The knights stood assembled in the castle courtyard. Before them stood their steward, the masked knight Mordred, armored in moonlight and clothed with the red of blood yet to be shed (blood must be shed).

Those assembled had been left behind while the great and noble Arthur warred against his traitorous vassal in Gaul. They were torn between relief at not having to fight for far off causes and dismay at not partaking in the glory of a war well waged.

Either way, their king had left them in the capable hands of his most promising knight.

"They say he is horribly disfigured and that that is why he wears the mask all the time" said one knight.

"Silence yourself before the steward has to do it for you" said his more levelheaded compatriot.

"It doesn't matter as long as he keeps being better than the rest of us" another chimed in

Up on high, Mordred raised his hand to silence those that would soon be his fellow conspirators and began to speak.

"Knights, gentlemen, times have been hard on this magnificent kingdom of ours. Enemies remain at our doors and our king has left us (left me) to fight Lancelot (that bastard) in foreign lands. Many of you must be wondering if it will be worth it, and to be honest, so do I"

There was some discontent in the ranks. Mordred allowed it to fester before continuing.

"I wonder if our king's personal vendetta against a knight who has made him a fool does not heap further troubles on a long suffering people. I wonder why he did not trust you fine men enough to ride with him in this quest-" -was that why their king had left them here!- "I wonder if our king still has our best interests in heart!"

None could fathom what they were hearing. This was blasphemy! This was treason! How could such venom flow from such a paragon of valor and chivalry? The speaker gave them no time to object. His voice was like water; seeping silently into cracks of their hearts, then sweeping them away in the powerful current (if he could only see me now).

"I wonder if this king of ours has ever cared for us at all (I'll make him care)!

How many villages have burned for "the greater good"? How many treasures pillaged from us? How many of our children sold into slavery? How many of our wives ravaged by barbarians!"

Behind the shelter of his mask, Mordred smiled. He knew many of these men to be from those villages. The embers of rebellion began to grow hot.

"Well! Let me tell you something about this king for whom so many have suffered needlessly! He is no man! He does not care for the problems of men! He does not age or bleed like men do! He could not even satisfy his wife (that harlot)!

How can a ruler like that govern a nation of men! A nation that has fought and bled and died while he remains impassive (he has to)! With a honeyed tongue and a mailed fist! With a sorcerer at his beck and call (how I hate him)! What noble king would have need of such dishonorable trickery?"

The embers became flames. Flames of passion. Fires of hatred.

"Now, you may be wondering: 'why do we follow this automaton, if he brings us so much pain?' I shall tell you why: you believed in him (I still do). You believed in the lies and false promises of power. He told you you were equals and he made you thralls! He told you you were mighty and he made you weak! He sees you as he sees all his subjects (as he sees me?): mere tools for his own use."

A pause. A sigh, the weariness genuine.

"Do not be ashamed. I believed in his promises too. I was fed those lies with the same ease you were, though it sickens me to think so".

He allows himself to look vulnerable. The knights sympathize. The knights trust.

"Now though, my mind is clear. I see that we have need of a new king! A king that will not betray you, as loathsome Arthur has! I ask of you, my friends free of bondage: who will be this new king?"

Fires of devotion.

"SIR MORDRED WILL BE KING!" is the unanimous reply.

Awe swept over him. The ploy had actually worked! Still, he would not go power-mad like his bitch of a mother had, oh no. He would earn their devotion as their new king.

"My friends. . . I am humbled. You do me too much credit...

Nevertheless, I shall not let your faith in me go misplaced. Together, we will usher in a new age for Camelot and for Britain! An age free from that tyrant's grasp!"

Wild applause and cheering followed swiftly.

"My brothers, do not imagine our task an easy one. Arthur will not let his ill-gotten prize go without a struggle. He shall fight even those who were once his knights to enforce his claim on our lands. Do not expect mercy from his cold heart (do not expect love).

Knowing this, knowing that your blood may be spent in battle, knowing that you may never see the world you will claim for your children, do you still stand with me?"

A towering inferno.

"AYE!"

Mordred laughed the hearty laugh of a child who has won a difficult game.

"Then let us make haste, brothers! The shackles of servitude are not easily broken, and" he added with an irony allowed by arrogance "our king must not find us wanting".

So, doom came to Camelot.

Author's Notes:

Wow, it's been quite a while since I published anything here. I actually wrote this two months ago, but I was unsure in what order this story was going to be told. Consider this your introduction In Medias Res.

The fic was inspired by Heather Dale's song "Crashing Down" (Which was put on repeat while writing this) and a love of Arthurian lore. I've always thought villains were usually more interesting than heroes and when I listened to that song I started writing a speech of my own. The speech turned into one fit for FSN's Mordred, which turned into this story.

There's still much to be told, intrepid reader! Be prepared!