Chapter Text
Dim candles lit the chamber. Artoria lay awake and unsure in the great tented bed, thinking on her duty. To be king is to cease to be human. Though she knew that she was not in love with Guinevere... whose shadow danced across the hallway... an heir was her duty. Merlin had given her the means to create one.
Frankly, an odd spell for him to know and stranger so for him to have used on Artoria. But useful for its purpose.
The shadow swept long and heavy over the wall like a sword and there the queen was. Into the room she swept with eager swiftness that Artoria wasn't used to. Her shadow danced against the wall opposite the flickering, low candlelight that framed the side of her face, made her hair shimmer like silk. Artoria's resolve steadied further as the act became more imminent and she grounded herself in it. The bed shifted under the weight of Guinevere as she climbed onto it, and then onto Artoria.
She leaned in closer.
And she spoke in Morgan's voice.
"Sweet sister."
Artoria felt sick to her stomach. But hands found her wrists, and she froze like a fool, a thing for which she'd come to curse herself even more than she did now, hating her inability to move at this present moment. She felt like she could throw up.
Thus was born Mordred.
Her horse was steady under her and her eyes focused ahead. The sun bore down heavy on Camelot, whose shadow seemed to hang great over Britain in its entirety, the tallest spire of the tallest tower breaking a grey cloud.
At three years into her life Mordred had grown to the mental and physical state and capacity of a sixteen-year-old as a result of her mother's magic. She was tall and strong even for her apparent age, and the sword on her waist that bounced with her horse's gait shone gloriously against the harsh white sunlight. Her arms were raw and chafed by her clothes where she'd raked herself with her nails.
How Camelot enthralled Mordred, the way the smile spread across her face and her stallion broke into a gallop toward the looming visage of the city of King Arthur. The young knight rode for the King of Knights as if both chasing the sword Excalibur, and the crown on Arthur's head, and madly fleeing the terror of Morgan who had raised her from the beginning for one purpose.
But no. That would not be Sir Mordred's legacy. She'd be a brave and fine knight and be close at Arthur's side.
Sir Tristan was sleeping by his bonfire under a tree. His eyes fluttered open to the sight of a knight in full plate armour on his horse, covered so thoroughly that Tristan could tell nothing about who he was. The knight gripped the sword on his waist and gave Sir Tristan a nod, who was rising to one knee to put water on the fire to boil. "Are you a Knight of the Round Table?"
"Aye. I was. I'm Sir Tristan. Who're you?"
"Mordred. I was hoping for the company of an established knight on the way to Camelot, that I might not need make the journey alone."
"Apologies, young Sir Mordred. But I have left his court." Tristan spat. "King Arthur does not have a human heart."
Mordred's face was concealed by his helm but the slight groan he let out betrayed a grimace. "I'll see the king myself before I hear him spoken of in such a way. He's led Britain to their sustained existence and many victories... and I want to be among his knights."
"A seat at his court has opened up, Sir Mordred. Tea?"
"No, thank you. Will you be leaving?"
"I will."
"Might I sleep at this camp tonight?"
"Well." Tristan nodded.
Mordred nodded. "Well."
She hid her face until he was gone. Shook out her blonde hair and took off her armour when he and his horse disappeared into the trees, resting her head against the trunk of the tree with her hands behind it. Clouds passed by gently through the swaying trees. The sky was black and blue and violet, and it was full of stars. The cold wind howled but the fire staved it off.
In her dreams she was in the dark chamber. Ten thousand arrows were driven into her flesh until she could withstand the pain then ten thousand more. Her extremities were burned with fire and cut open, the wounds covered in salt. Through this torment she was tempered until she felt no pain. So too was she tortured psychologically until she was steeled to any great suffering that could be dealt her. She was never told why in much detail, only that she was the knight fated to slay Arthur Pendragon for the sake of her mother.
Mordred, though, grew to admire the king.
Morgan le Fay was a witch, and Mordred her great success. Of her five children Mordred was the one who took to sword and lance and other weapons the quickest and with the most fervour, the one who best rode a horse, fought a duel, survived in the dark place that always stank of death and rot. Mordred was the young knight who was sent by Morgan to enter and destroy Camelot.
Mordred, though, grew to admire the king.
Arthur—the Ideal King of the Britons—hurt deeply and made the difficult choices for the people's continued survival. Because of it, Sir Tristan was amont the knights who had begun to hate and resent him. Villages sat dead that the king had sacrificed to win wars but were it not for them Camelot would have fallen years ago.
Somehow Mother and King Arthur struck young Sir Mordred as the exact same type of pragmatist.
Across the grasses and wildflowers advanced Mordred on her horse until the castle was in view. She passed under the high gates. Children were playing on the sloping hills and in the wide streets of Camelot. The castle was way up above it all like a stark black shadow that pierced the heavens in challenge to the angels. And perhaps a king like Arthur could make such a challenge and not be a madman or a fool. Peasants toiled at their shops, milled about, drank in taverns and played dice and card games. Some stopped and looked on in awe at the new young knight come to Camelot. Mordred came to the foot of the castle eventually.
To be a king is to cease to be human.