Mordred was fighting. Like a meteor, like an avalanche, crashing though opposition without restraint. As blood painted the air at the savage rythm of her sword, she knew of the smirk twisting her features, but was powerless to smooth it away.
Battle was liberating.
Between the clashing of swords and the splintering of armours there were no doubts, no existencial, eternal weight of being undeserving, unwanted, unloved.
Her life was a continuous chase of an ideal of perfection, a continuous beating upon the armour of her skin, smoothing chinks, forcing a shape to take form against rebellious thoughts. Her mind never stopped wandering, from biting doubts, fluttering close to desperation, to exalted certainty of having managed to reach the distance, to show herself as the heir that she had to be, was destined to be, and then back again into the pit.
Only in battle it stopped. Not during the lonely nights passed as a silent guard, not during the long hours of study, not during the adventures across the lands, not during the relentless training, the curt conversations, the laughters of banquets, the concentration of the hunts, the elegant manners, the impeccable composure.
Only in the battle.
Only then, when her face was covered by steel, she could smirk like that, and let her savage soul out. It was unrestrained, fierce joy to pound into her chest, loud enough to drown out the awareness that even that, even that!, was a chink that would have, should have, been beaten away.
And still, she had to remember, she didn't need to think that anymore.
Mordred caught an enemy's blade with the back of her gauntlet, before crushing its owner with contemptous ease.
Yes, she didn't need to smooth anymore chinks, not now nor ever, never more. She had passed the test, she had proved herself as the stronger. Father, her beloved, hated Father, had turned his back at her, when he would have, should have!, extended his arm toward her and accept her as the true heir.
Rage, insensate rage flared as he remembered his silence, the way he had given her his back. Not a word, no aknowledgement, nothing. Only a cold, unfeeling wall of silence.
Rejection.
That word rang inside of her head as she swung her sword against another opponent, cleaving though weapon, armour and body alike.
Under her helmet, her teeth were gritted as she searched for more enemies to crush. One came running though her.
Rejected! Rejected! Rejected!
Father had had the gall to reject her, her! Her Son!, after all she had done and suffered, after all the hammerblows she had given to her armour, after all the love and admiration she had showered him with, after all, after everything she had lived through!
She deserved the throne; she had earned it, a thousand times!
It had been in that moment that she had really understood how deep Father's hatred for Morgana ran. It was so engrained, so all-enconpassing that even he, the Sun!, had been made blind to the obvious truth that she and only she was deserving of the throne,. It was hers, hers, hers!
Her blade came down savagely, the sheer impact of the blow making the earth splinter and explode.
As the opponent laid immobile before her, half-covered by the raised dust, she turned around, panting, searching for more enemies upon which to unleash her fury.
None came. That one was the last.
She tightened her grip on her weapon's handle, frustration and fury taking over her thoughts for a moment, before she forced herself to take back control.
It didn't matter anymore.
She had called upon the discontent and led her rebellion against the King. Wasn't another emblem of her worthiness, and of Father's falling behind, that so many had gathered to her banner? She had raised her head to take what it belonged to her by right, by blood, by everything! Father would have been forced to recognize her superiority, even if she had to add conquest to her rights!
She had been defeated, yes, Camelot had been destroyed, yes, but nothing of that would have ever happened, if only Father didn't let his hatred blind him to the truth. She had been in the right to enforce her claims, as they were just, and if Camelot's life was the price for her trying to make things right, well so be it! A true knight had to fight injustice at every turn, even if he had to sacrifice his own life for it. Even that was part of the code of the Round Table.
Suddenly, an attack, stronger and faster than all the others.
Her well-honed senses had picked it up, and it found her guard raised.
Energy enveloped her, flushing across her armour like a pack of hungry dogs, searching for weakspots, before dissipating harmlessly. Dust covering her vision, Mordred waited for the following attacks, her heart pounding savagely.
Nothing came.
The dust settled, but she was still in a defensive stance, waiting, her excitament slowly turning to wariness.
She scoffed it away.
"Well?" She called, her tone derisive. "Surprise attacks are everything you can do? Come out and fight like a true warrior, you…"
The words died on her tongue.
It wasn't the figure appearing between the smoke; it wasn't the great energy that came bearing over her; it was the aura, the presence that seemed to engulf all of its battlefield, like a beacon signaling that something had arrived, and now everything was done.
She had felt it only when a certain person entered the battlefield.
Artoria Pendragon stepped out of the dust, casting her gaze all around the battlefield. A flick of her weapon and the smoke was blown away, the sun appearing behind to silouhette her figure.
And still, it wasn't her.
Mordred remembered a lithe, steel-covered king, with cold, unflinching eyes set into an impossibly youthful face. She remembered hair as golden as the grain fluttering under the wind of summer. She remembered the sun, radiating its light upon everyone and everything.
This one was tall and mature and… dark. Black, cruel armour covering her frame, a wicked spear held with ease.
It wasn't her Father. It couldn't be.
And still, it was her.
The way she swept the battlefield with her gaze, eyes lighting with the knowledge of the path to victory, the way she held her weapon, how her fingers closed around its handle, her stance, her aura, the sureness emanating from her figure.
From under her helmet, when she was still only a knight, Mordred had sneaked so many glances in the direction of her Father, taking in so many of her habits and ways, that she thought to know her as well as her own sword. Adoring her from afar, fretfully searching in the mirror for signs that could prove of her closeness to the King, she had learned everything she could from her post; and now, everything returned to her as she watched that foreign figure.
Even that connection, that she had dared to hope it existed, but never to actually consider, that it could exist between Father and Son, that could bring them to find each other even in the most caothic of battlefield, even from the other side of the world, that little voice in her head that spoke just before the King entered, without even her steps to signal her arrival. Even that spoke to her in that moment.
But it couldn't be.
The King's gaze moved upon her, and she felt her heart start to pound as it glinted with affection.
"Mordred."
The Knight of Rebellion flinched.
The voice of the King. It couldn't be mistaken. But… but…
Almost like she could hear her thoughts, the King's features softened. She raised her spear, pointed it to the sky. The light of the sun glinted upon it, making the sygils engraved on its surface shine sfotly.
Mordred felt a surge of terror inside of her. The Holy Lance. For a moment, she felt its bite on her chest, but that impression was quickly subsided by tunnel recognition. Only one person could wield Rhongomyniad.
The King smiled softly.
"It's me, Mordred. I am Artoria."
The realization hit Mordred like a hammerblow. It was really her, there couldn't be any mistake. It was really her Father.
She moved a step forward, then faltered. Emotions welled inside of her. A thousand time she had immagined what another meeting with her beloved, hated father would be like. And now, it was happening.
Anger, outrage, they flared inside of her. She tightened the grip upon her sword. She was ready to attack, here and there, with no words, ready to… to…
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Her voice came out shaky, and she hated it, but she had to know.
Never, never!, Father had looked at her like that.
The King cocked her head by a side, her eyes still glinting with that cursed, soft light. "In what else manner should i look at my son? Aren't you? My son, Mordred?"
Mordred felt her knees go weak. The flames inside of her faltered.
"What… What are you saying…"
"We had… our divergences." Pain flashed across the King's features.
Understatement of the century, but Mordred, busy to keep herself from wobbling, couldn't find the breath to speak up.
"I have not been the best of fathers, and you deserved more than what i gave you." The King's voice was sorrowful. "Everything ended in the worst way." She tensed for a moment, before smiling weakly. "But now… we are here, once again, you and I. My son…"
"Wait wait wait wait!" Without even thinking, Mordred had raised her hand to stop those words. It briefly flashed though her mind that it was a grave offence to interrupt while the King was talking, but she was far too dismayed to care. "After everything you did! After everything that has happened! Do you… do you want to just make it up? Just… just like that?!" She felt that she should have been offended, furious, but instead all that she felt was utter dismay.
The King turned serious, even solemn, and Mordred felt a pang of something that could be called pain at recognizing the expression that she always wore when she was about to give an important speech.
"I… understand what you are saying. But…" She frowned, and Mordred was hit by the intensity of the determination in her eyes. "I am ready for it. I don't say that it must happen all at once." She raised a hand to stop Mordred from interrupting, and she did just that. "But… can we at least try? I feel that i have been given another chance with you, my son, and i… i don't want for it to go to waste. Can you understand me?"
Her smile was sad, and Mordred was hit by it like it was a catapult boulder. She wobbled, almost risking to fall over. Only moments ago, she was fighting, rage and certainty in her chest for her role in the world, and now… now, the King, whom she had always longed to listen to while talking with honesty, whom sadness, hopes, dreams, she had always wished to listen to; that same King was talking to her like she had always wanted to.
And she had called her Son.
Euphoria, distrust and confusion swirled inside of her head, and she found herself at complete, total loss of what to do. Even her rage, that had always been her guiding beacon, was gone, its embers smothered.
A small chuckle called her back from the maelstrom in her head. She blinked, realizing only then that she was staring straight at Father, and, even more exceptional, she had been the one to chuckle!
"Always that gaze." The King smiled, a hand raised before her mouth. Her eyes gleamed with amused affection. "You always did that. When you were at loss at what to do, you looked at me, expecting for an answer to come. Always."
Mordred felt his mouth open in wonder.
"How…"
"How did i know?" The King's smile softened. "I always knew when you were watching me. Those inquisitive, adoring eyes of yours. You were always watching,. Why, i remember that time when the Green Knight broke into the castle. You watched at me with an irate gaze, waiting only for my gesture to cut him down. And you were so curious to know what my words would have been." Mordred blinked. Was that… mirth? For her? "Your gaze upon me… it always gave me strenght. Because i knew that you, one of the finest knights of the Realm, was watching me, and you put your trust in me."
Mordred felt her breath get lodged inside of her throat. Father knew… Father knew that she was always watching her? And that… that comforted her?
"There are have been mistakes between us. Terrible mistakes. But, my son, please." Mordred flinched at the pleading, pleading!, intensity of the King words. Father was pleading! "Would you take my hand, at least in this new life that has been given to us? Would you allow your Father to try and put remedy to the mistakes of the past?"
With a blur of movement, before Mordred's widening eyes, the spear was thrown away, and the King, the Father, extended her hand toward her in a beckoning gesture. She remained like that, a black form silouhetted before the sun, waiting.
Trembling, Mordred opened her mouth, then closed it. Feelings welled like a storm inside of her chest, knotting whatever word she could think to pronunce. The King was exposed. It would have been so easy for her to close the distance and stab her through the chest, just like she had done with her spear. Wasn't that in her rights too? Find vengeance for her unjust death, unjust rejection? How could Father come to her like that, expecting her to forgive, to… forget, like nothing had happened. No, the rage, the hatred, she had to remember them. She had to wield them once again and make her vengeance fall.
Yes. Yes! A trust, straight through the heart. Quick and simple.
She tightened her grip upon Clarent, tensed her muscles…
…and couldn't do it.
Her fingers didn't want to close her hold, her legs didn't want to move, her body refused to summon the power.
She just couldn't do it.
Rage? Hatred? What a joke they were before the desperate hope welling inside of her chest, making her feel like she was about to soffocate. Father had thrown away her weapon, Father had smiled to her, Father had called her Son. She wanted this, she wanted it more than anything else. No matter what had happened, no matter what she had suffered, endured, being made to pieces from. She wanted for this to happen, more than anything else she had ever wanted.
"F-Father…" She felt tears welling in his eyes, and she didn't care.
The King smiled gently to her. "Let go of your weapon and armour, my Son. Let us embrace at last."
Mordred didn't even stop to think; Clarent disappeared in a flash of light, as well as her armour, and, finally free of that horrible, horrible weight, she ran.
She flew, and her Father was there to catch her before she touched earth once again.
As Artoria's arms came to embrace her, Mordred buried her face in her Father's shoulder Without caring if that was improper or not, without caring of anything, because the moment that she had waited for for the entirety of her life was there, was finally there!
"Father… Father…" She sobbed, letting tears that she had always wanted to shed finally run free.
"My Son… my beautiful, unreplaceable, only Son…" The King murmured, her voice dripping with emotion, her hands keeping her tight.
Mordred was sure that her heart would burst any moment now, but she wouldn't have cared. Her Father's smell, her Father's touch, her Father holding her tight, her Father telling her those words, her Father Father Father. She was there and that was finally happening. She felt like she had passed through winter, and only then the warmth of the summer sun had come to take away the ice.
She sobbed and sobbed, shivering without control, for the first time of her life just happy, without any guilt, without any remorse, just finally happy.
She didn't know how much time she passed between her Father's arms. It could be a moment or maybe a hundred years, she didn't care, but eventually, as the tide of emotions receded, the call of property engrained in her reared its head. She wanted to ignore it, to remain buried in her Father's embrace for another forever, but she ended up on obeying.
Flustered, she drew back slightly.
"I…" She bumbled, not daring to look at her Father even as she kept hold of her robe. She what? Was she sorry for all that messy demeanor? Was she happy as never fucking before? Was she unsure if that was a dream or not? She hadn't a clue herself. Only thing she knew was that she felt like a pudding that had just been thoroughly pounded by a hammer; exhausted and full of life at the same time, if such a thing was even possible.
A slender finger tapped under her chin and, without thinking, she obeyed its motion, raising her head. The smile of the King was as radious as the sun as she looked at her.
"Look at you." She said, eyes gleaming. "You made yourself into such a mess."
Mordred stiffened, noticing only then what a disaster her face had become.
"Yeah, i… ehm…" She averted her gaze, blushing furiously. Nice job, snotting away before the King, no, before her Father, like that. She had to restrain a flinch at the idea of having stained her.
"Here." The small handkerchief appeared in her vision like a snowflake. Understanding what was happening, the sheer audacity of it!, her eyes widened.
"W-wait, my King, i-i don't need to…" Her eyes jumping from the King's smiling face to the little piece of cloth like it was a gold crown, she almost flailed her hands in panic, without no idea of what to do to stop it.
The King just chuckled and shook her head.
"Hush, now. Stay still."
Her tone was kind, but accepted no reply, and Mordred felt himself obeying immediately, jumping to attention like a toy soldier.
She was sure that her face was about to take fire, but somehow she managed to keep herself still as the King cleaned the mess she had done of herself.
"Here." She said, drawing back, smiling gently. "Much better now."
Mordred, struggling between absolute happiness and burning embarassment, just nodded as stiff as a board.
There was flick of motion of the King's hand, and the handkerchief disappeared just as it had appeared.
Still, the King's gaze didn't seem to want to leave her. Mordred squirmed a little bit, feeling those eyes bore into her. She had a thousand questions and the terror that by speaking she could somehow ruin that moment.
She swallowed.
"M-my King…" She hesitated, then, as the King nodded gently: "F-Father…" Being finally able to say it made something spring inside of her soul. She had to stop herself from actually start to bounce.
"Y-you…" A horde of words tried to push their way through her throat, and for a moment she had the impression of choking. "You are different… b-bigger…"
She blushed, damning herself mentally. Of all the things she could have said, that had to be the lamest, for fuck's sake.
Still, the Kind didn't seem bothered by it. Instead, she tilted her head, her features softening ever so slightly. Mordred had the impression of feeling spring in the air.
"Yes." The King nodded slowly. "I am much different from the last time we meet." A flash of pain traversed her eyes, so quick that anybody else would have missed it, but not Mordred, that felt a stab right where her heart was. It lasted just for a moment, and was replaced by solemnity. "What i have passed through, what we have passed through… it has changed me. Now i can see much than before i couldn't; everything that i should have kept close, everything that i should have protected and cherished. You, my son, and much more that should have been done differently…"
Mordred felt her breath get caught in her throat as the King passed a finger along her jaw. It was slender, long, covered in dark armour, slightly cold. The words of the King entranced her.
"I have a new title now." Artoria said, her tone almost curious. Her finger retreated, and she smiled to Mordred. "Do you want to know it?"
Wordless, Mordred nodded. She could still feel where the King's finger had trailed upon her skin, like a line of fire.
"The King of Storms." Something of steel passed into the King's eyes. "That's my new title."
Mordred found herself repeating those words. The King of…? But, why…?
A gentle squeeze of her hand cut off her questions. The King had taken her hand between one of her one.
"A step at a time, alright?" Her gaze had become soft once again, and Mordred couldn't but nod with eagerness. Yes! She was ready for it!
"The old me could barely understand you." The King said, becoming serious. Her hands gently fell upon her shoulders, and Mordred, even while her attention was focused upon her Father's words, couldn't but notice how large they were, so different from those she had learned to see while gripping Excalibur. "I was too focused upon myself, too focused upon… lies…" Anger flashed through her features, rapidly covered by sadness. "I made a mistake, my son." Her tone was sorrowful, and Mordred felt it stab through her heart. "I believed to those that said they meant to show me the way, that they were my allies, my… teachers…"
Mordred winced at the deep coldness contained in those words. Never, she had seen the King express such disdain and, while a part of her felt guiltily euphoric at hearing her real thoughts, the rest was taken by deep dismay.
"I was supposed to walk a path of light and steel, to become something that forgot what human meant, and nobody ever told me that that path's end was a precipice into the dark."She turned at her, and Mordred had to repress the instinct to flinch. Those eyes were as cold as she remembered them, like the sun had turned to ice. "But now i see…" The King murmured. "Now i see the true path. And the first thing i see is you." She smiled kindly. Mordred felt her heart taking speed. "My son. Now i know what your feelings were, now i know."
Mordred felt the hands' grip on her shoulder tightens ever so slightly, but was too entranced to notice.
"You loved me, isn't?"
"I…" Mordred swallowed. She felt her throat dry. "Yes." She confessed. She wanted to drop her gaze, but a finger came to her chin, stopping her motion. She flinched, but obeyed. "More than anything else. Father, you were, no, you are my Sun. Everything i did, i did it to try and to be like you, to… to… make you proud of me." Saying those words felt like dropping boulders that had nested inside of her chest for a hundred thousand years. Beyond everything she had told herself during the long years of service, that was the true reason of her motions, of everything she did and accomplished as a knight.
The King nodded.
"Yes, i couldn't see it at the time. I was blind."
Mordred bit her tongue.
Something that she wasn't sure about sparked into the King's eyes.
"Then, you hated me, isn't?"
Mordred winced. She watched the King with dismay, but Artoria just stared at her, that strange gleam that she had noticed mixing with kindness and expectation.
"I-I…" Mordred was at loss. The rage and hatred that had pushed her at the time of her revolt seemed so petty, so stupid now, like the tantrum of a foolish child that didn't know what to do but just break down everything. "I… i thought that i was the r-right heir, and that the Kingdom should have me as a king, because like that maybe things would have gone better with everybody that weren't happy with you and…"
She was blabbering, she knew it, and she knew that her Father wouldn't have been fooled by it.
As expected, the King shook her head gently.
"No more lies." She said, but her eyes were still filled with that affection that melted her heart. "You and i have been fed too much of it during our lives, my son. Let's speak truths from now on."
Mordred nodded stiffly, but the words refused to come out.
"It was much easier than that, wasn't?" The King continued. "You loved me, and what you wanted was a single act of aknowledgment. After all the efforts, the frustration, the fear, the coldness, all you wanted was that the sun turned at you, just once, and gave its hand to you. Wasn't it like that, my son?"
Mordred nodded, feeling her throat dry.
The King continued, her tone even. "But the sun didn't give you nothing, not even a glance. It left you alone, in the darkness, and so you fell to rage, and your great love, became great hatred." The corners of her mouth feel slightly, but it was enough for Mordred to feel her sadness on her chest.
"Yes." She murmured. "That's how it has gone." What was she supposed to say? To ask for forgiveness? After everything? To beg and implore? She still thought that part of what she did was justified, but now that certainty didn't feel as stable as it was before.
The Kings smile was soft. "Yes."
That simple, Three-letters words seemed to echo into the air like a faraway peal of thunder. Mordred felt it resound inside of her ribcage, and a shiver ran across her back. Silence fell afterwards, and it was as heavy as before a storm.
"Love and hate." The words came out slow from the King's mouth, as wisps of stormclouds. "I understand much of them now, my son. I touched them both, just as before i embraced discipline, cold cold discipline. Now, i know that they are the faces of the same coin, going hand to hand, and so easy for them to switch and melt together" Something that could be called humour flashed across he gaze. "Ironic, that the son would learn such an important lesson before the father."
Mordred squirmed a bit. It was her, or it was getting colder? But still she couldn't avert her gaze from her Father's. Those eyes looked as deep as a pit, and they were dragging her in.
"And since we are now talking about truth, i will tell you now one of my one, my son."
Somewhere, a thunder boomed. Mordred didn't know how, but she knew it.
"It's difficult for me right now."
Mordred blinked. "Difficult, Father?"
The King nodded. She seemed to be looking far away. "When i spoke about trying again, between us, i was truthful, i really was. I thought much about you, and i really thought that everything could be mended, that my son deserved another chance, but…" She turned to her. There was something intense in her eyes, something hard. "Now that i have you, here, now, between my arms… it's difficult to keep on having a hold of that resolution."
Mordred's eyes widened. She noticed only in that moment how the King's fingers had reached her neck; moving, tracing over her skin a symbol, leaving… something… that was… was putting roots in her. Befuddled, she made to raise her hand and touch it, but her wrist was caught in an iron vice. Grimacing with pain and surprise, she watched how her Father's hand had grabbed hold of her wrist. She turned to look at her. The King was watching her impassively.
"F-Father?" Mordred winced. The thing on her neck was expanding like a water stain. With dismay, she felt it reach at her magic circuits, caressing them with shadowy fingers.
She flinched as pain exploded from her wrist. The King's other hand squeezed her shoulder, sending burning jolts through her.
In alarm, her instincts as a warrior taking over, she tried to free herself, but found with fright that she couldn't summon any power. The thing flowing through her was shutting down her magic circuits one after the other.
"Father, what are you…" Her words were cut short from a hand roughly grabbing hold of her face, shutting her mouth and painfully squishing her cheeks.
Eyes widening, she grabbed the wrist of the hand, trying to free herself. Easier to try and move a mountain. The King's arm felt as solid as a steel pole, and she couldn't summon any power against it.
Dread started to rise, together with the awareness that, without magic, she, like King Arthur had been, was just a human with a fifteen year old body. And only in that moment she noticed how tall and imposing the King was, how large her hands were.
She never knew what feeling defenceless was, and so she didn't know what name to give to the feeling of dread sprouting in her chest; all she knew was that it was horrible. As a Knight of the Round Table, she had faced death again and again, in many forms and aspects, but always with her sword and rage in hand, never defenceless. Now, she was prey, and that sent fear running through her veins.
And still, what really frightened her was the way the King watched her.
Cold, icy anger.
The King never got angry. Not when she had heard the challenge of the King of the North, boasting that he would add her own skin to his cloak made of fallen kings'; not when it had been brought to her the new of Gwynevere's betrayal and Lancelot's flight; and not not at Camlann, before her treacherous Son, breathing her last.
Resigned, sad, bent, but never, never!, angry.
And that made feel terror's cold bite to Mordred.
"My own son…" The King's voice was like the hiss of winter. "Betraying me… killing me…" She gave a squeeze. Mordred whimpered, her movements becoming more frantic. "Why did you betray me, Mordred?" She asked, pain pushing through the coldness. "You, my own son, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. Why did you betray your father? Everything i did, everything i built. All my life. You. Burned it. All. To the ground."
Mordred let out a choked whimper as she was raised from earth like a doll. She just managed to flail her arm once before the hand already holding her wrist came to catch them both in an iron grip.
"My Camelot. Destroyed. The Round Table that i had built. You just waltzed in and made it all crumble to bits. Years and years of patient work. All of it. Destroyed in a moment. You… runt."
The brutal coldness of the King's tone pierced Mordred like a hundred ice knives. Distress and panic inundated her like a torrent, but she couldn't free herself, no matter how much she struggled.
"You are my Son. Your life, your skill, your own claim to the throne. They all came from me. You are born from me. I am the root and you're the leaf; you owe everything you are to me, and you destroyed me and stomped over everything i cared for."
Mordred tried to kick, but a shock suddenly passed through her lower body. Her muscles tensed for a moment, before going limp. With terror, she realized that she couldn't feel her legs anymore.
"Why did you rebel, Mordred?" The King brought her forward, until her eyes were right in front of her. Mordred wanted to escape from what she saw in that ruthless gaze, but couldn't move. "Because you received my rejection?" The King's voice fell to a irate hiss. "Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, that moment was a source of conflict to me as much it was to you? That i was as much full of my own troubled thoughts?" Mordred wanted for the King to scream in anger. It would have been a lot better than that terrible hiss. "What should i have done, tell me. Hand over the Kingdom to you? Just like that? To you, that had no experience of govern? You, that were conceived out of wedlock? You, with no claim but the words of a witch?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "That was a matter much bigger than yours or my personal thoughts, kid. A kingdom isn't passed like it is a piece of cheap jewelry. The crown must be earned, and you were too much green even to think about it." Mordred didn't want to hear anymore. Each word was like a knife in her chest. She let out a choked whimper, but the King didn't even seem to notice. "But maybe in the end, it wasn't really the kingdom that you wanted, mh? No, maybe what you wanted was just a sign of aknowledgment from me. Just one, isn't? Just a smile, or a gesture of friendship, a stupid napkin, anything." She clenched her jaw, and that most simple demostration of rage was for Mordred a punch in the gut. "Why didn't you just waited, you dumb kid? Why didn't you just think that maybe even i would have been disconcerted by your revelation?That i was distressed, confused, befuddled by your sudden revelation? That i would need time to think about it? That maybe even i, the great Perfect King, would need the benefit of the doubt once in a lifetime? That i was a fucking human myself?" Her tone never raised above a murmur, but suddenly it lost its cold anger. "I would have returned to you, you moron." Mordred stiffened. There was pain in the King's eyes, more pain than she had ever seen. "I would have serached for you. I would have talked to you. I would have even called you son. I would have. I would. Have!" She gave a squeeze. Mordred had to repress from whimpering again. She felt blood on her face. "And instead, you… you…"
Death. In her Father's gaze. There was death for her. Mordred could feel her anger pressing over her like a mountain. She would have killed her, there and then.
In a panic, horrified, feeling like a thousand spears were piercing her, Mordred sobbed and whimpered, flailed and squirmed, to no avail. She wasn't ready to die. She didn't want to, not like that. Not with those words drilling a hole in her head, shredding to bit her conscience.
"And yet…"
The voice of the King made her pause. Trembling, she opened her eyes, realizing only then to have squeeze them shut.
The King was watching her. Her iron grip hadn't slackened in the slightest, but the pain and anger were gone, leaving only an almost thoughtful mask.
"I should ground you to bits, with my bare hands. Here and now. That's what half of my heart is telling me." She said, her voice flat. "But… the other half…"
Mordred felt with a shiver as one of the finger holding her face moved upward, shying dangerously close to her left eye. She saw it like a black stain worming inside of her visual. She wanted to swallow, but her muscles refused to move.
"You said i was changed." The King's voice was a thoughtful hum. "Yes, i am. Much. Do you want to know what it changed me?"
Mordred felt the answer creep up up her throat, but she refused to even try to move.
The King seemed to read it in her eyes. "Yes. Death changed me." She smiled slightly. "My death hasn't been kind, you know. I have suffered much, bleeding away while laying under a tree. Nobody came for me. I called, feebly, again and again, but nobody came."
Mordred felt those words twist in her stomach like a sword. She didn't want to hear. She wanted to run, close her ears, and just run away and never stop.
"It happened just at the end, i think." The King's tone was full of quiet marvel, like she was recounting an old fairy tale. "My eyes were heavy, and i was tired, so tired. So, i slept. I fell into an abyss, but there wasn't darkness. It was all light, bone-like light. I couldn't feel my legs, i couldn't feel my arms, but i could still feel Excalibur, its blade touching my skin. It was still there." She paused, her look far away. Mordred felt a morbid curiosity fight with her horror. "Then, it came." The King's words came slowly. "It's a bit difficult to explain. It was like the light sorrounding me was a voice, a music, a sound. It was light, enveloping me, but it was music too. The voice of light." Mordred felt the finger touch the edge of her eye, tapping on her skin lamost absented-mindedly. "It didn't ask questions. It just… plunged into me, into Excalibut. Because the blade was me, and i was the blade. Yes. It… changed me. First, the flesh. Then, the spirit. I became… new. Then, to my heart." The King's hand let go of Mordred's wrists, her gaze falling slightly as she brought it to her chest. Mordred was too entranced to be happy from both, or notice the burning on her skin. "It tried to yank it away." The King's voice became cold steel. "It tried to steal it, from me. After everything i had done, everything i had suffered. Not only i had to die alone. Now, even this it was happening. My heart! My own heart!" The hand hovering over her chest clutched into a fist. Outrage emanated from her like a dark cloud. "Oh, and it was happening. Bit by bit. It was being yanked away, and as it happened, i was changing. I was becoming… a Lion." She paused, something enigmatic passing through her eyes, before continuing: "Oh, i struggled. I got angry. Even this i was to endure? Even after being dead? Oh, i thought not. There was still place for me to act. I could feel it. I knew it. And i did it." She turned to look at the entranced Mordred. The knight winced. The King's eyes were blazing with a cold flame. "I chose." She said, like it was a really simple thing. "Not to be a Lion, but to be a stormcloud. And i was reborn."
Their gazes looked for a moment, the King's filled with something that could be exaltation, Mordred's with confused horror.
"I always strived to be a good king, my son." There was almost regret in the King's voice. "Every moment of my life i have beaten upon my flaws, trying to forge myself into the shape that i thought it was right. Like a armour, no, like a sword. I thought that human feelings weren't needed for someone that had to answer such a high calling; to be the Perfect King! No, each and all human flaws had to be beaten away. I had to make myself as Excalibur was. Only golden light had to remain. The perfect blade." She snorted softly. "I was so mistaken. No, no good can eventually comes from such a path, only ruin, and so it happened." She looked at her, and Mordred saw once again a sort of regret flicker in her eyes. "I wanted to be a merciful king, maybe hard, but just. I wanted to shield my comrades from every weight. I wanted to be the pillar to support everything, and i thought that, even if everything would fail, honor and loyalty would not, that my comrades would understand and follow me. They haven't." Bitterness. Mordred felt it like a lump of sludge on her throat. "Now? Well…" A shiver ran along Mordred's back. "Now i think that maybe my subjects will have to suffer a little bit. Not too much. Just a little bit. To learn, you see? What i have learnt. A good King must be a teacher too." She smiled softly. "And since loyalty and honor hadn't been enough, maybe they will, if reinforced with of touch of fear and the iron gauntlet, we'll see."
Mordred frantically struggled to understand the actual weight of those words, but her struggle was cut short by the King yanking her upwards like she was a doll. Mordred let out a muffled sound as the iron fingers scratched at her flesh. Ignoring her distress, the King walked, carrying her with a single hand. Mordred felt tension ran through her arms, and her muscles slackened, losing every sensation.
"And this brings us to you. Ah, my son." The finger scratched just beside her eye. Mordred felt a bead of sweat on her forehead. "You ruined everything, and still i think that maybe you were just the instrument of a destiny already in motion. You gave the last blow to a structure already about to crumble." The fond smile she gave her made Mordred shiver. "You showed me the right path to follow, even if it was at the cost of my kingdom and my life, and for this, despite everything, i am in debt to you." She watched her with intensity for a moment, before shaking her head. "Oh, my son. Words are too small of a instrument for me to conveywhat my feelings are. You, my son, my only, beautiful, unreplaceable son. The leaf of my root. My son. Born from me and always following me. The one who saved me from my lonely path. My destroyer. The despoiler of everything i strived to build, of everything i ever cared for. My murderer. Oh, my beloved daughter, how i love you. Oh, my hated son, how i despise you." She paused, watching her with a terrible intensity.
Eventually, she smiled gently to the wide-eyes Mordred. "Hatred and love. They can be so close. I have learned my lesson too, see?"
She took a couple of steps, looking thoughtful.
"So, a decision is needed." She began. "It's bewildering, really. Part of me wants to just crush you and be done with it. The other wants me to embrace you and never let you go. What a though choice, really."
Barely being able to breath now, Mordred couldn't but try to shy away from that finger probing close, so close, to her eye.
The King's appraising gaze upon her was like a boulder of ice, and, bound, weak, and with no sword in hand, for the first time, Mordred found herself with nothing to do but pray and hope.
The silence of the King lasted for a couple of moments, or maybe for an eternity, but, eventually, she smiled, with kindness.
"Oh, it's not a tough choice at all, in the end." She murmured.
Mordred saw the world swirl, and she found herself crushed between her Father's arms, her head pinned against the other's chest.
"My child. I really cannot bring myself to kill you in the end." She heard the King say, from somewhere above her. She would have liked to move, to struggle, but her thoughts were a mess, her body not responding to her commands. "In the end, you, and only you are the only one that can really understand what is passing through my soul right now. Hatred, and love. Beyond death, beyond ruin and betrayal, you're the only one that can really understand me, and i am the only one that can really understand you."
Mordred was yanked upwards, and found herself staring into the King's amused eyes.
"The time of needless sacrifices is over, my son. A King's life is one of duty, but enough is enough. I won't lose you." She leaned forward, until her forehead touched Mordred's. The armourless knight had her breath caught in her throat.
"You aren't ready to be my heir, not yet, but you will grow, and you will learn." The King's voice caressed her face like a storm's breath. "I will teach you. And this is your first lesson. Never let your emotions spoil your will. Choices are too much of a treasure to be consumed carelessly."
She remained like that for a moment, a fond smile on her face. Just when Mordred was sure she was going to soffocate, the world spinned again. She heard a chuckle come from the blur, but it couldn't be her Father laughing. She didn't ever hear her Father laugh, not like that.
When the world stopped spinning, she was between her Father's arms, held above the ground, the King smiling kindly at her.
"F-father…" Mordred managed to croak out. She couldn't feel her jaw anymore, and she felt liquid across her cheeks.
"Hush." The King shushed her with gentle firmness. "We had enough words for today. Rest now."
Mordred stiffened as a current ran through her. She tensed for a moment, before melting on her Father's arms. A heavy daze fell upon her confused thoughts, her eyelids becoming heavy as lead.
She wanted to protest, she wanted to say, to do anything, but she was too sleepy to even feel fear, and she was sure that a Knight of the Round Table should't feel fear.
"Sleep, my son." The King said from the rapidly blurring world. "When you'll wake up, you will find a better world waiting for you. I won't say that i forgive you, not yet, but in time we'll both forget our hatred, and only the better side of the coin will remain. You will learn to love the new me, and i will keep you safe and cherish you forever. Because you're my beautiful, unreplaceable son, and nobody can take you away from me."
Those last words seemed to be brought away from the wind, keeping on being repeated again and again in Mordred's head. It was possible to be horrified, happy, joyful, terrified and a thousand more things at the same time? She didn't think it was, but she didn't think, not even in her wildest dreams, that the day would come for her to hear her Father speak those words, words that had engulfed her in joy and brutal terror at the same time. But maybe that was just a dream. Yes, maybe she was just dreaming, and soon she would wake up from that nightmare.
Sleep was taking over, and even those last thoughts melted away in a fizzle of colored sparks. The last thing that she thought before the darkness took her was a question for what her choices had unleashed.
