This is heavily influenced by Nancy Springer's novels I Am Mordred and I Am Morgan Le Fay, because they were awesome, amazing books. I'm writing this is because I love the concept of Mordred in general, and I can't help but wonder what his/her life would have been like in the Fate/verse. Since I have yet to read Fate/Apocrypha, I've taken some liberties on how I imagine Mordred would act as a child. If anyone is unfamiliar with the legend of Mordred, then I recommend that you look it up or ask me, because it can be a bit confusing otherwise. Especially in the Fate/series version.

Note: I was actually watching "King Arthur" while writing this! XD

Chapter 1

My Father, a King

The story of my life is not an easy one to tell.

I was raised, nearly secluded in a castle made from magic, by my mother, whom I have always regarded as the highest caliber of mages. She was a beauty, with long, thick brown hair and lovely hazel eyes that could completely capture you with so much as one stare. Her lips, ruby red, were round and full, and she loved embroidering her hair with precious gems, weaving them in and out of her dark, silken locks with braids and golden threads.

She loved me very deeply, too, or so she told me. I had believed her, in this one thing that she said, day after day, night after night, so readily as a child, but I'm not so certain of it now. I think she loved me. I want to believe that more than anything else in this world, but the truth is that I can never truly know that, now that I know that she has always specialized in the art deception. That fine line between lies and truth that she had taught me was so definable as a child had broadened, just like my mind in the time of my teenage years, and become so vast that, by the time I knew what the differences between loving someone and using them was, I was standing directly in the middle of that thick, black line, and I wasn't sure which side I was standing closer to.

As I had said earlier, my mother's castle was made entirely from her magic. The trees and stream in our courtyard that she took me out to play in every day, the tall, strong walls which protected us while under enemy attack, the dining room, from which we ate together every morning and every night, and the armor and weapons with which I was trained with. Even the weather was carefully controlled to suit my needs, so that seasons were practically non-existent. If I wanted to play in the stream and chase fish, a glorious, blazing hot sun would push up from the clouds. If ever I felt the urge to play in the snow, those big, fat flakes of white would fall over my face and stick to my hair. And, on the occasions where I felt as if the world was crashing down around me, rain would pour forth from the heavens, as if the Lord, too, wept for me.

And I had been happy with these arrangements for what had seemed like the longest time. But then, when I was at the age of what most would judge to be ten, it had rained quite a lot, and I had become secretly pleased with myself every time something didn't go my way. An argument with one of the servants, scrapping my knees on a rock in the courtyard, falling in the stream and drenching myself. These were things in life that I couldn't control, no matter how much magic my mother used, and I adored them.

But they had never seemed to be enough.

I had begged my mother to please, please go a day without magic. Just one. That was all that I had ever asked of her; a single day where I wouldn't know what kind of weather we would have, or where I could step into a room without being redirected to wherever it was that she wanted me. Or to venture outside the castle.

"No," she had said. "It is too dangerous out there," she had said. "What if you get caught in the middle of a storm?"

It was the biggest disappointment of my life; I had wished so much that my mother would understand, that I could finally see life as the crazy, uncontrollable thing that all of the servants in the castle had spoken of. "But," she had said, catching my attention. "Wait another year, after your training is finished. Then, I swear to you, Mordred, that I will allow you to take a journey to Camelot and become a knight." She smiled at me gently, and touched my cheek with the tips of her long, slender fingers. "Then, you will be able to meet you father, at last."

She had never spoken to me of my father before, so I had become interested, very quickly, in this man that had supposedly taken part in the ritual of my birth. I had been overjoyed upon hearing that my father was none other than King Arthur, the legendary man that had risen from the streets into the castle of Camelot by pulling the sacred sword from the stone, and who held claim to the even more powerful, holy blade of Excalibur for himself.

That night, she had taken me into her room and pulled me into her lap while setting a silver-encased mirror in my hands. "Think really hard with your heart, Mordred," she had told me. "If you do that, then the mirror will know how much you long to see your father, and you will see him."

And so I did. I held that silver mirror as hard as I could between my pale, white fingers, and thought very hard from the depths of my mind, telling the mirror, "... I wish to see my father. I wish to see my father. I wish to see..." After a few minutes of sitting there, clutching that mirror, my mother tapped to the left side of my chest with her long, beautiful nails.

"With your heart, Mordred," she reminded me, "not your mind."

With this now in mind, I closed my eyes, emptying my head of those words, and tried to grasp the meaning of what my mother had said. With my heart? What was that supposed to mean, exactly?

"Reach for your heart with your soul," she whispered. "Then you may tell the mirror what you desire."

I could feel it then, the skipping of my heart, not much unlike a rabbit's. I reached for my heart with one hand, closed my eyes. That soft beating against my fingers was unlike any other I had felt before. It felt warm, safe, like something that I could grasp onto when I was in need. I could see the faint glow of a light against my eyelids then, so I opened them to see a swirling image before me.

A man, looking ever so familiar, standing hand-in-hand with a woman.

"That's him," I could hear my mother breath into my ear. "Oh, Mordred, you look so much like Arturia." I paid no mind to the name, but stared at the man in the image.

He looked a lot like me. There was that same long, golden hair that looked so soft and easy to run fingers through. Those large, green eyes, filled to the brim with cool, calm intellect that I could not help but admire. And, then, we had the same face. Round and delicate, with high cheek bones and a sharp jaw bone. Rather feminine, just like mine.

I took my fingers from my heart and pressed them to the face of the man in the mirror, my father. "He's so beautiful, mother," I whispered.

"Yes," she replied. "Yes, he is."

"Who's that woman with him?" I asked, now paying attention to the way my father held hands with that other woman. Although the act may have been supposed to look warm, it seemed chilling. He would not smile at the woman, but look over at her, uncomfortably, every once in a while, as they talked. Every now and then, he would smile heartwarmingly, but then it was gone in a flash.

"That is his wife, Guinevere," my mother answered.

"So you are not his wife?" I asked, my green eyes wide with curiosity.

"No," she answered. "I am his sister."

I looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Oh!" I could faintly see some similarities now. The softness of the hair, the way their eyes sparkled. I looked back down to the mirror. "Oh..."

My mother tightened her grip around my waist. "Is there something the matter, Mordred?"

I looked back up at her. "If you're not married to father, then did that mean he didn't want me? Does he love Guinevere more than he loves us?"

My mother had chuckled humorously. "Well, I'm certain that he like Guinevere more than he likes me. Although that isn't really saying much at all..." She looked back down at me and frowned. "But, look, Mordred, your father doesn't really love that woman."

"He doesn't?"

"No," she said. "No he doesn't. You're father doesn't really love women."

I tilted my head to the side, confused. "But why would he marry a woman, then?"

"Because he is a king. He has to." She sighed. "This can be a very hard thing to explain, Mordred, but trust me when I say that you'll understand when you journey to Camelot and meet him, OK?"

I paused for a moment before saying anything. "Ok. But you never answered my first question."

"Well, what was that?"

"Does he love me?"

My mother smiled down at me then, looking sad and as though she didn't know what to say. "Well, you tell me what, Mordred." She took her hand and tapped the image of my father on the mirror. He was laughing now, probably at something that the woman had said. He looked very lovely while laughing. "You take a look at that face, and tell me. Do you think that he is the kind of man that wouldn't love his own son?"

"No." I placed my fingers back onto the cool glass of the mirror, taking in the beauty that belongs to none other than my father, King Arthur.

"I don't think he is, either," my mother told me, taking the mirror from my hands as the image began to fade, and change to the reflection of my own face. Ironically enough, there was hardly a difference. "Trust me, Mordred. You will become king, just like your father."

I nodded halfheartedly. "But, mother, can I come back and see him again tomorrow, after sword practice?"

My mother smiled down at me, a small, strained smile. "But of course, darling," She said, stroking the top of my head and pulling me close to her. "But of course..."