Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of the Quest for the Holy Grail and Its Effect on Camelot

Galahad returned to Camelot two days later (and immediately won himself an enemy in Agravaine, and Gareth and Gaheris battled their own instinctive dislike to be comfortably distant, as Gawain and Mordred were). Two days after that, Mordred rode to a neighbouring village to settle a land dispute. He returned late that evening, to a castle abuzz with preparations.

"What's going on?" he asked Percival as the other knight hurried through the entrance hall.

"The Grail!" He cried, and rushed off, leaving Mordred to stare blankly after him.

Bedivere, watching from a corner, beckoned him over. "There was a miracle at dinner tonight." Mordred quirked an eyebrow, and Bedivere laughed. "Has anyone told you that you look exactly like My Lord when you do that? But at meal, the fires and candles went out all at once and a great light came into the room. It resolved itself into a chalice, filled the plates and goblets with wonderful food and drink, and then vanished."

"The Holy Grail," Mordred said, understanding.

"And many knights have elected to seek it. Your brothers, Sirs Galahad, Tristan, and Bors are at the head of those to go."

Mordred nodded. Of course his brothers would be at the heart of the quest. They lived for any kind of quest. "Thank you, Bedivere."

"Of course, Mordred."

"Will you go?"

Bedivere shook his head. "No, someone must stay and advise the King while everyone else rushes off on the quest he wishes he could ride out on."

Mordred frowned. "Is Lance going?"

Bedivere nodded. "I believe so."

"I'm staying," Mordred said firmly.

Bedivere looked surprised. "Really? I thought you'd want to go. It seems in keeping with your Hero of Camelot image."

Mordred snorted. "I'm needed here," he answered, keeping the rather unchivalrous reply, 'I'm a bastard, you dolt,' off his tongue by sheer will. He shrugged. "Is my father in his study?" Off Bedivere's nod, Mordred turned away. "Thanks."

"I have the list of those who stayed," Mordred said, walking into Arthur's study early the next morning. Arthur's head was down on his desk. Bedivere, in a chair across from Arthur, slumped over tiredly, deep rings under his eyes. Mordred knew he looked as bad. Preparations had lasted most of the night, and as the sun crested the horizon, the last of the Questing Knights had left.

"How many?" Arthur asked, muffled into his desk.

"Counting me and Bedivere? Twelve."

Arthur lifted his head. "Seriously?"

Mordred nodded, dropping into the other chair with an exhausted sigh. "Me, Bedivere, Dagonet, Kay, Pelleas, Lucan, Griflet, Erec, Geraint, Ector, Cador, and Pellinore."

Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Go to bed, Mordred, Bedivere. I have an audience this morning, and then I'm doing the same. We're all asleep on our feet."

"Sire, I protest," Mordred muttered. "I'm not on my feet and neither are you."

"Bed!" Arthur ordered, dragging himself to his feet with a groan.

Bedivere did the same, and they dragged Mordred vertical by the arms.

"Good day, Bedivere, Sire," Mordred managed, stumbling to the door. That brief rest had brought his exhaustion crashing down on him.

"Goodnight!" Arthur called after him. Mordred, as he sank into bed, spared the thought that perhaps this was the news he had sensed coming, and if so, it was not as bad as he had feared.

Winter was harsh that year, and it was in the early weeks of spring that the first knights returned, looking the worse for wear. That spring many messages came in from parts of the kingdom, bearing apologies and coats of arms taken from knights found dead. It was a hard spring, too, with daily news coming in of death and defeat for knights they knew, but with summer came Lancelot's return with good news. Lancelot himself was in a poor state, but Galahad thought he had a lead on the grail; Lionel and Percival were with him.

On the third day, when Lancelot finally emerged from his rooms, Arthur hugged his friend in the privacy of the study, with only Mordred at the desk, studiously examining crop reports. "I'm glad you're okay," Arthur murmured.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lance asked, looking confused and guilty. He had not sat through the weeks of messengers, waiting to see if the arms sketched on the parchment would belong to a loved one.

Arthur just shook his head, hugged Lance again, and left the room, choked by his emotions.

"Mordred?" Lance asked softly.

"It was a long winter," Mordred answered. "And an even longer spring." He handed Lance a pile of parchment.

Lance looked at the top one. "Sir Tristan's arms. What is this?" He thumbed through the rest, noting a few arms as he did.

"Those are the messages brought to us this spring. People found the bodies of knights and sent to Arthur with the arms on the shield to let us know who was dead."

Lancelot closed his eyes. There were nearly thirty papers in the stack.

"It's been a long spring," Mordred repeated softly. He suddenly jerked away from the desk. "I can't sit here any longer."

"Spar with me?" Lance offered.

Mordred nodded. They went to the practice courts and picked up wooden practice swords.

"Your brothers?" Lance asked tensely as they began the bout.

"Letter from Gaheris a week ago," Mordred answered, parrying. "It was posted in the fall, but the messenger only managed to get here. No word since November."

Lance nodded and swiped at him again. "In this case, I think no news is good news."

Mordred nodded, ducking and returning.

"How many?" Lance asked, meaning a number of questions and not really able to articulate any of them.

"Twelve stayed," Mordred answered, managing to answer all Lance's unasked questions. "Including you, twenty-five are back, and we have twenty-eight reported dead. And recent messages from eleven, counting Galahad, Percival, and Lionel."

"Twenty nine still missing, including your brothers."

Mordred nodded. "This quest has destroyed us."

"You don't mean that." They paused and stared at each other for a moment, and then Mordred attacked.

"I mean it," he snarled. "Of the twenty-five only five are fighting fit, counting you. Lord knows when the others will be back. In the last month six women have been raped in towns less than a day's ride from Camelot. There have been three murders inside the town. Half Arthur's nobles are talking of suing for independence."

Lance was pale as well as falling back under Mordred's onslaught. "I didn't know things were that out of hand."

"It's hard to enforce the law with twelve knights, three of whom can barely get on a horse anymore."

"You blame me?" Lance demanded, pushing Mordred back and attacking himself.

"Not for the state things are in. You did as you felt you must, as did the others. I do blame you for sneaking in in the night and sulking in your room for three days before even telling Arthur you were back."

Lance flinched, more from the words than the blow he only just managed to block. "I was in no fit state to be seen."

"You were sulking," Mordred snapped back. "You're jealous of Galahad and the others, and you're guilty because you think you're not good enough for the quest."

"How can you-?"

"Why do you think I didn't go?" Mordred answered.

Lance stopped in shock before hastily blocking Mordred's swing. "What've you done?" he asked irritably.

Mordred tilted his head sardonically. "I'm a bastard, Lance, in case you forgot."

"That's-"

"Rubbish, I know. So father's told me a million times since the Quest began. But it's why I didn't go. And if me not going for my sins is rubbish, so's you being precluded for yours."

"But you-! It's different. I chose my sins. Your- and it's not a sin! It was thrust upon you."

Mordred shook his head. "Believe as you will. But you're the best knight at court."

"Galahad-"

"Is an arrogant prick," Mordred interrupted. "And the only thing he has on his side is that he's more pious than most priests I've met."

"Then he's-"

"Not a better knight. Not a better man. Just a better Christian. And being Christian and being a knight can't always be the same."

"That's-"

"Blasphemy, I know. But the Good Book says turn the other cheek, and as knights we may do that for ourselves but never for the country. We follow secular laws, not the Laws of Moses, Lance. Piety has its place, but it isn't the be all of knighthood. And you're a better man and a better knight."

"But I-"

"Is it a betrayal if he knows and approves?"

"What-"

"You think he's stupid? Or blind? He knows. And likes that you're happy. He wants you to be happy together."

"But-"

"But nothing," Mordred snapped, parrying and returning a slash.

"Would you let me finish a sentence!" Lance yelled, attacking Mordred in a flurry of blows the younger knight could barely block.

Mordred caught the final blow on his sword, locking them hilt-to-hilt. "Why? I thought I was doing a better job of finishing them."

Lance heaved against Mordred, breaking the lock and stepping back to face him. "You are infuriating!"

Mordred grinned. "I do try."

Lance shook his head. "I think this is a draw."

Mordred opened his mouth.

"No!" Lance shouted quickly, putting one had up. "You win our verbal match! I meant the swordplay."

Mordred smiled. "All right then. I suppose that will do."

Lance met Mordred's eyes. "He really knows?"

Mordred nodded. "Has since I've been here."

Lance nodded. "I should talk to him," he said softly.

"Wash up first," Mordred shouted after him.

Lance made a rude gesture over his shoulder, Mordred's laughter following him out of the fencing courts.

Mordred smiled. One less thing for Arthur to worry about. Now if only he could do something about the nobles…