Okay, pls tell me about this: "heartfic au"
As you MAY have already guessed ;) itās a fic inspired by @janiedeanās beautiful ASOIAF heartfics.Ā
For those unaware: one day, an anon suggested Janie write an ASOIAF fanfic set in an AU where, after suffering too much pain and trauma, peopleās hearts (represented by glowing spheres of light) may crack and bleed and, eventually, spontaneously disappear from their ownersā chest to reappear wherever their soulmate is. Said soulmate then takes care of the heart, trying to heal its wounds and/or stop its bleeding, until theyāre finally able to give it back. And then, ofc, romance and (more) hurt/comfort ensue. I think the initial prompt was JB, because iirc thatās what the first heartfic was? But Janie also wrote similar fics about other ships, like Davos and his wife getting Stannisā heart or Sansa getting Sandorās.
Janie has said on a couple of occasion that sheās fine with other people using the same concept, since it was that anon who came up with it. I decided to write Arthurian fic about it because the whole idea was just screaming GALAHAD/MORDRED!!!! over and over at me.Ā
Basic plot isĀ ākid!Galahad gets a cracked, bleeding heart and figures itās that of a damsel in distress he will have to save one day because ofc, heās Miracle Boy and everything, but oh no, all the ballads say brave noble knights marry the damsels in distress whose hearts they heal, and he has to stay Pure to find the Grail!! ... but hey, maybe they can be just friends?? Then he grows up, goes to Camelot, starts this weird friendship (?) with Mordred as the two Local Subtly (Or Not So Subtly) Ostracized Awkward Prophesized Bastards Of Very Important People, and realizes it was never about a damsel at all. Cue DRAMA on both sides (āWAIT HOW DOES IT WORK DOES THIS MAKE IT BETTER OR WORSE I MEAN CAN WE HAVE LIKE A PLATONIC VIRILE FRIENDSHIP OR DO WE HAVE TO --ā āOH GREAT IāM NOT GOOD ENOUGH EVEN FOR MY GD SOULMATE NOWā and a bunch of other stuff) until Galahad leaves on the Grail Quest and experiences a lot of horrible shit until his own heart goes to Mordred to protect itself, proving they truly ARE meant to be together and prompting Galahad to refuse the Grail and ascending to Heaven (after a lot more internal turmoil, probably) so he can come back to him.ā
Hereās a peek from a scene Iām particularly proud of:
As it turns out, he wasnāt lying.
Mordred canāt deny it as he stares at the thing Galahad took out of the chest under his bed, the thing that was in the leather pouch, the thing wrapped in wool like it was fragile and precious. The thing in Galahadās hands, held gently, shivering like a branch in the wind, glowing like live coals, pulsating ā no, not pulsating, beating.
The void in his chest longs for it, aches for it, covets it. No. No, itās more than that. Itās not just desire but a need, a hunger. It makes him helpless before it, pulls him towards it like a riptide, and itās all he can do to struggle against it and resist it, holding his arms rigid by his sides and not moving an inch from his position.
Ā«Itās yours,Ā» Galahad say, uselessly, and he opens and closes his mouth and lowers his gaze like he doesnāt know what else to say.
Ā«Yes. Itās mine,Ā» Mordred replies, just as uselessly. Then, after a moment, he adds: Ā«Those are even my colors.Ā» More because heās just noticed than for any other reason. His bewildered tone probably makes his words sound even more foolish. But he wonāt blame himself for that too much, not right now, because the first thing he noticed was the redness ā the blood. The splotches of blood and the many, ragged scars. Hard to notice anything else, after seeing that.
His heart is an ugly thing. Thatās not surprising, at all, but he chokes back bitter laughter all the same.Ā
Galahadās head whips back up at the sound, and he looks startled and a bit confused. Ā«Uh. Ah, yes, thatās true. I hadnāt thoughtā¦ or, mh, noticedā¦Ā» He stops, frowning.
Right then, a thought strikes him like a slap across the face, part hope and part dread and entirely stupid. Ā«Gaheris has silver and purple in his arms, too.Ā» Mordred hesitates and bites his lip, feeling inexplicably like a child about to confide some secret thatās at once all too important and too silly to be exposed, and then continues: Ā«Not only that, but the silver reminds me of Orkneyās sea in winterā¦ and that purple, of a flower that blooms sometimes on the heaths near the sea. My brothers and I all used to play on the coast as boys. They already did it long before I was even born.Ā» Another pause. Ā«As for the flower, I think we all picked it for our mother at least once.Ā» And now, its color is dirtied and muddled by bloodstains.
Galahad shakes his head. Ā«Iāve never thought too much about what the colors might mean. But Iāve also never felt like it could belong to any of your brothers.Ā» Thereās a light flush on his cheeks, now, a thin note of something thatās almost stubbornness in his voice. Mordred is aware that he could use that to tease him.
He doesnāt feel like teasing him. Ā«Stillā¦ how can you be so certain?Ā»
Galahad blinks and then stares him right in the eye, and suddenly his chest is tight, full of something that itches and stings and prickles under the other manās calm, blue gaze. Ā«Arenāt you? Donāt you feel itās your heart?Ā»
He does. He does, and thatās just the problem. The itch grows more intense, more unbearable with every moment he keeps his mouth shut to avoid answering. He drops his gaze to the thing thatās still in Galahadās hands, the thing thatās calling to him and only him and seems to be beating faster and brighter the more he looks at it and does nothing else, almost like itās yelling at him in its own way for making it wait so long.
Ā«What if I donāt want it,Ā» he says, and his voice sounds rough and weak to his own ears.
Ā«Why wouldnāt you want it?Ā» Galahad asks that like he honestly canāt think of any reason why, like this is the first time anyone in the whole world has ever said anything like what Mordred, not-so-secret bastard prince and prophesized kingslayer and kinslayer of Camelot, has just said. Maybe it is. Heās pretty sure heās never heard any songs about any beleaguered damsel who simply told the dashing hero at the foot of her dreary tower, oh no, my good sir, you may keep it, I was fine without it and I will not need it anytime soon.
But Mordred is not a vulnerable maiden or locked up against his will and at the mercy of a cruel brother or uncle or eagerly waiting to be rescued since he was half his current height, so he steels himself and tries again: Ā«What if Iām just fine the way I am now? What if I donāt need it, after all? Iāve spent years not feeling anything, Iām used to it.Ā»
He looks up in time to catch the flash of naked hurt that crosses Galahadās fine features, briefly replacing startled incredulity before it turns into barely concealed worry. Ā«Are you sure?Ā» Then, he seems to really think about itā¦ and the fingers of his right hand start stroking the thing, lightly and unthinkingly. Ā«Iā¦ I can imagine something has happened that you may not want to remember. Maybe youāve felt things you donāt want to feel again. But is this really better? Would you really keep living like this?Ā»
The spark of anger mixed with spite that flares up in his gut ā at Galahadās questioning and his assumptions that he can imagine and that he knows what living like this is like, those soft caresses that feel so impossibly familiar and intimate when at most they should be irritating or even disturbing in their presumptuousness, the way he feels himself ache for entirely new reasons ā tempts him to say that yes, he would, and yes, this is better. It has to be. Has to be better than this ridiculous, confusing, terrible mess that Galahadās dragged him into. Had he never come to Camelot, or least, had he never come to him with truths that sounded like bad jokes and his honest, open gaze and their stupidly engaging arguments and the quiet evenings spent together hiding away from everyone else andā¦
Ā«Arenāt there things youād like to feel? For your family, or your friends, orā¦Ā»
Mordred sighs. There were lots of things, back when he had first given up his heart and spent his every waking moment wishing to get it back somehow. That was years ago, though, and after some time had passed and he had finally figured out that wishing never helped with anything, all of them had started to seem less desirable, less importantā¦ just, less. They didnāt matter anymore, and so he didnāt want them then and doesnāt want them now. And yetā¦ it seems foolish to even think about it, like heās slipping back into stale old fantasies and half-forgotten, senseless hopes, butā¦ maybe there are a couple of new things, now.
He sighs again, this time trying for a slightly exasperated but mostly careless tone, and holds his hands out in front of him as soon as heās sure theyāve stopped shaking. He swallows and says: Ā«Alright, I think Iāll give it a try. But know that I might just throw it out again and then youāll be stuck with it.Ā» He tells himself that heās not afraid. He is, of course, but heās such a convincing liar, he knows he can convince himself. It canāt be too hard, right?
Galahad grimaces, and thatās not too encouraging, even if heās quick to school his features before he slowly, almost gingerly reaches his hands out to him, too. Mordred has half a mind to snap at him and say, look, I was only jesting, Iām not saying youāll really have to keep it or that Iād care if you left it on the wayside or threw it into a well, but then he worries that the bile might blend with actual pity and so he says nothing except for: Ā«How am I supposed to do this, then?Ā» The songs, of course, skip the boring technical details.
Galahad fits the glowing sphere between his palms like heās putting a newborn into the cradle, touches his fingers to make them curl over it as if heās afraid heāll drop it. The sphere is light as a breath, yet somehow solid, and warm like a living thingā¦ which it truly is, all things considered, although that thought still feels a little absurd. Galahadās skin is warm, too. Ā«Iām not sure,Ā» Galahad admits. Ā«Iāveā¦ never done this before.Ā»
Ā«Yeah, well, neither have I.Ā»
