"The Legend of the Black Armor"

Chap. 05: The Chosen Ones.

Bors the Younger felt like total and utterly shit at that very moment.

He had been feeling that way since he had woken up trembling and found himself in the middle of an esplanade so vast and deserted that his sight couldn't reach the end.

Half delirious, he had thought for his good couple of hours walking aimlessly in the middle of nowhere that he had managed to angry the Old Spirits to the point that they had thought a befitting punishment to put him in one of those hostile, distant southern lands where everything was but scorching sand beneath the feet with a scorching sky above the head and where people usually covered themselves from head to toe and spoke in an exotic tongue preaching about the greatness of the One With Many Names, for they called Him Allah instead of the Christian Holy Trinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

He had been pondering what to do with his misery and sorrow in solitude following miles ahead without hope or purpose… until he had reached suddenly the salted chill of the sea, greeting him with its pearly grayness breaking foam against the rocks.

His dark eyes had been filled with tears of joy as he had finally recognized this territory as his beloved land, Britain, as he had found two fishermen who, at the sight of his crest, had saluted him, blessfully in the Celtic tongue, with warm words and respect and had merrily invited him to share their meal and their flask of warm cordial.

Bors the Younger had never been a man keen of alcoholic beverages, for he thought that alcohol tended to numb the mind and bewilded the senses, but this one had the richest and most marvelous taste he would have ever the pleasure to drink.

"'Tis called 'King Arthur's Ambrosia', m'lord." - they said as young Bors sipped it gratefully – "Shepherds made it of eggs, cream, lemons, honey and strong waters. They say it will bring the dead to life and make barren women conceive."

"Indeed." - the young man agreed while palating the blessed beverage, feeling his spirits raise just a little bit. Under different circumstances he would likely have scolded the men for using his King's good name in some alcoholic beverage, but now he knew it wasn't his place to speak and the cordial was most magnificent, truly befitting for a King.

Thinking absently of this, spent and exhausted as he felt, Bors recalled the last year and the many months he had spent wandering the land in search of what Perceval had achieved in his place, and couldn't help but wonder what will be of him from now on forward.

He had no King, no Court and, likely, no Kingdom to return.

And if those evil creatures' visions had held any trace of truth, he didn't even have a father now.

What would be of him and his poor mother? He should return to their lands and see if he could pick up the pieces of his beloved land that the war had shattered after so much sacrifice on his elders' shoulders.

A sacrifice that, with Arthur's death, had been in vain.

All because of one selfish man and his accursed seed.

He recalled her fanged smile, her pale visage, her deceiving bright green eyes, her brash gestures… everything a remainder of who she was, to whom she owed such northern, angular features of hers; displeasing in her lack of manners and her raspy voice, ridicule and out of place with her tomboyish attitude, carrying herself with wide strides like she owned the air they breathe, not a single trace or the smallest indicative in her very essence that hinted of femininity, of prudent words and demure attitude.

He hated her because she made him feel small and inadequate, unsure how to treat a woman who did not sought his protection. A woman who didn't need his protection.

And this poor bastard of his nephew looked at her like she was the answer to all his prayers, the dainty maiden clad in white who soothe unicorns with her unearthly voice they all dreamed and hoped for.

They were knights, for God's sake! Protectors of the weak, seekers of the Truth; strong, reliable men that decent women dreamed and aspired to have as husbands!

What was a sword without its sheath? What was a knight without his damsel? What if said damsel… became the protector instead?

The damnable highlander redhead was an entity born against all the rules of nature! An abhorrent abortion of sorcery made by crazy old women who sold every day their integrity and their dignity to live like beasts, devoid of any rules that contained their sensuous, dark natures!

Ah…

Suddenly, as soon as the thought had invaded treacherously his mind, his gut had rejected it with all its bile.

Sensuous? Her?! She was the antithesis of what a decent man should find sensuous!

She was dark, she was brutish, she was… taller, wirer and uglier than a standard lass her age should look. What Lucius did possibly see in her, in a girl who would never… see him as a man?

And why in the blazes did that bothered him so much?

"Oi! Young Sir Knight!" – one of the fishermen's voice awakened him from his reverie with such violence that he felt slightly nauseous when he turned his head to address what looked like a newcomer and what his heart hoped to be a Comrade In Arms – "'Tis way!" – the man waved his hand as a lone figure atop a gallant steed stood a few meters above their sight, taking advantage of the darkness and the uneven terrain of the sandy beach – "M'lord." – he added, addressing the still dazed Bors – "'Tis a comrade of yours?"

And Bors' stomach formed a lump as soon as the newcomer took their helmet off and revealed a well-known frowned visage that made the other men gasp in incredulous astonishment.

"I'm not a man." – the easily recognizable, hard as steel, feminine voice of Lady Kayleigh wove its way through their ears. Her long, once lustrous and mahogany-colored mane of straight hair blowing in the wind as some sort of mythical figure, its few tendrils of white not diminishing her poise in the slightest – "Neither I am young anymore, I'm afraid." – she added as her determined gaze swept over the paralyzed men until it rested over Bors' shoulders – "You! Bors the Younger!" – she commanded, and the young knight almost flinched as if being severely reprehended by some old, bossy nursemaid – "By the power bestowed under His Majesty King Arthur's hand, I summon the privilege to call you as my Brother In Arms in my direst hour! Renew your vows and hail to me with a high head and a higher blade!"

While the fishermen eyed her, then him doubtfully and even a bit wary as they had never seen a woman clad in iron, falcon perched in left arm and reins firmly grasped by her right hand while sitting atop a warhorse in a very mannish way; Bors' heart dwarfed within his chest: this was another wonder of nature, a happy mistake happened long before he was knighted to a man whose sight was no more.

But this, if not a true lady, was the honored and respectable King's Damosel, Arthur's emissary during his unknown illness when securing the unity of the kingdom had been precarious at best.

She was a figure of authority, the only woman, besides the disgraced Queen, allowed to sit at the Round Table as an equal to any man.

"My Lady Kayleigh." – he saluted getting up promptly and bowing respectfully his tired head, his eyes and his soul befitting of an old man's while he spoke – "This knight hails you and welcomes you to his humble side, for I have nothing more to offer to you except my company."

"I demand your blade, not your self-pitying, Bors the Younger!" – the Lady's voice cut through his skin, cold and incisive, like ice – "For I have had enough of that these last years!" – and looking at the broad-shouldered young man before her who didn't dare to meet her eyes, she harrumphed briefly and thought about her dearest Garrett, how he would had soothed the lad with good words. How she herself would have soothe this young man years ago with the same words that won't come easy to a woman who had lost everything she cared about in a matter of a single day, at Camlann's twilight with Arthur's blood tinting the silvery waters of the lake – "Brother of my father, blood of my blood, hear me." – at that, Bors' eyes raised timidly – "Hope is the last thing to die, and that same hope has brought me here today, for I am looking for my estranged son."

Bors' temper rose at that briefly, recalling the nearly treacherous behavior Lucius had displayed since he entertained Medraut's company.

No, not Medraut, but Morded, the Kingslayer.

"I would refrain from finding him, my Lady, for Lucius has dishonored our Order giving himself to the enemy!" – he exclaimed, a sudden anguish building inside his chest – "He spoke of broken bonds, of Arthur's death, and defended Mordred in front of his friend Galahad and me myself. He's not the son that accompanied you to the battlefield."

A brief although violent emotion ran across Lady Kayleigh's features, but she composed herself quickly.

"He will be always my son, Bors." – she said with a grave gesture – "And if this Mordred has convinced him of the opposite, I will do my best to extract him from this wanna-be-usurper's grasp and deliver him the due slaps if he persists."

Bors sighed. She clearly didn't understand.

"I don't think that is possible now, my Lady. For you don't know the magnitude of Mordred's spell towards Lucius."

He hoped that remark would sink in Lady Kayleigh's good will.

But it didn't, for she clearly failed to grasp the connotations Bors hinted on that single word.

"So, a sorcerer, is it?" – she hissed, her memories bitter towards something in particular that had been an unspoken thorn inside her family since that sad day her mother Lady Julianna's hair had started to gray, almost eighteen years ago – "Why that doesn't surprise me?" – she murmured, more to herself than to the disoriented young man in front of her – "One way or another, I ask from you this one favor, Bors, and if it doesn't convince you, I would release you from your duty towards me and Lucius and you will be free to dedicate your blade to higher purposes."

"My Lady…?"

"Come with me, brother of my father, for I have in my power a means to reach this Mordred and free my Lucius from the Kingslayer's grasp." – her steely hand suddenly looked so promising… so tempting in such a dire time when Bors felt that he had failed and he would not have another opportunity to restore whatever goodness that this world has left.

Taking her hand silently, Kayleigh helped him hoist up atop the warhorse and, without saying goodbye to the fishermen, they rode for a while amidst gray sands and grayer distant waters until they reached a small mound protruding from the imprecise frontier between sand and grass that indicated the beginning of the inner lands.

"My Lady Kayleigh?" – Bors said after studying carefully his brother's daughter visage from close range, noticing the rather scandalous recent scars she sported on the left side of her face, for they were raw, reddened and slightly swollen, precisely carved on her flesh in the form of three straight lines, as if some beast had attacked her and clawed at her face – "Pardon my boldness, but how did you sustain such wounds?"

Kayleigh said nothing and pointed with a movement of her chin towards something that made Bors' blood froze on the spot.

Because at the top of the mound, the bulky form of a black beast screeched while several sturdy ropes contained its massive dark wings and beak, tightly tying it to the ground where several hooks held rock, preventing it to break loose.

And said black beast was something Bors had seen before.

A griffin. A griffin that he recognized immediately.

Marveled at how petite Lady Kayleigh had managed to trap such a wild and treacherous creature, Bors' eyebrows almost touched his hairline in awe and fear the moment the woman grabbed the beast by its feathery neck and pulled the thing against her, forcing it to face her.

"This murderous creature was a vassal from my former nemesis, Ruber of the High Lands, many years ago when he sought to kill Arthur and conquer Camelot by means of deceit and sorcery. You were but a child at that time, Bors." – she said coldly, eyeing the struggling griffin with disgust – "And I can tell this Mordred inherited the ability to attract and enslave these evil beasts if he is indeed a sorcerer himself. Isn't that true, you foul animal?"

The griffin hissed contemptibly, eyeing her with a murderous green glare of its unnatural eyes.

"My Master will crush your bones, flimsy human female." – it said with a strange, twisted pride tinting its raspy voice while its pointy tongue struggled inside of a partially closed beak, rolling the words slowly, venomously – "For the strength that coursed through the soul of the one who sired her also courses through hers. She is a Titan, born of a Titan's blood."

"She?" – repeated Kayleigh as if her ears were playing tricks to her – "What are you blabbering about, beast?"

The mythic creature laughed evilly.

"How pathetic and weak humans like you, who rely on traps rather than on honorable combat to face one of my kind, could really be in the end by hating and chasing phantoms instead of knowing your enemy well, hmmm?" – it hissed, gloating viciously as it savored the sight the petrified face of the woman offered – "Did you really thought you were facing my old Master again? He was strong and cunning, but his bitterness often clouded his mind. And his mate, the Dark One, if physically weak, had the strongest will and determination I've ever seen in a human." – it laughed again as Kayleigh's visage became paler and paler – "My new Master has inherited both their strengths, none of their weaknesses. And she is female, a bearer of life and a warrior, the thing most feared amongst your ilk, such as you are, but younger and wilder, untainted by your poisonous civilization that denies the Old Ways." – its eyes gleamed with malign mirth – "To my old eyes, she could not be more perfect."

"She's got my sister's visage, but she ain't my sister." – with a calm voice, very uncharacteristic of him, Ruber addressed the avalanche of questions, questions that disguised accusations, that the rest of the knights sat back at the Round Table were directing at him – "She's younger, taller and far stronger than my sibling. Far stronger than many men present here, I would say." – he added maliciously, enjoying the uncomfortable glances the knights exchanged to each other's – "Besides, I'm not that sure that she's an actual sorceress at all. The kid's a druid, alright, but so also old Merlin here present is." – he added, gesturing towards the quiet tall old man standing at an even quieter King Arthur's side – "I don't think those two are the source of the attack… if there was even an actual attack in the first place. As far as we know, there had been no harm done, no wounded people and no valuables were stolen during the confusion."

"What about the other one?" – asked Gawain, always the first eager to find a culprit, whatever the nature of the case would be – "The albino boy dressed in our crest?"

That raised a trail of murmurs.

"We are all present here. And no armor of us Brothers had been stolen." – answered Lancelot calmly, placating Gawain's temper a bit as he spoke – "Whatever the boy has done to obtain such an armor, it hasn't been done through murder or theft. Perhaps he's only a smith apprentice and he crafted the armor himself."

"But for what purpose?"

"Perhaps he only wanted to prove himself worthy." – Lancelot speculated – "He showed the due respect to Arthur's authority before passing away, isn't that correct, Your Majesty?" – he added, addressing Arthur himself.

The monarch nodded once.

"I have never witnessed a young man to be so lost, so frightened and so devoted at the same time." – he said gravely, remembering the hope that the pale boy's eyes had harbored before losing consciousness in his own arms, as if looking at him had been the most wonderful thing he had seen in a long time – "His eyes were clear and his voice rang true as he called me his liege and his King. I sensed no ill intention coming from him, but rather a desperate call for aid." – then, his blue eyes shifted towards Ruber again – "However, regarding the other two, the druid child and the girl who calls herself Mordred, I am not so sure about the intentions they harbor towards Camelot." – adopting his usual regal aloofness, he addressed the Red Knight – "Art thou certain this Mordred is not blood-related with thee, Ruber? In all honesty, the girl holds a strong resemblance with thee thyself."

Ruber snorted. Very typical Arthur to rely more on his bootlickers' opinions rather than trusting one of the few who dared to speak the raw truth to his face.

"Believe me…" - he started, knowing that such a plea would fall on deaf ears – "… the nobility in the High Lands are scarce and firmly controlled. My father, Lord Carados, took care of that many years ago, and my brother Radcliff followed his example when he took his place. No child of my family tree bloodline, legitimated or bastard, is neither anonymous nor unregistered in our books. It was a necessary measure we all had to undertake in order to prevent inbreeding." – he didn't mention that said inbreeding was already a sad reality among them – "But this Mordred gal ain't registered in our books and I personally have never seen her before. I can tell there's a resemblance for sure, I'm not blind, but she's not one of the McLeods. It has been several generations since one of our women has taken the sword and become a whole Shield-Maiden."

Many of the present men left incredulous gasps and a trail of murmurs come from their mouths.

"What? Don't act so surprised when you know very well how in the past Queen Boudicca let Romans know what she really thought about their Empire and the prospect of slavery that awaited her people. Oh, wait." – he mocked – "Silly me, I forgot that you now are all good Christian believers, a religion that came mutilated from the very Rome we all fought against of centuries ago, that made you conveniently forgot our 'barbarian' common roots."

"Enough, Ruber!" – Sir Lionel got violently up from his chair, slamming both fists over the Round Table – "This is not the time to discuss your personal grudges against the unanimous decision to establish Christianity as a means to unify our people under one and only faith! You know very well that the Old Gods have nothing to do against how the world is changing right now! Either we adapt to the changes and forge a strong, unified country, or we will succumb to invasion, annihilation and oblivion! We lived through Hell when Saxons invaded us taking advantage of our broken, divided status!"

"And why not?" – defied the red-headed man – "Don't you realize that, while you justify and defend the albino boy's motives as righteous and pure, you totally disregard the gal and the child just because they are somehow linked to arcane practices, thus, the Old Ways? You're all so terrified that this land would regress to its ancient self that you automatically condemn anything or anyone that reminds you who we used to be!" – and his voice got louder, passionate, because he felt that, for the first time, his cause had a solid backup evidence – "Those people who escape from your goddamned 'cleansings' led by the clergy and angry rednecks meaning stoning, burning at the stake, hanging, whipping, impalement and the like, come to me starved, abused and traumatized asking for shelter! And you're still wondering why I want more lands? Warmer lands? I have half the Briton and Welsh population freezing their arses out while occupying Sutherland territory! Sutherland, where not even the Kings of old would dare to build up their homes and castles, for fuck's sake!" – and looking to Arthur in the eye, he added – "Your father, Uther Pendragon, was well-known as the Betrayer King. Do you know how these people, the magic practitioners, call you?: Arthur The Cruel."

Arthur went still and paled visibly.

A sudden, tense silence ensued. Nobody the bolder to speak ill against what it was depicted as mass suffering and unnecessary cruelty.

"Forgive me, my King…" - Lionel began slowly, as if even unsure to be the one speaking now given the former animosity showed against the Red Knight since the previous council around the Round Table, where the issue had evolved from an apparent attempt to overthrowing Arthur's government to a serious Law injustice – "But… I cannot bring myself to disagree with Ruber if such is the reality going on his territory. Given that, I am willing to hand over my part of land share in favor of offering those people at least a deign place to live."

That sentence alone unleashed a hurricane of voices with divided opinions, from the ones who claimed charity and mercy willing to part with a portion of their lands to others masking their own greediness arguing fairness and equality while some others fearing a plot with Ruber acquiring power by means of controlling more territory and amassing an army of resentful witches and warlocks.

And there were even the most mercenary ones who didn't give a crap about how much territory they'll have in their power in the end as long as they obtained the promised riches (ergo, the monetary war's spoils) they had fought in the war against the Saxons for.

But Arthur had kept silent, watching in disbelief his Order of the Round Table regressing from valiant, good-natured men pursuing peace and ideals of fairness and kindness for all… to the greedy bastards that had been battling for supremacy during two generations after Uther's murder.

This… this was spiraling out of his control too fast, and there was still the problem with those three unexpected young visitors…

Slamming Excalibur in front of everyone with such force the sturdy wood of the circular table threatened to splinter, King Arthur Pendragon managed to get everyone silent, unsure of what was coming next and noticing the outrageous violation of their Code by presenting an unsheathed weapon on the very Round Table.

"This is what ye want?" – he boomed indignantly, reprimanding efficiently those who were about to open their mouths to protest – "Discord? Violence? War? Again?" – he berated – "Have ye learned nothing from all these years campaigning against the Saxons and all the friends, brothers, fathers and sons we have lost? Have ye learned nothing about the meaning of raising a sword and its consequences? Whatever ye think this sword is for?" – he exclaimed – "Excalibur was not forged by the dragons of old for petty skirmishes of a Brother against a Brother. Excalibur was forged to unify, to bring this land the much-needed hope and defense it is begging. Do not ye hear the land weeping for the blood that has been spilled? It will cost several generations before this land recover itself from its wounds, several!" – he boomed – "Our rule is still far from perfect, I am aware of that and I deeply apologize to those who suffered and are still suffering under it." – he said as he eyed Ruber directly, whose silent anger was still pretty much palpable – "For that reason, I shalt deal with equanimity and mercy with the three youngsters by granting all of them the benefit of doubt, for we cannot release them without clarify some questions that need to be addressed: who they are, how did they got inside our walls and what their intentions are." – inhaling deeply, he addressed his knights as a whole again – "For now, this will be our current issue to address. We will discuss, however, this other also serious problem Ruber has brought to us and how to face it properly as gentlemen, not as the pack of rabid wolves I have witnessed here today." - with that, he recovered Excalibur and, taking it by its hilt, he sheathed it again as a symbol of peace, of forsaking weapons in favor of dialogue – "I, Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, legitimate Heir of the Throne of Britain, declare this reunion officially hold up until further notice. Go now, and reflect upon thine words and actions that had taken place on this shameful evening."

The men rose from their respective seats and abandoned the Round Table chamber in respectful silence, not even Ruber dared to look back once the King was left only in the silent company of his counselor Merlin.

"Did I act fairly and justly, Merlin?" – asked Arthur after a while in silence, rising slowly and tiredly from his seat, rubbing his eyes with his fingers – "Did I take into consideration every single point of view today? Did I act as a good, impartial ruler this time, my friend?"

Eyeing the seat that had been occupied merely minutes ago by the infamous Red Knight without bating a lash, the old druid's pupils flickered with remnants of blue arcane energy.

"You did the best you could, Arthur." – answered the old man with his grave voice – "You do not need to torture yourself about today's discussion, as it was totally expected given the current circumstances." – then he started to walk beside his King, his protégée, the closest thing he had to a real son – "In fact, you should feel proud of what has been accomplished here today, for your Sir Ironside finally exposed what has been weighting his heart so much regarding you and your rule. For a man like him, this has been quite the feat."

"Sir Ironside?" – the King asked while walking peacefully side by side with the living soul he trusted most – "Thou mean Ruber?"

"It is the name he was destined for, but Fate stole it from him as well as his youth and the many things he could have been accomplished."

"Thou speak as if he were dead…"

"He was, Arthur. He had been a dead man much earlier than when this first morning meeting took place. But the Universe has a curious way to balance things, and what could have never been reached through violence and resentment, it had been sealed beyond death itself. His mother can be proud of the son she has raised; just as Sir Ector and his Lady can be very proud of the small boy they raised to be King."

Arthur raised his head, intrigued.

"Do thee know Ruber's mother, Merlin?" – he asked.

But the old wizard suddenly merged himself with the shadows, successfully hiding from his King the enigmatic smile that came to his lips.

"Let's say… that long time ago she and I were once acquaintances, even friends, who did not part in the best of terms, Arthur. We both are old bats, you see."

"Come'ere, ya filthy witch! I'll show ya how a true man's built!"

At first, it had been insulting and annoying, but now she was having a great time making those motherfucking bunch that worked as jailers at Camelot's prison shit their pants off.

"You come here, asshole." – she replied calmly – "I'll show you how we northern gals make scum like you lick our boots and kiss our arses."

"Whore! I'll make ya swallow yer teeth 'n tongue if ya don't hold it!"

"I'm waiting, you pussycat. You've got no balls. They left for good, huh?"

"Bitch…!"

But then, when she thought the idiot had risen to the bait, another shithead came to prevent him from opening the barred door.

"Don't'cha listen to tha witch, mate." – said the cautious one – "They said tha knights 'ad trouble keepin'er restrained. Tha slut's a friggin' wildcat, I tell ya."

It hadn't been that way, but let them to tell granny's tales and Penny Dreadfuls. Kept them entertained and with their pants conveniently shat.

"They said she 'as tha strength of ten grown men. 'N 'er eyes spits lightenin's."

"Yeah, and I've also a pretty nice magical hand to slap your papa to death, shitbrains!" – she yelled, clearly amused – "Go eat dung with your mates back at the pigsty, you swine!"

"Fuckin' lil' cunt…!"

"It's not worth it, mate! Let'er be!"

Having a laugh at her jailers' expenses, Medraut returned to her filthy cot made of even filthier hay to sit by the shrunken, scared kid laying over it.

"See?" – she said nonchalantly, putting an armored hand over the boy's messy hair – "They're not going to harm you. They can't. Before they can reach you, I'll be bashing their skulls with the point of my boot."

Raising his head a bit, Loholt got up to immediately hold her by her armored waist. He was so scared… and she looked so determined, so strong, so brave… he wished he had half her guts.

He had been always so dependent on the kindness of others. The very moment his own mother had disowned him as her own when she had noticed how arcane energies ran strong on him, had left four-year-old Loholt at the mercy of complete strangers.

His mother, an ambitious courtesan who sought to raise a child with Pendragon's blood running through their veins, the only way to have rightful possession of the One True King's symbol: Excalibur, had taken advantage of the old King Arthur's poor state of mind and, after getting close enough to him, which had proven quite the challenging task, through evil arts she had drugged Arthur making him believe that it was his absent wife, the fair Guinevere, the one who was lying with him.

He had cried, he had confessed his indolence, and he had asked for her forgiveness, that Lady Lisanor of Cardigan, which was the courtesan's name, had no inconvenience to grant him. They were only empty words falling on an ill man's ears, so why even not? In a matter of years, her child would be sitting at the King's Throne and half Britain would say that she was a harlot, alright, but the other half would see her and her child as saviors of the country.

But what she had not anticipated was that the child, a healthy, blonde boy with the same clear eyes as his father, would turn into the very menace Arthur and his knights had sought to eradicate for so many years from this land: the ones who were born with The Gift.

Lady Lisanor of Cardigan could have been a woman without an ounce of shame, principles, moral and decorum… but she hadn't been a killer.

So she had resorted to the only living being she knew could help her in such a situation: Merlin.

The old druid had been totally livid after hearing the horrid tale of Loholt's conception from the very Lady Lisanor's lips, but he had agreed to help the boy: he had consulted with the winds, and the few Brothers and Sisters that had not discarded him as the traitor the majority of druids and magic practitioners in general thought he was had answered.

Together, they had reached an agreement: the boy's safety and tutelage in exchange for Merlin's resignation from his position as Arthur's counselor and his willingness to leave Camelot immediately after said resignation took place.

And Merlin had agreed to meet their terms. And it had proven much later to be his undoing, or so the legend said, at the hands of the cunning Nimue.

That had been how little Loholt had been passing for many caretakers, some gentle and assertive, showing him the ropes of magics; others indifferent, even fearful of his power, unusually strong in a boy so small and untrained.

And every single one of them expected him becoming in time a powerful magician, meaning him becoming an advanced druid in sacred communion with Mother Nature… or rather a frightening High Priest necromancer if his will would twist that way.

With Arthur's knights searching the land in order to find the Holy Grail, the population had been starving for so long that, after suffering these knights' insistence and relentless search, not bothering in the slightest about their plight… to the point that the people, farmers and peasants, had started to turn unruly, feral like the hungry beasts the dire situation had turned them into.

These very human beasts had been the ones who had burned the druid settlement where he had been living to the ground while searching for supplies to feed their children's mouths, and Loholt was fairly sure that he had been the only remaining survivor.

He had to thank his old masters that he had managed to survive two whole weeks alone in the woods until he had crossed paths with this incredibly strong, passionate, honest, brave and kind redhead, who had jumped into the friend cart in no time. Without questioning.

It had been the first time in years that Loholt had felt truly safe with someone, and… it had been the very first time he had felt truly cherished for who he was instead of what he could become. Medraut had not placed high expectations on him, she simply accepted him.

So, he hated himself so much for being so coward, for being unable to return Medraut's braveness so both could endure this dangerous situation as best as possible.

It was his fault that they were in this situation in the first place.

"Eh, look at me, kid."

Raising his head to meet his eyes with her serpentine ones, stained with darkness and the shadow of an innate bitterness as well as enlightened with hope and an also innate kindness.

"You are not going to rot in here." – she assured – "We will find a way to get you outta this ugly mess, understand?"

And she was only talking about him. She was disregarding her own wellbeing in exchange for his!

"I'm… not going to… to leave you here." – he muttered, every word an insurmountable task to get out of his mouth – "You are my… my friend… Friends do not… leave each other…"

"Kiddo…" - she started to say as if trying to dissuade him from thinking such things, but he cut her in middle-sentence.

"We are friends… right?" – he asked, terribly unsure and dreading a bit the answer.

Medraut inhaled a handful of air. Then, she smiled slowly.

"Of course we are, kid." – she said, and she realized that she actually meant it – "Of course we are."

"Whoa, that girl is a wild kitten for sure!"

"She's got quite the filthy tongue, for being a woman."

"And most displeasing manners."

"Phah! She is clearly a peasant with delusions of grandeur…"

Trying to ignore the sexist, disgustingly posh comments about the female prisoner that Ruber was being forced to endure among his Round Table comrades while listening behind a wall in silence with his arms crossed to her impeccable exchange with those peas for brains of jailers, he found that he actually liked her. He could respect a woman standing for herself the way she had stood in front of those pieces of shit. Not to mention the way she had handled herself when sparring against him. She had been the most satisfying adversary he had fought with in quite a while.

If she ended being, as her features suggested, blood-related to him, he would be proud to share common ancestry with such a warrior. Blood of his blood.

"Where do you think she's got that armor of hers? It doesn't look like clean business to me. A woman should not wear armor."

"She carries herself like a man."

"Are we certain she is female and not one of those effeminate young lads? She is so ugly she barely looks like a woman to me."

Now, as the comments were escalating in boldness and disgustingness, Ruber felt his huge hands gathering into tight fists as indignation coursed through his whole being.

How could they be making such idiotic remarks about a true Shield-Maiden, in the Old Norse Skjaldmær, the most venerated women, besides the sorceresses, to his people?!

"She is not that ugly, we are talking about a redhead after all! Redhead women are tasty!"

Enough.

"What, would you court her like you will court a lady?"

ENOUGH!

"Nope, but that does not prevent me from getting… interested about what lies under that armor, you know?"

A violent punch on the wall that got its due slight cracking even if made of stone as it was and those whoresons' filthy mouths shut in glorious synchrony.

"You make me wanna puke." – he spat, clearly disgusted – "And you call yourselves 'knights'? Shame on you, you rotten airheads, reducing an honorable Shield-Maiden, capable of beating your poor excuse of arses 'til you spill your lungs through your mouths and noses, to a common trollop!"

A part of him knew that he was getting so angry precisely because she shared an astounding resemblance with his sister.

She reminded him of Rowena way too much, and these men talking about her in such a way made him so furious that he wished he could strangle each one of them with his bare hands… just like he had done years ago with Radcliff before chopping his head off moments after hearing him proclaiming before he died, blood oozing from his mouth and nose, a burst of mad laughter upon his lips, how he had treated their little sister while Ruber had been absent all those years.

"For once, I have to agree with him." – grunted old Uryens while twisting his hoary beard with pensiveness, directing them the same disgusted look Ruber had all over his face – "You are speaking like rabid pit dogs awaiting to sink your fangs on the next piece of meat. I thought we were all adults here. It looks like that is not the case."

"Come on, my friend!" – an also older knight with long hair, longer hoary beard… and a broad belly more prominent than most of the men present, palmed his shoulder amicably – "Let the boys be boys! Young men have lots of energy and it is healthy to burn some by means of saying a prudent amount of obscenities! They will not act upon them, after all!"

"Lord Bagdemagus." – interjected an also serious Lionel, his amberish eyes unusually steely – "Have you forgot that, given the physical resemblance, this Mordred girl could be part of Ruber's family? Were I in his place, I would demand some respect for a young woman that could be a sister or a cousin of mine. No matter how illegitimate the branch, blood is blood. Besides…" - he added – "… Are we not gentlemen above all things? I find this behavior most inadequate coming from young men and degrading towards a young woman. Women, as well as any man, deserve some consideration and respect. I have a wife and a daughter to answer for."

"Ah, you are not amusing either, my dear Lionel!" – exclaimed the old man while laughing again, followed suit by a taller, leaner, younger and dark-haired version of himself, his only son Sir Meleagant.

And Ruber was already starting to ponder breaking some bones to teach both of them, father and son, when to shut up… when a sudden silence ensued among the noisy group of men.

Directing his green eyes towards the direction almost all men now were inclining their heads with respect, he found himself face to face with the Queen herself, a knight on each side acting as bodyguards: a serious and somehow absent Sir Lancelot and a frowning Sir Gawain.

And they were always the same two men escorting the Queen for private reasons everybody suspected but nobody had the gall to speak up for.

"The White Apparition", many called her, for Guinevere's beauty with her long braided hair like pale gold thread, eyes pale and luminous, and skin as smooth and white as ivory, was like the moon, silvery and pristine, to Arthur, who was the sun. She was robed in white and silver, loose and flowing. Her small hands daintily hold in front of her.

And she wasn't smiling.

Not that seeing the young Queen smile was a common occurrence these days, but in her calm eyes and quiet lips one could read a slight touch of utter displeasure.

"My Queen!" – exclaimed Sir Meleagant, who had all of a sudden lost all the merriment and he was now all humble and well-mannered, inclining himself in front of her so low that the ends of his slightly long dark hair could touch the floor – "Oh, Milady, what are you doing in such an undeserving place for your feet to walk in?"

Ruber rolled his eyes. And yet another idiot besotted by this statue of a lady, great.

"I have come to witness with my very eyes what my ears refuse to acknowledge." – she answered coolly, her soft voice permeated with a remote, aloof dignity that wasn't at all usual on her person – "Tell me then you yourself, Meleagant, if what people say is true. Tell me if there is a child languishing between these stony, cold walls." – but looking at the hesitation she could notice not only on Meleagant's eyes, but also on the rest of men, her two bodyguards included, she frowned and demanded, if softly, more firmly that anybody had ever heard her speak – "Answer your Queen!"

This was getting so pathetic that Ruber broke the silence with a malevolent smile.

"Oh, but there's truth in what you may have heard, my Queen." – he said slowly, so his words would sink adequately on her brains – "These oh so very brave men, as well as your husband the King…" - he added, punctuating his words – "… have incarcerated a young girl and a child for being suspects of practicing The Craft."

He knew that every single of the present men were giving him dirty glances right now, but he couldn't care less. Hell, truth is that he cared a rat's ass about it. He was telling the truth, after all; he was informing his Queen about what others refused to stain her pretty, pretty delicate ears with. Now let's see how this doll of a woman reacted to such news.

He wanted her to do something, anything that proved that she had some fire in her veins instead of the insipid, demure acquiescence she wore like a second skin all the time.

He was challenging her, challenging her power like he had done with the King as well, challenging her intelligence and her ability to react as a human being.

He wanted her to prove him wrong for once.

He wanted consequences.

But the only apparent change the Queen's visage underwent was that her pale eyes obscured a bit.

"Pardon me, my Queen, but…" - Lancelot began to say until a soft but firm look from the woman silenced him.

"Listen to me, all of you." – she announced – "I do not care about the nature of the case or its implications: a child should never be thrown to jail. Never." – she added with determination – "I am investigating the nature of the accusations and you will not oppose my desire. Inform the King if that is in your hearts' content. I bid you a good evening, gentlemen."

And, with those simple words, she left with her two bodyguards the speechless men looking at each other with dumbfounded expressions except Ruber, who was internally gloating for have managed to evoke that the Queen, for once, had a part in any official affair. And what an affair.

Arthur will likely sport a huge headache when he discovered his wife's whereabouts.

"I will speak with Arthur about this." – Lionel offered – "He has to be informed where the Queen is at the very least."

Ruber snorted while looking at his back as the loyal knight disappeared in the darkness of the subterranean corridors.

Sure, go. And send Arthur our regards and some herbs from the Apothecary. He will need them later.

He was so satisfied with himself that he failed (and he actually didn't care much) to overhear how the men were dispersing and what Sir Bagdemagus was saying to his disheartened son:

"Come on, my boy." – he said gingerly – "No need to put on such theatrics in front of her. She is not noticing you anyway." – but looking at his frowning son, he pressed – "Forget her! That fish has been captured already, and there is plenty of fish in the sea, my son. And you are still very young, so enjoy yourself with as many women as you want! Then, marry old with a young virgin. No need to waste your precious time on a pretty face." – then, his cheerful demeanor dropped a bit – "They are not worth it anyway."

"I do not think that I could love another one as I love her, father." – the young man muttered.

"You are just blinded by her beauty, which is quite normal since she is really something." – Bagdemagus admitted – "But desire has nothing to do with that idea of love minstrels often mislead us to think that it actually exists. Meleagant, my son, give it time and you will find a maiden as beautiful as the Queen is. Or close enough. Give to me her name when you find her, and I will make sure that she will be yours. Trust your old man, my boy."

Medraut's green eyes squinted in the dark when they saw movement outside her and Loholt's cell.

"What?!" – she exclaimed, thinking she was yet again dealing with the stupid jailers – "Coming for more, rat? If you've come to speak more idiocy, you can kiss my redhead ass!"

"Stand up and show more respect towards Queen Guinevere, highlander!" – boomed a masculine voice that she recognized pertained to the man that had asked her who she was before throwing her and the kid in that filthy jail – "Present yourself in front of Her Majesty! Now!"

Arching a red eyebrow, first looking towards the distant barred door, then to Loholt, who was giving her a questioning glance.

"Stay behind me." – she murmured to his ear before standing up and presenting herself in front of the fair Queen, who she gave a quick look from head to toe – "I hail you, Guinevere, daughter of Ogrfan Gawr." – she said carefully, maintaining a mild tone on her voice to show she meant no harm towards the other woman – "I'd present you my sword, but I'm afraid it's no longer with me, as you can tell."

Guinevere took a deep gulp of breath before addressing the tall odd young woman with the raspy voice she had in front of her, for she found her frame impressive and her serpentine green eyes a bit intimidating. She had never been in front of a warrior woman before and the sight was new to her.

"Are you the one who calls herself Mordred?" – Guinevere spoke, trying to hide her nervousness.

"I am."

"Then answer this question: are you a magic practitioner, Mordred?"

Medraut gave a curt bark that was meant as a laugh.

"Me?" – she asked as if the notion were somehow the funniest thing she had ever heard – "I am afraid I am not a "Gifted Child" as many witches would call someone born with an affinity to the arcane energies."

Guinevere inhaled more air, trying to maintain her bearing serene and aloof, just like Arthur would do. She was the Queen, she mentalized herself, she could do this.

"The King's knights have declared that they have witnessed you using the Vile Arts to protect a child, who is also you accomplice." – she said – "I am willing to take your word for granted if you deny the charges that are held against you."

"I am not a witch." – Medraut stated valiantly – "But I did use an artifact imbued by arcane energies." – then she pointed to herself – "This armor I wear, the Black Armor, forged with the fire of the dragons of old, just like Excalibur… but also blessed with the Mark of the Wayward Sisters."

Both the knights' eyes almost rolled out of their respective sockets while the Queen's dainty hand covered her mouth in horror.

"The Three Ancient Witches!" – exclaimed Lancelot – "How did you acquire such a wicked artifact, woman?! Speak!"

"We should just put her at the stake and bury that horrid armor so nobody can claim it again!" – seconded Gawain, his face red and contorted with the fury he had been always infamous for.

But both knights' outbursts were silenced the moment an infantile voice rose among them.

"It's not her fault!" – Loholt exclaimed while putting himself in front of his friend with both arms extended – "They tricked her so she would wear it to kill me!" – then, remembering who he was talking with, his voice faltered a bit – "But… but she refused! She saved me!"

Centering her full attention on the boy, Guinevere's expression softened as she lowered herself to the child's eyesight.

"Your name, young one?" – she asked warmly.

Nervous, Loholt lowered his eyes and started fidgeting.

"L… Loholt, my Lady."

And Guinevere smiled. And Lancelot's heart ached with sweet pain as well as Gawain's countenance darkened.

"Tell me, young Loholt: are you a magic practitioner?" – the Queen asked, but there was gentleness in her voice.

Loholt's head lowered even more as he assented in silence.

"Would you use your magics to harm a Christian believer?"

The boy's head got violently up, and there were determination and truthiness in his eyes.

"If they have a good soul and good intentions, never, my Lady." – he answered straight, firmly believing in what he was saying – "I am a druid, not a warlock. My masters taught me to use my gift with care and responsibility."

Smiling again as if the answer had pleased her, Guinevere continued.

"I believe you and I trust your intentions, young Loholt, for until this very instant, I can tell that you and your guardian have been telling me nothing but the truth, no matter how terrible it might have sounded to a stranger's ears." – she stated – "However, I must pose you a last inquiry before reaching a decision: why the Unholy Dark Sisters wanted to kill you?"

Palling visibly, Loholt's lower lip trembled, unsure what to say to this gentle lady who had been so understanding with their situation. The truth would only break her heart.

But soon, Medraut's armored hands came to rest over his tiny shoulders and they gave him an affectionate squeeze.

"My Lady…" - she started, all grave and serious – "I cannot tell the reasons behind all of this yet, but… I hope it suffices to say that, as I've stated to the knights previously to our incarceration, I only protect the blood of the Dragons and their righteous Head." – and taking one of Loholt's hands between hers, she continued – "This kid… has the blood of the Pendragons running through his veins. And, if you don't believe me…" - she said when her eyes spotted Gawain opening his damn mouth to refute her affirmations – "… sink Excalibur into the Magic Stone again. I am willing to bet my life that this boy is able to unlock the sword from it."

Loholt trembled within her grasp and the Queen seemed momentarily taken off-guard until she recovered herself in record time and, with sudden seriousness, she asked.

"Would you be willing to offer your own life to the ax of the Executioner if what you say proves to be incorrect, Mordred?" – she defied – "Would you be willing to be declared guilty of all the charges pending upon you without a fair trial to defend your innocence if this child ends being not blood-related to the Pendragon Lineage?"

Medraut stood tall and firm, with her head high, as she addressed the other woman.

"Swear to me that, no matter the outcome, the boy will be safe from any harm, and I will meet your conditions, Guinevere, daughter of Ogrfan Gawr." – she said – "Grant this small mercy to me as a Queen and as a woman, and I'll willingly meet your terms."

Both women sized up one another for a moment.

"I swear, by the power God bestowed upon me as Queen of Britain, that, no matter what, this child will be safe from any harm as long as I live." – Guinevere declared – "From this moment on forward, young Loholt would remain in my custody as my protégée." – then, she turned around to address a speechless Lancelot – "Lancelot, please, bring here the keys of this cell and release the child."

As if awakening from some spell, the handsome knight hesitated.

"But, my Queen… the King has not…"

"I will deal myself with my husband about my decisions later, Lancelot." – she spoke, firm and authoritative despite hating herself for treating in such a manner the only man who took into consideration her thoughts and feelings – "Now, obey your Queen."

"Yes… Your Majesty."

As they were making preparations for the boy to be released, said boy hugged Medraut's armored waist as if she were a sort of an anchor.

"No!" – he exclaimed, face against the metallic carapace – "I will not leave you here! I will go nowhere without you!"

"Kid, listen to me…"

"No, YOU listen!" – he cut her in mid-sentence, raising his big blue eyes full of tears that were freely going downwards both his cheeks – "You said we are friends! Friends don't abandon one another! Friends are together in good and bad times, right?! That's what means to be friends!"

Disentangling his fragile arms from her, Medraut knelt at his height.

"It's true." – she said – "All you say it's true, but there are times when one of the two has to make a choice to save the other. A tough one. And I've already made mine. That means to be friends too, kid." – as both knights entered the cell, Gawain put a blade against her throat while Lancelot took the screaming boy away – "You are Loholt Pendragon, kid!" – she shouted as Gawain forced her at sword point deeper in the cell while grunting 'Keep your distance, highlander' – "Don't let them say otherwise! You are the Head of the Dragon!"

But, as soon as she found herself amidst the silence of the once again closed cell, her world collapsed and she found herself drifting away to the darkness the Armor was starting now to whisper about as many threads of sanity splintered when the familiar pulsating buzz filled her brain and the veins of her neck and eyes glowed with the green light of the arcane.

The child's presence had been keeping away the intrusive thoughts that now run wild over and over her mind.

The instant those fools come for your head, break their bones, squish their brains until the blood stains the walls. Just like the good old days, eh?

No. Those weren't "good old days", they'd never been…

Remember… remember how they tried to take the Armor from you, how they underestimated you…

No more. Please, no more…

And they will do it again. You are just a girl to them, a frail woman to take advantage of… but you are like your father. You are strong, you are resilient, you are powerful… nobody can cage the beast within you…

Please…

You are… Mordred, the Kingslayer.

A/N: well... hello from the other side hahaha, it has been quite a while, eh? No, the story wasn't abandoned, but I got stuck several times over this chapter for various reasons: first and foremost is that I have this mini laptop where I usually write when I have to spend several hours in a train and I normally use a pendrive to store the progress of my works, blahblahblah... thing is that I had a save of my other works on my main hard drive but this chapter in particular... sooo, I lost the pendrive and, with it, half the chapter written. Took FIVE months to find the damn pendrive, and the rest of the time... I was rewriting and rewriting this over and over until today, that I've ended with the longest chapter ever, but satisfied enough with it.

Sooo... sorry? Ooops?

Now, if you find some typos or grammar mistakes PLEASE, DO TELL ME. I'm asking for it this time, alright? I went to "Highlander" and found a lot of mistakes, especially in chapter 3, that I've corrected, but I am sure you will find more, so PLEASE, DO TELL ME.

Hope you have enjoyed this long chapter and... reviews would be much appreciated. I'm putting a lot of care and energy in this one, so... please? With a cherry on top?

Also, sorry for the implicit rape reference with Arthur as I know it's a touchy subject, but everything it's in the movies and tales, I did not make up how twisted things were at Camelot (which was, allow me to say, an environment full of snakes, and ladies and lords having affairs with one another all the time, illegitimate children, treachery, kidnappings and, let's say, less than ideal shining knights), the animation movies about Arthur and his Round Table are depicted as idealistic tales of chivalry, comradery, and friendship, so maybe these facts come as a shock to some, dunno.

Bye!