but I wouldn't go as far as to say I want to destroy him." Galahad hadn't expected an open admission from Mordred, despite Morgana flaunting it - her hate for Arthur, her thirst for revenge - as daringly as she did, and Mordred's words did nothing to assuage his doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths, like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. He needed to get away from Mordred. ?They was poisoning his mind. He needed to get away, compose himself, pull himself together. Frowning, he stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

A crease formed between Mordreds' brows. "I don't want to destroy him. I want him to be my uncle." Galahad hadn't expected an open admission from Mordred, despite Morgana flaunting it - her hate for Arthur, her thirst for revenge - as daringly as she did. But to hear the complete opposite - and to hear it ring so genuine, too. It uprooted him. Mordred //must// be playing an act. Right? Morgana was a good actor - it wouldn't be far-fetched to expect Mordred to take after her. Galahad shook his head, as if it could clear the swirl of thoughts and emotions plaguing him. "No," he said, firmly. Trying to find his footing again. "You'll hurt him. You're just Morgana's tool of revenge." <div class="choice">[["I'm not!" Mordred shouted.|Answers2.1][$Galahad to $Galahad+5, $calm to $calm-2, $chapt3_destroy to "1"]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I'm not," Mordred replied calmly.|Answers.2.2][$Galahad to $Galahad+5, $calm to $calm+2, $chapt3_destroy to "2"]]</div> <div class="choice">[["As if you're not Lancelot's tool!" Mordred burst out.|Answers2.3][$emotional to $emotional+2, $calm to $calm-2, $chapt3_destroy to "3"]]</div> <div class="choice">[["As if you're not Lancelot's tool," Mordred replied calmly.|Answers2.4][$calm to $calm+2, $chapt3_destroy to "4"]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I'm not, but there's no arguing with you," Mordred said calmly.|Answers2.5][$Galahad to $Galahad+5, $calm to $calm+2, $chapt3_destroy to "5"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred just left without a word.|Answers2.6][$chapt3_destroy to "6"]]</div>

Mordred stared at him, and stared. Then ?they spun around, leaving without deigning to respond. Not even attempting to defend ?themself or deny Galahad's words, however feeble a claim ?they might have made. ?They marched off towards the Castle, sparing no other glance Galahad's way. It didn't matter. Galahad could fill the silence for himself. Mordred hadn't denied the claims because there was nothing to deny. Morgana flaunted it - her hate of Arthur, her thirst for revenge - so brazenly, after all. Steeled by newfound resolution, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion1]]

Mordred's face scrunched up as tears welled up in ?their eyes. Streaking down ?their cheeks, voice wavering dangerously close to breaking as ?they said, "I just want him to be my uncle." <<if $cried is true>> Panic surged through Galahad. He hadn't expected such an emotional reaction - though perhaps he should have, given the way Mordred burst into tears on the first feast night, when he'd told ?them to stay away from Gawain. It had dazed him then, and it left him clueless now. <<else>> Panic surged through Galahad. He hadn't expected such an emotional reaction. <</if>> A part of him tugged him forward, wishing to comfort Mordred, wringing out of him that same sympathy he'd felt when he saw ?them helplessly watching the duel. He reached out a hand, then snapped it away as a realization jolted him. What if it were all an act? It didn't //look// like an act, but then Morgana was a talented actor - was it really that far-fetched to expect Mordred to possess the same skill? "If this is a trick to make me pity you," Galahad said, "it won't work." It only served to make Mordred cry harder, a sob ripped from ?their quivering lips that tore right through Galahad like a sword. This wasn't helping. It did nothing to assuage his doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. He needed to get away from Mordred. ?They was poisoning him mind. He needed to get away, compose himself, pull himself together. Frowning, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

Mordred's face scrunched up as tears welled up in ?their eyes. Streaking down ?their face as ?their chest rises and falls frantically. <<if $cried is true>> Panic surged through Galahad. He hadn't expected such an emotional reaction - though perhaps he should have, given the way Mordred burst into tears on the first feast night, when he'd told ?them to stay away from Gawain. It had dazed him then, and it left him clueless now. <<else>> Panic surged through Galahad. He hadn't expected such an emotional reaction. <</if>> Before he could truly begin to process the feelings it wrung out of him - emotions he shouldn't feel, emotions that made him falter - Mordred spun around and ran. Galahad stood there, dazed, watching Mordred sprint for the Castle, stumbling over ?their feet. This wasn't helping. The encounter did nothing to assuage his doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. Mordred was poisoning his mind. He needed to compose himself, pull himself together. Frowning, Galahad stormed off back to the tournament. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

"I don't want to destroy Arthur!" Mordred's voice was edged with exasperation, as if ?they'd had to say this again and again, only to fall on deaf ears. And why would one listen? It was clear that was what Mordred wanted - what Morgana taught ?them - wasn't it? Galahad hadn't expected an open admission from Mordred, despite Morgana flaunting it - her hate for Arthur, her thirst for revenge - as daringly as she did, but Mordred's words did nothing to assuage his doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. He needed to get away from Mordred. ?They was poisoning his mind. He needed to get away, compose himself, pull himself together. Frowning, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

Mordred stepped up to him and threw out ?their hands, shouting in frustration: "I'm not! I make my own choices!" ?They stared at Galahad, looking as if ?they very much would have liked to hammer those words into his head. Galahad stared back, bewildered by the outburst - and, more than that, by ?their aggravation. It seemed so genuine. "Stop trying to tell me what to do!" Mordred added, huffing as ?they let ?their hands fall to ?their side. This encounter did nothing to assuage Galahad's doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths, like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. Frustrated, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

"I'm not. I make my own choices," ?they said as if ?they was explaining it for the hundreth time, yet managing to keep patient and calm all the same. This encounter did nothing to assuage Galahad's doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. Frustrated, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

"As if you're not Lancelot's tool!" Mordred burst out like a stoked fire. Lancelot //guided// him. He guided him and taught him and trained him, all in an effort to make him into an honorable knight, into a worthy protector of the Kingdom and its King. He wasn't a tool - he was a weapon in the service of the Kingdom, forged and honed and sharpened to perform to his best abilities. To stop Mordred from whatever revenge Morgana wanted to enact, to stop Mordred from raining ruin upon this land. There were so many expectations placed upon Galahad's shoulders, to be reduced simply to Lancelot's tool...It made heat blaze through his veins and pool his face. This encounter did nothing to assuage Galahad's doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. Frustrated, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

"As if you're not Lancelot's tool," Mordred retorted, quirking an eyebrow. Taunting him. Lancelot //guided// him. He guided him and taught him and trained him, all in an effort to make him into an honorable knight, into a worthy protector of the Kingdom and its King. He wasn't a tool - he was a weapon in the service of the Kingdom, forged and honed and sharpened to perform to his best abilities. To stop Mordred from whatever revenge Morgana wanted to enact, to stop Mordred form raining ruin upon this land. There were so many expectations placed upon Galahad's shoulders, to be reduced simply to Lancelot's tool...It made heat blaze through his veins and pool his face. This encounter did nothing to assuage Galahad's doubts, to calm the swirl of emotions that had swept him and dragged him to its tumultuous depths, like angry waters set on drowning him. If anything, it dragged him deeper even, clouding his thoughts with things he shouldn't feel, making him question things he shouldn't. Frustrated, Galahad stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion]]

Mordred shrugged as if Galahad's words were mere speckles of dust to be shaken off ?their shoulders. "I'm not, but there's no arguing with you. You won't take my word, anyway." Galahad searched ?their face. It didn't give much away, aside from the tiredness that'd been present since that morning. He couldn't decide how much truth ?their words truly held. He couldn't, and it frustrated him. So he clung to what he knew of Mordred, to what indicated to ?them being the villain here. He couldn't allow himself to falter again like he'd done today. No, there's no value to your word," Galahad scoffed and stormed off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion1]]

Mordred stared. ?They didn't look particularly surprised, simply exasperated as ?they shook ?their hand and spun around, storming off without a word. It didn't matter. Galahad could fill the silence for himself. Mordred hadn't denied the claims because there was nothing to deny. Morgana flaunted it - her hate of Arthur, her thirst for revenge - so brazenly, after all. Steeled by newfound resolution, Galahad marched off. [[Continue|StoryConclusion1]]

<<if $Galahad >= 20>> Galahad made his way back to the tournament for the upcoming dragon racing trial, the confrontation playing again and again in his head, interwoven with the duel and Lancelot's words, trying to make sense of it all. Despite the determination he had managed to summon, uncertainty still had its sharp teeth sunk in him and refused to let go. Gnawing at him like some hungry wolf. He could not work it out. What did Mordred want? Was this all a mask, some intricate play? Galahad had this vivid image of Mordred already painted, long before he met ?them, by Lancelot's words and Merlin's prophecy. And now that he'd met ?them it was cracking like glass, barely holding itself together. Galahad was desperately trying to hold on it, to stop it coming apart, but all he got was cut by the sharp shards. Cutting through what he thought Mordred was - should be - leaving bleeding gashes feeling him with doubt, because what he saw, what he was slowly coming to learn was a very different picture. He'd confronted Mordred in an attempt to prove to himself that ?they was who his father made ?them up to be, looking for something to anchor him in the beliefs he'd never wavered in before this trip. He was now feeling lost and adrift. <<else>> Galahad made his way back to the tournament for the upcoming dragon racing trial, the confrontation playing again and again in his head, interwoven with the duel and Lancelot's words, trying to make sense of it all. Despite the determination he had managed to summon, uncertainy still tugged at him, shifty hands trying to pull him from his path. The right path. Lancelot may have been overzealous - to the point of being brutal - in his delivery, but Galahad had to remind himself there was a reason the message was needed in the first place. Morgana and Mordred posed a threat to Arthur, and none of them - Lancelot, Arthur, Kay - should be allowed to be lulled in by whatever...whatever act they put on, whatever sympathy this had evoked in Galahad. Morgana preyed on vulnerability, so if he faltered - if any of them did - the results could be disastruous. And he would not allow Morgana, or Mordred for that matter, to use him as a pawn in their games. <</if>> [[The End|End]]

Hope you enjoyed it!