Galahad's trips to Avalon (Patreon)

They came to Avalon every couple years. It’d become a sort of pilgrimage. His father said it was to pay respects to the Goddess by visiting the source of her power, but Galahad knew it was more than that; his father may have only spent seven years on the island, but they were formative years that had laid the foundation of the man he would become. He was fond of the place and grew wistful every time they left. Galahad shared in that sentiment; the trips had rendered Avalon special for him.

They were relieved from their knightly – and squirely – duties there, if only for a little. The burden of expectations weighing down on Galahad’s shoulders eased, as if he were floating above surface, buoyed by the water, letting himself be carried for a change of pace.

He suspected his father felt the same. Whatever tension had built up, stretching all his nerves thin to the point of snapping, seeped from him upon returning to Avalon. Here, he could let go. Here, the tension washed away from the taut muscles of his shoulders, rendering the severe lines of his face softer, kinder. It was almost as if he were a different man – happier, freer. The briny air, spraying tiny droplets of water, kissed their lips and cheeks and brows as the murmur of the sea lulled them into this sense of relaxation.

Lancelot was not the melancholy or garrulous type, yet something about Avalon shed a light upon a rare-seen faucet of his. He talked, reminiscing about this and that whenever they passed something that brought a story to mind, staring as if the memory played right in front of his eyes. Galahad would hang onto every word, even if it were a tale he’d heard many times before.

“I played all day long here,” Lancelot would point to a stretch of beach that wrapped around a rocky, steep cliff. “You can barely see it from here, but there’s a small cave there. The other kids and I, we’d pretend it was the lair of a beast, and we were adventurers come to defeat it.”

Then his brow would darken upon arriving at the pier, an expression as heavy as the thunderous, cavernous sound of waves crashing underneath the wood boards, licking at their sandals with every great, uproarious splash.

“And here Morgana tried to drown me,” he’d always say, sticking out his chin towards the expense of glimmering sea, fading out into the wispy ring of mist that encircled and sheltered Avalon. “Proving herself a danger and menace.”

They’d go up the winding, cobblestone streets, weaving between horse-drawn carts and pedestrians with baskets full of fruit and vegetable, passing by gaggles of giggling children playing with dices on their homes’ steps and idle cats lounging about on windowsills. They’d go all the way to the orphanage where his father spent those first seven years before his aunt, Lady Evaine, claimed him and brought him to Camelot to be trained as a knight. Everyone knew Lancelot there. They’d brew tea and bring out lemon biscuits for him to chat over while Galahad was circled by the other children his age. They wanted to play with him, to duel with wooden swords against a real squire – there were none in Avalon, but they all read and heard the stories of mighty knights. The younger children gawked, and the adults wore those tender, warm smiles and talked among themselves, fragments of conversation trickling over to him every now and then: “What a great knight he’ll make. Just like his father.”

Every year, one entire day of their stay would be dedicated to a trip through the wilderness at the heart of the island, to the lake where the Lady of the Lake was said to first be seen, the one that was believed to be her home. His mother would usually sit out on these visits, preferring to stay back with her lady-in-waiting. To continue swimming and lazing about, his mother would say with a laugh.

With her, Galahad would go searching for seashells, or lounge out in the sun when its harsh, scorching rays mellowed to a gentle, warm caress and she’d read to him, sitting on the soft sand. Other times they’d go to the market, a sprawling piazza paved with mosaic, a glimmering kaleidoscope under the bright sun. They’d buy anything from fresh produce to Avalonian garments, all made by the locals. She was fond of seafood and took it upon herself to eat as much of fish, shrimp, mussels, and oysters as she could during their stay. They’d take a dip in the waters when it was too hot, to cool off their heated skin, and on calm, sunny days, they’d take a boat out to sea, always keeping within the mist-marked bounds of the island.

There was something about Avalon that put Galahad at ease, too. Perhaps it was the great expanse of water, extending endlessly in every way once you’d passed the misty barrier. Perhaps it was that he was freed of expectations. It was as much of a pilgrimage as it was a vacation, and Galahad was happy to twine the two. He’d go out to the beach on his own some days, especially early in the morning or late in the evening, when the sun bled red into the sea. He’d float on his back, lulled to serenity by the gentle waves, and his lazily trickling thoughts would think only of the water that cradled him, embraced him in cool calmness and filled his ears with a buzz, a silence so loud, a racket so muted. He’d let his mind turn to the Goddess, to her magic he felt simmering all around him. Galahad could stay all day by the beach, running his fingers through the smooth, warm sand or watching crabs scuttle by in the shallows, climbing swiftly over rocks polished by the waves.

On certain occasions, they’d bring Nimue along, to visit her mother. His father was fond of Nimue – of her quiet, patient, observant way, of her understanding of the Lady of the Lake. He’d always encouraged Galahad to train with her, to challenge each other and push the other further. His mother was merely happy he had a friend in her.

Nimue was fond of all life teeming on the beach and underwater. She’d stare at the banks of little fish that’d swim where the water was low and clear, their slick skin trickling their legs as they rushed by. Sometimes, she’d find a crab and pick the little critter up – place thumb and index on either side of its shell, just below the base of its little yet fearsome pincers – and hold them up, inspecting them with twinkling eyes.

“Do you ever feel like a crab?” she once asked. The captured green creature flailed its pincers menacingly, the effect belied by the empty air it pinched.

Galahad, seated on the wet sand, letting the waves wash over him, feeling them stir shells and rocks under his palms whenever the current dragged the water back – almost wishing he went away with them too – looked up at Nimue. “Last I checked, I don’t feel like pinching things or walking sideways.”

Gawain would have given a more enthusiastic answer; he’d have taken it as an exercise in imagination and would likely have turned it into one of his stories, about a crab that talked and thought and felt like humans and was supposed to be some sort of commentary on principles and society and the likes.

Nimue smiled playfully. “You could with some magic.”

Gawain would have jumped at the opportunity. Galahad simply snorted. Nimue, undeterred by his response, put the little creature back down and sidled up to him.

“You know what else we could do with some magic?” she asked, tilting her head. “Go watch the fish swim underwater.”

This he eagerly assented to.

The day leading up to their departure was always the hardest, pervaded by a sense of wistfulness that extended and deepened into their journey, as their boat speared through the mist and the island was left behind. All their dispositions were subdued, muted; his mother would often sigh, and his father’s brow would pucker as if pinched by a crab. Nimue, when she accompanied them, would grow quiet and serious, her face as placid as the undisturbed water, settled in the wake of a raging storm. On his part, Galahad found himself staring longingly at the sea; many times upon catching his expression, he’d find furrows creasing his brow – and it’d strike him how alike Lancelot it made him look.

Then he’d pray to the Goddess, and it made him feel so much better.