Mordred knew pain.

For countless years, the valiant Red Knight of Camelot had fought, tooth and nail for the prosperity of her people. From across the endless roads of Britain, fighting onward through the plains of a dozen different battlefields - she waged war against the many foes who dared to oppose her Father's kingdom, of their vision of a chivalrous and unified country.

She had battled, slain and emerged triumphant against nearly every enemy soldier which had stood defiant before her Father and her Knights of the Round Table.

From the most villainous of mercenaries, to the most corrupt of of liege lords, to the most bloodthirsty of traitors - Mordred killed them all without exception, all for the great kingdom she knew was rightfully hers by birthright.

Mordred knew death. She saw it almost daily. Countless, nameless faces she saw when she closed her eyes at night - of a great and many number of men who had been cut down by her very blade. Of untold swaths of peasants - women and children and noncombatants all, whom she had sentenced to die for harboring and aiding those who wished her future kingdom harm. In war was her calling, and in red she adorned her plate - red as the blood she spilt upon the battlements in her endless campaign of fury and vengeance. There would be no mercy for those who opposed her. Opposed her Father.

Mordred knew death. Intimately so. She saw it every time she and her war party marched on from Camelot's gates. Each time the war drums came beating, each time the trumpets would sound, and each time the men-at-arms would flock to her banner - she would ride across the war torn landscapes with her shield and lance and sword at hand. There she would bare witness to endless death.

Mordred would be wrath. For each time an overzealous fool would challenge Camelot, she would bring about God's great fury upon their heads. The kingdom was her home, her birthright, and she would plunder, and strife and die before she would surrender the country she swore in claim. Swore to rule. And for every battle fought, for every victory claimed - the soil beneath her sabatons would be stained crimson with the blood of martyrs. The blood of her foes.

So she would be. In her Father's name. For her earned respect.

Camelot's executioner, she would call herself.

And yet, Mordred would fall into anguish upon every battle won, for her Father, just and noble - whom she had idolized her entire life - would rather reprimand and shame her own son for merely doing the duty she had appointed her to achieve. Her Father would refuse to acknowledge her only son, her only heir. And her fellow Knights, those whom she had broke bread and raised wine with - the shield brothers she shed blood, sweat and tears alongside - would rather cast her out of their order, with nothing but disgust and discontent radiating within their glares.

Mordred knew rage.

Her Mother told her the truth - the truth she was so blind to, in denial of. That the Knights of the Round Table were weak. Her very Father, the King of Knights, was weak. The hosts of Europe laughed at their ceaseless ineptitude. The peasants within the fields would mock their lords within their decrepit towers. Camelot would crumble to nothingness before their petty squabbles and incomprehensible levels of incompetence and their old, pious ways.

Yet not while Mordred still drew breath. She would not give up her birthright so easily.

So, with hate in her eyes, despair in her heart, and her Mother's voice in her ears - she revealed Lancelot's secret treason and in the ensuring chaos, stole away her Father's sword. Stole her very crown, and went to wage civil war upon the kingdom she had once so selflessly served.

Those loyal, flocked to her banner. And those who refused met the cold steel of her sword. The kingdom was torn asunder, with flames burning the fields and the blood of heroes seeping to the earth below. In order to save Camelot, Mordred would have to burn it down.

For if there was once thing Mordred knew, it was war.

But Pain - Mordred thought she knew pain.

What could hurt worse than having been disowned by you very own Father? To have the the kingdom, once promised, be unjustly ripped away from your hands? What cruel architect of fate could bring more suffering than such a unfitting punishment? What could be worse than the cloak of necessary war that raised a shadow over the country in turmoil?

Then, she truly saw the hate that radiated before her Father's eyes.

Mordred thought she knew pain, but nothing - not her countless battlefield scars, nor her thankless actions to defend her home - nothing could compare to the pain she felt when her Father faced her down upon the fields of battle. When the King of Knights, armor gleaming, raised Excalibur high to strike down her one and only son.

And then, in the final hours of the Rebellion - her very own Father, Artoria Pendragon, slew her. Her own Father sent her great and holy lance - Rhongomyniad - to her chest. Piercing her armor. Splitting her heart.

Thus, only when Mordred finally died, did she truly know pain.