=== Godrick — One Year Later ===
The peaceful halls of Camelot had long since surrendered any hope of remaining peaceful whenever five-year-old Godrick and Mordred were left unattended.
The two children tore through the castle with all the restraint of a pair of wild animals, their laughter echoing from one stone corridor to the next as they left a trail of destruction in their wake.
Godrick clutched a training sword that was far too large for someone his age, dragging its tip across the expensive crimson carpet as he ran, utterly oblivious to the horrified looks from the servants who passed by.
Mordred was no better, gleefully shoving aside anything that happened to be in her path, whether it was a decorative stool, an expensive vase, or one of the countless pedestals displaying priceless heirlooms from Camelot’s long history.
“Stop!” one of the castle maids shouted as she chased after them, her voice filled with equal parts panic and exhaustion.
“You two, stop this instant!”
Neither child paid her the slightest bit of attention.
Instead, they laughed even harder as another crash echoed through the corridor behind them, announcing the untimely demise of yet another piece of expensive pottery.
Their luck finally ran out when they rounded the next corner.
Godrick took the turn far too quickly, and the oversized sword dragging behind him snagged beneath the edge of the carpet.
Before he even realized what had happened, his feet flew out from beneath him, sending him crashing headfirst into an enormous decorative suit of armor that stood proudly within an alcove.
The resulting crash shook the hallway.
Steel plates exploded in every direction, clattering loudly across the stone floor, while the armor’s helmet bounced twice before somehow landing on Godrick’s head.
By the time the maid reached the corner, the magnificent display had been reduced to little more than a heap of scattered metal.
Godrick was somewhere underneath it.
Mordred had already grabbed hold of the breastplate and was desperately trying to lift it off him, though it barely budged despite all her effort.
“I think it’s stuck,” she grunted.
“I noticed!” Godrick’s muffled voice called from inside the helmet.
“THAT IS ENOUGH!”
The maid finally snapped.
Marching straight into the pile of armor, she twisted the oversized helmet off Godrick’s head before grabbing both children by an ear.
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”
The pair cried out together as she dragged them down the hallway, neither child resisting nearly as much as they normally would.
“You’ve destroyed enough of this castle for one day!”
“We’re sorry!” Mordred protested.
“No, you’re not.”
A few moments later, she threw open a heavy wooden door and all but shoved the two children inside.
“My Lady!” she called desperately into Morgan’s room.
“I need your help!”
“One moment,” Morgan’s voice answered from an adjoining room.
The instant Godrick heard her, he saw an opportunity.
Before the maid could stop him, he darted around her and hurried into the adjoining chamber, hoping Morgan might rescue him from whatever punishment awaited.
Instead, he froze.
The room resembled a private bathing chamber, its warm air carrying the scent of herbs and fresh water.
Morgan stood beside another woman, carefully guiding a needle and thread through what appeared to be a wound near her shoulder.
The woman was unlike anyone Godrick had ever seen.
Long golden hair, almost identical to his own, spilled over her bare shoulders, while brilliant emerald eyes turned toward him in surprise.
Then his gaze drifted to a nearby table.
Resting upon it were a familiar silver helmet…
…and a familiar suit of armor.
His eyes widened until they looked ready to fall from his head.
“The King…?”
Artoria’s own expression mirrored his surprise.
“GET OUT!”
Godrick recoiled as though he had been struck, fear immediately washing across his face as he stumbled backward out of the room.
He turned to flee, only to find the maid blocking the doorway before he could escape.
A few moments later, hurried footsteps approached.
By the time Artoria stepped into the room again, she had already fastened her armor and hidden her face once more behind the familiar helm.
“Leave us!”
Her command was enough to send the maid hurrying from the room without another word, the heavy door closing quietly behind her.
Only then did Artoria turn toward the two children.
Godrick had retreated to the furthest corner of the room, curling into himself with both hands covering his head as though he expected to be struck.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, unable to stop himself from trembling.
“Please… don’t punish me.”
Artoria’s shoulders sank.
She remembered all too well the first few months after bringing him to Camelot.
Even a stern word from one of the servants had been enough to send him into tears, convinced that every mistake would be met with pain.
Whatever family had raised him before the massacre had taught him to fear punishment above all else, and despite the remarkable progress he had made over the past year, that fear had never truly disappeared.
This was the first time she had ever raised her voice at him.
Quietly sighing, Artoria locked the door before removing her helmet and setting it upon a nearby table.
Pulling over a chair, she sat down and looked toward the frightened little boy.
“Godrick,” she said, her voice now carrying none of the harshness from before.
“Come here.”
He hesitated, his small body still shaking, but after a long moment he slowly crossed the room until he stood before her.
Artoria slipped her hands beneath his arms and lifted him effortlessly onto her lap before gently wiping away the tears that had begun running down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
Godrick stared at her for several seconds, seemingly forgetting everything else as he took in her face.
“You’re… a girl?”
A faint smile tugged at Artoria’s lips.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“But you must never tell anyone that. Do you understand?”
Godrick tilted his head.
“Why?”
Artoria let out a long groan, allowing her head to fall backward.
The dreaded question had returned.
“Because I said so,” she answered, hoping that would be the end of it.
Godrick frowned.
“…Why?”
“Godrick,” Artoria sighed, gently taking hold of his arm.
The moment she did, she noticed fear creep back into his eyes, and she immediately loosened her grip.
“I know you don’t understand,” she said more gently, “but I need you to promise me that you will never tell anyone what you saw today. Can you do that for me?”
He nodded so vigorously that his golden hair bounced around his face.
“What did I just ask you?”
“I can’t tell anyone you’re a girl,” he answered proudly.
Artoria finally relaxed, letting out the breath she had been unconsciously holding.
“Good,” she said with a warm smile.
“Very good.”
Leaning forward, she placed a gentle kiss upon his cheek.
Godrick immediately melted into the embrace, wrapping his small arms tightly around her neck as though the frightening moment had never happened.
“Does that mean I can stop pretending too?”
Mordred’s question drew Godrick’s attention away from Artoria.
He slowly turned to look at her, then looked up at Morgan, whose expression remained perfectly unreadable, before returning his gaze to Mordred once again.
His face filled with absolute horror.
“Does she have cooties?!”
He pointed at Mordred as though he had just discovered the greatest tragedy in human history.
===
Godrick — One Year After Learning Artoria’s Secret
“Get up.”
Sir Agravain’s voice rang across the training yard with all the warmth of cold steel.
Godrick, now six years old, knelt on the stone floor with one hand pressed against the ground to keep himself upright.
Blood streamed freely from his nose, splattering onto the pale flagstones before he impatiently wiped it away with his forearm, leaving a crimson smear across his bare skin.
“I said, get up!”
Agravain’s armored boot crashed into the boy’s ribs before he had the chance to rise, sending him skidding several feet across the arena.
The impact forced the air from Godrick’s lungs, and for a moment he simply lay there, gasping for breath as pain radiated through his side.
Even so, he did not remain down.
Planting one hand against the stone, he reached for the heavy practice sword lying beside him and used it to pull himself back to his feet.
The oversized blade trembled slightly in his grasp as he settled into the stance Agravain had drilled into him over the past year, his breathing uneven but his grip refusing to loosen.
Before the knight closed the distance, Godrick’s attention drifted across the arena.
On the opposite side, Mordred trained with Sir Gawain.
His sister, though before anyone outside the royal household he was expected to call her his brother, moved confidently around the older knight, trading blows that carried surprising speed for someone her age.
Gawain corrected her mistakes with calm instruction, occasionally tapping her sword aside or adjusting her footing before allowing her to try again.
Agravain believed in no such approach.
Every mistake Godrick made earned immediate punishment, whether from the shaft of a halberd, an armored fist, or a kick powerful enough to remind him not to repeat it.
“Keep your eyes on me, boy, not your brother!”
The iron-shod butt of Agravain’s halberd slammed into Godrick’s stomach before he could react.
The young boy doubled over, only for Agravain’s boot to snap upward an instant later, striking him beneath the jaw and sending fresh blood pouring from his nose.
Godrick crashed onto the stone once again.
His hands instinctively flew to his face before he forced himself onto his hands and knees, crimson droplets falling steadily onto the ground beneath him.
“Come on,” Agravain growled, striking him sharply across the back with the shaft of his weapon.
“Get angry.”
The blow landed directly across the scars covering Godrick’s back, causing his body to instantly lock up.
Pain unlike any ordinary bruise raced through him as the cursed brand and whip marks seemed to burn beneath his skin, forcing every muscle in his body to tense.
He remained frozen for several long moments before the agony finally subsided enough for him to breathe again.
Slowly… Painfully… He climbed back to his feet.
His sword rose once more.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Agravain’s mouth.
“That’s more like it.”
Godrick lunged without hesitation, driving the practice sword forward with every ounce of strength his small body could muster.
Agravain casually knocked the blade aside with the haft of his halberd before stepping inside the boy’s guard and driving an armored fist square into his face.
The punch lifted Godrick clean off his feet.
He landed awkwardly but managed to catch himself before falling completely, immediately ducking beneath the sweeping blade of Agravain’s halberd as it whistled through the air where his head had been only an instant earlier.
The reprieve lasted only a heartbeat.
Agravain advanced relentlessly, never allowing the boy even a moment to recover his footing.
“Come on!” the knight barked as another crushing strike battered Godrick’s sword aside.
“Stop thinking and react!”
The force of the blow sent the young boy hurtling backward until he struck the arena wall with enough force to rattle the stone.
He slid toward the ground, but before he could even finish falling, Agravain was already upon him.
Godrick threw himself sideways on pure instinct, narrowly avoiding the knight’s armored boot as it slammed into the wall where his chest had been a fraction of a second earlier, leaving fresh cracks spiderwebbing through the stone.
The assault continued without pause, Agravain driving the boy from one end of the arena to the other.
High above them, Artoria watched from a balcony overlooking the training grounds, her expression hidden behind the familiar silver helm that concealed the face of Camelot’s king.
Beside her stood Sir Lancelot, whose hands had gradually tightened around the stone railing with each passing exchange.
“He’s pushing the boy too hard,” Lancelot said at last, unable to hide his concern any longer.
He turned to leave, intent on putting an end to the exercise himself, but Artoria raised a gauntleted hand before he had taken more than a single step.
“Leave him.”
Her deep, distorted voice carried its usual authority.
Lancelot hesitated.
“My King…”
“Agravain knows exactly what he is doing.”
There was no uncertainty in her voice.
After a brief silence, she continued.
“When the lesson is finished, have him report to my study.”
Lancelot bowed his head.
“As you command.”
Artoria returned her attention to the arena below, watching every movement with unwavering focus.
She trusted Agravain, and she knew there was purpose behind every strike he dealt.
Even so, she found herself wondering just how much more her adopted son could endure before something inside him finally broke…
…or awakened.
Below, Agravain seized Godrick by the front of his tunic and hurled him into the arena wall once again before stepping forward with frightening speed, his halberd thrusting toward the boy’s chest like a bolt of lightning.
Godrick managed to throw himself out of the halberd’s path, but he wasn’t quite fast enough.
As he twisted away, the edge of the weapon sliced across the right side of his chest, opening a deep gash that immediately soaked his tunic with blood.
Crying out, he stumbled to his left as the pain shot through his body, his practice sword slipping from his grasp while his free hand instinctively clamped over the wound.
He backpedaled several frantic steps before his feet slipped beneath him, sending him sprawling onto the stone floor.
“I suppose you’ll die, then.”
Agravain raised his halberd high above his head before bringing it down in a merciless arc.
Like every strike before it, the attack was never intended to kill.
The veteran knight had been driving the boy into increasingly desperate situations throughout the morning, forcing him to abandon thought in favor of instinct.
At the last possible moment, he intended to turn the blade aside so that it would leave nothing more than another painful reminder of failure.
Only this time, Godrick finally did exactly what Agravain had been trying to teach him.
The fear vanished from the boy’s eyes.
Without stopping to think, Godrick rolled sharply to his left, allowing the halberd to slam into the stone where he had been lying only an instant earlier.
He used the momentum of the roll to spring back to his feet before surging forward, driving a single punch toward Agravain’s chest.
The knight reacted immediately, bringing the steel shaft of his halberd across his body to intercept the blow.
The punch landed with a deafening clang.
For a heartbeat, the entire training yard fell silent.
The halberd, forged from solid steel despite being a training weapon, bent inward beneath the force of a six-year-old child’s fist.
Agravain’s eyes widened.
Before reason could catch up, years of surviving battlefields took over.
His body moved entirely on instinct.
His gauntleted fist shot forward with every ounce of strength he possessed, crashing into the side of Godrick’s face.
The child was launched from his feet.
His body flew across the arena before the back of his head slammed into the stone wall with a sickening crack, and he collapsed into a limp heap on the ground.
Every knight in the training yard froze.
Agravain remained rooted where he stood, staring at his own fist before slowly lowering his gaze to the bent halberd still clutched in his other hand.
“…What have I done?”
The weapon slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the stone.
He rushed to Godrick’s side, dropping to one knee as he quickly searched for a pulse.
Relief washed over him when he found the boy still breathing, and he reached down to lift him into his arms.
“Move!”
Lancelot shoved Agravain aside before carefully gathering the unconscious child into his own arms.
“Fetch Morgan!” he barked as he hurried toward the castle.
“Now!”
Servants and knights alike scattered in every direction.
Agravain remained kneeling where he was for several long moments, unable to bring himself to move as the weight of what had happened settled onto his shoulders.
Only after Lancelot had disappeared inside the castle did he slowly rise to his feet, lower his head in shame, and silently follow.
===
A short while later, Agravain stood before his King.
Morgan, Lancelot, Gawain, and several other Knights of the Round Table stood around the chamber while Artoria remained seated behind her desk, the steady rhythm of her armored fingers tapping against the polished wood filling the otherwise silent room.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Agravain said quietly, his head still bowed.
“I do not know what came over me.”
Lancelot let out a derisive scoff and stepped forward, but Artoria silenced him with a simple raise of her hand.
“Tell me,” her distorted voice echoed through the chamber, “why you insist on training the boy with such brutality.”
Agravain drew a slow breath before answering.
“My reasoning is simple. The battlefield gives a warrior no time to think. Victory belongs to those who act before hesitation takes root, and failure is punished with death. I intended to teach him to trust his instincts rather than his thoughts.”
“And striking him with your weapon?”
“To punish mistakes,” he answered without hesitation.
“Pain is remembered far longer than words.”
Artoria gave a thoughtful hum before her fingers finally stopped thrumming the desk.
“And your final strike?”
For several seconds, Agravain said nothing.
“When his fist struck my weapon…” he finally admitted, “…he did exactly what I had been trying to teach him. He stopped thinking and reacted. Every knight in this room knows that feeling. There are moments in battle when the body moves before the mind can catch up.”
He looked down at his gauntleted hands.
“When he bent the halberd… for just an instant… it no longer felt as though I was facing a child. My instincts believed I was fighting an equal, and they answered accordingly.”
Silence settled over the room.
“You understand,” Artoria finally said, “that Godrick cannot be healed as the rest of us can. The curse branded into his back prevents every form of healing magecraft we possess.”
“I understand.”
“Then why continue pushing him so far?”
Agravain lifted his head.
“Because if everyone continues treating him as though he is fragile, then he will remain fragile.”
His voice grew stronger.
“Should he spend the rest of his life standing behind others because he cannot be healed? Should he never learn what he is capable of because everyone fears he might bleed and break? He deserves the chance to discover his own strength, even if that path is harsher than any of us would wish.”
“Watch yourself, Agravain,” Lancelot warned, his hand settling upon the hilt of his sword.
“You address your King.”
Artoria remained silent for a long moment before rising from her chair and walking toward the balcony overlooking Camelot.
“I watched everything.”
Her voice carried quietly through the chamber.
“I also felt it.”
The gathered knights looked at one another in confusion.
“His killing intent.”
“Impossible,” Lancelot said immediately.
“He’s only a child.”
“Yes,” Artoria replied as she slowly turned back toward them, “but he is no longer shackled to that stone.”
The words hung heavily in the room.
“He has finally realized that he is free to fight back.”
Her eyes settled upon Agravain.
“I watched him struggle with the sword. It is not the weapon for him.”
The knight straightened.
“I want you to find him one that is.”
Agravain blinked in surprise.
“You will teach him to wield it. Once he has mastered its fundamentals, Sir Lancelot will take over his instruction.”
She looked from one knight to the other.
“Is that understood?”
Both men bowed deeply.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
===
Later that evening, Godrick slowly stirred awake in his bed, a dull ache pounding against the back of his skull.
He groaned quietly as he lifted a hand to his head, only to wince the moment his fingers brushed the bandages wrapped around it.
“Ow…”
“Hey!”
Before he could react, Mordred launched herself onto the mattress, making the entire bed bounce beneath them.
She quickly crawled across the blankets until she was only inches from his face, studying him with narrowed eyes.
Godrick instinctively leaned away from her scrutiny.
“What are you doing?”
“You took a really big hit today,” Mordred replied as she grabbed his cheeks and tilted his head from side to side, trying to inspect the back of it.
“Ow! Ow, ow, ow!”
Godrick pulled himself free from her grip, rubbing his sore neck with a pout.
“I’m fine!”
“So you remember who I am?”
“…Yes.”
“And who are you?”
“…Godrick.”
“And who is Mama Artoria?”
“Our mama.”
Mordred nodded in satisfaction.
“Good.”
The bedroom door creaked open before Morgan entered, her expression as unreadable as ever.
Without offering either child more than a passing glance, she crossed the room to Godrick’s bedside and began unwinding the bandage around his head.
She clicked her tongue softly when the wound came into view.
“You certainly know how to keep the castle healers occupied.”
Godrick sat as still as he could while Morgan soaked a cloth in cool water before gently cleaning the dried blood from his blond hair.
Even with her careful touch, the sting made him flinch every few moments, though he stubbornly refused to complain.
After several minutes of silence, he looked up at her.
“Mama Morgan?”
“Hm?”
“Why don’t you like Mama Artoria?”
Morgan’s hand stopped.
For a brief moment, the room became perfectly still before she resumed wiping the blood from the back of his head.
“You are too young to understand.”
Godrick frowned.
“But… I don’t like how you talk to each other.”
His small voice carried an honesty that made Morgan pause again.
“It makes me sad.”
She looked down into the boy’s bright blue eyes before letting out a quiet sigh and dipping the cloth back into the basin.
The water had turned pink from the blood, and she wrung the rag out slowly before continuing her work.
“Imagine,” she began, “that everything was given to Mordred while you received nothing. Every toy. Every sweet. Every reward.”
Godrick glanced toward his sister.
“That wouldn’t be fair.”
“No,” Morgan agreed.
“It wouldn’t.”
She continued cleaning his hair.
“Wouldn’t you be angry?”
“I would.”
“Exactly.”
Morgan met his eyes.
“You would resent the person who received everything while you were left with nothing.”
Godrick considered that very carefully.
Then he tilted his head.
“…But Mordred would share.”
Morgan blinked.
“What?”
“She’d share with me.”
Mordred nodded enthusiastically.
“I would!”
Morgan sighed.
“And if she didn’t?”
Godrick frowned as though the idea itself made no sense.
“I’d ask her.”
“And if she still refused?”
He looked at Morgan as though she’d asked the most ridiculous question imaginable.
“She’s my sister.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that Morgan found herself at a loss for words.
“She’d share eventually.”
Mordred immediately threw an arm around his shoulders.
“I’d always share!”
Morgan simply stared at the two children.
Whatever lesson she had intended to teach had dissolved beneath the simple certainty with which Godrick viewed the world.
In his eyes, family argued, family disagreed, but family always came back together in the end.
It was a belief so innocent that she almost envied it.
She lowered her gaze and continued cleaning the last traces of blood from his hair.
“It is… much more complicated than that.”
“I don’t think it has to be,” Godrick answered quietly.
Morgan looked at him.
“Did you ever ask Mama Artoria to share with you?”
For several long moments, Morgan said nothing at all.
Finally, she looked away.
“…It isn’t that simple.”
Godrick accepted the answer, though it was obvious he didn’t understand it.
Instead, he slid off the bed, landing lightly on the floor before hurrying toward the door with Mordred close behind him.
Just before leaving, he turned back and flashed Morgan a wide grin that showed several missing teeth.
“I still think she’d share.”
He pulled the door open for Mordred before the two children disappeared into the hallway, their laughter echoing farther and farther away.
Morgan remained seated on the bed long after they were gone.
“…Foolish child.”
Yet there was remarkably little conviction behind the words.
Her eyes drifted toward the cloth still resting in her hand.
A faint frown crossed her face.
The fabric was spotless.
Looking down at the basin beside her, she watched the pink water ripple gently before dipping the cloth into it once more.
“…Interesting.”
The wound on the back of his head had already disappeared.