Christmas

Gawain returned home drunk, having accepted the flattery of his former companions over drinks. They called him the second Sir Lancelot, and he laughed as he accepted their compliments. If he had not known his own limits, he might have believed he could bring down Arthur's foremost knight in three moves.

Amid everyone's cheers and egging-on, since boasting was tax-free anyway, the thoroughly drunk Gawain shouted, "Even knights ranked among the foremost of the Knights of the Round Table, like Tristan, Bedivere, Percival, and Kay—I could take on ten of them at once."

"Merry Christmas, Gawain!"

"Merry Christmas, Mother!"

The morning sunlight was so brilliant. As it slowly shone through the window into the room, Gawain opened his eyes against the glare and saw the old woman sitting beside his bed. He greeted her, and she nodded in reply.

Gawain lived in a two-story wooden cottage. By modern standards, aside from being somewhat larger, it was really just a country mud house. Neither the living conditions nor its convenience had much to recommend them. At least modern rural areas had electricity, but sleeping on a bed made of stone was, in his experience, only slightly better than sleeping on the ground.

"You reek of alcohol. You said you went to church to pray on Christmas Eve. Is this how you prayed?"

"No, Mother, I did go to church. They have communion there. Everyone attending the service gets a piece of bread, and you can even drink red wine."

"You little fool. In Camelot, that is called receiving the Eucharist. But laypeople may only eat the bread, not drink the red wine. Only the clergy conducting the Mass may both drink wine and eat bread."

"Mother, have you forgotten? Besides the clergy, the king can drink wine and eat bread too. Everyone knows I'm Arthur's nephew."

The conversation came to a temporary halt. The old woman fixed her son with a stern gaze. She knew perfectly well that he had probably not gone to church last night, but to a tavern. There was no point in pressing the matter further.

"Gawain, you are not king yet. Do you think people look up to you because of your father? No, it is because your uncle is Arthur—Arthur, the one who drew the sword from the stone. Right now, you are merely trading on your uncle's fame for that tiny scrap of glory. There is nothing honorable about that."

"Mother, I love you. Let me get dressed and get up!"

Gawain cut off his mother. On such a joyous holiday, he truly did not want to listen to any more nagging.

Bare-chested, Gawain calmly put on his clothes, showing off his strong upper body.

His mother had made him travel all the way from Denmark back to Camelot. Even the dullest person would understand that it was so he could one day inherit the throne after King Arthur's death.

The house where Gawain lived with his mother had no servants. They had to prepare all three meals themselves. Downstairs, one could immediately see a sheep pen and a stable, all managed personally by his mother.

Gawain sat down in his place, looked at the black bread on the table, then glanced at the boiled water. He pulled out his small knife and laboriously cut open the bread, then soaked the slices in the water. That way, he could enjoy some mush.

"Give thanks at the table to your Father and your king! Without Arthur's royal decree, it would not be so easy for ordinary people to eat bread."

Seeing Gawain about to start eating immediately, the old woman grabbed the axe used to chop bread at the table and spoke with displeasure.

Giving thanks to one's Father did not mean thanking King Lot, his father far away in Denmark, but thanking the supreme God. God had created the world, humanity, and grain as well.

Before eating, one had to pray. It was an expression of gratitude toward the world. Gawain was not truly devout, and he did not think much of thanking God, but under his mother's stern gaze, he had no choice but to join her in the pre-meal prayer.

Britain's land was not fertile. In this backward Middle Ages, people were accustomed to depending on the weather for their harvests. There was no specialized, systematic agricultural knowledge or equipment, and even breadmaking was a craft with professional bakers only in large cities like Camelot.

King Arthur had issued decrees to lords across the land, requiring them to build windmills for commoners to grind wheat and ovens to bake bread. He had also sent the Knights of the Round Table to inspect the results everywhere.

Kings throughout the ages had cared only for the lives of those within their own royal cities. Arthur's actions were undoubtedly rare. He consciously regarded all the people of Britain as his subjects, whereas earlier kings had not cared about the lives of people outside their royal cities, because those places were not their direct domains.

To save fuel and time, commoners often baked enough bread at once to last ten days or half a month. This made the bread so hard it was nearly impossible to swallow, and even required axes and knives to cut apart. Gawain might have felt his uncle had not done enough, but to people of this era, their king was already good enough.

Thus, they gave thanks to God and to the king at the same time. This Camelot tradition seemed, deliberately or not, to reinforce King Arthur's authority. And Gawain's mother, who made him observe it, was undoubtedly currying favor with the king.

"Mother, you're not going?"

"No, I'm not. Go see Arthur yourself!"

Gawain looked at his mother, who had made no effort to dress up. Though she had told him beforehand and he had prepared himself mentally, he still felt somewhat disappointed and uneasy when he heard that she did not intend to attend King Arthur's Christmas banquet.

"Mother, Uncle—no, what kind of person is Arthur, really?"

Gawain suddenly asked. The old woman, who had been holding a piece of bread, hesitated slightly at her son's question before forcing herself to speak calmly. "You'll know after you see him today."

"Ever since I came to Britain, I've heard so many tales about him. They say that at fourteen, he drew the sword from the stone—the holy sword that none of the bravest knights in the entire kingdom could pull free. I've also heard that he commands many brave knights who can slay dragons and giants, that he has a queen as beautiful as a flower, that he is never wounded, and that he is the strongest knight in this country."

"Gawain, there is something I want to tell you. What you heard is not legend, but truth. Arthur truly is the strongest man in this country. It would be exceedingly difficult to find anyone stronger than him even in the entire world. Yet you are meant to become the successor of such a man."

His mother placed a hand on Gawain's shoulder and spoke with a grave expression. A heavy atmosphere filled the room, making the air around them seem frozen. Gawain felt as though he could hear the air itself flowing, and the invisible pressure was enough to crush him.

Being an armchair critic was undoubtedly easy. He could say what past presidents and prime ministers had done wrong, point out what local officials had failed to do, and casually label them incompetent. But if he put himself in their place, could he honestly say he would do better?

Could he truly replace King Arthur?

Gawain fell silent. To ease the overly heavy atmosphere, he smiled. "I heard a rumor that Arthur is actually a girl."

"Perhaps. Perhaps in another world, Arthur is a girl, and my child Gawain is the most outstanding knight of all—a child who makes me proud."

His mother smiled in reply, her eyes distant. Her words did not blame Gawain, yet the expectation within them made his body tremble. To him, it was the harshest rebuke of all.

In another world, he was a perfect knight. In this world, he was merely a spoiled young man fantasizing about inheriting the throne.

"In another world, perhaps I would have several sons. But in this world, you are my only son, Gawain. Please do not disappoint me."

His mother spoke in a sorrowful tone. "Gawain, then let me wish you a Merry Christmas first."

In the world of a certain King of Blankets, King Arthur was a girl.

In other worlds, Gawain also had three younger brothers: Agravain, Gareth, and Gaheris.

His mother should have had four children in fate, and King Arthur should have had four nephews.

"Mother!"

Gawain lowered his head. If he had not known "history," he would never have felt such guilt. His birth had snuffed out his three younger brothers and taken three sons from a mother.

Though he knew his mother might have said it casually, recalling that she was recorded in history as a witch still made him feel guilty, as though she had seen through him.

Had the butterfly effect of him being a transmigrator really changed history?