I have maintained a proper distance from both Galahad and Guin since arriving back in Britain, not wanting to sway the minds and hearts of the people. The last thing I want is for them to see me as a usurper. I never meant to cause such a struggle for Arthur. Though in marrying Guin in the first place, knowing she was meant to be Arthur’s queen one day, maybe this is all my fault.
In marrying Guin, I had hoped—we both hoped—our actions would protect us all, save the kingdom. My love for her was blinding. It still is. I could not see past the present. I did not want to see a life where she was someone else’s wife. Yet, here we are. Guin is married to Arthur, though still married to me. The threeof us living in this strange limbo, unsure of what this all means for us.
All I know for certain is that I still love Guin. I am mad for her. Riding away from her, leaving her again, it was agonizing. I was not sure I could go through with it. I know it is the right thing to do. And with Galahad by my side, it is much easier to keep going. Every mile closer to Joyous Gard is a weight off my heart.
“Are we going to Avalon?” Galahad quietly asks, bringing me out of my thoughts as we steer our horses down a well-worn path through the woods.
“Why would we go there?”
“To see your mother and, I guess, my grandmother.” I briefly glance at the lad, thinking I heard him wrong, then look around to make sure the rest of our party is not within earshot. “You haven’t seen her since you arrived back at Camelot. Does she even know you are alive?” Galahad looks away from me, checking his surroundings, then moves his horse closer to mine, speaking in a lower voice. “Does she know I am your son?” Galahad is sharp for his age, but I am surprised by his observation.
“How long have you known?” I interrupt before Galahad can keep going.
“A while,” he says, with a long sigh.
“I wrote a letter to Vivianne shortly after my return. She has not had the chance to come to Camelot, but she will visit us at Joyous Gard.”
“You call your mother by her name? Mom always glares at me when I call her Guinevere.”
I laugh, imagining that harmless yet threatening look of hers. “Vivianne is not my actual mother. Though she is the woman who raised me and the woman I have thought of as my mother all my life. I do not always call her by name, especially when speaking with her.”
“Did you ever find your real mother?”
“I know who she was, but she had already died when I learned of her.” I glance down at my son riding beside me. We have never properly discussed who we are to each other. Guin, Arthur, and I debated telling him. In the end, we thought it would be too confusing for the boy. But Galahad seems to have accepted the truth that I am his father already, yet I do not want him to think less of Arthur or Guin for keeping this from him.
“Are you saddened by the truth that King Arthur isn’t your real father?” I ask my son.
“No. I think I always knew. Mom would tell me things about my father that made little sense. It was like she was talking about someone else. Even Excalibur…or Elnaril. Well, she doesn’t really speak to me. She just kind of gives me a vibe. Or that’s how mom describes it.”
“A vibe?”
“Like a feeling. Whenever I am near my father—King Arthur—he doesn’t feel like my father. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, I think it does.” Excalibur is a strange being. A sword with a soul. It seems to know things we mortal beings do not. How I wish I could speak with her, know the things she does. Perhaps together, we can empower Arthur’s reign and build his dream of a united kingdom.
“Cool,” Galahad nods.
“You speak just as your mother does. I cannot understand some of the words you say, but I know your meaning. It is strange.”
“Oh, sorry, I usually speak Cumbric or Brythonic when I am around anyone other than mother and father. I feel comfortable around you though.” Galahad tenses up for a moment, straightening his body and his speech. “So I guess my language falls in and out. I know mom’s native language, English. She didnot have to teach me either. Excalibur helped me learn. I know a few languages, actually.”
“Perhaps you can help teach me your mother’s language. I would like to understand every word that falls from her mouth.”
“I’m not sure you would,” Galahad chuckles, falling back into his comfortable, informal self. “She doesn’t always say the nicest things.”
“That sounds like my Guinevere.”
Galahad stares at me for a beat as if he is about to ask a question, but is unsure how to ask it. I give him a reassuring nod, letting him know he can ask me anything. “Can I call you ‘dad’?”
“What is dad?” I ask, squinting my eyes at Galahad, whose smile is so like Guin’s I nearly fall from my horse.
“It’s a word for father. Mom uses that word when she talks about her dad. I thought, since it’s a word the people around here are unfamiliar with, perhaps I could call you dad.”
I answer with a smile as bright as my son’s and nod my consent. “Yes, I would like that.”
“Dad?” I had a feeling more questions were coming my way. “Do you love my mom?”
“You are a very perceptive lad. I think you already know the answer to that question. But we can talk more about it when we are behind closed doors at home.”