Chapter One: Sins of the Past

Author note: This story is the seventy-third in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "If Today Was Your Last Day".

Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.


Rage. Hatred. Clad in chainmail, with a dark breastplate, and a dragon-forged blade singing in his hands, the knight-druid slashed his way through those he'd once called 'friend'. Men he'd been proud to fight beside, men who'd welcomed him as one of their own despite his past as a Druid. He'd been a blind, pitiful fool; why couldn't he be accepted as a Druid? Why had he had to hide the very soul of himself from those who supposedly cared about him?

Slash. Block. Cut. Counter-parry. His teeth bared in a snarl as he whipped to the side and raised his free hand, sending his opponents flying into unforgiving rock. Above him, Aithusa flew, unleashing torrents of flame, but he wasn't afraid. She was Morgana's, she was his. The white dragon would not harm them, she would only harm Camelot.

Enchanted steel found its mark and he resisted the wild urge to laugh. So easy, it was so easy to make the bloodcloaks pay. Why had he ever run from them? Soon, he would pay; his beloved had done nothing wrong. She'd only been fighting for their freedom, for the freedom to use their magic as they so chose. To live without fear and hiding. Why should she die for that? Why had Emrys betrayed his own people? And for a Pendragon, no less! Well, he'd been dealt with and now only the Pendragon remained.

The fighting ebbed and he found himself in a lull, the sudden quiet almost eerie around him. Panting, he glanced around and his eyes fell on a familiar blond head, kneeling by several fallen knights. Fresh hatred scorched through his veins, crying out for his beloved's death to be avenged. Gray narrowed and he advanced, raising his sword. One stab would do it – then his people would be free. Emrys had been a fool to protect a Pendragon all these years and he'd been an even bigger fool for believing in him.

He swung for the king's back, only for the man to whirl on his knees, blade rising. The two dragon-forged blades rang as they connected, each of them fighting to overcome the other's magic before the king's wrist slid sideways, knocking his blade up and away. Furious blue bored into his gray as the king rose to his feet, glaring hard at his attacker. The armor was familiar, as was the chainmail. A light gray steel just as strong as his own darker chainmail, with a chest and armguard attached. The king fought beside his men, always had; he didn't know what it was to stay behind the lines and give orders. Once he'd admired that – now he was about to take advantage of that.

The king hesitated, eyes widening at the sight of him. Instinct screamed 'friend' even as mind screamed 'enemy'. In that moment, he struck, stabbing through the king's chainmail into his belly; savage glee swirled around him in that instant. He had done it! He had finally ended the Pendragons' reign and halted the threat to his people.

With a wrench, he yanked his sword free, staring into his enemy's eyes as the king lurched, gasping and reaching for the wound. The king panted hard and collapsed back to his knees, folding over from the pain. His sword fell limp, still in the king's grasp, but harmless.

"You gave me no choice."

The blond head came up, savage outrage in those blue eyes. The king surged to his feet again, dragon blade finding its mark in an instant. He lurched as the blade entered his chest, but did not fall; the king had seized the front of his chainmail, keeping him upright. The two dying men stared into each others' eyes, a thousand emotions swirling around them. Once they'd been friends, standing back-to-back against the worst their enemies could throw at them. So many memories swirled through his head in that instant, but hatred swallowed any regret. He didn't regret this, he didn't. He never would, not even if he lived a thousand years.

The king jerked his blade in the wound and Mordred felt it reach his heart. His own magic heard Excalibur's shriek of denial and loss an instant before it was over. He stared into Arthur's eyes a moment longer, managing a smile before Arthur pulled his sword free and released Mordred's chainmail.

The dark knight fell, dragon blade still clutched in his right hand as he hit the ground. Twisted emerald chased him into blackness…


He screamed as he woke, thrusting himself off the bed; in the darkness, he tumbled to the floor, smacking into the carpet. Both hands rose to his curly dark brown hair, tugging on it as he gasped and struggled to re-orient himself. Magic roiled just beneath his skin, fury and agitation reeking from its ancient hatred. Hate that dated back to Camelot, back to his beloved Kara's death at King Arthur's hands.

Hate that warred with memories both new and old, with a thousand moments of light and friendship and banter with his teammates. His fellow knights, now his fellow constables. They might've been wary of him recently, but he remembered when he'd first joined the team. Uncertain, almost fearful, especially with the rumors flying around about Team Four's old bomb tech, but his new teammates had welcomed him. Then they'd gotten him into a bullet-proof vest filled with cream cheese on his first official day, but pranks were an age-old tradition and Mordred had laughed just as much as Gwaine, his darker nature lightening at the antics of his prankster teammate.

All the hot calls since then ran through his head, along with the day his teammates had discovered magic. Not his magic, but magic. He still remembered how it had felt to wake up, confused, bruised, and in the middle of the barn with his gun still in his hands. Then the realization that he'd been enslaved, turned into nothing more than a puppet, and set against his friends and colleagues. Even worse, his own magic hadn't fought against that spell. No, it had left him ripe for the picking and it had taken him weeks to understand why that was.

Panting, Mordred Vlachos stared at the carpet, anguish filtering in around the hatred that still pulsed with every beat of his heart. He could remember everything, feel every emotion he'd felt in his prior life, but… But he wasn't who he'd been. None of them were; with his memories restored, he could recognize that all too well. Each one of them had grown up all over again in a world much different than the one they'd known. A world without magic, where the greatest threats tended towards random criminals instead of gangs of bandits, magical creatures, or bloodcloaks. A tamer world, but not really. Not truly; it still held every bit as much potential for chaos as Camelot. That was why they'd all freely chosen to go into law enforcement and learn their trade once more. Even him… Even in the depths of his betrayal, there had still been a part of him that wanted to protect. It had been overridden and buried by his hatred, yet now he could recognize that it had never died.

And…and he didn't want to be what he'd been before! He'd died with fury and hatred, with the blood of his once-friend on his hands. He'd died blaming Arthur and Merlin for Kara's death and his own. But that wasn't fair… Or was it? His magic shrieked in his heart, crying out for vengeance once more, its hatred just as old as his memories. Mordred slumped over, one hand falling to the exact spot on his chest where Arthur had stabbed through his chainmail. No scar lingered there, but he remembered it as if it had only been yesterday.

For an instant, Mordred's eyes strayed to where he kept his off-duty weapon. He knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn't, but… If Fate was immutable, then he was doomed no matter what he did. Old rage howled within and he knew. It would be so easy to fall back into what he'd been. So very easy to become that avenging crusader, cutting down friend and foe alike. Despair closed in around him; he didn't want to hurt his friends. His teammates. But he'd already fallen once and he could fall again. Wouldn't it be better to make sure that didn't happen? He couldn't hurt anyone if he was dead.

Inside, his magic rebelled, demanding that blood be spilt for the blood his people had lost. Mordred gasped, wrenching his eyes shut. He'd imprinted that hatred onto his own power, so fiercely that now all his magic could see was revenge. Could it truly be called a taint when it was really his power just reflecting his own obsession back at him? The lean knight-turned-constable shivered. He'd chosen revenge once and he'd reveled in its darkness. His magic still wanted that darkness, as if vengeance was all it knew. Or maybe it was his memories, drenched in blood and screaming for more.

Underneath that ancient hatred, his newer memories surged, fighting back against the old injustices. Even if his perceptions were completely accurate – and he doubted that – what did it matter? Camelot was long gone, faded into ages past and firmly established as myth. As magic, too, which was highly ironic given the truth. Why should he keep fighting a war that had ended centuries ago? How could he hold his friends to account for their actions if he wanted pardon for his?

Ancient grief enfolded him and Mordred curled in on himself, sobbing Kara's name. Her death had been wrong, totally unjust. He'd been willing to leave, to take her with him far, far away from Camelot. Arthur hadn't had to murder her! Why should he forgive that? Even if centuries had passed, the crime remained.

Deep within, a whisper fought back. Hadn't Kara committed crimes of her own? Crimes for which she had to be held accountable for, no matter how much he loved her? Hadn't she chosen her own hatred over him?

Yet grief and anguish were powerful emotions; Mordred heard the whisper in his heart, but couldn't accept it. For all his training, all his experience, he was unable to confront his own blindness. His own refusal to see Kara as anything but perfect.


He slipped into the locker room, movements a bit furtive as he glanced around for company. Emotions roiled under his skin, switching directions almost faster than he could keep up, right along with the history that swam inside his skull. Mordred knew he wasn't fit for duty, but he was hoping that wouldn't matter; Team Four was secondary for this shift and the last week or two had been quiet aside from the gossip mill. Rumor still ran rampant over Lieutenant Parker and the news that he'd broken off his engagement with Marina Levin.

Many of the gossips had tut-tutted, appalled that Parker would let the perfect woman get away like that, but Mordred and the others had weaseled enough information out of Leon to know that Parker hadn't had any other choice, not if he wanted to keep his family together. It hadn't taken long for three of the SRU teams to gang up on the last one, shutting the whispers down hard. Mordred didn't know what Team Two's problem was, but they needed to get over it. Lieutenant Parker was doing a good job as their leader, particularly since his position hadn't even existed before.

Things were still in flux and uncertain, but the bomb tech had the sense that the SRU was past the worst of the growing pains. Once they got the lieutenant job description hammered out and the chains of command established, life would settle into a new routine. Or, well, it would have if not for his sudden re-acquisition of ancient memories that no longer seemed to fit with who he'd become.

The constable leaned against his locker, soaking in the coolness of the metal as he fought with himself once more. Hate. Rage, fury, vengeance. It was wrong, he knew it, but his heart didn't seem to care. His magic roared just as high, howling for blood, and it was all he could do to keep his power from bursting out. Unconsciously, he hugged himself, begging for the rage to stop. It wasn't who he was, not any more.

"Mordred? Are you all right?"

His head turned, eyes opening without thought. "Get away from me," he hissed, a sheen of green obscuring gray irises for an instant.

Leon reared back, caught off guard and hurt. "Mordred, what…?"

Fists clenched and he stepped forward, right into the First Knight's space. "You let him kill her! She never did anything to you!"

Confusion flared, followed by recognition. "She was a murderer," Sir Leon countered. "You know it, Mordred. She stabbed that guard right in front of you and she didn't have to. You could've gotten away without killing him." A breath. "Arthur offered her clemency. Before her execution, he brought her before the court once more. If she would repent of her crimes, he would spare her life. She refused."

"Liar," Mordred snarled. Magic tugged at his control, begging for release. He felt it rise, felt it burn in his eyes, then jerked back, panting. Instinctively, he retreated to his locker, spreading both hands and pressing them against the metal as he strained to calm down. Lowering his head, he stared down at the ground, counting out each breath. He would not hurt his friend, he would not. He wasn't Mordred the Dark any more.

The slight sound of a shoe scuffing against concrete brought him back up in time to see Leon back away, wary and on guard against any possible attacks. One hand reached out in plea and he opened his mouth, only to freeze when Leon flinched in anticipation.

"Leon," he pleaded. "Leon, please, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." Please help me; I don't want to fall again.

Team Four's lead negotiator studied him, expression guarded. "If you didn't mean it, Mordred, then why did you say it?"

"I…" His throat closed off as hatred clawed upwards once more. Hatred of the knight, of the Pendragon's bloodcloaks. Darkness flashed in his eyes before he could stop it.

Leon shook his head and turned away, leaving the locker room without ever glancing back at the crushed former knight who sank down on the bench, gasping and fighting against his treacherous past.


Gwaine and Elyan were the worst, but Mordred had half-expected that. After all, they were still treating Lancelot like a leper for his magic, a fact Mordred had been angry about even before his old memories came back. Seriously, they worked in the wizarding world, what was the big deal about Lancelot having magic? If they'd pull their heads out of the sand, maybe they could open their eyes and realize that having a sorcerer on their team was one heck of an advantage, even if Lancelot was still trying to learn how to use his abilities.

Mordred himself had taken to hiding his own abilities in the wake of Gwaine and Elyan's reaction, but there was little point in that now. It didn't take a genius to figure out that his teammates all remembered their lives in Camelot, which was why they'd been shunning him in the first place. Before, he hadn't understood, but now he did; they remembered his betrayal and how he'd killed their king. And since once a Traitor, always a Traitor, he stood no chance at all of regaining their friendship. It hurt more than he could say, but Mordred couldn't bring himself to blame his teammates.

With wary hesitance, he approached Lancelot, offering to help the other man learn how to use his magic. By the time he'd become a Knight of Camelot, Lancelot had been dead for several years and regarded as a traitor himself. Perhaps the two traitors of Camelot could help each other survive in this new world. After a few minutes of consideration, Lancelot agreed and the constables settled on a time and place far away from the barn; Mordred knew from his own training that magic could be very unpredictable while its wielder was still learning.


The next day was a day off, much to Mordred's relief. He was still assimilating his original memories and being around the knights he'd known was not helping his self-control any. If not for the Sarge and Lancelot, he wasn't sure if he would've been able to keep his past self in check, especially with the seething fury from his four other teammates.

He arrived at the forest preserve before Lancelot did, taking a few minutes to soak in the quiet ambiance around him. The trees weren't as old as his memories, but they had stood for decades and knew better than to let momentary circumstances trouble them. No matter what happened, the trees grew tall and strong, facing each challenge head-on. Without thinking, the former Druid slipped into the brush, resting a hand on one of the larger trees. Mordred closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of the bark under his fingers and letting his magic roam over the trunk. Not using it, just letting it stretch.

"Do you do that often?"

Mordred jerked, turning to see Lancelot regarding him with open curiosity. He tugged his magic back and pulled his hand away from the tree, shaking his head as he did so. "I haven't done that since right before I went to the Academy," he admitted. "Cerdan used to take me to the oldest forests near Toronto and teach me, but, um…"

"He didn't like that you wanted to become a cop?" Lancelot offered, a sense of understanding in his gaze.

"No, he didn't," Mordred replied, tone soft with old pain. At least here, Cerdan was still alive. He hadn't been executed by the Dragon King for being a Druid. Then he glanced at his teammate. "You too?"

Lancelot hesitated, then gestured for Mordred to follow him. The two men wandered onto a path that led deeper into the woods, but Lancelot didn't speak until they were well away from any others using the trails. "Before," he began, casting a significant glance at Mordred, who nodded understanding, "most of my family died when my village was attacked by bandits. My sister and I were quite young, but our father held off the bandits while we escaped." Serious hazel swung towards Mordred. "I have often wondered if they really were bandits, particularly since our village knew of my father's abilities, but there is no way to know at this point."

"Yes," Mordred agreed. "Your sister, did she live?"

A faint smile curled his friend's jaw. "She was wiser than I. I buried our family magic, refusing to ever use it again, but she learned how to wield it and taught her son all that she could."

Mordred's breath caught. "That's why you don't know how to use it," he whispered.

"Aye," Lancelot confirmed. "I thought to bury it once more, only using it for small spells here and there to keep it tamed, but it seems the Lion had other plans." The former knight sighed quietly. "You should know, though; regardless of anything you were told, either then or now, I never betrayed Camelot."

"You didn't?" Mordred asked, surprised. "But…"

"But you heard tell of how I returned to Camelot after the Isle of the Blessed and lured Guinevere into a romantic encounter but a day before she married Arthur," Lancelot finished. "Then, to compound my shame, I committed suicide before I could stand trial for my crime."

"Yes," Mordred admitted. "I heard all about you."

Ancient sorrow shone in his teammate's hazel. "I died at the Isle, Mordred. What came back to Camelot was a Shade."

Mordred froze, halting mid-stride as he stared at his teammate, jaw falling open in absolute horror. "A Shade?" he hissed. "You were a Shade?"

"I was," Lancelot confessed, anguish ringing. "Raised by Morgana and bound to her fate."

The curly-haired brunet stumbled back, shivering at the realization. Necromancy. One of the Blackest of Arts – the dead were sacred. To disturb them from their rest was the very epitome of Black Magic, to bind a fallen soul to your will… Whoever committed such a crime was beyond redemption, too steeped in darkness to ever realize their wrong.

Worse, it meant Lancelot was no traitor, even if he was being treated like one. Bile rose and Mordred swallowed it down. He'd been a fool to ever imagine that he could still have friends in the wake of his ancient treachery.

He opened his mouth to apologize, though for what, he had no idea, and Lancelot stepped closer, shaking his head. "Stop," the other brunet ordered. "You didn't know. Very few do know that part of my history." A faint smile curled Lancelot's jaw. "I would still like to learn how to wield my power, if you are willing."

"You would let me train you?"

Lancelot held his gaze, refusing to yield. "Leon told me about your history, Mordred. He was hoping you would never remember."

"I did," Mordred rasped.

"Yes," Lancelot agreed. "All of us remember, my friend, and we all must face our pasts." Shadows filtered into his eyes. "But if we give you no chance to prove that you've changed, then your fall would be just as much our fault as yours."

"You never saw what I did," Mordred muttered, looking down.

"I saw more than you think," Lancelot countered. "But I have also seen you on our team, Mordred. You don't have to be what you were and neither do I."

Mordred swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. After a beat, he asked, "Are you afraid of your magic?"

"I do not believe I am," Lancelot replied, accepting the silent request to change the subject. "I resented that my father would only use his magic to protect my sister and I, never himself. I resented that our family's magic had made us a target and I vowed not to use it ever again."

"But you're going to use it," Mordred pointed out.

Calm hazel met his gray. "My vow expired when I stepped through the Veil between Life and Death," Lancelot explained. "I have made no such vow in this life."

Mordred couldn't help it; he laughed at the logic. Then he stepped forward, gray lightening a hair. "All right then. Let's find someplace where we can train."


"Do they know?"

Lancelot turned, one eyebrow arching at the question. In the palm of one hand, a fireball lurked, but the flames never scorched him nor did the palm-sized fireball expand or retract. For someone who'd never learned how to use his magic, he was learning a lot faster than Mordred had expected. They might even get to that shield spell Lancelot had used in Avalar.

Pushing off the fence he'd been using as a spot to lean against, Mordred moved up next to his teammate. "Do they know you were a Shade?"

"Ah." Lancelot sighed, glancing down at the fireball. It expanded a moment, then morphed into a ball of light; Mordred whistled, impressed. "Leon and Percival know. They were the last, you know."

"Emrys told them?" Mordred inquired.

"No," Lancelot countered, shaking his head. Then he frowned. "Or maybe. Leon didn't tell me how they knew, only that they did. Gwaine and Elyan don't know, though."

"You haven't told them?" Mordred pressed, surprised.

Wry hazel met his gray. "They refuse to listen. If Leon or Percival had told them before they found out about my magic, they might've, but not now."

Mordred's shoulders slumped. "So we're twice traitors," he concluded bitterly. "Once for Camelot and once for our magic."

"Leon and Percival do not blame us for the magic," Lancelot insisted. "They are not happy that I accepted your offer to teach me, though."

"Because I'm a traitor," Mordred muttered, turning away.

"They are worried," Lancelot remarked, pulling him back. "I believe they want to give you another chance, but they are afraid of what might happen if they do." The dark-haired former knight sighed, closing his hand and dispersing the orb of light. "It does not help that Gwaine and Elyan are so set against us. Leon and Percival have known them much longer than they knew either one of us."

"So they're loyal to them," Mordred concluded, slumping down. "And if Gwaine and Elyan never accept us, what are we supposed to do?"

His fellow magical sighed without replying. After several seconds, he closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know."

Mordred didn't know either. Inside, his magic seethed and old memories whispered that he was doomed to fall, so why keep fighting? If gaining acceptance was hopeless, why even try? And yet…Lancelot had given him a chance. Lancelot had asked him to teach him. If he betrayed that, wasn't he proving Gwaine and Elyan right?

With a sharp nod, he pushed away the darkness and focused on his teammate. "All right, let's have a look at that shield of yours. It worked, I'll give you that, but you can't just brute force magic like that. Not if you're going to use more than one spell at a time."

"Copy that," Lancelot acknowledged, shifting to gaze out at the field. Both hands spread, ready for the spell. "How should I do it?"

"We'll start small," Mordred instructed. "We know you can do the shield, so it's not about casting the spell, it's how you shape the magic when you do." He stepped forward, just a bit in front of his friend. "I'll cast mine and let you have a look at it."

Raising his hand, Mordred incanted, "Scildan (1)." To his surprise, instead of the familiar golden shield he was so used to, a deep green barrier appeared. His magic thrummed as Mordred squinted, trying to get a good look at his own power. A sheen of forest brown ran over his shield, reinforcing it. A shudder ran up Mordred's back as he finally saw the shade of green. Deep green, the shade of old forest growth. The two shades blended together, bringing to mind an ancient forest. Steeped in magic, steady, unchanging, and full of life.

"So that is how it works," Lancelot murmured.

Turning, Mordred blinked at the sight of Lancelot's hazel filmed with the deeper shade of his magic. "You can sense that?"

Lancelot nodded, lowering his hand and allowing the magic to dissipate. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that I am like Lieutenant Parker," he remarked.

Mordred's breath caught. "You're a Wild Mage?" But even if that explained Lancelot's magic, why had his own magic changed color?

His teammate nodded again. "Merlin's magic was golden," he remarked. A glance flicked in Mordred's direction. "If I had to guess, yours has always been that shade," he continued, flicking his fingers towards the shield.

"In Camelot, it was golden," Mordred objected. "All magic is golden, Lancelot. That is the mark of a sorcerer."

Lancelot tilted his head, unconcerned. "It has been over a thousand years, Mordred. Perhaps now we can see each other's magic for what it has always been, rather than peering through the veil of the dragons' influence."

Mordred stumbled, letting his spell dissipate. Without thinking, he sank down, panting and staring at his hands. "My fall was foretold by the Great Dragon," he whispered, not sure how he knew, but he did.

His teammate sighed and crouched next to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Kilgharrah's motives were his own. I have often thought that he spoke of prophecy to Merlin so as to shape the future as he wished. As he poisoned Merlin against first Morgana and then you, so he ensured that Merlin's so-called Destiny could not succeed."

Confusion rose, but Lancelot squeezed. "Merlin spoke to me often before I died, telling me things he could not share with Arthur, nor the other knights, nor even Gaius."

"And did he tell you about me?"

The older man nodded. "He did. He questioned himself for what happened that night, the night Arthur broke you out of the dungeons. You see, he hesitated because even then, when you were no more than a child, the Dragon had foretold that you would be Arthur's death."

Mordred swallowed hard. "Then why did he save me?"

Lancelot met his gaze. "Because he realized that he could not sacrifice a child's life for what he might do in the future." Hazel softened. "I do not know how you and Merlin interacted once you became a knight, Mordred, but I do know this. Second chances are a rare and precious gift. Please, do not squander yours because of what you might do. That would truly be a tragedy."

"Why?"

The other never flinched. "Because the man I know now is not evil, Mordred. He is struggling with his past, but he is not evil. I know evil, Mordred, and you are not."

"Then what am I?"

A faint smile lit the other's face. "You are human."

It didn't feel like an answer for a few seconds, then Mordred understood the reference. He forced a smile. "Does Lieutenant Parker know you're stealing his lines?"

Lancelot laughed and shook his head, rising to his feet and offering a hand. "I don't think he'd mind in this case, mellon nin."

At the mischief in hazel eyes, Mordred opted not to remark on his teammate's use of Elvish and accepted the hand up. Then the words slipped out anyway. "You know if Gwaine hears you using Elvish, he'll start calling you Legolas or something."

The brunet smirked. "Then I can remind him that Legolas never misses and he always takes down his target, even if it's a three-story elephant." A sparkle shimmered in hazel depths and Lancelot's gaze turned solemn. "And that even the best of us fall, but the difference is that we get back up."

"You think I can?" The hope was almost painful.

"I think you already have. After all, you're still here, are you not?"

His throat tightened. "Yes," Mordred whispered through numb lips. "I'm still here." But for how much longer? Because Mordred knew he couldn't keep fighting all by himself and not even Lancelot's friendship could keep the nightmares at bay.


[1] Old Religion shielding spell