Work Text:
Mordred can’t help it. He needs to see it with his own eyes, he almost regrets being here, almost. A couple feet away stand his Father, a woman he doesn't know and three children. The children are doing, well, child things: screaming and running around just because. Mordred expects anytime soon to hear his Father’s stern voice booming across the courtyard, scolding, unrelenting, a voice that makes the strongest of men to piss themselves. And yet…
Arthur smiles at their antics, picks up one of them on his back and plays along. Something burns in Mordred’s heart— Anger? Not quite. Jealousy? Being jealous of children feels wrong. Sadness? Hm. He does want to cry, but…— it’s longing. He wishes so deeply to be there with them, to pick up the other kids on his back and laugh along. But it’s wrong. He doesn’t belong there, even one-on-ones with his Father there’s this misplacement, an awkwardness. Yet Mordred pushes himself, in hope that someday it will change. That Arthur will look at him the way he looks at his new wife and children, a gaze full of warmth, filled with compassion, understanding . Mordred only gets their leftovers: a serious face, talks that are only of utmost importance, eyes filled to the brim with guilt and something Mordred doesn’t quite know what it is, something akin to not bearing looking at Mordred.
It’s as if Mordred isn’t his son. Mordred is Arthur’s past and a reminder of his mistakes.
Mordred, the treacherous knight, burned Arthur’s kingdom to the ground. Mordred, the bastard son of King Arthur, is a homewrecker that asks to be recognized(really, imagine wanting the basic rights every child has, preposterous. Who he thinks he is?), and there’s Mordred, a knight of The Round Table, is King Arthur’s lapdog, he’s the King's mercenary, he kills anyone that threatens the King, bleed for battles meant for Arthur all with a smile on his face because Mordred, the knight, is blinded by admiration and devotion for his perfect King.
Mordred, just Mordred, is nothing. He’s another fatherless child conceived from a rape, bred for war and subservience by the witch he calls Mother. Thinking from that way it makes way too much sense for Arthur to want nothing to do with him— Mordred is unwanted—.
Unwanted.
Parasite.
Bound only by blood.
Unbeknownst to him tears fall from reddened eyes, tired of holding back, he runs away and finds solace in the first room he could find. With no prying eyes nor ears he can let himself mourn. There’s a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head that prickles down until his entire body spasms with pain— he falls to the ground. His heart pounds against his rib cage so fast it hurts. He feels like he’s dying. Maybe he should. Of what use is Mordred if Arthur doesn’t want him?
Mordred lets himself feel this revelation, feel this pain. He hates his Father. He hates King Arthur. He hates his Mother. He hates Lancelot. He hates Merlin. He hates Camelot. He hates being a knight. He hates Britain. He hates this world. He hates the way he’s been brought to this world. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates. He hates.
He hates until there's nothing left to hate but himself.
Mordred hates. Hate. He hates because that's how he was raised to be. Morgan always lectured him about this, saying King Arthur was a coward good-for-nothing. But Mordred a child at that time only had longing for Arthur, he wanted to be recognized, to stand by his side. He never cared about becoming King, no, he could never be as perfect as Arthur, and was content with that.
He hated in death when his own Mother didn’t trust him enough to kill the King.
Mordred hates how he can not understand the simplest things, like why The Round Table is round, why he’s never going to be good enough to his Father or how the hell someone like him is in the Throne of Heroes. Sure there are a few bad apples like him here and there, but still— He’s pretty sure none of them betrayed their own blood for petty reasons, as Arthur once said to him— he is undeserving of a second chance, undeserving of happiness and peace of mind. Every waking hour he spends in the Throne of Heroes constantly persecutes Mordred of how little he fits in here(but then again even if wanted to go away he had nowhere else to go) the people— the heroes, yes, they’re heroes unlike Mordred; the heroes carry themselves with purpose, chin held high as if they’re royalty, most heroes are mere peasants but when one changes the course of the world they could act like they own the place, in Mordred’s own opinion of course.
The prickles die down little by little, Mordred’s heart still thumps loud, but his body is too tired to go haywire again. The incessant throb on the back of his head has moved to his temples in the form of a headache, it forces him to close his tear filled eyes as the sunset coming from a curtained window burns them like— he’s thrown back to that hill. A thousand bodies litter the uneven dirt, even through his helmet the stench of old blood and death fills his lungs. The red sun has a dull shine yet it burns so much, so intensely, it’s tries to melt the Treacherous Knight’s armor down. He screams for His Father in rage, no, not His Father, he screams for the King of Knights, for the perfect King everyone loves, for the one that denied his birthright to stand by his side; he screams for Arthur. And, for the first time in Mordred’s life Arthur is the one that comes to him. Arthur stands on top of the hill, as a King should, looking down on Mordred. He can’t see his eyes as they’re covered by hair and the steel of armor, but Mordred can feel the pure hatred and disgust emanating from Arthur.
“ Do you hate me for being that witch’s son? Is that why you didn’t accept me as your heir?” Mordred screams, his voice rough from the long battle and thirst, “ Answer me, Arthur! I burned your pretty little kingdom to the ground, ended all your life’s work, destroyed your perfect life! So, tell me. Oh, King of Knights, can you finally feel my pain?” His voice wavers, the grip on his sword falters, and Mordred is just so tired, but he keeps pushing on, he needs to know, he needs closure.
Arthur, as always, is nonchalant. With his shoulders squared and permanent resting bitch face there’s no difference for him with his life ruined or giving an order to Mordred from his throne.
Mordred understands now why the knights complained about the King being too perfect, it made Arthur inhuman, he did not understand the hearts and feelings of his knights, of Mordred, and that’s how he destroyed his own kingdom.
“ I never once harbored hatred towards you,” Arthur picks up his lance, startling Mordred’s worn down body, he straightens in a fighting stance, “ I do not care that you’ve been born from that witch’s womb, that is not the problem. Mordred, if you’ve teared apart my Britain, I cannot fathom what atrocities you'd do to your own.” His voice does not crackle, it’s leveled, as if Mordred is a mere inconvenience, not a threat. “You simply are not fit to be king.”
A lance pierces Mordred’s chest, tearing apart what remains of his heart. Amidst madness and hatred his head clears and he’s filled with emptiness. After all he’s done, all he’s bled, Arthur did not look into his eyes. He could not have his love or hate, only indifference.
Yet, he tries one last time.
“Father…?” Mordred gargles, blood flooding from his mouth and dripping down his chin.
Arthur’s head hangs low in shame.
…
Mordred cannot understand the simplest things.
How could he ever make His Father look at him without this cold apathy?
In death he is clear, he lost this war, he lost his mother, and he could never be at his father’s side.
Mordred understands now. But he’s stubborn, he still refuses to accept, he wants the distorted dream in his head to come true, he wants to be loved by his father, by his King, by Arthur.
He gets up on trembling legs, steadies himself with the support of a nearby wall and— he lets himself fall to the floor. Mordred remembers Shishigou. Of that messy Holy Grail War, sleeping in the graveyard like beggars, but above it all he remembers of the warmth of those moments.
“My king should not worry about this bullshit, parents can never understand their children until it’s too late. Take it from me, kiddo . I only understood my daughter’s pain after burying her in this very same graveyard,” Shishigou says casually as he pats Mordred’s head, “Anyways, after we win this you go there and kick his ass out of his high horse, eh?”
At that time, Mordred didn’t care about someone recognizing his worth as a King, or how someone— no, Shishigou— validated his ugly feelings and horrible deeds. At that moment, all Mordred could think and feel was Shishigou’s hand messing his wild mane he called hair. Shishigou’s hand was scarred and rough, fit for a survivor like him, yet he was far from being aloof and vicious like Arthur. No, Shishigou was playful and caring, he let Mordred be himself and played along with his antics all the while they didn't know if they'd be alive tomorrow. A sensible person—their enemies— would never allow themselves to be carefree and happy in a situation like that. Being sensible was never Mordred's strength and although Shishigou is a pretty clever guy, he also does not give a fuck.
The answer is clearer now.
Shishigou was the Father Mordred never had.
Mordred was the lost child Shishigou understood and cherished before being too late.
That was a long time ago. Those wars have since long ended. Mordred feared a future without his Father and dreaded his despicable past, that’s why he’s paralyzed in the present.
“I know this gonna sound lame as fuck, kid. But bear with me, ‘kay?” Shishigou says, “No matter how fucked up you are I believe anyone deserves love and respect. And from what I hear from you neither of your progenitors can give you that, man. It was just a hard spot for everyone, you were just a kid wanting their attention. A kid with a sword nonetheless, now that’s dangerous,” He chuckles, coughing up smoke from his cigar, “Your daddy was just mad butthurt his kingdom was so easily swayed by my king’s pretty words of anarchy. Don’t look much into it, it’s pointless,” Shishigou takes a deep drag of his cigarette, and then exhales a huge smoke puff, Mordred can’t tell if the tears falling down Shishigou’s face are from the cigar burning his lungs, sadness from losing this battle or something else.“You must let go of this hate, Mordred. You know very well their motives and upbringings, what made them act that way. They’re not the issue, it’s the world, and no matter how hard you try you can neither change or destroy it. It simply is, Mordred, it’s beyond what anyone could do. You can scorn their actions and the suffering they made you go through, yes, but you mustn't hate. You of all people know how it ended last time. You’re strong and capable of many things, it’s not anyone that can sway the hearts of men like you did, even if was for vile purposes you gotta recognize how fucking smart and cunning you are,” This time when Shishigou coughs, blood follows smoke.
"Don't need your shitty life lessons now of all times, old man." Mordred looks down at his own cigarette, barely used, "Like, I appreciate your feeling and yadda-yadda, but, ugh. Please do not try to be a father figure ever again, doesn't fit well with your punk bad boy style," As always Mordred laughs the tears away, he doesn't want their last memories to be a lecture of all things.
"C'mon, you seriously gonna be a brat even now? That's some serious dedication there."
A kingdom of two. Their little kingdom of two. Fell apart as easily as it was built. But there is where Mordred’s happiest memories are, so, this time he lets himself find solace in the past instead of rage and anguish.
"Was it fun, Mordred?"
One step forward, two steps back. A pace that held him down for so long, but it was familiar, comforting in its own wicked way— just like his Mother’s unwilling embraces and his Father’s nod of approval from a job well done— not anymore, not anymore. Mordred is a sinner dirtied since the moment he has been conceived, but, he too is deserving of wanting something better, and love, and friends, and all the cheesy sung poems bards played at Camelot.
"Yeah."
Shishigou's hand slacks, the cigar falls on cracked floor.
I understand now, I understand how Father felt at that moment.
One cannot see ahead with their head held down, Mordred can’t change his past but he can decide whatever the fuck he wants to do now no matter how silly or nonsensical others say it is. Yeah, fuck the others! Look at where that got Arthur to! Mordred may not have a kingdom or subjects anymore, but he can be a king for himself and himself only. It’s ok to be a selfish bastard for once in his life. To despise his parents and his past, but he swears one thing:
His rage can burn down the entire plain, but he mustn't hate anyone again.
When Mordred stands up this time the invisible weight that used to pull him down is a little lighter, bearable.
Even the wind has a path. You, aimless child, will find your own too.