Here is my new story. It's a crossover between Fate/ Stay Night and Zelda Hyrule Warrior Age of Calamity (a game that tells the events that took place 100 years before Breath of the Wild).
This is a text written by an unpaid amateur. The Fate license is the property of Type-Moon, and the Legend of Zelda license is the property of Nintendo.
At the Hill of Camlann
Year 537, south of the British Isles.
The night was already ending.
Lying on the ground, wrapped in blankets, thousands of men slept around nearly extinguished campfires.
At the edge of the military camp, sentries were pacing. Most of them had their eyes on a hill line to the north.
The Hill of Camlann.
There were multiple campfires, another army, Mordred's army.
There were only a few hours left before dawn, before the last battle of the Arthurian era.
In the middle of the army was a beautiful conical tent, the wind waved weakly a blue banner with a silver lion. King Arthur's personal banner.
Sitting on a folding chair near her bed, Artoria Pendragon... the true King Arthur... watched Excalibur on a display stand.
The young woman was immersed in a sort of waking dream, reliving her childhood, her adolescence, the quiet excitement that had seized her when she had torn Caliburn from it stone sheath.
Strangely, everything that followed seemed like a slow descent into hell. Slow enough, insidious enough for her not to notice... But, in retrospect, Artoria had the impression that she had always been wrong, that she had always made decisions that, adding to each other, had dug an impassable ditch between her supporter and her enemies.
Why?
She sacrificed herself to make everyone happy.
She should have been the only victim!
In a rare act of anger, Artoria threw away the glass of wine she was holding in her hand. The cup violently struck the corner of a chest.
There was a noise and a piece of cloth rose, letting Sir Bedivere in.
"My King, you should take some rest. The battle tomorrow will be decisive."
King Arthur turned to smile with sadness at her loyal attendant.
"I can't sleep. There are too many people in the tent."
The silver-haired knight blinked.
The tent was empty except for the two of them. Maybe his king was talking about the soldiers sleeping nearby...
"Too many people?"
"Yes, Sir Bedivere, they are all here. The ones I killed, the ones I let die, they all came... I almost see them. So many and so many deaths! Farmhands and kings, Saxons and Bretons, rich and poor, men and women, children and old men... my dead... my crimes. There are also my knights, all those who died during the Quest for the Holy Grail, like poor Galahad."
Arthur Pendragon, king of the island of Britain, looked up at the fabric of his tent waving in the wind.
"Where is Merlin? I've never needed him so much."
But Merlin could not come... he was missing, imprisoned on the other side of the world. And no one could cast a spell on the king so he can sleep.
Understanding the state of mind of his king, Sir Bedivere bowed as if his lord had just given him his leave and stepped out of the tent backward. He left Arthur with his guests. Unwelcome guests called remorse and sorrow.
On the other side of the future battlefield, one could see another conical tent, on top of the hill of Camlann.
Cruelly ironically, Mordred Pendragon was not sleeping either. Sitting on a chair, the teenager, a sort of younger copy of King Arthur, caressed Clarent, his sword. A weapon he (she?) stole from his father.
The legendary King Arthur was tormented. However, his 'son' was even more troubled and uncertain than his 'father'.
Originally, there was perhaps no Knight of the Round more devoted to Arthur, this... 'perfect' king, so beautiful, so noble, so courageous. In Mordred's eyes, Arthur simply had no fault.
Despite his admiration, Mordred was the only person to understand why his 'father' took all the responsibility and refused to share power.
Some thought Arthur was a tyrant.
Truly, Arthur was simply afraid of failing.
The king wanted to assume all the responsibilities to protect others from the consequences of their actions.
It was worthy of Arthur, immensely generous, immensely courageous... but even Mordred knew that his father had embarked on a collision course with reality and that reality was always the winner.
As the noble of Britain turned their back to his 'father', plotting, and betraying, Mordred never saw the king show the slightest emotion. As if the king was a stone statue. But the knight wanted to believe that his 'father' was not insensitive.
Finally, he had found the courage to take off his helmet, to show his face to Arthur and tell him the truth.
And his father, his king, the sun of his life had turned his back on him and left the room without saying a single word.
Mordred would have a thousand times preferred to be insulted
He had the impression that at that moment he had ceased to exist in the eyes of his 'father". As if with a scornful gesture Arthur had thrown him from the top of the tower, depriving him of the light that emanated from his royal person, to send him back to the darkness of his birth.
There was no word that could describe what Mordred felt...
It was as if, turning away from him, Arthur had cut him in half!
Half of Mordred continued to love King Arthur, to love him more than anything...
And another half was no more than hatred, hatred as vast as the sky, as high as the mountains, as deep as the oceans.
For a few days, the Knight had cried and howled on the verge of madness.
Then an idea, a goal, ended up creating a bridge between the two parts of his soul:
Overthrow Arthur.
Take his place.
Both parts of his soul agreed with this idea.
The party that loved Arthur saw this goal as a chance to protect his 'father' in spite of him, a way to prevent him from committing suicide by trying to save everyone.
And the part of Mordred that wanted to harm Arthur saw in it the opportunity to hurt and humiliate his 'father' by succeeding in uniting the Bretons... a feat that King Arthur had never achieved.
In a rustle of fabric, SHE entered.
Immediately, the inside of the tent seemed to cool.
"You should sleep, my son. There are only a few hours left before the battle."
If all the emotions and feelings that Mordred felt for his father formed an unstable maelstrom, torn between love and hate and presenting a thousand nuances, the feelings that the Knight of Rebellion felt for his mother could be summed up in one word:
Fear.
A bare fear, as sharp as a razor blade.
Morgan le Fay's resemblance to her sister and their 'son' was... breathtaking, one face for three women. But Morgan's hair was so pale that it looked almost white, and her eyes had the color of soft grass. Black, white and electric blue, her outfit revealed large areas of very pale skin. Morgan le Fay relied on a large, ornate wand, almost a scepter.
"Why don't you sleep, my son? Don't you understand that you will have to be in shape when the sun appears? There are only a few hours left before the battle."
Mordred wrung his hands and jumped out of his chair pacing.
"The battle? What if we lose... "
"We have the power play and we occupy an easy position to defend."
But Morgan knew her son well. Mordred had never been afraid to lose a battle, never once...
"That's not the problem, is it?"
Morgan le Fay's cold voice made her son shudder. The rebel knight shook his head but was unable to resist the magnetic gaze of his mother.
"No, It's not that..."
The first words had left his lips without him thinking, Mordred was obliged to continue.
"I'm afraid of winning... of having to kill my father."
The knight looked away and lowered his head, awaiting the reaction of his mother with resignation... A minute passed... two... Mordred looked at his mother, surprised by her silence. She too was looking at him and her expression was sad.
"Mother... I..."
Mordred lowered his head and explained how he felt. This was the first time he dared to speak of his feelings for Arthur. He had never imagined talking about it one day..., especially not to his mother! But emptying his heart did much good to the rebel knight. He was created to defeat the king... a role he had repulsively taken on and continued to hate because he loved Arthur as much as he hated him.
Morgan le Fay listened to him without interrupting once. At times, the Witch Queen nodded, seeming to encourage her son's confession. When Mordred was silent, she looked at him.
"I understand."
They were very simple words... but they stunned her son.
"Do you understand, Mother?"
"You feel cut in half? I'm cut in three, three women in one. Morgan, Artoria's older sister... who saw her little sister thrown to Caliburn, sacrificed by Merlin. I am also... the Lady of the Lake who gave Excalibur to Sir Arthur, the noblest of knights. And finally, I am the Witch Queen, the true queen of the Britain Island... and this part of me hates Arthur Pendragon, the usurper, the plunderer!"
Morgan looked at her hand, her fingers were shaking. Furious at this momentary weakness, she clenched her fists.
"You think I want to kill my little sister, Mordred?"
"So..."
The Witch Queen interrupted her son.
"At the first light of day, ask Arthur to join you among our armies. And I promise you no one will die today!"
"Mother, do you think Arthur will listen to me?"
"I have no intention of appealing to his head. Tomorrow I will break my brother's chains. I will free his hearth... whether he likes it or not!"
Morgan was very powerful because only a magician of legendary power could do what she was determined to do.
A large table on trestles had been installed in the center of King Arthur's large tent. No, it was not round, just rectangular, but large enough to accommodate all the lords of the royal army.
Sir Bedivere spoke, alternately designating figures representing horsemen, infantrymen archers on a map summarily drawn on a long parchment.
"... Gorre's troops are here. About 700 men-at-arms, 20 knights. There, Tintagel, 250 men-at-arms, and 6 knights. And finally here, Orkney, 150 men-at-arms 5 knights."
An ever-thicker silence had spread among the Breton lords as Bedivere explained the enemy's device.
It was finally Sir Kay who spoke.
"So to sum up, the army of the traitor Mordred is three times larger than ours, with large contingents of our old friends the Irish, and our other old friends the Saxons. They are on a hill and with the thick forests on both sides, we can only attempt a frontal assault. Is that it?"
"Yes, Sir Kay... but there is still good news."
"A good news?"
"We have twice as many knights as the enemy".
"Oh, great, it sure changes everything," said sarcastically Arthur's foster brother. "Are you sure we're not being too ruthless with poor Mordred?"
Insensitive to irony, Sir Bedivere agreed:
"Our troops are better armed and more experienced. They are the elite of the army of the kingdom of Britain. Moreover..."
Bedivere turned to the king who listened silently, without showing any emotion.
"We are led by King Arthur. And our king has never lost a battle."
Briefly, Artoria's fingers tightened around Excalibur's knob, but she said nothing.
The two sentries stood on a small hill and looked around them, ready to face any unpleasant surprise. Behind them, the soldiers of Arthur's army were arming themselves, finishing their meals, or joining their units. A continual brouhaha, a mixture of voices, whimpering horses, footsteps, and metallic clicks was heard.
One of the observers frowned and leaned forward.
"What the hell is that?"
His comrade joined him and looked in the direction he pointed.
"But... they're men... soldiers in armor."
"A surprise attack from Mordred?"
The other sentry had a better view. With his eyes pleated, he remained for a few seconds watching. Then he recognized the standard: red with three bands of silver.
"It's not Mordred, its Lancelot du Lac!"
Sitting on a carved wooden throne, King Arthur looked like a crowned statue. His hands clasped on Excalibur's knob, he was looking ahead without moving.
At the entrance of the tent, a soldier hit the ground with the heel of his halberd.
"Sire, Lancelot du Lac, Knight of the Round Table, request audience."
"Let him in," Arthur simply replied.
Dressed in purple armor with some traces of gold, Lancelot du Lac was a tall man with hawk eyes and a skinny face. The man was normally very impressive but... his hair was long and tangled... As for his eyes, they were those of a madman!
Sir Lancelot fell to his knees.
"My king... I came as quickly as I could. I have two hundred men and twenty knights. That's all the reinforcements I could find in such a short time! Please... I know what I did is unforgivable. But let me fight for you... one last time!"
Arthur trembles slightly.
It was his fault again...
Sir Agravain had taught him that Queen Guinevere was having an affair with Sir Lancelot du Lake. Arthur had summoned the two knights in secret... and had forgiven Lancelot.
But Agravain had not accepted the sentence. Despite his orders, Iron Agravain had publicly denounced the queen's infidelity.
In the face of public wrath, King Arthur had no choice but to condemn Guinevere to a public execution... But Lancelot had lost his mind. He had attacked the marketplace at the time of the queen's execution, seeking to free her. During the fight, Gareth, Gaheris, and Agravain had been killed by Lancelot... a Knight of the Round had killed three others.
Having failed to save the queen, Lancelot had fled to Brittany.
It could have ended there.
But Sir Gawain had lost three members of his family. He urged Arthur to pursue Lancelot... and eventually had the last word. They set out with some of the knights and army of Britain to attack Lancelot Castle.
Nevertheless, the latter proposed to settle the matter by a duel between him and Gauvain, rather than by a battle or a siege.
Wanting to avoid unnecessary deaths, Arthur agreed.
It was an epic duel, but eventually, Lancelot won the fight, seriously wounding Gawain. It was then that they were preparing to return that Arthur learned that Mordred had proclaimed himself King of Britain.
Sir Gawain, the Knight of the Sun, jumped up. Absolutely furious, He turned to Arthur.
"Sire, I refuse to fight alongside the murderer of my brothers!"
Sir Kay intervened immediately afterward.
"For once, I agree with that stupid, bloated gorilla! You can't take the help of one traitor against another!"
Sir Kay and Sir Gawain hated each other... but they obviously hated Lancelot even more.
In the tent, dozens of lords were now shouting. Some refused the presence of Lancelot, they were the majority. The others, on the contrary, pointed out that this reinforcement was an unexpected help. Their army was so inferior to that of Mordred, that they could not refuse Lancelot's helping hand. Unfortunately, they were a minority.
Artoria Pendragon remained silent...
In fact, she relived happy moments, short hunts, tournaments, and jousts... all knights got along well. They laughed together, they were friends, the kingdom was at peace, and they were talking about weddings and fieldwork.
Gawain took again the words:
"Uncle, I ask you to choose. Do you want the murderer of your nephews to join the army that will fight the traitor Mordred?"
Why had Camelot turned into a court of intrigue where the clans opposed each other, denigrated each other, where factional quarrels poisoned all debates and paralyzed all decisions? Concerned only with their own interests, completely forgetting the interests of the Island of Britain.
It was always like that. They always give Artoria the choice between two bad solutions. And then she was always blamed for the choices she made. They, of course, were completely innocent.
Yet here it was hardly difficult to understand what the 'right' choice was. Even if the arrival of reinforcements brought by Lancelot could pass for a stroke of luck... the army had originally been assembled to fight AGAINST Lancelot. There was too much enmity between the two factions. Lancelot's reinforcements would make Arthur's army lose its cohesion, weakening it rather than strengthening it.
"Sir Lancelot?"
"Yes, my king?"
"I regret having to refuse your help."
Artoria got up to leave the tent. When she passed by Lancelot, she heard him cry. Curled up on the ground, the Knight of the Lac sobbed like a child over what he could not defend as a man.
His Honor.
The woman he loved.
And now... his king.
The two armies were now facing each other and an almost supernatural silence had spread among the hills. All we could hear was the rattling of a chain mail, a horse that was chipping, the banners flapping in the wind. The men were silent, they were afraid...
The sun had not yet appeared to the east, but the sky was already colored pink.
Suddenly a lone horseman emerged from the ranks of Mordred's army, descending the hill. He held a large white flag.
"Parley!"
Gawain turned to his king.
Arthur Pendragon was mounted on a large white stallion with a steel headpiece and a dress of blue, white, and gold fabric. The King of Knights merely nodded his head.
Gawain stood up on his stirrups.
"Let the parliamentarian come forward."
The rider approached escorted by four knights of Arthur.
His message was very simple. Mordred wanted an interview with his father. Arthur and his son were to come alone and meet halfway between the two armies. Mordred gave his word as a knight that it was not a trap and that Arthur's life and freedom would not be threatened.
"I accept," replied Artoria.
Nervously, 'King' Mordred of Britain descended from horse and thread a few steps. Imitating him, Arthur Pendragon descended from his mount and stopped in front of his 'son'.
The rising sun lit up the scene in a pink hue. We could hear birds singing.
But the wind also brought the voices of the soldiers who discussed among themselves, the smell of steel, and sweat.
"I listen to you, Sir Mordred."
The Knight of the Rebellion flinched slightly and held out his hand to his neck. Suddenly, his helmet began to retract, a plate of metal slipping on another, and the entire helmet folded into his collar, like a sort of clicking origami.
Mordred looked younger, a 14-year-old girl, but the resemblance to her 'father' was that of a twin sister... or rather a homunculus created with Arthur's blood.
"First, I have a question... Arthur" Mordred stumbled on the last word, unable to decide between 'Father' or 'Sire'.
Artoria simply nodded.
"Why did you reject me when I asked you to recognize me as a son?"
"How old are you, Sir Mordred? Your real age, I mean."
The Knight of the Rebellion blushes slightly.
"... seven years... I think."
"You are too young to become king and you have not shown the qualities of a monarch. A Morgan pawn had nothing to do with Britain's throne."
Mordred looked at his 'father' with an expression of disbelief. At times like this, the rebellious knight had a furious desire to take out his sword and behead Arthur, his calm, his certainty of knowing everything, of acting for the good of all... was what had brought him so many enemies. Mordred suddenly remembered something Sir Tristan had said: "The king does not understand human feelings."
The rebellious knight indulged in a veritable pantomime of anger.
"But anyway, do you really believe that I revealed my pedigree to you to become your heir and then betray you? I wanted to help you!"
Arthur made a circular gesture with his hand, pointing to Mordred's army.
"At this moment, sir knight, I have some doubts about your sincerity."
The Knight of Rebellion was stunned... and then burst out laughing, holding his forehead.
It was funny... funny... but at the same time, Mordred was struggling with the tears in his eyes.
The whole thing was a terrible misunderstanding! Arthur had no idea what he was trying to do. Arthur had misinterpreted everything. In his anger, Mordred had only confirmed his father's fears... acting as Morgan's agent eager to destroy Camelot, in retrospect, he had proved his father was right.
"But why did you leave without saying anything, without explaining anything? Can you imagine what it was like for me to be rejected by my father?"
Arthur did not answer immediately. He looked away. When he spoke again, for the first time, his voice was insecure. The mask of the 'perfect king' cracked to show emotion...
"Sir Mordred, you knew from birth that I was your father. Of course, I wasn't. To create you... Morgan raped me, so learning that life was born of this act... this unnatural act... shocked me. I said nothing because I was unable to speak. I left because I was going through a real emotional storm and needed time to accept what I had just learned."
What an irony, thought Mordred, that day at the top of the tower he thought he was going through hell being rejected by his father. But he had not been able to see that his words had hurt his father as much as his father's silences had hurt him.
Maybe not understanding human feelings was passed down from father to son in the Pendragon family?
"Father, you are a noble heart in an ice statue."
While saying these astonishingly poetic words, Mordred threw an object at Arthur's feet.
Bug-eyed, the King of the Knights recognized a circle of invocation engraved on a sort of medallion.
In her tent, Morgan le Fay stood in the center of a circle of invocation identical to the one that adorned the amulet that Mordred had just thrown.
When the circle began to glow, the Witch-Queen's hands clenched on her mage's wand. She recited incantations... releasing the energy she had accumulated during a Formalcraft ceremony that lasted several hours.
The trap was perfect.
Because it was not an attack, Artoria's Magic Resistance does not react.
The sky appeared a tear and a beam of blinding light came out, enveloping King Arthur.
The light beam went out... where the King of Knight stood there was nothing left.
Lowering his hand that he had raised to protect his eyes, Mordred looked sadly at the place where Arthur had stood.
"Farewell father... I hope you find happiness where mother sent you."
Exhausted, Morgan fell to her knees in the magic circle. Wiping the sweat on her face with one hand, the Witch-Queen had a faint smile...
"Farewell little sister."
For the first time in a very long time, Morgan felt... complete. The Witch-Queen had defeated her enemy, Morgan had saved Artoria from Merlin's machinations and the Lady of the Lake had sent her favorite knight to new adventures.
Far from Earth, far from Camlann...
The Kingdom of Hyrule...
For several years, the signs of the return of Calamity Ganon had multiplied. Bokoblins and Moblins gathered in the mountains, attacking the Goron mines and raiding the plains. Lizardos attacked the travelers on the banks of the rivers and even dared to risk themselves on the outskirts of the Zora domain.
At nightfall, the dead left their graves to attack the living.
There were even more sinister rumors... creatures with the body of a lion and the bust of a man shooting arrows of fire, monsters made of animated rocks or wizards dancing in the air under the storm, directing the lightning of a movement of their magic wands.
In the space of a few years, the peaceful kingdom of Hyrule had become a besieged country, threatened from all sides.
A few kilometers south of the citadel of Hyrule, the royal army had just attracted a horde of Bokoblin in a plain easy to control. Gunners fired and reloaded without stopping, and raging clouds of smoke drifted on the battlefield. The explosions mowed down humanoids by the dozens, while the archers weakened the charge of the monsters, expected by the lancers, shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall of spikes.
King Rhoam Bosphoranus Hyrule watched the battle from the balcony of the castle, surrounded by two royal knights dressed in blue and armed with superb halberds.
He turned to one of his assistants and pointed to a blond teenager.
"What's the name of this young soldier?"
"Link, Your Majesty."
The old man crowned with the royal crown of Hyrule, stroked his long white beard with a hand covered with rings and nodded his head.
"He has just beaten a Moblin in personal combat. Make sure he is rewarded and promoted. He probably deserves a place among my knights;"
The king nodded again. Perhaps he could name him Princess Zelda's bodyguard. Perhaps a teenager a little younger than she would be better accepted than the guards who usually accompanied his daughter. He was still thinking about this idea when a phenomenon surprised him.
A bright light had just appeared east of the battlefield.
Trying to protect his eyes, King Rhoam turned in this direction and discovered a column of golden light seeming to fall from a hole, like a kind of tear floating in the air.
The phenomenon was already dissipating.
"Report! What happened?"
The king's aide-de-camp jumped.
"I don't know, Your Majesty."
"Well, send someone there!"
The column of light had disappeared. But the phenomenon had left a tangible trace of its action... At the place where the column of light had stood there was now a fainted young woman. She was beautiful, literally breathtaking, with ivory skin, and hair like gold. She was dressed in a kind of armored dress, a large blue cape with a white fur collar, and on her head... the crown of Britain.