God, even his fucking hair was like Tristan’s. It didn’t make any sense. Arthur didn’t seem the type to keep a mistress, and from what Mace understood, the queen’s full siblings looked nothing like her. Where had this suspicious doppelgänger come from?
Mace scowled at Guy’s cryptic answer, crossed his arms over his chest in a way that emphasized the sheer mass and strength of both. It was a subtle gesture, but the message was clear – he was not a man to be trifled with, and Guy had best remember it. To his credit, it seemed to translate. The younger man’s voice was strained…beseeching. There was something Mace was supposed to understand, something he was supposed to know already, but the way Guy dangled it in front of him did not stoke his curiosity so much as deepen his frown, his frustration.
When he finally spat it out, it took Mace a moment to process.
“You’re his brother,” he repeated dubiously. Then his eyes widened. Guy had always seemed so much older than he was, but Mace had seen his file. He’d had no family, no record, he’d appeared out of nowhere…he was exactly the right age… “My God. You’re the brother? You’re Gawain!?” His voice came out a gravelly hiss, and now he was the one looking around, drawing closer, suddenly concerned they might be overheard. Jo, keep a very close watch on that perimeter, he demanded. Her uncharacteristic silence confirmed that she was just as shocked.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, releasing his arms so he could pinch the bridge of his nose, turning his body in a right angle to the captain’s.
The bit about communicating with dead men was honestly the least alarming part. After all, Gawain himself was supposed to be dead. If he hadn’t been dead, he would have been king.
He would have been king.
The thought casts a shadow over Mace’s expression, sharpens his gaze into something that could cut. Guy – Gawain – was older and more experienced than Tristan. He had led teams through the most difficult situations, had dealt with death and loss and come out the other side. He knew what it took to win. If he had returned to take up his rightful place in the line of succession…maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Tristan would likely jump at the opportunity to hand over the crown, and all the responsibility that came with it. But Gawain had been gone so long, did he even know what Shaman was, anymore? How could he rule a world that had become a stranger?
“What kind of help,” he asked, obliquely. Then: “You know you have to tell him. Right?”
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