The beach is a wonderful and horrible place. Sun, salt, and sand. Those are the three words that best describe the place.
Sure, the roaring sounds of the ocean and the laughter of people having fun did bring a bit of a smile to people's lips, but really, sun, salt, and sand.
Thankfully, I was smart enough to change in the same moment I stepped through the portal. I wouldn't want to be on the beach wearing my suit, it wasn't the place for such things.
Instead, I wore my own swimsuit, which I thankfully had, and more than one. As my archer-self had one, but more importantly, my ruler-self had one.
One that fits my current body. (swimsuit)
"Damn! This place is crazy! Nothing like back home." Mordred was excited, she was easily impressed at times.
"Let's get going, we need to gather all the beach supplies." I said calmly as I unfolded my sun umbrella.
Getting what we wanted wasn't too difficult, blankets, pillows, snacks, sunglasses. Everything one could possibly want in this situation.
I had easily been able to get my hands on some more cash, plenty of people around the casino willing to handle the exchange for me, for a fee.
So we just went around to every little overpriced beach booth and bought it all. The only problem we encountered was the sheer amount of attention we got.
Mordred lived for the attention. She loved it. Back then, she had to hide under her armor, but she still sought attention. She wanted to be the best, to prove herself and gain the approval of others, mainly me.
Her lively personality, loud, excited voice, and the very aura she exuded were enough to draw people's attention. Before taking in her good looks inherent from me which had every teenage boy at the beach stop and stare.
And then there was me. I, with my more mature looks, drew plenty of looks my way. And that was without my own regal bearing drawing even more attention.
We honestly couldn't walk three steps without getting stopped by some guy what couldn't help himself but drool over one of us.
I was very worried that Mordred would start leaving a trail of bodies behind us.
"You want me to start punching them?" Mordred asked, already flexing one arm as she adjusted the massive inflatable tube slung over her shoulder like a war trophy. "Because I can start punching them."
"No," I said firmly, adjusting my sunglasses with all the composure of a reigning monarch. "You may not."
"Just a little," she muttered, but relented.
The walk from the stalls to the waterline took longer than it should have. Mordred carried most of the bags—more out of impatience than helpfulness
We looked around for a good spot away from the main crowd. However, I quickly realized that the main crowd we wanted to escape seemed to be following us.
One group of college-aged boys in particular had been trailing behind us for a while now, just close enough to overhear but not brave enough to say anything—until one finally did.
"Hey! Uh, excuse me! Are you… models or something?"
Mordred grinned without turning. "Or something."
The boy—tall, sunburnt, clearly trying his best—rushed to keep up. "Well, I mean, you look like you stepped out of a movie. Are you… sisters?"
"She's my Father," Mordred said without hesitation.
That shut them up for a moment.
"Wait, your… what?" another one mumbled, clearly regretting every choice that led to this moment.
But before they could spiral into awkward questions, another of the boys jumped in, trying to steer the conversation. "Anyway, uh—if either of you are single, maybe you wanna hang out later?"
"I am," I said without pausing, eyes still on the open sand ahead. "But not for you."
The words landed like stone dropped in water—no drama, no malice. Just truth.
Mordred gave them a grin sharp enough to slice. "She likes men who can lift more than a surfboard and talk less than they breathe. You boys don't qualify."
They lingered for a beat longer, unsure if they'd just been insulted, then took the hint and veered away.
"Think they'll recover?" Mordred asked, tossing a dirty look back at the retreating guys.
I didn't bother answering her. Instead, I just shook my head and moved on.
So, we just had to deal with it. Mordred wanted the beach experience, and she would get it, the good, and the bad.
So we sat down in a rather central spot, the best spot I could find. I didn't even have to ask for it, the people there were more than happy to move. Just a bunch of young guys who lost their minds and ability to speak at the mere sight of us.
I began laying everything out—meticulously. Mordred tried to help, lasted all of three seconds, and then sprinted to the edge of the water to test the temperature with her toes. She yelped immediately.
"It's cold!" she shouted back, laughing.
"That tends to be the case with oceans," I replied. "They are not bathhouses."
"That's dumb. It's sunny! It should be warm."
I gave her a small, indulgent smile and planted a parasol into the ground, replacing the need for my own umbrella as I settled down in the shade.
Mordred ran back up, hair already tousled by the wind, and dropped beside me on the beach blanket like a sack of armorless enthusiasm.
"You're not going in?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Scared the water will mess up your royal hair?"
I reached for a bottle of cold tea from the cooler. "I am building fortifications first. Unlike you, I prefer comfort before chaos."
"Boooooring," she teased, then stood and struck a pose. "Alright then, Father. Watch closely. I'm gonna master surfing in, like, ten minutes."
"Just keep in mind you can't blame the ocean if you fail." I said, but my tone was dry with humor.
She flashed me a grin, grabbed the rental board we'd overpaid for, and jogged off toward the waves like she had been born with fins.
I sipped my drink, adjusted my umbrella again, and leaned back against the pillows, watching her go.
Sun, salt, and sand. Horrible and wonderful indeed.
Out on the waves, Mordred was already making a scene.
She wasn't good at surfing—not yet—but she was fearless, and that counted for something. Every time she wiped out, she popped back up laughing, dragging the board behind her like it had wronged her personally. The lifeguards were already watching her with mild concern.
At one point, while adjusting her board and shaking out her hair, a guy on a neon-green surfboard paddled up beside her. Mid-twenties, deeply tanned, bleached curls, necklace of shark teeth. He wore his confidence like SPF—applied thick and everywhere.
"Hey," he said, flashing teeth. "That was a gnarly wipeout."
Mordred looked over, blinking saltwater out of her eyes. "Yeah. You're next if you distract me mid-wave."
The guy laughed, unbothered. "Feisty. I like that. You, uh... come here often?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to flirt with me while we're both floating like wet logs?"
"I mean, it's not not working."
Mordred snorted. "Buddy, I just spent fifteen minutes losing a fight to gravity and salt. If you think that's peak romantic timing, you might want to rethink your strategy."
He grinned again, clearly thinking he was charming. "Alright, alright. What would impress you, then?"
She gave him a long, assessing look—then pointed at a huge wave forming just behind them.
"Ride that. Don't fall. Don't scream. Bonus points if you don't crash into anyone."
He looked, hesitated a half-second too long, then committed.
He wiped out halfway down the crest with a splash loud enough to earn applause from the shoreline.
Mordred howled with laughter and paddled away before he resurfaced.
"I said you were next!" she called over her shoulder, still grinning as she caught the tail end of the wave and rode it all the way in—half-standing, half-hollering.
From my spot on the beach, I simply shook my head and sipped my drink.
I was proud of her, able to deal with her suitors like that, I had feared she would challenge them to a duel to the death. But I guess I didn't give her enough credit.
She wasn't stupid, she just hated thinking.
A few more waves passed. Mordred wiped out twice more—once impressively—and even accidentally took out a kid on a boogie board, whom she immediately apologized to with a sheepish grin and a pat on the head. But she was improving.
Then it happened.
She caught a wave.
A big one.
I sat up a little, raising my sunglasses with mild curiosity as she turned the board just right, popped up to her feet, and for a few precious seconds—she actually rode it. Wobbling, arms flailing, mouth open in sheer disbelief—but she stayed up.
Then she let out a scream. Not of fear, but pure triumph.
"WOOOOOOOO!" she howled, carving clumsily along the crest like she was leading a cavalry charge. "FATHER, LOOK! I'M DOING IT! I'M SURFING!"
A group of beachgoers nearby cheered. One man clapped. Someone whistled. Mordred soaked it all in like sunlight, grinning so hard I thought her face might break.
She rode the wave all the way in, practically collapsed off the board as it hit the shallows, then immediately scrambled to her feet and sprinted up the beach like a victorious warrior returning from the front.
"Did you see that?!" she shouted, hair soaked and sticking to her cheeks, surfboard dragging behind her. "I was like—shwoooosh! And the wave was all fwaaaaah! And I didn't even fall!"
I sipped from my tea and gave her a calm nod.
"You flailed like a dying bird."
"But I didn't fall!"
"You didn't fall."
She dropped the board dramatically onto the sand and collapsed beside me, panting but radiant.
"I am the king of the beach," she declared.
"I am here, so therefor, I am the king."
She paused. "I'm the king of the waves?" She asked.
"Sure, go for it."
"I'm the king of the waves!" She declared with more conviction.
She was still catching her breath when she tilted her head toward me.
"Y'know," Mordred said, brushing sand off her arms, "we could stay here a little longer. Just you and me. Forget the world. Camelot, the throne, all of it."
Her voice wasn't serious—not entirely. But not a joke either.
I turned my gaze out toward the water, watching the glittering horizon where the sea met the sky. The sound of waves crashing, laughter drifting across the breeze, children building castles we never finished back home—it all had a strange, haunting peace to it.
"We could," I said softly. "It's tempting."
She looked over at me.
"But you won't."
"No," I said. "I won't."
"Because of duty?"
"Because of who I am."
She was quiet a moment. Then she nodded, plucking a chilled soda from the cooler and popping it open with a hiss.
"Still," she said, after a sip. "This is nice."
"It is."
It really was nice to relax a little. And to think about leaving it all behind.
To just accept the past, my kingdom gone, a new age, a new time. To move on. And a big part of me wanted that.
The part that is upon the hill of Camlann requested Sir Bedivere to take Excalibur and return it to Vivian.
I knew what would happen if I did that: my death. However, I accepted that, or at least part of me did.
I like to think that I truly found a human heart on that hill.
To want many different things, to be so conflicted, that was human, wasn't it?
I wanted to just die, to leave it all behind, to give up Excalibur and the burden of the crown. Yet, I did regret what happened, I wanted to change it, which is why I later answered the call of the Grail.
To want to live, to die, to move on or cling to the past all at once, that was human.
Honestly, I was a mess, so many different aspects of the king of knights all mixed together. An altered form meant nothing; the darkness within me, the one who wanted to end everything, to burn the world, was there.
So, I liked this, a time to just relax, forget everything, and enjoy everything I never had, a chance to do what I couldn't back then, accept Mordred.