Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of Mordred's Childhood and How He Came to Camelot

He had heard the stories about how Arthur had drowned the May children. He just assumed that it was the year after he was born and the tellers were confused. Or maybe the fact that his mother was Arthur's half-sister had saved him. Besides, he wasn't going to be the one who betrayed Arthur. He'd never met his uncle (he could hear his mother's voice, hissing Don't call him that even though his brothers all did) but every story Mordred had ever heard made him a hero, and even if he was painfully aware where his brothers were not that their mother did not like the king, he knew he could never betray a man who had done such good things for so many people, for Britain. But his loyalty to the king of Britain was a question for another day. For now, he could hear the sounds of a brewing fight in the training yards.

"Shut up, you miserable twerp!" That was Agravaine's voice.

"Please stop," Gaheris said hesitantly.

Mordred rounded the corner and found his second-oldest and youngest brothers standing over one of the smaller boys who had come to Lot for training as knights. "What's going on here?" he asked softly.

Agravaine barely glanced at him. Mordred may have had three years on Agravaine, but the younger boy had four inches and forty pounds on Mordred, who stood only five foot five and was slender and wiry, not broad and built like the Orkneys.

"He ran into Agravaine," Gaheris said nervously. The youngest of the Orkneys hero-worshipped all of his older brothers, but was a little afraid of Agravaine and his bullying tendencies.

Mordred nodded, smiling gently at Gaheris, who was the closest of the Orkneys to him despite the difference in their ages, silently letting him know that he would take care of it. "It was an accident," he said, not a question.

"I'm sorry," the poor boy stammered. "I wasn't looking."

"Look closer next time," Agravaine snarled, backhanding him.

"That's enough, Agravaine," Mordred snapped, voice cracking like Lot's horsewhip. "You want to hit someone, hit me." He stepped forward, putting himself between Agravaine and the boy, who was probably only twelve or thirteen. At eighteen, Mordred was long overdue for knighthood, but Lot refused to knight 'the bastard' as he called Mordred, and no wandering knight had come this way in many seasons. Mordred would travel to Camelot for his knighting as soon as Gawain was ready to accompany him.

"Shut up, you bastard," Agravaine snapped, backhanding Mordred.

The blow barely jarred the dark-haired young man, though blood blossomed on his lower lip. Lot struck a harder blow than his son, and Mordred had long since learned to take a beating.

There was a stunned silence on the group of boys, who had been spoiling for a fight as soon as Mordred stepped into the yard. No one called Mordred bastard except Lot, a fact that had been made abundantly clear by a series of quick, quiet beatings that never reached the ears of the trainers.

Mordred looked coolly up into Agravaine's eyes, his own grey gaze sharp and dangerous. "That was a mistake," he said quietly.

Gaheris stepped forward, gasping in a rush, "He didn't mean it, Mordred, I'm sure he didn't. It was just the heat of the moment."

Mordred's gaze touched Gaheris' desperate face and terrified eyes. "Gaheris," he said gently rebuking, "Have I ever given you reason to fear me?"

Gaheris shook his head.

"I'm not going to hurt your brother. I long ago promised Mother I would never lay a hand on any of you." Mordred's lips curled into a dangerous smile and he met Agravaine's eyes squarely. "It was for my safety that she made me promise, because Lot would've killed me if I had touched any of you. We all know Lot's feelings for me." Mordred's smile turned dark. "But we also know how Mother feels about me, don't we?"

Agravaine paled. Morgause' favouritism for Mordred was the stuff of legends at Orkney castle and he would catch it from his mother for hitting Mordred, and worse for calling him a bastard, even if it was the truth.

Mordred winked and walked away.

The boy scrambled to catch up with him. "Thank you," he said, chewing his lip.

Mordred shook his head. "It was nothing. Agravaine's a bully and doesn't like to face up to what he does. What's your name?"

"Dylan, of Wyre. Is it true you don't know your father?"

Mordred blinked in surprise. He knew, in theory, that the younger boys were curious about him, but to be presented with this curiosity still surprised him. "It's true," he said after a moment.

"Oh," Dylan said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Mordred was surprised again. The usual reaction to his bastard status was scorn, not pity. "What for?"

Dylan blushed. "For not knowing your father. I- Every time Sir Lot yells at me, I just remind myself about my father and how good a man he is and that he'd want me to do well. I guess I'm just sorry you don't know what it's like."

Mordred felt a pang of sadness, not for the first time, but he tried not to think about what his life would have been like if he had had a real father instead of just Lot. It would make him bitter, which was something he did not want. "Me too," he said quietly.

"Master Mordred," a servant called from the door to the kitchen.

Mordred turned. "Yes?"

"Your Lady Mother is asking for you, when you're cleaned up."

Mordred smiled. "Thank you, Aodhan." His disfavour with Lot meant that the nobility, except his Mother, scorned him as well, and from childhood, he had known the servants better than those who should have been his peers. He winked at Dylan and turned inside.

The cook swatted him with her spoon when Mordred swiped a slice of bread as he ducked through the kitchen. "Getoutta here, Master Mordred," she laughed, shooing him away.

Mordred grinned at her, chewing the bread. He turned down the servants' hall, because it was faster, and because it ensured he would not run into Lot or his friends. He stepped into the public hall only feet from his mother's chambers. He knocked once, clearly. "Mother?" he called.

"It's open, dearest."

Mordred let himself in, finding his mother at the loom. "You wanted to see me?"

"Iona was watching training today and said that Agravaine hit you." Iona was Morgause's handmaid.

Mordred raised one eyebrow. News travelled quickly here. "He was bullying a younger boy for no reason. I got into the middle of it and he backhanded me."

Morgause seemed to be waiting for more.

"He called me a bastard," Mordred said quietly.

Morgause's face remained impassive. "It's true."

"I know that, Mother." Mordred met her gaze squarely. Whatever he had said to Agravaine, he had actually never had any intention of telling his mother what Agravaine had said, though he would have had to explain the split lip somehow.

"He will be dining with the servants for the next fortnight."

Mordred blinked. Morgause had known and already taken care of things. For proud Agravaine, this punishment was worse than a beating. "What did they do to deserve that?" Mordred asked, instead of commenting.

Morgause smiled, eyes flashing, pleased. "Lot wants you to squire at the feast tonight."

Mordred blanched. "What did I do to deserve that?" Though, he realised, Agravaine would have to miss the feast; he would be furious.

Morgause frowned at him. "This is an opportunity to make them see you, dearest. Do well, make me proud, and I will answer your question."

Mordred's breath caught. He asked her, at every opportunity, who his father was, but she had always refused to tell him. He nodded slowly. He did not mention that it was just another opportunity for Lot to lord his status over him. He would do his best, and he would finally know the truth.

The feast went fairly well for the most part, a few tense moments with Lot notwithstanding, until the food was finished and Mordred went around filling wine goblets. As he was serving Lot, last of the table, the man nearest shifted and accidentally bumped Mordred's elbow, making him spill a few drops on the table.

"Clumsy," Lot snarled, backhanding Mordred.

The blow sent Mordred tumbling and he dropped the pitcher, spilling the wine. Mordred lay on the floor, ears ringing, tunic soaked with wine.

"Whoa," the lord next to Lot said. "It was my fault, Lot, don't hit the boy."

"The bastard needs to learn," Lot snapped. "Clean this up, boy."

Mordred's jaw clenched. Never mind that he was eighteen and a man, and older than Gawain, who Lot had long since stopped calling 'lad,' he was always boy. "Yes sir," he gritted out. Now was not the time for another row with his foster-father. Still trembling with rage, Mordred found a rag and cleaned the mess, ignoring his irrevocably stained shirt and tunic.

Irvin, Lot's squire, brought a fresh pitcher and took a post near the window. He caught Mordred's eye and nodded at the door.

Mordred raised one eyebrow.

Irvin nodded and mouthed, 'I've got it, go.'

Mordred nodded his thanks and went to change. When he emerged from his dressing room in a clean shirt and tunic, his mother was sitting on his bed. "Mother," he said quietly.

Morgause stood and crossed the small room to Mordred, taking his head between her hands and tilting it towards the torch on the wall, examining the purpling bruise on his cheekbone. "You did well," she murmured, pressing gently into the bruise.

Mordred hissed in pain but did not fight.

Morgause produced a salve from somewhere and rubbed the pungent ointment into the bruise on the sharp line of his cheekbone, as well as the fading yellowish one on his jaw from Agravaine.

Mordred slid his tongue into the slight gap behind his left canine, the only nervous habit he allowed himself, since no one could see it. He waited silently for his mother, for she would not say anything until she chose, and would wait if she thought he was being too impatient.

"Just so you know," Morgause said conversationally. "I seduced him."

Mordred nodded slowly, absorbing this. It meant that what she was going to tell him would surprise him, and his first reaction would be disbelief that his mother would sleep with the man, and she wanted to head off confusion. Grey eyes caught and held the bewitching green of his mother's.

Morgause smiled viciously, whispered, "Arthur," in his ear and swept out of the room.

Mordred felt his knees give and distantly felt himself hit the floor. His ears were rushing and he was not sure he was not going to throw up. The king? His uncle? He felt ill. A child born on the first of May will bring your kingdom to its knees. His father had tried to kill him. Did he even know? How could he sleep with his sister? Had he known that?

Mordred stumbled to the bucket in the corner, emptying his stomach.

"Mordred, are you well?" Gaheris asked quietly. "Irvin mentioned father hit you. Did he hurt you?"

Mordred shook his head, unable to speak, retching helplessly.

"Mordred?" Gaheris whispered. Fear was thick in his voice. "Should I fetch mother?"

"No," Mordred choked. He could not face her, not yet. "I'm alright," he murmured, quelling his stomach by force of will. No use scaring Gaheris because he could not deal with what he knew. He stumbled to the pitcher of wine, swilled some around his mouth, and spat in the bucket. "I'm okay," he repeated, sounding slightly more human.

"What is it?" Gaheris asked. He could always tell when something was wrong with his eldest brother.

Mordred dropped onto his bed and gestured for Gaheris to sit beside him. "Mother talked to me."

Gaheris looked concerned. All of Lot's children had a healthy dose of fear for their mother, loved her certainly, but were afraid of her too. "Are you in trouble?"

Mordred shook his head. "She told me who my father is."

Gaheris chewed his lip. "Isn't that a good thing?"

Mordred shrugged. "It made a lot of things made sense, but it opened up a lot more questions, too."

Gaheris nodded. "Do you want to talk it out?"

Mordred pursed his lips, thinking. On one hand, talking might help him sort out his feelings, but on the other, he was not sure Gaheris was the one to talk to. He was sure he did not want to corrupt Gaheris any more than he already was. With Agravaine for a brother, it was impossible the Gaheris did not know where babies came from, but Mordred did not want to further his education in that vein any. He was only twelve, after all.

"You don't hafta tell me," Gaheris said, sounding a touch hurt.

"No, Gaheris, it's not that. It's just- it's messy," he said finally. "I don't really understand."

"Talk to me. Talk to Gawain, but don't just hold it all in. You always tell me to talk when things bother me."

Mordred ruffled Gaheris' hair. "That I do." He paused, considering how much to tell his little brother. "I'm pretty sure Mother hates him," he said quietly, "So I don't understand why she- why she had me with him, unless it was to get at him, and I'm not sure how comfortable I am being a vessel for mother's revenge."

"Maybe she doesn't really hate him?" Gaheris suggested.

Mordred shook his head. "It's the king, Gaheris. Arthur."

Gaheris turned white. "Wha- how?"

Mordred nodded. "That's about what I said," he admitted. "She said she seduced him." He swallowed. "I just don't understand, Gare, why?"

Gaheris hugged him tightly and Mordred dragged the younger boy into his arms and pressed his face into Gaheris' hair.

"I didn't want it to be me," he said brokenly. "I don't want to betray him."

Gaheris hugged him tightly. "I don't believe in fate, 'Dred. You don't hafta do anything you don't want to."

Mordred smiled gamely down at Gaheris. "I wish it were that easy."

Gaheris shrugged. "You don't want to betray him; don't."

Mordred nodded, the idea warming him despite the fact that Merlin had prophesied it, and the old man had never been wrong. "Good idea, Gaheris," he said softly, wishing it could be the truth.

Mordred mounted the grey courser that had been a gift from his mother in honour of his eighteenth winter, watching Gawain mount his own horse beside him.

Agravaine watched sullenly from beside Lot, while Gareth and Gaheris clutched at Mordred's and Gawain's hands, calling their farewells. Lot had made his farewell speech to Gawain and was pointedly ignoring Mordred. Morgause was in her rooms, refusing to watcher her eldest sons leave Orkney.

The men-at-arms Lot was sending with them were ready, and Mordred wheeled his horse towards the gate and felt his brother fall in beside him.

"To Camelot," Gawain said.

Mordred grinned at him. "To Camelot."

"Are you glad to be getting out?"

Mordred looked at him. "What?"

"Are you glad to be getting away from father," he clarified. "Going to court, where people don't need to look at you askance, and no one can beat you without you having the right to hit them back."

Mordred shrugged. Honestly, he was not sure if he was ready to go to court. He knew he was ready for knighthood, but there were other concerns on his mind. "They'll still look at me askance, when I'm introduced as Mordred, son of Morgause."

Gawain grimaced. "True enough, but I bet no one will say anything. I bet you'll be one of the finest knights at court. You're better than me, and father says I'm the best he's seen."

Mordred laughed. "Me? With knights like Lancelot and Tristan around? And Lancelot's son's almost sixteen now? No one will notice me."

Gawain shrugged. "You're the king's oldest nephew though. As long as he's childless you're the heir."

Mordred stared at Gawain. "Don't you know? He named Galahad his heir almost a year ago."

Gawain looked indignant. "It should be you!"

Mordred shook his head. "It should be you, little brother. I don't count."

Gawain looked stunned. "Me? Better Galahad, who's lived his whole life at court."

"He hasn't actually," Mordred said. "He came to court when he was twelve, after his mother died, looking for his father. Everyone, even Lancelot, was surprised when it turned out he was Lancelot's bastard."

"He's a what?" Gawain stopped his horse to stare at his older brother. "If he's a bastard too, why don't you count?"

Mordred snorted, dryly amused. "Because I don't have the privilege of being the King's best friend's son. If he named me heir, it would be one thing, but for the line of succession, the bastard son means nothing. Even a daughter, if Lot had one, would inherit before me."

Gawain shook his head wonderingly, scarcely able to believe the unfairness of it.

Mordred just reached over and ruffled his brother's hair, chuckling slightly. He was used to it.