Episode 2: Uther

"I pick locks of thoughts vault

Finding the garden barren

The harvest fruitless

Only the tree of life flourishing

Wanting to take a bite but I'm toothless

Is that predestination or is it by design?"

-Illogic (One Brick)

Chapter One: Those Whom We Have Lost

Mordred shifted fluidly through the movements that Arthur had shown him the morning before. All the other knights had experience in the same, or similar styles of sword fighting prior to being knighted, but not Mordred. He preferred to use whatever came to hand if he couldn't think his way out of trouble, and if that failed, use his magic. It left less chance of him doing something that he might later regret. Now, that he was a Knight of the Round Table, he knew that he needed to adapt to an entirely different way of handling himself. Thus he focused unrelentingly on catching up with the seasoned warriors.

His training sword moved smoothly through the air while the Druid's entire consciousness flowed to a point at the very tip of the blade. He was doing his best to recreate the motions that Arthur had demonstrated. It was somewhat off-putting that the King was not here today. He had been present for all of Mordred's training before now, only to disappear suddenly from the palace grounds today, along with Emrys. There was no way to infer what that meant. He could simply be busy. Mordred wasn't that important. So he banished the thought from his mind in the hopes that nothing terrible had occurred.

"All right, pretty good," Leon assessed, observing Mordred in Arthur's stead while the others took turns sparring on the far end of the field. "Hold," he ordered in the next breath, stopping Mordred in the middle of an upwards sweep of the blade. "That's close but you're overextending a bit. Here." He prodded the inside of Mordred's elbow into a less stressful position, then nudged his sword up a couple of centimeters higher. "Remember. You are always defending, even while you strike. Your head and your heart must be guarded at all times. Go on."

Mordred continued through the rest of the exercise, keeping Leon's words in mind with each movement.

"Better. Go through it three more times while I check in with the others. Then I'd like to try you with a few more weapons. It'll be good to have something new to show King Arthur when he returns from his hunt."

Mordred felt the tightness his chest unclench a little bit. That was all then. No danger. Why would there be?

"I wondered where he had gone."

Leon smiled slightly, taking Mordred's fidgeting as insecurity rather than the relief that it was. "No need to worry, Sir Mordred. You're making swift progress. I think that is the reason why he trusted you to continue without his guidance."

Mordred inclined his head humbly, "Thank you, Sir Leon."

"Three more times," Leon prompted, and jogged over to the circle of sparring knights. He thought aloud just clearly enough for Mordred to hear, "We'll all probably have to pay for this latest uneventful hunt." After all, nothing ever really came of those outings with Merlin there clumsily scaring off all their quarry.

In the sunlit forest, a scream broke through the crisp air. Merlin briefly tried to convince himself that it had just been a shrill-sounding bird, but then there was Arthur running off to investigate with his sword at the ready. Merlin shrugged, exasperated.

"It's never just a bird," he lamented, leading their horses off the path and tying their leads to a nearby tree before he darted after his reckless best friend. The villagers nearby were all gathered around a pyre, with a terrified old woman tied to a post at the center. Arthur darted out of the trees without hesitation when he saw the man at the front of the crowd was moving to light it with his torch.

"Let the woman go!" Arthur ordered. The terrified woman looked at him with the barest glimmer of hope in her ancient eyes.

"This woman has been sentenced to death. What concern is it of yours?" The man with the torch asked, turning to face them instead of lighting the pyre. Merlin was willing to consider that a win, although he would have felt more comfortable if Arthur hadn't just sheathed his sword.

"I am Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, and your village is in my lands," Arthur informed him.

"Her sorcery has brought sickness, and suffering to this entire village," the man with the torch countered. He was talking to the gathered crowd as much as he was to King Arthur.

"Did she receive a fair trial?" Arthur inquired sensibly, overlooking the man's showboating.

"Your father would've shown her no mercy!" the man snapped. The comparison prompted Arthur's level gaze to turn chilly as the northern mountains in an instant, even if he retained an admirable level of self-control.

"I'm not my father. Now cut her down."

Merlin was feeling kind of proud of him in that moment. This was a far cry from the prejudiced and impatient young Prince whom he had first met all those years ago.

"I will not endanger all who live here!" the man shouted and tried to light the pyre with his torch. Merlin flinched. With a telltale ring of metal on metal, Arthur drew his sword and blocked the would-be-killer's progress with expert speed.

"I said: cut her down," the King repeated in the same patient, unwavering tone as he had used up until now, but the point of his sword moving to linger over the older man's throat made the alternative crystal clear.

With a soft thump, the third throwing-knife embedded itself in the fourth ring of the target. Mordred's brow knitted together in frustration. He hadn't gotten a single knife to land in the center. Living without spell-casting was going to be a lot harder than he'd previously thought.

"Wow," Sir Patrick sneered. He was the second youngest knight, a twenty-year-old son of a Lord from one of the houses allied with Camelot. He wasn't particularly fond of Sir Mordred, feeling that he himself was far more deserving of Mordred's seat at the Round Table. Mordred squinted at the smirking young Lord through the corner of his eye. He wasn't likely to hear the end of this anytime soon. Sir Leon placed a hand on Mordred's shoulder, having noticed the dirty look that the usually angelic teen directed at the other novice.

"Well... Now at least we know that you need to work on your aim," he supposed, trying to put a positive spin on Mordred's failure. "Training is almost over. Why don't you practice this until the others finish up?"

Mordred gave a curt nod, glaring accusingly at the target.

"This'll be brilliant," Sir Patrick mocked.

"Sir Patrick, come. Let's see that last sequence again," Leon commanded on his way back out onto the grass. Mordred barely even registered the other novice's bitter grumble about not being able to 'enjoy the show'. He was too busy retrieving throwing knives out of the wooden target. He stayed there practicing until Leon and most of the others had changed out of their armor.

"You can stop anytime you want. We'll start again next training after we're finished doing drills," Leon reminded him as they prepared to depart, giving the boy a friendly pat on the arm. Mordred nodded and continued throwing knives. He always waited for the others to leave before changing anyway, so no one much cared, except...

"Wolf boy!" Sir Patrick pounced on him from behind and ruffled up the younger knight's hair. Mordred's last throw went wide as a result, missing the target altogether and bouncing off the stone wall behind. "Haha! You have terrible aim."

Mordred pulled out of his grip. "That was dangerous," he admonished, keeping his voice level.

"As if you were going to hit anything." Sir Patrick waited for him to flatten his tousled curls back down into a more respectable position, then frizzed them back up again. They ended up with Mordred struggling to extricate himself from a headlock. Sir Patrick let him struggle unsuccessfully to escape for a few seconds, then got bored and pulled Mordred's chainmail up in the back like a too-short hood and jogged off laughing. Mordred glared after him while he tried and failed to right his bunched up undershirt. He knew all too well why the other knight-in-training envied him. In Patrick's mind, his swift induction into the King's inner circle was an insult. Patrick was a Lord and Mordred was just some boy, yet he was preferred. Mordred took a deep breath, trying to shed his irritable mood, then stalked off to the far corner of the changing area. It was past time to go, anyway. The others had gotten plenty of time to file out ahead of him.

His favorite shirt, the sky blue one that he'd only just gotten for himself a couple weeks ago, now had a long, L-shaped tear running across the back. Mordred let out a heavy sigh and tossed it away onto a nearby bench, leaning forward to let his forehead thump against the cupboard door that he was facing. Typical. Mordred was just reaching for his clean, less-damaged tunic when he heard someone behind him, and whirled around.

"Whoa, Mordred!" Percival put up his hands in a placating gesture. "It's just... me."

"Percy," Mordred held his shirt up to hide his chest but it was already too late. The other knight had spotted his tattoo.

"Is that a Druid marking?"

"Er..." Mordred paused for a beat then put his tunic on, clearing his throat before he answered. "Yes?"

Percival gave him a funny look.

"I- I didn't think that anyone else was still here," Mordred stammered, running a hand through his hair. He was momentarily distracted by the discovery of a piece of sticky, candied juniper berry, no doubt left behind by the other novice. He probably thought that was funny, the tit!

"Yeah, I er- Gwaine left this out on the field," Percival held up the staff he'd been carrying past.

"Right," Mordred turned back, grabbing the rest of his clothes and making a swift exit. He couldn't think of the right thing to say. Percival had been disturbed by the discovery of his marking. Mordred had felt him recoil at the sight of it, which kind of hurt. The blond behemoth had been the first knight besides Arthur truly to accept Mordred, treating him like a new little brother despite the unusual circumstances of his recruitment. The Druid should have known better than to think that he could hide. He should have planned this better.

"Mordred..." Percival called after him, uncertain, but the boy was already slipping out the door.

Out in the forest, Arthur lit a campfire to keep them warm while Merlin fussed over the ailing old woman they had rescued. The manservant looked grave as he walked over to speak with his King.

"What is it?"

"She's very weak. I doubt that she'll make it through the night," Merlin reported in a muted voice.

Arthur nodded, following him back over to the woman's side. "Make her as comfortable as you can."

Merlin nodded. Their patient snapped awake and grabbed Arthur's wrist, causing both of them to jump.

"Thank you," she breathed.

Arthur took her hand in both of his. "Just try and get some rest."

The old woman shook her head, working to breathe. "Wh' you've… lived long… as I, you no longer fear… the journey…the next world. I've a gift... for you." She reached out with a shaking hand and pulled a cloth-wrapped parcel out of her cloak, passing it to Arthur. "You showed…kindness… compassion… qualities…f'a true king... Open it..."

Arthur carefully unwound the fine cloth, revealing the gilded horn underneath. "It's beautiful."

"Has the power… to s-summon…spirits of th-dead," she explained, struggling to breathe. After a few more ragged gasps, she was gone. Arthur and Merlin exchanged solemn looks and Arthur carefully rewrapped the relic and tucked it away in his saddle bag. If what the old crone said was true, this horn was a powerful instrument of magic.

When they arrived back at Camelot's palace the next morning, Merlin and Arthur went straight to Gaius, who confirmed their suspicions.

"The horn of Cathbad. It is a powerful relic," he said, holding the instrument up to study the etchings over its surface in the light streaming in through the window. "When Uther attacked the Isle of the Blessed, the horn was smuggled out before the temple fell. It hasn't been heard of since."

"The old woman said that it could be used to open a door to the spirit world," Arthur recalled.

"I have seen it with my own eyes," Gaius admitted. "Long before the time of the Great Purge, I took part in such ceremonies. Each year at Beltane, the High Priestesses would gather at the Great Stones of Nemeton, and summon the spirits of their ancestors." He passed the horn back to Arthur. "It holds powerful magic. You must keep it safe."

Mordred had just returned from the most boring peacekeeping endeavor that he had ever had to endure. Some self-important old Baron had been abusing the local Tavern keeper's hospitality, and somehow that meant that he and Sir Elyan had to sort them out. Mordred still wasn't clear on why. Perhaps he was being punished for something? Regardless, he was certain that Lord Redmelon-yes, seriously- was not only the slowest talker the teenager had ever met but also the angriest human being. Mordred hurried up the steps two at a time, suddenly paranoid that the man might appear and spot him if he didn't get inside in time. Just as he was passing through the foyer towards the far staircase a man's hand grabbed his shoulder. Mordred looked back at its owner and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Sire, you've returned from your hunting trip."

"This morning," Arthur confirmed.

"Did you catch anything?"

"Nothing. My idiot servant made certain of that," Arthur complained, then his expression brightened. "I heard that you could use some target practice."

Mordred's shoulders dropped. "Sir Patrick is still going on about that?"

Arthur frowned. "No. I was just talking with Sir Leon. Why? Is there something that I should know?"

"Oh, I thought-" Mordred paused to clear his throat, feeling himself blush slightly in embarrassment. "No, Sire. It was nothing."

Arthur eyed him for a beat, deciding whether or not he was full of it. "All right. I'd like to go try you on the targets, to see how you might improve. If you have the time?"

"I do, thank you Sire," Mordred accepted, heading with his King towards the training grounds.

Arthur watched with a thoughtful scowl while Mordred threw his knives at the target. They were staying closer to the center now, but the frustrated novice had yet to hit the center circle even once.

"Relax. You're hurrying," Arthur instructed, and Mordred did his best to comply. He hit the second ring this time. "Better."

"I don't know why I can't get this right," Mordred muttered as he retrieved the knives from the wooden target.

"Enough of that. You can't be successful at everything on your first few tries," Arthur pointed out. "Overall you're improving faster than any of the recruits before you."

Mordred stared at him.

"Well, I'm not including myself, naturally," Arthur amended with a glimmer of mirth in his eyes.

The corner of Mordred's mouth quirked upward. "But of course."

"How are you with a crossbow?" Arthur inquired.

Mordred shrugged. "I can hunt well enough. Ragnor abhorred nature, so..."

"Oh," Arthur sobered at the reminder of his young friend's enslavement.

"It does not bother me, Sire," Mordred reassured him. "If it was not for you, I would likely still be property. "

"I'm not so sure that's true…"

Mordred inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Maybe not, but I am. Would you like me to fetch the crossbow, Sire?"

"Y- no - wait," Arthur looked past his humble student to see Merlin coming towards them. "Merlin, nice of you to finally join us! Fetch us a crossbow, would you? "

"Prat," they heard the servant declare, before vanishing from view in search of the requested weapon.

"Idiot," Arthur replied out of habit before turning back to Mordred. "All right. One more time while we're waiting then. This time remember to relax, focus, and… throw."

Mordred sent the knife flying into the second ring.

"Good. Again."

Later that night, Mordred wandered into the Great Hall to join the feast already going on inside, fastening the clasp of his cape. He stopped at the end of the Knights' table, in search of a place to sit. He noticed that his usual spot was still empty, the seat to Percival's right. The older man looked up just as he did and their gazes locked. Mordred felt an uncomfortable buzz building in his head, and gulped.

"Sir Mordred!"

The Druid's attention snapped towards the source of the welcome interruption, with the near surge in his power ebbing at the sight of Sir Elyan's welcoming smile as he waved him over. Mordred was quick to accept the invitation, slipping onto the bench next to the Queen's brother just as Sir Gwaine started telling one of his extravagant tales. Everyone laughed along, as carefree as usual, except for Percival and Mordred. It appeared that at least he had not yet told the others about Mordred's little secret. The younger knight quickly became preoccupied with the head table, anyway. The King in particular. Arthur looked so melancholy, barely touching his food. It was hardly the response that one would expect from a king attending a feast in his own honor.

"He's always like this on the anniversary of his coronation," Elyan informed Mordred, leaning closer to be heard over the surrounding din.

"I thought it was cause for celebration."

Elyan sighed, watching his sister trying her best to cheer her husband up. "It is. But it's also the anniversary of Uther's death."

Mordred pondered this, watching the King excuse himself from the table and disappear into the crowd. It was difficult for him to imagine King Uther as a father, knowing of the man only as prey knows a stalking beast. Mordred was aware that all his enemies were real people with their own lives and loved ones. That didn't help him see the bond between his hero, Arthur, and the monster, Uther.

"Hey," Elyan bumped their shoulders together, nudging the boy out of his trance. "Not you, too. You've barely touched your roast."

Mordred looked over at the other knight.

"I happen to know that you love roast," Elyan elaborated, the unspoken question clear in his eyes.

"I'm fine," Mordred assured him, belatedly digging into his rapidly-cooling meal.

"No one died on you, too, did they?"

"What? No. It's nothing," Mordred denied. He didn't have many significant dates of that sort, thankfully. His singular losses were of near strangers, and tended to be overshadowed by the annihilation of his clan. "It's just, my birthday tomorrow..." Mordred murmured as an afterthought.

"Oi! Birthday? Who's having a birthday?" Gwaine asked, perking up.

(Mordred winces. "I should've known. I must confess, I am nearly convinced that Sir Gwaine must possess some preternatural ability to detect opportunities to get drunk. It is the only possible way that he could have heard that from his current seat." Mordred looks pointedly to the man in question. He is on Percival's left, three seats removed from the teen, on the opposite side of the table. "I rest my case.")

Seeing the other knights glancing in his direction, Mordred blushed and became unbelievably preoccupied with cutting up his roast. Elyan failed to hide his smile while he held up a hand to point down at Mordred. The traitor.

"Mordred, why didn't you tell us?!" Gwaine exclaimed.

"I don't want to get drunk."

"Oh, come now. We've got to celebrate a bit! You can get a little drunk," Gwaine enthused, gesturing with his flagon too drastically so that Sir Percival had to dodge to the side in order to avoid being splashed. He did so without looking and returned to his meal in the manner of one who is well accustomed to such behavior.

"That isn't necessary," Mordred quietly affirmed, addressing both the idea of a celebration, and Sir Gwaine's reckless gesturing.

"How old will you be?" Elyan asked, calming the mood once more. He was close enough to see the anxiety in Mordred's eyes.

"Eighteen."

There was a beat of relative silence. Mordred was amused to note that each of his brothers-in-arms had held contrasting miscalculations of his age. Most had guessed that he was older, but quite a few also thought that he was somewhat younger than his actual age.

"Eighteen, really," Gwaine remarked, furrowing his brow while he inspected the evidence. "Ah well. Old enough, I think."

"You are not taking him to the tavern," Leon stated sternly, once again playing the default parent of their group. Sir Gwaine alone was bad enough. The last thing he needed was Gwaine corrupting the youth.

Gwaine waved him off, with a grin. He was probably going to corner Mordred and drag him to the tavern tomorrow anyway, if the boy wasn't careful. Mordred made a mental note to keep with the group just to be safe. He might not be able to hide behind Percival- Mordred remembered why he wasn't thinking about that. It still hurt- but he knew that he could still count on Leon, and maybe Elyan. Who knows, maybe he would be granted a little good luck for once and Arthur would have work for him to do instead.

Arthur walked into the dark, silent chamber that housed his father's tomb, staring at Uther's likeness on the massive, stone slab. He stood there, lost in his thoughts for what felt like hours. He wondered what Uther would think of him, if he were to come back and visit now. As he always had, Arthur wanted his father to be proud of him. He had done all that he could to live up to the high expectations that others had set for him growing up. Not just Uther-well, mostly Uther. Merlin, and Morgana back when she was more his sister than his adversary, had both held such high hopes for him, as had so many others whom he barely knew. Arthur missed his father, despite the lingering anger brought by some of the lies he had uncovered after Uther's death.

The horn is magic. Father taught you that magic is evil. You should destroy it. Arthur knew that he wasn't going to destroy it. If anything he would lock it up in the reliquary, but this last chance... Gaius used it. I've known Gaius all my life. He isn't evil. Arthur stepped away and headed out of the tomb. His thoughts were just chasing each other round his head in a loop. He doubted that he would reach a conclusion tonight. Why did this have to come to me now, of all of the times? It's so unfair... Such thoughts would do him no good. Arthur collected himself and stepped out into the hallway, heading in the direction of the feast. "It happened on Beltane. The Fire festival..." Arthur remembered the damning recollection in his half-sister's journal. He doubted that any Druids still dared to practice such attention grabbing rituals anymore, certainly not anywhere close to the citadel. Regardless, it would... Arthur stopped a few doors down the hallway from the entrance to the Great Hall. Percival was waiting beside the entryway, superficially hidden from anyone leaving. That was odd. The King wondered why the gentle giant would be doing something like that. A woman maybe? No. That's a bit creepy. Arthur's newest recruit strolled out through the doors on characteristically silent feet.

"Mordred," Percival stated, making his presence known. Mordred went stock still. Upon seeing this, Arthur stepped behind a pillar, too curious to walk away. Both men were acting out of character from what he knew of them. For one thing, everyone knew that Percy had a soft spot for the boy, and Mordred had followed after him like a lost puppy ever since he started training. So why..? Mordred turned to face the larger man. His expression was completely blank. This cannot be good.

"We need to talk about what happened after training," Percival intoned. His expression was also controlled, yet he harbored none of Mordred's tension.

"I would prefer that you didn't," Mordred finally spoke.

"I haven't told anyone-" Percival stopped short and pushed off the wall, looking frustrated by the way that Mordred backed away in reaction to his sudden movement. "Oh, just... What do you think I'm going to do to you? Druids aren't outlawed in Camelot anymore. You must know that!"

"Keep your voice down," Mordred urged in a carefully modulated tone.

That development threw Arthur for a loop. I didn't know that Mordred was a Druid... or remember. He said that I- Oh! He's that Druid. Suddenly, Morgana's behavior in the mines made a lot more sense. Great. Now I feel old!

"You're just going to keep hiding, aren't you?" Percival observed. "Even when you don't need to-"

"You were repulsed," Mordred spoke over him, his mask no longer completely intact. He looked hurt.

Percival's brows knitted together.

"I could see it on your face when you saw my mark," Mordred continued. "I don't want the others to look at me that way." They stared at each other in absolute silence until the spell was broken by a loud burst of merriment from inside. Mordred turned and began to leave.

"I'm sorry," Percival told him. Mordred stopped just short of vanishing around the corner, to look back at him as he continued "I- You're my friend, you know that. It wasn't you."

One corner of Mordred's lips quirked upward in a wry smirk. "No, it was merely who I am." He then turned away and walked out of view. "Goodnight, Sir Percival."

A/N: Well, this update came along much more readily than I feared... I hope you liked it. It is the beginning of a new episode so there was a lot more exposition than I prefer but, what can ya do? (honestly, I'm just waiting impatiently until the story departs from canon) Anyway, Thanks for reading. Special thanks to Agana of the Night and The Hope Lions for reviewing! Feedback really does help.