Percival understands what it is to carry the weight of a parent’s choices, to be shaped and scarred by them. He, too, has spent his life trying to escape his father’s shadow, though he would never say it so plainly. He pretends his quest for the Holy Grail is about justice, about proving his worth to Nimue, but I think it is more than that. I think he is chasing something he cannot name, something that has nothing to do with the Grail and everything to do with himself. - Journal of Dame Galahad Corbenic
Journal of Percival Blanchfleur
Written beneath the Willow of Mercy, Camelot
May 3rd, 1158
I thought I had put my faith in stone. I thought I had carved my purpose into the very marrow of my being, an unshakable truth that could not be bent or broken by anyone, least of all another knight. And yet, here I sit, quill in hand, staring at the place where stone has cracked, and I find that I cannot tell if it is breaking apart or breaking open.
Galahad has been knighted.
When I first met her, I had already heard the stories. The daughter of Elaine Corbenic and Sir Lancelot du Lac. Raised in Taransay, the land I have fled and rejected, yet never truly escaped. I expected another knight like my father’s ilk, another fraud dressed in piety, ready to spill innocent blood in the name of some hollow “honor.” I expected someone who would make me sneer, who would sharpen my resolve to become something purer, something greater.
What I found instead was Galahad.
I do not believe in purity. Not anymore. Not after Orkney burned, not after I saw my sister cut down those who had no sword to raise in defense. Purity is a lie, a word used by those who think themselves above reproach, who are content to believe their actions are justified because their intentions are “good.” But Galahad… Galahad makes me question everything.
She does not carry herself like the other knights. There is no arrogance in her step, no self-congratulation in her gaze. When she speaks of Nimue, there is no blind fervor, no posturing. It is not worship—it is a kind of love. A quiet, steady love, the kind that asks nothing in return but the promise to be better than one was yesterday.
I envy her.
She believes in the Lady of the Lake as I once did, when I was just a boy trailing after Dindrane, hoping to grow into her shadow. Back then, I thought justice and knighthood were one and the same. To carry a sword was to carry the will of Nimue herself, the final arbiter of what was good and right. That faith was shattered the day I saw my father run King Lot through—a man who stood defenseless after laying down his sword in the trust that his opponent would honor the duel Uther had promised. It was shattered when I saw Dindrane, my hero, cut down innocents in Orkney, her eyes hard and empty as if she were merely following orders from some unseen god. That day, I stopped believing in knights. I stopped believing in my family.
I stopped believing in anyone but myself.
I ran, and I built my purpose out of my anger, my shame, my need to prove that I am not like them. I swore that I would find the Holy Grail, not for glory or riches, but for confirmation that I, and I alone, am worthy. That I am not my father’s son. That I am not my sister’s shadow. That I am something better.
And then Galahad entered the fold.
She is a knight now, the youngest ever to sit at the Round Table, and I cannot bring myself to feel bitterness about it. She has worked harder than anyone I have ever known. She wears the weight of her bloodline—of Lancelot’s shame, of Elaine’s spite—like armor, yet it does not harden her. If anything, it has made her softer, more compassionate. She does not wield her pain like a sword, as I do. She carries it, quietly, and uses it to guide her actions.
I should hate her for it. I should see her as a rival, a threat to my purpose. She is everything the court whispers I am not: pure, pious, unbroken. She will seek the Grail, as I do, and I have no doubt that Nimue will favor her. How could she not? Galahad is the living embodiment of what I once believed a knight should be.
And yet, when I look at her, I do not feel hatred. I feel kinship.
She is the only one who does not look at me with judgment in her eyes. The only one who does not see the failure of Pellinore’s bastard child. When she speaks to me, it is not as though she is speaking to someone lesser or someone broken. It is as though she is speaking to someone she understands. And, God help me, I understand her too.
For all her faith, for all her resolve, there is pain in her. I see it in the way she clenches her fists when Lancelot’s name is mentioned. I see it in the way her smile falters when the knights praise her as “pure” and “perfect,” as though such words are both a blessing and a curse. I think she doubts herself, as I doubt myself. And perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to be her rival.
She is not my enemy. She is my friend. My family, though neither of us would dare speak it aloud.
The Grail looms large in my mind, as it always does. It is the beacon that keeps me moving, the prize that will justify everything I have endured. But now, for the first time, I wonder if my purpose is as unshakable as I believed.
If Galahad reaches the Grail before me, if Nimue chooses her instead of me, what will that mean? Will it mean that I am unworthy? Will it mean that all my pain has been for nothing? Or will it mean that there is more to worthiness than I understand?
I do not know.
All I know is this: when Galahad took her place at the Round Table, I felt no anger. I felt pride. I felt hope.
Perhaps the Grail does not matter as much as I thought. Perhaps the way I walk the path is what Nimue cares for most. And if that is true, then I am grateful that Galahad walks beside me.
For she is not just my rival. She is my sister, as much as Dindrane ever was. And maybe—just maybe—that is enough.
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