A/N: This is a double release!
Be sure to read chapter 4 along with this one!
=== Godrick, Age Ten — Two Years After the Death of Gorfyddyd ===
“How is his progress?” Artoria asked as she sat behind the heavy oak desk in her study, her attention fixed on a stack of ledgers detailing Camelot’s finances and the endless reports that accompanied ruling a kingdom at war.
Sir Lancelot stood beside the tall window overlooking the castle grounds, where the training fields bustled with knights drilling beneath the afternoon sun.
He watched them in silence for a moment before answering, carefully considering how best to describe the young boy who had spent the last several years under his tutelage.
“He is…” Lancelot paused, searching for the most fitting word before giving a faint shake of his head.
“Vicious.”
Artoria finally looked up from her work.
“Godrick possesses extraordinary instincts, and his technique improves with every passing day, but he still struggles to restrain his strength. More often than not, he injures the squires and younger knights assigned to spar with him before he even realizes how much force he has used.”
Artoria rested the quill in her hand upon the desk.
“Have you considered having him train with one of our fellow Knights of the Round Table? There are few within Camelot capable of matching him physically, but several should be able to withstand him long enough to teach him restraint.”
“We have discussed it,” Lancelot replied with a nod.
“Most of our brothers would be unable to keep up with him, let alone endure the punishment his blows carry. Only the strongest among us could train him without risking serious injury.”
“Then have Galahad take over his sparring for a time,” Artoria decided.
“His temperament is well suited for teaching patience, and he possesses more than enough strength to endure whatever Godrick throws at him.”
Lancelot inclined his head.
“As you command, my King.”
Artoria returned to her paperwork, though only for a moment before another thought crossed her mind.
“And what of Mordred?”
At the mention of her name, Lancelot let out a slow, weary sigh and turned his gaze back toward the training grounds.
“He has improved greatly with the sword,” he admitted, “but that is not where my concerns lie.”
Artoria waited patiently.
“He remains impulsive, quick to anger, and far too eager to act before considering the consequences. Whenever I place him in command of a mock campaign or ask him to resolve disputes between the squires, he rarely listens to the advice of those around him. He trusts his own judgment above all else, even when that judgment is flawed.”
Lancelot folded his arms across his chest.
“Mordred has all the qualities needed to inspire men to follow him into battle, but a king must do more than win wars. He must listen, deliberate, and bear the weight of difficult decisions. Those are lessons he has yet to learn.”
Artoria leaned back in her chair, her armored fingers interlocking as she silently considered the paths her two children were walking.
Godrick was steadily becoming a warrior unlike any Camelot had ever seen.
Mordred, meanwhile, possessed all the charisma and determination of a future ruler, but lacked the patience and restraint that the crown demanded.
One was growing into the perfect knight, while the other struggled to become the king Camelot would one day need.
After several moments of quiet contemplation, Artoria gave her decision.
“Continue watching them both,” she said.
“If either begins to stray too far from the path I have laid before them, inform me immediately. Until then, allow them to learn through experience. There are some lessons neither you nor I can teach.”
Lancelot bowed deeply.
“Yes, my King.”
Without another word, he turned and departed the study, leaving Artoria alone once more with the burdens of both her kingdom and the family she had chosen to build.
===
“Alright, Godrick, I want you to hit me with everything you’ve got.”
Sir Galahad tightened the leather straps around his round shield before planting its rim firmly against the packed earth of the training yard.
Beyond him stood the young man he had been ordered to evaluate.
Godrick was only ten years old, yet he already stood nearly six feet tall, towering over many of Camelot’s seasoned knights.
Though his frame had not yet filled out into that of a grown man, there was no mistaking the raw power hidden beneath it.
“You mean… I don’t have to hold back?” Godrick asked as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.
“Not this time,” Galahad replied with a grin, striking the center of his shield with a mailed fist.
“Give me everything you’ve got. I need to know where your limits truly are before we can teach you to control them.”
Godrick nodded before rolling his shoulders and settling into a fighting stance.
“I also want you to stop suppressing yourself,” Galahad continued.
“You’ve spent years learning restraint. Now I want to see what’s underneath it. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Just fight.”
Taking a slow breath, Godrick exploded forward.
His fist crashed into the center of the shield with enough force to make Galahad slide backward several feet, his boots carving furrows into the dirt.
The knight blinked.
Godrick lowered his fist before letting out an irritated sigh.
“Sorry, I’m just not… feeling it.”
He stepped back, shaking out his arms before closing his eyes.
For several long moments he simply stood there, breathing.
Then his expression began to change.
The calm composure Lancelot had spent years instilling in him slowly disappeared as buried memories rose to the surface.
Godrick allowed himself to remember the burning village, the screams, the chains biting into his wrists, and the whip that had torn his back apart.
His breathing grew heavier, his muscles tensed, and veins slowly rose beneath his skin as emotions he had spent years suppressing clawed their way back into the light.
When he opened his eyes again, they no longer held the quiet calm of Camelot’s young squire.
They burned.
Without warning, he vanished.
The first punch struck Galahad’s shield like a battering ram, forcing the knight back two steps despite the strength in his stance.
Before he could even comment, a second blow slammed into the shield.
Then a third, then a fourth.
Each impact landed harder than the last, the deafening clang of steel echoing throughout the castle grounds as Galahad found himself giving ground despite planting every ounce of his weight behind the shield.
Godrick wasn’t slowing down.
He roared with every strike, years of buried resentment pouring from him as his fists became a relentless storm that battered the shield without mercy.
“Godrick!” Galahad shouted over the thunderous impacts.
“That’s enough!”
The boy didn’t seem to hear him.
Every punch carried more force than the last until, with one final bellow, Godrick twisted his hips and threw a crushing right hook into the battered shield.
Galahad disappeared as the knight was launched backward, crashing straight through the stone wall behind him in an explosion of shattered masonry.
Silence fell over the training yard.
Dust drifted lazily through the air as Galahad slowly sat upright amidst the rubble, a deep cut running along the side of his face where the rim of his own shield had rebounded into him.
After a moment, he climbed to his feet, brushed chunks of broken stone from his shoulders, and stepped back through the hole in the wall.
His once-pristine shield was bent inward beyond repair.
He looked down at it with genuine disappointment before glancing back toward Godrick.
“…That was a fine shield,” he muttered with a rueful smile.
“It survived battles against Saxons, Picts, and even Sir Lancelot. I was rather fond of it.”
Godrick’s breathing gradually slowed as the haze clouding his mind began to lift.
His eyes drifted to the ruined wall, then to Galahad’s bloodied face.
Finally, the realization of what he had done settled over him.
“I’m… I’m sorry…”
A familiar voice cut across the courtyard before he could say anything more.
“GODRICK!”
Every knight present instinctively stepped aside as Artoria strode across the training grounds, her armored boots striking the earth with measured purpose.
She stopped directly before her adopted son.
“What happened here?”
Godrick lowered his head.
“I…”
His answer never came.
Artoria’s gauntleted hand struck his cheek with a sharp crack that echoed across the courtyard.
Godrick stumbled half a step, one hand instinctively rising to his face as tears welled in his eyes more from shame than pain.
“You lost control.”
Her distorted voice carried across the silent training yard.
“I did not raise you to become a slave to your hatred.”
Godrick’s shoulders trembled.
“I know…”
“No.”
Artoria took a single step closer.
“You remembered that village, didn’t you?”
Godrick’s silence was answer enough.
“You embraced that anger because you believed it would make you stronger.”
He slowly nodded.
Artoria closed her eyes behind her helmet.
“We have spent six years teaching you that your strength exists to protect others, not to feed the darkness left behind by your past. If you continue down that path, one day you will no longer know where your anger ends and you begin.”
She turned toward a maid who had followed her.
“Escort Godrick to his chambers.”
As the maid hurried forward, Galahad finally found his voice.
“Your Majesty… this wasn’t his fault. I ordered him to—”
“Silence.”
Artoria’s command stopped him immediately.
“I will speak with you shortly.”
Galahad bowed without another word.
Artoria swept her gaze across the assembled Knights of the Round Table.
“All of you. My study. Immediately.”
Only after the training yard had begun to empty did Godrick allow himself one final glance at the ruined shield lying forgotten in the dirt before quietly following the maid back toward the castle, unable to shake the feeling that he had disappointed the one person whose opinion mattered most.
=== Artoria ===
Artoria stood before the tall windows of her study, her hands clasped behind her back as she looked out over Camelot.
Below, the castle grounds had returned to their usual rhythm after the commotion in the training yard, yet her thoughts remained fixed on the conversation she had just concluded with the Knights of the Round Table.
Galahad had explained everything.
The duel had unfolded exactly as he had intended, and though Godrick had ultimately lost himself to his anger, Galahad had not viewed the outcome as a failure.
Quite the opposite in fact.
He believed they had finally discovered the boundary where Godrick’s restraint gave way to the fury buried within him, and that, now that they understood where that boundary lay, they could begin teaching him how to master it.
The discussion had soon shifted to the future.
Lancelot had proposed that, when the time came, both Godrick and Mordred should earn their places among the Round Table rather than simply inherit them.
“You know it is the right course,” he had said.
“Five years remain before either of them reaches adulthood. Send them away on a trial worthy of Camelot, and let them prove themselves without our protection. We will learn who they truly are, and they will return either worthy of the Round Table… or knowing why they are not.”
Most of the gathered knights had agreed.
“It will also show us the extent of Godrick’s strength,” Agravain had added.
“He’s already stronger than several of us despite his age. In another five years…” He had allowed himself a small grin.
“The boy will be a monster.”
“Do not call him that.”
Artoria had turned from the window, her distorted voice carrying an unmistakable edge.
“He is a child before he is my knight, and he is my son before he is either. He is not a weapon.”
Agravain had lowered his head in apology, though Artoria could tell he had meant no insult.
Even so…
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Godrick’s growth had been unlike anything she had ever witnessed.
If left unchecked… No.
She refused to think of him that way.
With the meeting concluded, she had dismissed the knights, hoping for a few moments alone with her thoughts.
Instead, the door to her study burst open so violently that it struck the stone wall.
“I asked not to be—”
Her words died as Morgan strode into the room, her expression burning with an anger Artoria had almost never seen.
“You struck him?”
The accusation was quiet.
That frightened Artoria far more than if Morgan had screamed.
“What were you thinking?” Morgan demanded, every word measured despite the fury beneath it.
Artoria straightened.
“He lost control. He needed to be brought back to his senses.”
“So you struck him.”
“Yes.”
“With a gauntleted hand.”
Artoria’s jaw tightened.
“What concern is it of yours?” she asked.
“They are my children.”
Morgan’s composure shattered.
“They are my children too!”
Silence filled the room.
Artoria stared at her sister as though she had spoken another language before a short, disbelieving laugh escaped her lips.
“You? A mother?”
Morgan crossed the room in two long strides.
The crack of her palm against Artoria’s helmeted cheek echoed through the study.
Artoria scarcely moved, more stunned than hurt.
Morgan’s hand trembled at her side.
“Do not ever say that again.” She said, her voice shaking with emotion.
“I have spent years trying to make amends for everything that happened between us.”
“Make amends?” Artoria laughed bitterly, ripping her helmet from her head before slamming it onto the table between them.
“You made my life a living hell. You shattered Caliburn. You stole my trust. You took my blood and used it to create Mordred without my consent, then expected me to simply accept it. Avalon was lost because of everything that followed, and Merlin…” Her voice faltered before hardening once more.
“Merlin vanished while trying to hold this kingdom together.”
She leaned over the table, green eyes blazing.
“And somehow you think all of that can simply be forgotten?”
Morgan met her glare without flinching.
“If you had surrendered the throne that was mine by birth, none of it would have happened!”
The sisters stood nose to nose, years of bitterness hanging between them like a drawn blade.
Finally, Artoria threw her hands into the air and collapsed back into her chair with an exhausted sigh.
Morgan remained standing, resting both hands on the table.
“The Warlord forced us onto the same side, and if we cannot find a way to stand together, Britain will die long before either of us does.”
She hesitated before continuing.
“I never intended to care about either of those children.” She said the admission surprised even herself.
“But somewhere along the way… I did.”
Her eyes hardened again.
“So hear me clearly, Artoria. If you ever strike either of them in anger again, I will tear down everything you have spent your life building. Train them. Discipline them. Make them stronger if you must. But never mistake your temper for justice.”
Without waiting for a response, Morgan turned and left the study, the heavy door closing behind her.
The room fell silent once more.
Artoria remained seated for several minutes, staring at the helmet resting upon her desk before letting out a long, weary sigh.
Rising from her chair, she placed the helmet back upon her head and made her way through Camelot’s quiet corridors before entering her own chambers.
There she removed her armor piece by piece until only a simple white tunic remained, leaving behind the image of Britain’s king and becoming, for a little while, nothing more than a mother.
She roamed the castle halls, passing people who thought of her as nothing more than a simple maid or servant.
She eventually found herself outside Godrick’s room.
Knocking softly, she waited only a moment before letting herself inside.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the pale moonlight spilling through the window.
“Godrick?” she asked quietly.
“Are you awake?”
No answer came.
Yet she could hear him breathing as if he were pretending to sleep.
A faint smile touched her lips.
She sat beside him on the bed before gently brushing a strand of golden hair from his forehead.
“I’m sorry.”
He remained still.
“I should never have struck you.”
She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
The moment her lips left his skin, two small arms suddenly wrapped around her neck, nearly pulling her onto the bed.
“I’m sorry too, Mama,” Godrick whispered, his voice trembling.
“I lost control.”
Artoria returned the embrace, one hand resting against the back of his head.
“I know.”
For several moments, neither of them spoke.
Finally, she smiled.
“I shouldn’t have asked Galahad to push you so far, and I should have realized what those memories would do to you.”
Godrick nodded against her shoulder.
She gently ruffled his hair before giving him a playful nudge.
“Now move over, my little lion cub.”
He scooted across the mattress with a sleepy grin, making just enough room for her.
Artoria lay down beside him, pulling the blanket over them both as Godrick instinctively curled against her side.
For the first time that day, the King of Camelot allowed herself to simply be his mother.