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Contrary to what many believed, Mordred didn’t hate Gawain. They may have always been at odds with each other as conflicting ideologies went to war, but he did not hate him. After all, he still remembered who Gawain had been before anger and hate had consumed him. He remembered the young boy with an amused smile, always eager to make the youngest Pendragon laugh whenever he was asked to look over her. Morgause had been like his sister and Gawain had been like her brother. Only...Morgause was long gone now. Perhaps she had never truly existed. All that was left of her was Mordred and all of them refused to recognise him. All bar one.
The Hanged Man - Merlin, he had heard others call him - knew Mordred for what he truly was. The son of the Pendragons; the cause of so much grief and anguish. But he also saw Mordred’s pain. He saw Mordred’s agony at having those he should have been able to consider family look at him blankly. He understood. He did not ever ask the Hanged Man for his story nor did the Hanged Man ever offer it. But there was always some understanding in his voice. Did he too know what it was like to be forgotten? To be left behind? Mordred always kept his visits to Merlin brief. There were too many things he knew and too many things Mordred refused to hear. That was one thing he had in common with his father; innate stubbornness.
The first time he saw the Pendragons, Mordred had been filled with pure relief. His birth mother may have long since died and Morgan may now be gone, but he recognised them as his family. It was Lancelot that found him that morning. Tired, dehydrated, and bordering on delusional. The man had watched him for a few moments upon their meeting with almost-recognition but it quickly dissolved. Neither Guinevere nor Arthur recognised him. Though, it was Arthur’s ignorance that hurt the most. It was Arthur that he held a blood relation to. It was Arthur that he shared features with! Was...Was his father truly so blind to see it? Not that it mattered much.
Camelot wasn’t home to Mordred. No, home remained in the dark with the ghouls - even if many still held a distrust and dislike towards him. Camelot was, however, exactly where Mordred knew he needed to be. The five-point star with the name engraved into it was proof enough of that. It was the last thing he had from his birth mother. It rarely left his pocket but the name had led him here. So he tried to fit in. He tried to build himself some sort of life. No matter how much it hurt not to be remembered.
It was ironic, really. He still managed to get close to Arthur; to earn his own place at the Round Table. Even if it felt wrong to sit there as an outsider. He was the youngest there by many years. Perhaps that was why he was never quite taken seriously. There was an insistence that he was too ‘naive’; that he had yet to experience the world. It was funny in its own way. He had experienced more of the world than many of them ever would.
Some of the ‘knights’, as they had taken to calling themselves, had taken it upon themselves to teach Mordred the ways of the world. He needed to ‘toughen up’ and they felt obliged to help. At first, Mordred feared he would Gawain amongst the men that dragged him into the square. But he was not there nor were any of the Pendragons. Instead, it was Gareth, Geraint, and Tristan that faced him. That...didn’t entirely surprise him. Gareth and Geraint had never truly warmed to him and Tristan...Tristan was not the same as he had once been. He was still haunted by the loss of his love, Isolde. Out of the trio, Mordred suspected Tristan was the only one with any sort of good intentions.
“Don’t look so scared! We’re only here to help, after all!” The smile on Gareth’s face was made of ice. It was cold and nothing but cruel. “You’re all wide-eyed and babbling about peace, Mordred! What good would you ever be in a real fight?” Mordred just bowed his head. He had seen too much bloodshed and anger. He held no want for it. “And there’s no better way to do so than with practical experience!” Gareth nodded as Geraint forced a gun into Mordred’s hands. “So you and I are going to have ourselves a friendly duel.”
Mordred didn’t really take in much after that. Just the weight of the gun in his hand and the way his fingers fixed around it. It was such a simple piece of metal but it held so much potential for danger, pain, and death . It felt wrong to hold it so casually - like it was for some silly children’s game! He felt sick. Mordred hardly noticed as Geraint and Tristan forced him to his feet. He hardly noticed as Gareth took aim. He hardly noticed as the sheriff himself tried to end the duel before it began. But Mordred did hear the sound of Gareth’s gun firing and he did feel the bullet as it pierced his skin.
No sound of pain escaped him bar a sharp gasp. If someone wasn’t looking closely, they probably wouldn’t have realised Mordred had been shot at all. After all, Gareth wasn’t known for his aim. The black leather of Mordred’s clothing for once wasn’t a hindrance. For once, it didn’t serve to insulate an unbearable heat but to hide the blood that lazily dripped from his side. The second Tristan and Geraint let go, Mordred took his leave. He pretended not to hear Arthur call after him with both frustration and concern. He just kept walking ‘home’.
‘Home’ referred to the single room Mordred was renting at the local inn. Well, renting was putting it lightly. He was one of Arthur’s ‘deputies’; a Knight of the Round Table. No one ever actively chased him up if he ever forgot to pay. But he always did. Mordred knew he could have an entire house if he wanted to but he didn’t. He refused to give himself any stable ties to Camelot. No one so much as glanced up as he walked into the inn. No one cared as he made his way to his room, bolting the door shut behind him.
One of the many differences between the Saxons and those that resided in Camelot was their approach to medicine. The Saxons never had much in terms of supplies so they made do; they made their own attempts. But Camelot...Camelot was a thriving town. There was an apothecary filled to the brim with medicine and the equipment he would need to treat the wound. But that would just draw attention to himself; it would be giving into the weakness Gareth had accused him off. So he treated the wound as best as he could; using whiskey and water sparingly to clean the wound before ripping a strip from an old shirt to bandage it. It would do. He could get supplies to treat it in the morning. Only, he never did.
As it turned out, he wouldn’t be given much of a chance. It seemed the crime of trying to shoot one of his deputies was one Arthur took seriously - Guinevere and Lancelot too, if the way their gaze kept shifting to Mordred was anything to go. Gareth’s trial was...gruellingly slow. It was hard to get many to speak against one of the deputies. After all, they were the law and who would dare dispute it? But some did. Mordred himself was not one of them. After all, no true harm had been meant and no one but Mordred knew about the wound.
Yet still the three Pendragons had enough evidence. Gareth was sentenced to be hung. No. No, that didn’t feel right. That didn’t seem fair! Mordred didn’t want anyone to die for his sake! It took a lot of pleading but Gareth’s sentence was reduced. He was banished from Camelot. He would be shot on arrival if he dared return. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was an improvement. Once the trial ended, Mordred felt tired - both emotionally and physically. He found himself heading straight home, not following on his plan to visit the apothecary.
As the days went on, he still found himself unable to get the chance to slip away unnoticed. Each day was busier than the last and Mordred was quick to give up on the notion. Besides, it was barely a graze. He would be fine. If he told himself that enough times then perhaps it would make each step he took hurt left; perhaps it would calm the dizziness that had begun to overwhelm him; perhaps it would be enough to stop the heat consuming him. By the time he realised something was truly wrong with the wound, infection had firmy set in.
For a while, Mordred had been able to keep it hidden but it was getting overwhelming; it was becoming too much . As was proven when he passed out upon returning to his room one evening. He would remain face first on the floor until the innkeeper’s wife found him lying there the next morning. Things after that were...hazy.
Voices drifted in and out of his mind. Sometimes he would catch a snippet of a conversation or a familiar name but never enough to make sense of. The voices were familiar too but he could not place them. He just knew they were voices he could trust. Along with the voices came motion. He felt something cool being pressed against his forehead; being replaced every time it grew warm. He felt someone grip his hand tightly as someone else ran a hand through his hair, carefully moving it from his face.
He was not sure how long he drifted for but when he came to, he found himself lying on a bed that was not his own. It was too large for that and far too soft. It was as he glanced around the room that Mordred realised exactly whose bed he was resting upon. In a chair besides the bed sat the sheriff. Arthur Pendragon sat watching Mordred, one of his hands gripping his tightly. Mordred almost laughed at that. Unknowingly, Arthur was comforting his son. “A-Arth-” The word was raspy and half-formed on his lips as he slowly tried to sit up.
“Hush, Mordred. Rest.” Arthur’s voice held a softness that was usually only reserved for Lancelot and Guinevere as Mordred was pushed to lay back down. “You’re safe here, little lark.” Mordred tensed up entirely at that. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. Least of all Arthur! But how? He didn’t know! He didn’t recognise Mordred. “Though, I suppose you’re neither little or a lark anymore.” Arthur squeezed his son’s hand gently and Mordred did not hesitate to return the motion. “...A fever has the habit to drag the truth from us all. I-I should have realised. I should have known. I’m...I’m sorry.”
They were words Mordred never thought he would hear. “I forgave you a long time ago, father. I’m just glad you recognise me now…” The two spoke for a long time after that; speaking until Mordred had exhausted himself back to sleep. Arthur was eager to learn about the life his son had left and Mordred...Mordred was just happy to be known.
When Mordred woke next it was to the bed feeling far more crowded than before. He would soon realise the cause came from Arthur and Lancelot sleeping on either side of him. It was almost comical in a way. “Fusspots, the pair of them.” Mordred’s eyes quickly snapped up to meet Guinevere’s. “It’s been hard keeping either of them away for long. Harder still stopping Gawain bursting in here or stopping his plans of hunting down Gareth. Even if I’m not entirely against that plan myself…” She trailed off as a look of distress crossed his face. “How are you feeling?”
“As if my fathers have decided to make me an involuntary teddy bear.” He had been hesitant to use the term ‘fathers’ but Guinevere’s laugh quickly put him at ease. “I feel...coherent, at least. I’m in less pain.”
Guinevere nodded as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed, rolling her eyes as Lancelot grumbled. “Even before we knew...Well, you certainly gave everyone a bit of a scare. You’re a smart man, Mordred. You know better than to let yourself get sick like this.” Her gentle scolding was followed by her flicking his cheek.
He blinked a few times. “What do you expect? I’m related to him.” Mordred’s words were followed by him nudging his father gently. It quickly led to Arthur giving him a light shove in response, knocking Mordred into Lancelot and waking the other man. Though, none of them seemed to mind. The Pendragons had found their son again and Mordred had found himself with parents once more.
Things improved after that. Mordred took his place by his parents as a Pendragon. Gawain’s hatred lessened upon the realisation of who Mordred had been and their friendship was quick to blossom. And when the two were left in charge, they brought peace to Camelot. Their meetings with the Saxons brought no violence or bloodshed. Arthur rose to the rank of captain with the support of his family.
Just this once, there was a happy ending.