/
As a rule, Raphael generally avoided judging people solely from first impressions. To him, it seemed a rather narrow way of looking at things, void of any of the subtleties he knew made up a large part of the world. Strength, more often than not, did not beget appearance, a lesson the man had unfortunately learnt the hard way.
'Who knew such small jars could be so… explosive…'
Still, if you were to ask his opinion on the man currently interrupting their fight, then he would respond with the first thought that sprung to his mind- eccentric. Now, that might seem a little rich coming from a foreigner such as he, and it was to a certain extent; but if you have someone like Raphael calling you eccentric, then there is most likely a problem afoot.
Dressed in some unholy amalgamation of white cloth and multicoloured tassels, the stranger in question stood before them with a confident air, cape fluttering in time with the breeze. The man's intentions aside, Raphael could certainly admit that he cut out a distinctive figure. White hair, a friendly smile that seemed to stretch a little too wide, and with eyes like polished gems, twinkling with a fey sort of wisdom.
'How are there people criticising my armour when this guy exists?!'
The man stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the rest of the watching crowd, his attire startlingly unique, and as such, it was easy for Raphael to come to a conclusion regarding his identity - or rather, a complete lack of one.
For he had no idea who this was supposed to be.
Was he an organiser? A knight? A completely random bystander? Raphael had no way of knowing, for he was sure that he had never seen such a…distinctive person in his life.
He would have surely remembered otherwise.
It wasn't just his appearance that was strange, but the very aura that surrounded him. A sense of otherness exuded from his form, thick and heavy, tangible enough you could almost taste it.
'Huh…kind of floral…'
It was unlike anything he had felt before in these lands, but that only added to the mystery.
Raphael sneaked a glance towards his opponent, previously pristine armour now marred with flecks of dirt from their previous bout. If he were expecting any sort of help from the boy, then unfortunately, the man would be sorely disappointed. Mordred seemed to have completely disregarded his presence, and was staring at the stranger in much the same way a hungry wolf might stare at a piece of meat.
Unlike Raphael, the knight had some idea as to who this might be. His 'mother' had briefed him on most of the King's inner circle, after all, and it was rather hard to mistake the infamous court magus for anyone else. From what Morgan had told him, well… the less said about the man the better.
He had debated simply attacking him, then and there, before ultimately thinking better of it. He could be pragmatic if he wanted to, damnit! And besides, what was the point of doing such a thing anyway?
He still hadn't beaten his last opponent.
To the outside world, the knight appeared to be deep in thought. He stood there for a while, completely silent, before, with an exaggerated slowness, he turned towards Raphael, fingers gripping at the hilt of his sword.
Underneath his helmet, Mordred's lips pulled up into a genuine smile.
"Yo, on five? You can't just show me all that magical bullshit and then not follow through."
The man could only bark out a laugh.
"Hah! On five, then!"
And thus it was settled, the two of them refocusing on each other, the promise of violence once more filling the air.
Heedless as they were to their surroundings, it stood as no surprise that Merlin's staring form went pitifully unnoticed. He rubbed at his eyes, as if to dispel the illusion being cast in front of him, but alas, his efforts were ultimately in vain. Both contestants seemed entirely content to simply ignore his existence, and carry on as they were.
The magus pouted at the unfairness of it all. Was he really that uncool?
He took a calming breath, before renewing his smile, now even wider than before. They must have just not heard him properly, right? That had to be it! So Merlin, after reassuring himself with this hopeful lie, attempted to try again, although someone else beat him to it - perhaps also saving the man's dignity in the process.
"Stop, the both of you. This match is over. We shall settle this matter some other way."
The voice of King Arthur echoed like a bell throughout the arena.
Mordred froze mid-action, sword clattering to the ground with a harsh noise. His previously animated form became rooted in place, completely unmoving, as if he were trying to imitate a statue, or an empty suit of armour. It was a rather large departure from the image he had been cultivating beforehand - enough, perhaps, to give some of the watching crowd whiplash.
Raphael had heard what the people thought of Mordred first hand. He wasn't arrogant enough to disregard the boy's virtues as a warrior, but he felt as if some of the onlookers took things a little far. The way they talked about him was… strange, in the sense that they treated him less like a simple squire, and more akin to a bonafide hero, a figure larger than life itself. He certainly had an impressive showing during the tournament, but the pedestal they had created for him to stand on was superficial at best, formed upon incomplete foundations. They had built up entirely unrealistic expectations of a person that they, at the end of the day, really knew little to nothing about.
Some might rationalise his brief stumble as nothing but a product of simple surprise. A fluke, barely worth talking about compared to his other feats - but the tarnished knew that such an observation was only surface level. Skin deep. It may be easy to forget, but past the silver steel and prickly exterior, there lay not a juggernaut or some inhuman automaton, but a regular person, same as everybody else.
It was the eyes that gave this away the most.
Even though his face was hidden by wrought iron, Raphael could still make out the narrow glint of emerald orbs underneath his helmet, swirling with a whole host of complicated emotions. Happiness. Anger. Fear. Rebellion, and then shame. Mordred looked like he was warring with himself, battle-lust and obedience to the king locked in a fierce struggle of wills until, eventually, one of them prevailed over the other.
He picked up his dropped blade with shaky fingers, and placed it back in its sheath.
The king nodded at this. He stepped down from where he had been sitting, and walked towards the arena with even steps. Every movement was made with an effortless grace, like a lion on the prowl, not a sound made despite the layers of armour that adorned his form.
It was pretty impressive, all things considered.
The king appeared before them with a stoic expression, lips pursed with the barest hint of exasperation. Now that he was up close, Raphael was once again struck with how… pretty the man was. Almost like a flower, he realised, frozen eternally at the pinnacle of its bloom.
He radiated beauty in a way that was ill described by simple words.
Arthur stood motionless for a second, before brushing a lock of loose hair away from his face with slender fingers. They were small for a man -delicate, even- although not in a way that made him any less imposing.
An errant thought came to mind at this, unbidden and a little scandalous, causing the gold-clad warrior to stifle a chuckle.
'The Queen must be one happy woman, eh?'
Oblivious to the man's inner thoughts, King Arthur opened his mouth and spoke. Despite never raising the volume of his voice, his decree managed to reach the ears of all that were listening in, steeped in a regal majesty that pierced the darkness of the night.
"Follow me."
And with that, he turned on his heel and began walking away.
When it became obvious that the man wasn't going to say anything else, Raphael decided to simply shrug his shoulders and go along with the request. He trudged forwards, placing his hand on a red-streaked pauldron in the process- an action that shocked Mordred out of his previous fugue.
"You alright?"
The boy seemed to gather himself for a moment, before answering. How his boisterous voice had become so meek so quickly was a mystery in and of itself.
"Y-yeah…"
Raphael hid a puzzled frown. It was like, as soon as King Arthur entered the picture, Mordred turned into a completely different person. Regardless of why, the knight didn't appear to be in the mood for conversation- so Raphael let him be, as the two followed the monarch out of the arena. What their ultimate destination was, he couldn't claim to know, but the where didn't bother him nearly as much as the why.
He could admit that he might have gotten a little carried away, but was there really enough reason to stop the fight entirely? He hadn't even done anything overtly flashy, conjuring nothing but a small, meagre flame; and it wasn't as if it had destroyed anything either.
Well, not yet at least, but his point still stood.
He thought on it for a moment more, before deciding to put the issue out of mind. If the King didn't eventually address it, then he would just ask the man, nothing more to it than that. Raphael grinned to himself, as he began to pick up the pace to match the King's stride. There was no point searching for answers when they lay just on the horizon.
And besides, right now, there was something a little more apparent bothering him.
The night air was exactly how he imagined it. Cold, dark, and suffused with a natural stillness broken only by the faint chirp of songbirds. All was as it should have been, yet for some reason, a sense of…wrongness permeated the atmosphere. At first, the warrior hadn't paid the feeling much mind, although now, without anything to distract him, he realised what the root of the problem was.
The call of the crowd had once served as the only constant throughout his every fight. Always present, always there, even if at a faint murmur. It was jarring at first, but over time the ambient noise kind of… grew on him. He had become used to it, in a sense.
But now…
A lance of frigid moonlight fell from the heavens, illuminating the rolling hills in pale light. It would have been beautiful, he thought, if it hadn't revealed the consequences of his actions.
Now there was only silence.
Raphael looked up at the crowd for the first time in a while, and noticed their stricken faces with a certain apprehensiveness. Even through the veil of night, their uneasy expressions stood out like beacons, a thousand furrowed brows and darting glances sent like arrows towards his person.
Was such a small flame really so big of a deal? Evidently, to these people, it was. Raphael thought that he might feel shame at the moment, regret towards the fact that he had, however unknowingly, inspired fear within innocent bystanders- but no. If anything, he felt annoyed that he couldn't show off even more.
Evidently, Raphael didn't know himself as well as he thought he did.
'Hah! Can't deny that it felt good to finally let loose, even if it was for such a small amount of time."
With one final step, they exited the arena, leaving the staring crowd behind. The man sent a glance over his shoulder, taking one last look at the scenery, before a shock of white entered his vision.
'Is… is that person still following us?'
He was indeed, for behind them was none other than the blurry figure of Merlin, trailing after the group like a lost puppy.
"Hey, your highness?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know who that white haired guy is?"
King Arthur didn't bother to turn around, but the aggrieved sigh that left his lips gave Raphael all the information that he needed to know.
"Don't mind him. Just… carry on."
/
During his tenure as a simple tarnished, Raphael had been gifted with the unfortunate privilege of being the one to visit many different castles, tasked each time to cleanse their halls from the evil that lurked within. From the hulking grandeur of Stormveil to the frozen wastes of castle Sol, the warrior had seen it all, and at this point he considered himself something of an expert on the matter.
There was only so many times you could be ambushed by crazy locals before you began to take note.
However, now, for the first time in his life, Raphael had the opportunity to walk through the corridors of one such place without ever-present worry hanging over his head. No banished knights, no feral misbegotten, and no thrice-damned commoners waiting behind unreasonably sharp corners. Was this heaven? If so, then he wished never to leave.
Due to this, the man was allowed to actually appreciate his surroundings for once - although there wasn't much around to look at. The walls were simple stone, adorned sparsely with flaming torches and the odd painting here and there, and the rooms they passed looked spartan, lacking any of the opulence that he had come to expect from such places.
All in all, everything from the architecture to the bland furnishings created an atmosphere that was oddly… normal. Mundane, even, although it wasn't like that was a bad thing.
Whoever it was that had the bright idea of building a manor inside of a volcano should've been thrown directly into Mt. Gelmir.
After a few minutes of walking, the group finally reached a set of oaken doors. Large, imposing, and twice as tall as the tallest man; they stood as the final barrier to the inner sanctum of the castle.
King Arthur paused for a second in front of the doors, before gripping the brass handles and pulling them open.
Crimson eyes widened in unsuppressed shock.
'W-what?'
Raphael wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this… this certainly wasn't it.
A circular room lay before him, painted in vibrant blues and golds. Various tapestries hung from the walls, each depicting a scene from some battle long past, and at the centre, there lay something that caused lightning to shoot up his spine.
A wave of deja-vu hit the man, leaving him frozen in place. He could scarcely comprehend how or why, but through some miracle or twist of fate, a remnant of his past had managed to follow him all the way here.
The roundtable greeted his gaze like an old friend, bathed in the warm glow of precious nostalgia.
Although it lacked the myriad swords and the cut shard of golden grace, in everything else it was identical, almost eerily so. The design, the engravings, even the invigorating feeling it exuded… it was all the very same, to the point it could never have been mistaken for anything else.
Raphael was utterly enraptured by the sight. He stared at it in disbelief, both an eternity and a second passing by in blissful silence. The longer he looked, the more that familiar sensation began to build, a throbbing at the back of his eyelids, pulsing in time to his rising heartbeat.
It grew stronger and stronger, feeding into itself in an infinite cycle until, eventually, he was naught but a single breath away from apotheosis.
He reached out within his mind's eye, a grasping hand thrust into the great unknown…but ultimately, his endeavour was destined always to be unsuccessful.
For he did not yet understand.
The man's trance-like state dissolved in that very instant, collapsing like a house of cards, thrusting his consciousness back into reality. The entire occurrence retreated into the back of his mind like some half-forgotten dream, leaving Raphael grasping at invisible strings trying to recall what had just happened.
Like water, every vivid detail slipped through his fingers in an endless cascade, until he was left with nothing but an odd feeling within his gut. Like he should be remembering something, but the specifics were entirely too vague.
He was broken from these thoughts by none other than the Lord of the Isles, as the final wisps of the memory disappeared into the wind.
King Arthur cleared his throat in a manner that sounded strangely chiding.
"Sir Kay? What are you doing here at this hour?"
The rustle of papers alerted Raphael to the fact that there was, apparently, someone else in the room. Perhaps he had been too transfixed by the revelation of the roundtable, but he realised now that there was actually a man sat off to its side, a stack of documents hiding his face from view.
"Working. Filing taxes. Paying the wages of our logistics team. If you can name it, then I'm probably doing it. It's all well and good to suddenly decide that you want to host a tournament, but next time, please remember that there's always someone left behind who has to do all the paperwork. Do you know how hard it is to find a carpenter willing to make three-dozen wooden swords at such short notice? I almost had to outsource from up north, Arto-"
Whatever the man was going to say, it was cut off by a timely interjection from the King. His verdant eyes seemed to widen ever so slightly.
"We have guests, Kay!"
"Guests?"
The man poked his head up for the first time, a light brown mop of hair framing traditionally handsome features set into a small frown. Dark eyes scanned over the waiting forms of both Raphael of Mordred, giving them a once over, before he heaved a sigh.
"Guess I'll be out of your hair, then. By your leave."
The man stood up from his chair, and was halfway through grabbing his things when the King interrupted him once again.
"You can remain if you wish, Kay. Your insight into this matter may prove to be useful, for once."
The disgruntled look Sir Kay sent across the room went entirely ignored by the King, expression remaining as unflappable as ever. Eventually, after realising that simply glaring at Arthur wasn't going to get him anywhere anytime soon, the man gave up, and sat down in his chair with a little more force than strictly necessary.
"Whatever…"
Now that one problem was settled, King Arthur's gaze snapped to the two waiting Knights, regarding their forms for a moment. He inclined his head ever so slightly, before addressing them both as if nothing had happened.
"First of all, I would like to congratulate the two of you on winning your respective tournaments. In truth, this entire venture was created solely for the purpose of recognising new talent, and in that, I believe that we were ultimately successful."
Raphael would never claim to be the most adept in social situations, but even he knew that you were probably supposed to smile after saying something like that. King Arthur, it seemed, had never gotten this memo, for his face remained perfectly neutral all throughout.
"In saying this, however, please understand that before anything else, I am King. It is my duty to protect this kingdom from any and all who wish to do it harm. I mean not to offend, Sir Raphael, but please, if you will, be frank with me."
"Have you ever met, seen, been contacted by, or were you possibly even born as…a faerie?"
Raphael stared straight at King Arthur in pure bafflement. Steely green eyes met those swirling with utter confusion, as the man tried to wrap his head around what it was, exactly, that the King had just asked him.
'That sure was one hell of a sentence. Fuckin' hell, is this really why they stopped our match? Of all the fuckin' things…"
Even the previously quiet Mordred seemed taken aback at this, swivelling his head to stare at the man as if only just now seeing him for the first time.
"You think I'm a… faerie?"
King Arthur nodded his head in utmost seriousness. Raphael could only sigh within the confines of his own mind, before responding in the least exasperated tone he could muster. Why did these things always happen to him?
"Not… Not to my knowledge, your Highness."
"I see."
The King looked deep in thought, eyes glazed over in focused deliberation. This went on for all of three seconds, however, for he was interrupted by the accusing voice of Sir Kay.
"You can never trust a faerie at their word, Arthur. You know how they are. Liars and schemers, the lot of them! I propose that we have a… little spar, if you will. Just the two of us, and we'll see if cold steel really works like I've been-"
"Kay! I'll have no more of this talk out of you!"
For the first time, the King's neutral mask seemed to break, a flash of anger made visible underneath stoic countenance, although it faded just as quickly as it came.
"I did not receive my blade from some mortal blacksmith, Kay. Who do you think it was that created it? Even the castle, this very room you now stand in, was created only with their aid! I understand your grievances, believe me, I do- but I think it time to let your grievances go. Nothing good will ever come of it."
Opposite of looking chastised, the man in question looked entirely ready to argue back. The words were at the tip of his tongue, it seemed, but a quick glance towards his unwitting audience caused him to hold them back. Instead he just grumbled, leaving the room in an awkward silence.
The King, it appeared, was at a loss for what to say. Raphael couldn't much blame the man, in all honesty. He wasn't sure what he would do in such a situation either.
Thankfully for him, the problem eventually resolved itself. With almost impeccable timing, a white-haired figure slipped in through the open doors, piercing the sullen atmosphere with his jovial voice.
"What a dilemma we have on our hands! Ah, if only there was some handsome devil lying around here somewhere, poised to answer your every question and more!"
Whatever impression the man sought to make with his entrance, this… this certainly wasn't it. Four pairs of unimpressed eyes stared his way, judging, as the man let out a sheepish chuckle.
King Arthur sighed once more, before gesturing for the stranger to come over. Raphael felt like the man had been doing a lot of that recently.
"Thank you, Merlin. What would your verdict be on this matter?"
"I-"
"And be serious, please. This is a matter of real importance."
The man's twinkling eyes seemed to dim for a bit, before shining with more brightness than before. He looked at Raphael, examining the tarnished as if he was a nobleman admiring a piece of fine artwork, rubbing at his chin all the while. This image of some sort of wise philosopher was broken, of course, by the wide grin that split his face, like that of a cheshire cat.
Merlin leaned in for a second, bringing his face intimately close to the warriors. He stared into those crimson orbs, searching, looking for a sign that would fill some unknown criteria, although whatever it was that he found caused his own eyes to widen. Something passed between the two at that moment, before the magus pulled away with a satisfied smile.
"..."
Merlin was content to say nothing for a while, leaving the room in suspense. Raphael thought it was kind of funny, to be honest, but neither the King or Sir Kay seemed to feel the same way, judging by their slowly darkening expressions.
"...So?"
"So what?"
The distinctive sound of grinding teeth came across the room, clueing Merlin in on the fact that he should probably get on with it, lest he wanted to be chased around the castle for the fifth time this week.
The magus cleared his throat, before starting.
"Well, he's certainly not like any faerie I've ever seen, that's for sure. Doesn't have the right eyes."
King Arthur appeared to accept his words without question, but to the other member of the roundtable, things apparently weren't so clear cut.
"Is that really the only basis you are going off of? His eyes? You can't seriously tell me that's all it takes, can you?!"
Merlin's smile did not fade in the face of the man's question. Instead, it took on a more sadistic bent - hungry, even, like that of a predator eyeing its next meal. It seemed the man had some pride after all.
"It's the only one that works, Sir Kay. Or perhaps you would like to show me a better way?"
Before their discussion could turn to an argument, the King cut the two of them off with a stern look. Raphael was a little envious of such a power, if he were being frank. Silencing people with just a look sounded pretty fucking cool.
"Stop, the both of you! I will trust your judgement in this matter, Merlin, but please don't antagonise Kay any further. I think everyone's had a long enough day already."
Merlin nodded at this, and so did Sir Kay - albeit far more begrudgingly. It was apparent that he still had something to say, but his respect for the King seemed to win over his base impulses, so he kept his mouth shut.
When Arthur next turned to face the two knights, it was with considerably softer eyes.
"It would appear that I owe you an apology, Sir Raphael. I am sorry for doubting the veracity of your word."
"It's fine, really. Certainly not the worst assumption anybody has ever made about me."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, man. Being called a faerie is leagues better than being mistaken for a bloody angel. It came from good people, don't get me wrong, but it was like they had nothing else to talk about…"
Coming from somebody else's mouth, this claim might have seemed like some vain boast made in order to impress the King. It certainly wouldn't be the first time it had happened, but for reasons unknown, the King believed his every word.
Something about the gold-clad warrior's entire demeanour just felt genuine, in a way that was almost hard to describe.
"Regardless, I think we've gotten a little side-tracked. I did not call both of you here just for an interrogation."
The air in the room seemed to change in that moment, becoming heavy, weighed down by an unseen pressure emanating from the King. His voice echoed throughout the room like the chiming of bells, as the world held its breath in awe.
"At first this offer was only to be extended towards the winner of the Knight's tournament, but after witnessing your skill, Sir Mordred, it would be a great disservice not to include you as well."
"By the power invested in me, I formally invite both Sir Raphael, and Sir Mordred, to join Camelot as part of the Knights of the Roundtable, if they would be so inclined."
Now, what would a normal person do when faced with such a life-changing decision?
Probably think it over some, consult a trusted friend, maybe, before ultimately coming to a conclusion after a couple of hours, perhaps even a couple of days of deliberation.
That is what a normal person would do. A smart person, even, who understood the gravity of their decision. Rushing into things without proper thought would, more often than not, lead to ruin… right?
Raphael couldn't claim to know, and to be honest, he didn't think Mordred knew either. They were alike at least in that one quality, whether that be for good or for ill.
In the end, neither of the two tournament winners could be considered, by any definition of the word, as normal. And as such, there was only one answer they could give.
"Sure, I'm in."
"YES!"
The loud exclamation the boy let out was almost deafening. Mordred coughed in embarrassment, tapping his heel on the floor in nervous excitement, before reiterating his response.
"I-I mean, yes, your highness. I humbly accept your offer."
The sophisticated voice he was trying to put on wasn't fooling anyone.
/
AN: Finally, the end of the tournament arc! Fun fact: this entire idea came to me purely from doing research (read: scouring the fate wiki site) into Mordred's character. Apparently, the only information we have as to how she joined the roundtable in first place is that she impressed the king with her swordsmanship. I don't know about you, but in my head that just screamed "tournament arc", and so here we are. In the "unedited" timeline of this world, where Raphael was never transported to England, both Mordred and Palamedes would have won this tournament, and thus went on to be roundtable knights. However, because of Raphael's interference, things obviously have changed.
In other news, I want to talk about one of the characters in this story. Despite how he may come off, I don't intend for Merlin to become simply a joke character. Sure, he's used as comic relief in both the source material and this, but I want to give his character some more depth than just the funny dick wizard. I am, of course, pretty new at writing in general, so believable character development might not be the smoothest, but hey. At least I'll be making an attempt.
Sorry this chapter took so long, I was kinda stuck on some details, but I hope all of you enjoy reading the story just as much as I do writing it!
