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Artoria Pendragon watched in silence as the one of the two Masters of Chaldea stormed away with raised shoulders. The King of Knights didn’t try to restart the conversation, even though she hadn’t gotten to say all that she had desired to. Jacob had made it fairly clear his thoughts.
‘Don’t ask me this again, nor any other questions about Mordred, until you decide what your connection is between you and Mordred. We’re allies, and I will be courteous, but currently we are not friends. Good day.’
Artoria wouldn’t deny that she was equal parts shocked and impressed by the youth’s tone and mannerisms towards her. Then again, if her suspicions (and the so-called ‘rumor mill’), perhaps it was partially do to his newly-developed relationship with Sir Mordred. For some reason, the moment that the King of Knights had first caught wind of this development, an unexpected sense of protectiveness towards Mordred appeared. Therein lay the source of trouble that had been plaguing the Saber.
Mordred was…a complicated issue. How did she feel about Mordred?
Anger, for the destruction and death her son, bastard though she might be, had wrought in a petty campaign of retribution.
Disappointment in herself, for not uncovering sooner the secrets of the newest knight to have joined.
Shock and horror, at the actions her sister had committed in the shadows.
Grief, for slaying her own kin, necessary though it had been.
And above all else, confusion, over what to do now.
Not for the first time since arriving at Chaldea did Artoria Pendragon find herself wishing for Merlin’s presence. As much as her old friend, mentor, and adviser had been at times, she couldn’t recall a single time he had failed her whenever she truly needed the assistance of the Magus of Flowers. At least, until Morgan banished Merlin to Avalon.
Another part of Jacob’s rebuke came to mind.
‘You need to decide if Mordred is your child, a knight, or an enemy. She can’t be all three, and you have no right to pick and choose between them!’
So, what was Mordred to her?
The part of her that was King Arthur Pendragon said that her child was an enemy. The young knight had renounced her oath of fealty, after all. It was a cold, calculated conclusion, but as a king, she had to be above personal feelings. The moment that Mordred had started a rebellion, she had lost the ability to be called a Knight of the Round Table. For good or ill, and despite her earlier statement to her Master’s colleague, Mordred was no longer one of her knights.
The part of her that was human couldn’t deny the feeling of kinship with the young blonde knight. Even if she hadn’t willingly fathered Mordred, even though she had not taken part in her child’s raising (though through no fault of her own, thankfully), Mordred was still her son, acknowledged or not.
Last night, the first time they saw one another since Camlann, Artoria had felt a sense of panic of sorts. Yes, she had made peace with herself (more or less) after the events of the Fifth Holy Grail War, and her time with her endearing Master. Yes, she no longer truly wished to have never pulled Caliburn from the stone and accept the heavy burden that Merlin had warned her about. She thought herself ready to confront her knights if ever a chance, near impossible though it was, and make peace with them. Even, she had thought, with her son.
But the instant she saw Mordred, she felt the rare flare of panic. Her resolve seemed to have been chased away by the flood of memories and emotions associated with her former subject. The instant she didn’t respond to Mordred’s hesitant greeting, she knew she had messed up. By the time she had found the words with which she would address Mordred, she had left the room, her Master shortly after in search of her.
She wanted to tell Mordred, or at the very least, convince Jacob to inform the knight that Artoria hadn’t meant to dismiss her so coldly, not for a second time, but of course that went according to plan. And so once more did Artoria find herself in quite the conundrum.
A familiar, unwelcomed sensation began to pool in the pit of her stomach, and alone with no witnesses, Artoria sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping slightly as once more the heavy weight of her memories fell upon her shoulders.
Artoria closed her eyes, taking a moment to reminisce.
Artoria wasn’t unused to the feeling of regret. Regret from the estrangement between her and Morgan Le Fay. Regret over being unable to show Tristan that his accusations of her being incapable of emotion to be false, despite all appearances. Regret over ignoring the matter of Guinevere and Lancelot. Regret over the deaths of her Agravain, Gareth, and Gaheris, and being unable to comfort a grieving Gawain. Regret over seeing the fall of her kingdom.
Regret for leaving the ever-faithful Bedivere alone with her passing, the one-armed knight the last remnant of Camelot and the Round Table.
Regret over not acknowledging sooner her feelings for Shirou.
The current regret she had, however, was focused on her….her child.
It hadn’t even been a full day since that nightmarish night before Artoria had found out that she had slept not with Guinevere, therefore producing an heir like Merlin suggested, but her older half-sister. She had spent the next year hiding back the fear that one day, her presumably-pregnant sibling would storm into Camelot’s court and reveal everything.
When nothing had happened after a year, then two, then three, Artoria finally relaxed, turning back to more important matters regarding her kingdom and its people. New knights to honor, new threats to lay low. When a young knight with a wild temperament showed up and proved himself worthy, bearing the name of Mordred, Artoria had accepted the mysterious newcomer with little serious thought.
Then came that one evening. That one, horrible, cruel evening.
It had been almost like staring into a mirror. The only significant differences between her and Sir Mordred were their hairstyles and eye color. At that moment, Artoria had realized just what her sister had been up to.
Artoria had felt sick at that moment. Words failed her, even as her apparent child smiled at her with an earnest, hopeful smile. The King of Knights barely heard the words Mordred spoke, her request of being acknowledged as Artoria’s son and heir.
She wanted to say that couldn’t happen, as how Mordred was not only legally a bastard, but a child born of incest, too. She wanted to tell the knight that she would gladly acknowledge her in private as her child, or maybe seek a way to settle the matter peacefully.
Instead, she said nothing. She couldn’t say anything. She needed time to think. Maintaining that accursed mask of hers that came with of both Caliburn and the throne, she had turned around, seeking solace in the loneliness that had become her bedchamber.
Artoria instantly knew that she had made a mistake when she heard the angry words and the hurt tone from her knight. Her….her son. How she had just wanted Artoria’s acknowledgement. How she would now tear down and destroy all that the Knight of Knights had worked for.
But a king can’t admit to making a mistake.
And Arthur Pendragon was the ‘Perfect King’.
And so it was that Artoria watched the final weeks of her kingdom solely crumbling into pieces. Mordred stirring up a revolt that had quickly gained mass support across Britain. The number of knights who had answered her call was a shadow of Camelot’s former glory. In her heart, Artoria knew that this was the end. The only thing that could be considered a silver lining was the bitter relief over the continued absence of Morgan.
At Camlann, she had watched as one by one, her loyal knights fall upon their comrades and then upon the earth, never to rise again. She watched helplessly as her nephew Gawain was slain by Mordred, the last of her inner circle to be present for fighting. Bedivere had been sent to find any form of reinforcements, her first knight having vehemently protested the command the day before.
She watched as finally it was just her son and herself at the peak of the hill. She remembered the cold but honest response to Mordred’s accusation of Artoria loathing the heritage of her birth. The summoning of the divine spear Rhongomyniad. The sickening, dull thud as the lance pierced Mordred’s armor.
She watched with hidden tears as her child, now frail-looking as she coughed up blood, extend a shaky hand, calling out her name. For the briefest of moments, Artoria felt conflicted, letting down her guard as her brain raced to make a split-second decision.
The jolt of shock and pain as Clarent pierced her own armor, inflicting what Artoria had instantly felt to be a mortal wound. The mental curses she directed at herself for not knowing what to say as she watched Mordred bleed out at her feet.
Yes, the feeling of sadness and regret clung tightly to Artoria’s soul. Perhaps it was too much, even for a king. But, it was her burden to bear.
Somewhat surprisingly, she didn’t truly feel an ounce of hatred towards the Knight of Rebellion. Anger and disappointment, yes, but none of the loathing she held for Mordred’s mother. Perhaps, if she had been a better king, she would have handled that moment when Mordred confronted her by the Round Table better.
They had both been hurt, by themselves and by one another. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. Deep down, she knew that this issue couldn’t be left unresolved…
Artoria’s eyes snapped open. She could sense that she was no longer alone. She adopted once more the ingrained commanding posture she had used for most of her life.
“Yo, Saber,” a familiar voice called out casually, as a pair of footsteps came from behind her. The last time she had heard that voice, they had been in a life-or-death battle. “Long time, no see.”
“Lancer,” Artoria said evenly, turning around to see one of her old opponents from the Fifth Holy Grail War. The blue-haired Servant smirked, indicating that she didn’t have to worry about any old grudges. A selfish part of her was glad that it was Chulainn in front of her, rather than Diarmuid. He had been a worthy opponent, and she hated how her Master at the time had besmirched their honorable duel.
A small part of her recoiled at the sight of Chulainn, and not because of the gaudy Hawaiian t-shirt he was wearing with a simple pair of jeans. Rather, it was because of how he had twice tried to kill her Mas-Shirou, she reminded herself.
“Heh, looks like luck’s in the mood for games. I was wondering when you would finally show up, if at all. Still, better you than that damn Archer,” Chulainn finished with a growl. Artoria remained silent, causing the Irish Servant to sigh heavily. His earrings jingled softly as he shook his head sadly.
“You never were one who talked much. At least, that’s how I saw you,” Chulainn remarked in a rather bored-sounding tone. Hmm, looks like he hadn’t changed much since the last time she saw him….well, horrible style of clothing aside, that was.
“Is there something you wish to say?” Artoria finally said. She wasn’t in the mood to reminisce a Holy Grail War. Already she felt a dull pang in her heart as a familiar face with red hair and a determined look in his eyes popped up in her mind.
“Heh, figured you’d be blunt despite your class, Saber,” Chulainn quipped sardonically. “I was curious to see if you wanted to have a rematch sometime?” That caught her off-guard.
A spar?
“Why?” Chulainn snorted, rolling his eyes a bit too theatrically for her tastes. He crossed his arms before staring at her nonchalantly.
“You know how I hated my ‘Master’ and his commands. I never got a chance to have a rematch against you. Figured this could be a chance to correct that mistake,” Chulainn stated bluntly, lazily shrugging his shoulders, even as Artoria saw a competitive glint in his crimson eyes. The same sense of competitiveness that Chulainn’s challenge had sparked within her.
‘A chance to fix a mistake, huh?’ Artoria thought to herself. She hummed silently, mulling over the offer, before finally nodding her head.
“Very well, I accept your challenge.”
“Great! Let’s get started then!” The blue-haired Lancer said eagerly, eerily reminding her of Mordred.
Perhaps a friendly spar or two would help her sort through the clutter piled up in her mind. Perhaps the chance to fix this ‘small mistake’, as Chulainn had phrased it, would be a good start to fixing the some of the larger ones.
The past had happened, and it will haunt her to the end of time itself. Maybe there was no chance of fixing this regret. One way or another, Artoria would have to find a way to bring closure to the matter between Mordred and herself. How, and what it will look like?
Only time would tell.
But for now, she would give Mordred plenty of space, to both prevent any further slipups and to make sure that when she did confront her son, she wouldn’t mess up again.