Prompt: "Mordred is (handwave) ported back to the moment that Arturia pulls Caliburn out of the stone." — Smunch
It felt like a dream. It had to be. She felt light, floaty. Her feet weren't touching the ground, she couldn't feel the grass against her bare toes. It was disorienting, and it almost pulled her attention away from the young girl walking up the hill, accompanied by a taller man.
Mordred instantly recognized her father. The determination in her blue eyes was heavier than how much her body must have weighed. Merlin was uncharacteristically serious.
She awaited the two of them at the top of the hill, unable to do anything but watch.
"Father..." she murmured.
Father stopped before the sword in the stone.
"What's wrong?" Merlin asked.
"I... don't know," Father said, her young voice lacking the steel of experience. "I just..."
"You were destined to accept this birthright since you were born, Artoria," the mage said. "It has always been yours. You just have to take it."
"Will this save Britain?" Father asked.
"No." Merlin shook his head. "The only way you can save Britain is by your own hand. You understand what must be done. Are you willing to carry it out?"
Father looked at the sword again and took a deep breath. Mordred breathed with her.
"I have to be," she said, walking slowly to the stone.
"Don't!" Mordred knew it was useless, but she couldn't stop herself. "You don't know what you're doing! Father, no!"
"It has to be me," Father said, taking the hilt in hand. "I can't allow anyone else to bear this burden. I won't let Britain fall."
She pulled it out, and Mordred cried out in pain as if Father had ripped the sword out of her body. She fell to the ground.
"Father… why…" she choked.