Chapter 2

Leaning against the wall, Mordred pulled his hood over his helmet further, indulging in the shadows casted by canvas cover whilst Bedivere was approaching a Middle Eastern archer. It wasn't had to judge the man's profession, after all, only archers would wear such light armour and a wrist guard to protect themselves from the backlash of their shots. Mordred's use was limited without the natural instinctive integrity that Bedivere radiated.

Mordred lifted his visor to sip his cup before returning to his musings.

He pulled a face. This wine was akin to vinegar, nothing befitting a European King. He would have rather had a commoner's beer or a cool cider than to drink this swill. Yet he had to endure this farce to avoid suspicion, after all why would someone go to a watering hole if not to drink?

Laying down the cup, Mordred tore a chunk of the bread and chewed slowly. Had this been another establishment, Mordred would have left immediately but only here could they meet an informant, who claimed he seen the Holy City. A proud boast that Mordred was more than willing to punish if the informant was lying but it did make sense for an archer to have conducted the feat.

Similarly, it was logical that the produce was as bad as it was. Jerusalem held a refugee crisis, driving the prices of commodities out of the reaches of the masses. It was fortunate that they hadn't had any food riots so far. Instead, the people despaired and waited for the supposed utopia of the Holy City.

Mordred held no illusions about the Holy City, it was most likely run by his Father so any less than perfection would have been an aberration to his nature. In the same thought, he both feared and eagerly awaited to reunite with Father, even if it wasn't his Father personally. Father would forgive him, embracing him as family would at reunions before allowing him to serve at his right-hand.

What of the Knights of the Round Table? Bedivere forgave him but was that because he didn't kill their King Arthur and Bedivere was that type of character that would forgive anyone. He doubted the others would accept him. Kay, Gawain, Tristan, Percival.. so many knights that might hold a grudge against him.

Mordred shivered. He felt fear, a very human emotion that was simultaneously the bane and motivation that drove so many actions. He tugged the cloak closer to his body. Why did he feel cold? Here he was, standing in the desert in the day, and he felt cold over some nonsensical fear. The other knights didn't matter, only Father did.

It would be incredibly petty of him to crush the cup in his tumultuous state but thankfully a colourful woman was approaching Bedivere's conversation with intent. The knight frowned as he touched Caliburn's pommel and stood up from his seat. The metal arm clearly showed the woman as a Caster, one of Mordred' most loathed profession. His life experiences demonstrated that magic was no substitute for martial might and often resulted in trickery.

"Away with you, woman." Mordred said, "We have no business for you."

The woman looked offended and paused her walk to directly address Mordred. He brushed aside some cloth to show his swords, making his threat clear.

"I am Leonardo Da Vinci, genius –"

"Nor do we have any time for a whore."

Now, the woman was enraged. A flush settled on her pale features as she clenched her fist tightly. Mordred was thoroughly enjoying this, much to the silent dismay of Bedivere. The intruder was clearly foreign, perhaps even European considering her skin tone, yet the mechanical arm was new to Mordred. He had not seen anything like it for it seemed more magical than a feat of engineering, it only cemented Mordred's dislike further. If one lost a limb, it was God's will. One should not simply defy God in such a manner.

"I'd like to inform you that I am a Servant just like yourself."

"That information doesn't change anything." Mordred sneered, "I detest Casters, your life is forfeit if you continue to pursue this fruitless endeavour."

Bedivere waved at Mordred, "Mordred, yield."

"Of course," The knight bowed as he stepped away from the Caster. Annoyingly, the woman smirked at him in triumph. Had it not been for Bedivere, Mordred would have slammed his fist into the irritant, but Mordred forcibly restrained himself. Instead, he contented to grip his hilt, fantasying whilst the woman remained unpunished for her insolence.

Mordred sat down. Perhaps he had been wrong, he was being prejudice against a woman that he never met before. Chivalry dictated that he should have been far more polite than to insult her immediately, but Mordred had acted otherwise. Was he wrong? Most likely, but first impressions were everything. One mistake after another, his Father's perfection seemed increasingly distant.

Mordred's spite was consuming himself, choler rising to unmatched levels. His detestation of himself and the world around him was more vivid than any sane moment in his life. The knight reached out and slowly crushed the air in his palm. Mordred's rage subsided briefly as he took a forced breath.

Mordred hissed, "I am unbroken."

"Mordred, let's go." Bedivere appeared over Mordred's shoulder.

"Aye, friend."

"Friend, now?" A ghost of a smile curled Bedivere's lips, "You must be desperate."

"We were oath-sworn brothers. How could I not call you friend? Have you forgotten how many times we stood together against the kingdom's threats?"

"You jest harshly. Of course, I am your friend."

Bedivere's expression was morse as he walked away from Mordred. He threw a glare at the archer and woman before hurrying over to Bedivere's side. Their contrast was stark in the light. A pearly knight of virtue in comparison to Mordred's treacherous black. It was unfair that he was clad in such darkness. He had fought at Camlann in the colours of a King, heavenly white and gilded in gold. He touched one of the glowing fractures on his plate. The same crystal that formed Rhongomyniad tip now grew in the cracks. Hopefully, it wouldn't affect the integrity of armour, but hope was a fickle thing to rely on. Mordred prayed that Caliburn and Clarent weren't affected by the taint, or he would certainly fall on his own blade.

"Mordred, do I look as if I am on a path of self-destruction?"

"Yes," Mordred's answer was immediate and honest, "You have a certain look in your bearing, one of great sorrow for you know your duty is your fatal burden. I would know."

"Ah, I can never rest around you, can I?"

Mordred snorted as he patted Bedivere's shoulder, pulling him into an alley. "Trust me, Bedivere, I would know. Besides, we should rejoice, we have found the king. Cast your gaze yonder."

The pearly knight raised his head, his companion allowed himself a quiet smile as Bedivere stared at the castle in awe. Even Mordred was not immune to the majesty of the Holy City. It was perfection, towering spires that challenged the skies as it shone with blinding purity. They would have never been able to create such a thing in their lifetimes yet here it was, Camelot, built in the vision of the King.

Mordred averted his eyes and felt for Clarent. Was the blade of peace necessary? Both knights felt the aura of their liege, a divine right to rule over a utopia. Father had made the dream reality without him. It was his quest to bequeath Caliburn to a mis-guided ruler, but no ruler could be misguided in a utopian kingdom. But how? How had Father lost his path when he had erected such powerful monuments to Camelot's glory? He rubbed the pommel indecisively. He had expected great battle and tests of chivalry to reach his King, to kneel before his majesty and offer Caliburn as Father's own.

A tear glazed Mordred's hot cheeks upon his realisation.

He had already failed before he had begun. Father, King Arthur, was always right, he bore a burden greater than any other. Mordred would only see the continuation of the Golden Dream whilst the king rested from his efforts. Camelot had not been built in a day however his oaths of fealty had been shattered when he accepted his quest from Merlin.

It took years to forge honour and a few months to raise an army, Mordred sickened at his own arrogance. He was going to tear apart everything the Knights of the Round Table had fought for in this world for the sake of a Court Mage. Father had tried to save everyone in sacrifice for his own sanity. Mordred knew Father would fight countless battles, endless bloodshed for his Dream of Unity. When was it too far? Too many lives cut by their hands before they would concede? Never. Oaths and friendships had withered in Camlann's fields. Honour was all he had left, and Merlin would take that from him as well by shattering the very walls of Camelot itself.

A beggar walked up to the two cloaked knights; she held her son pitifully. Pulling himself from the dark abyss of despair, Mordred calmed himself.

"Please, we haven't eaten for days."

Bedivere pushed past the woman whilst Mordred grounded himself.

"I am sorry, but I am in a hurry."

Here was a woman, desperate to feed her child. Bedivere didn't even look at them, he appeared afraid of their very presence. Mordred didn't understand why, they posed no threat or existential crisis. Just a refugee. The mother flickered her gaze at Bedivere before looking at Mordred's eyes. She feared his dark guise, but she was determined. She reached for Mordred's gauntlet and made a silent passionate plea.

The knight hesitated. He could offer little save for a handful of silver and gold. It would be worthless for an empty stomach, money could not be eaten and he doubted that they could buy much with the ridiculous prices that merchants offered. Still, it would pain his conscience further to not help with their woes.

"I can give nothing," Mordred admitted, "I have nothing to give. Know that I sympathize with your pains, so take this and find something to eat."

Mordred pressed a golden coin into her palm, he had no idea if the coinage would be accepted but surely gold was a universal currency in all civilisations.

"If you ever find yourself in trouble, I will help you with my martial might. I swear this upon my honour as a Knight of the Round Table."

"Knight of the Round Table?"

Turning, Mordred faced the questioner. The mother and son fled but they were irrelevant compared to what stood in the alley way. No one wore black tight uniforms in this city but this one did. Again, the boy looked determined, knew of sacrifice and had done so. Mordred could respect that, he pushed back his hood and allowed pulsing crystalline vein to illuminate the darkness in its crimson hue.

"Aye, I am Mordred, son of King Arthur, Heir to Camelot. May I have your name?"

"Ritsuka Fujimaru, the Last Master of Chaldea."

Master, Mordred vaguely knew the term. Servants were supposed to have been summoned by Masters to fight for the Holy Grail. He doubted it was the same Grail that the Round Table had quested for, but it was supposed to be a vessel of absolute power. Mordred's and Bedivere's existence were an anomaly to the rules but then again, Father should have been resting in Avalon. It irked him that he was supposed to swear his fealty to someone other than Father, however the chance to change the past was undeniably alluring to Mordred. One wish to save Father.

"What class are you?"

"I am not certain," Mordred confessed, "I bear Rhongomyniad, Clarent and Caliburn. I do not fit well in either Lancer or Saber Classes. Whilst I use Rhongomyniad, I do not have the same familiarity with it as a sword. I came to this world by imperfect means, so some details are lacking."

"Avenger maybe?"

"I have nothing to avenge. Father asked me to complete our fate. I have done so with honour." Mordred looked wistfully at Camelot's spires. "I am here to rectify history's anomaly. Alas, I would like to talk to you further, but I have a friend I would not happily keep waiting."

"Sure, Malter."

"Malter? Why such a name?"

The Master sheepishly rubbed his head, "I am sorry, it's the first thing that popped into my mind. Mordred and Alter, Malter. I can call you Mordred if you want but I already have a Saber Mordred. Would you-"

"Senpai!"

Mordred stopped breathing. The aura was too familiar, one of nobility and chivalry beyond humans. Galahad. The most perfect of knights, unbounded by human flaws that hindered everyone except for him. Mordred had wept when he had heard of Galahad's departure from their realm, it was fitting that Galahad would ascend to the heavens whilst cradling the Holy Grail, but it still pained him to lose such a comrade. He could not bear the pain again. Something deep in his soul rejected Galahad's purity.

Galahad looked nothing like the sweet, innocent girl before him, but his heart crushed itself under such stress. Mordred quickly left, unhearing of the Master's noises of disappointment as he disappeared in the crowded streets.


The knight shifted in its shadowy robes. Mordred was thankful for the customs of the East that allowed himself to hide his appearance so easily. It was certainly hiding his awed gaze well enough, that was Mordred believed until he saw Bedivere's smirk.

The revelations that Galahad graced the Earth with his presence shook both but their quest for the king remained unchanged. Mordred could only pray that Merlin's words were false, and the king remained as he had been forevermore. This Holy City was Camelot. It had been raised in Father's ideals, perfectly recreated without blemish or fault as if built by inhuman hands. To see it so closely threatened to overwhelm Mordred's mind unless he constantly clamped down on his emotions.

"How?" Mordred said. "I am wearing a helmet and this hood, yet you can discern my expression so easily?"

"I have lived a long life. I have studied people enough to read your posture. Do not fret, I find this fantastic as well."

Mordred gave a defeated sigh as he continued to shuffle with the flow of the crowd. He was taller than most and was forced to slouch to blend in, but the people still feared his presence. Bedivere had warned him against revealing his face, but he still longed to breathe in the cool night air rather than his own warm sweat.

He chastised himself, around him were despairing refugees, without the purpose or hope that drove himself and Bedivere, yet he had the nerve to be so selfish. He focused on the architecture of his surroundings. It was perfection, ideal nobility that all should aspire to whilst remain functional. Aethereal azure flames illuminated the halls, brazenly casting sulky shadows that flickered around the people as if they were unworthy of the honour of Camelot.

Soon, the press was forced into a courtyard where Gawain stood before the entrance. Mordred eyed the two knights that flanked the Knight of the Sun. He didn't recognise their armour but it certainly familiar. It was far too segmented and angular. Mordred felt for his own armour, his own was simpler, curved to deflect thrusts and in larger pieces. The crystals were flaws that he could not correct nor had any knowledge of. Mordred craved an audience with the Mage of Flowers for once, he could explain his current predicament. Mordred had heard that Merlin experienced time backwards but that was a rumour perpetuated by Merlin's unnervingly accurate prophecies. Magic was beyond him; he was just another knight after all.

Gawain's beatific smile of content caused a stir of emotion. Mordred immediately disliked it, something was off. Gawain looked young, in fact, so did Bedivere. He last remembered them with beards, worn done by life despite their spark of hope that burnt potently. A scowl flickered before Mordred leaned tiredly on the spear. So many contradiction and mind-numbing abnormalities, he would rather face down an honest army in battle than to deal with intricacies. Unbefitting for an Heir but Mordred preferred simpler affairs.

"Welcome to the Holy City, the perfect kingdom of God's will." Gawain announced, it was method of oration that allowed him to project his voice without seeming overburdened. Enunciation and skill meant each word sounded personally intimate." You shall never know pain or hunger, again. Spared from the fate that awaits the rest of Humanity. I applaud your courage to come here of your own free will and know that I pray for your acceptance into our glorious Camelot."

Acceptance was a weighted word, it implied failure. Mordred tried to keep his eyes low against Gawain's sweeping gaze. The perfect balance of hope and ideal radiated from the Knight of the Sun, one that affect Mordred profusely. It didn't stop him noticing the gates closing behind him, however.

"Not everyone can enter our ideal kingdom. Though you have come far and wide to attend this Selection, you have one last test before you may enter. Everyone, let us beseech the Lion King for the Holy Selection!"

Cheers rang out from the courtyard, men shouted themselves hoarse as women begged for the Lion King. Bedivere and Mordred exchanged glances before separating.

True to Gawain's words, light illuminated a balcony that over hanged the courtyard. Mordred shivered. The presence was undeniable. Father. Father was here. Except, something was different. Something divine. Father had always had something unique, draconic and holy. Mordred had inherited one of Father's blessings and it wasn't a divine one. Being near Father never felt this oppressive however, it was abnormal in the world of humans for such an aura to even exist yet here it did. Merlin had warned him that this was a variation of Father, but Mordred didn't expect him to be this powerful.

Instinctively, Mordred's knees buckled, and it was a test of will to remain on his feet.

"Not everyone can be spared from the world's end." The Lion King's omnipotent voice was harsh and powerful, unyielding to frivolous emotions. "It is the nature for humans to fall into temptation and sin. Such souls are unworthy of God's grace, so I shall choose those pure of heart, ones that do not falter in the face of adversity nor rot with corruption."

Mordred shielded his eyes as golden light formed in the air, weaving around the Father's feet into more intricate, layered patterns. Slowly, Mordred felt a tugging within his soul at the build-up of magical energy. He instinctively understood it as prana, the stuff of the Moonlit World. This was wrong. Father had never been like this. Unease swelled in Mordred, and he clutched Caliburn's hilt. It may not answer his call entirely, but it understood Mordred's duty to save Father from the clutches of whatever entity that wore Father's form.

"Souls that will remain eternally pure, untainted by the world's darkness. Souls of wavering loyalty and piety, you may enter my kingdom!"

A shockwave rippled through the crowd. Whilst others managed to remain upright, Mordred staggered back. Compared to his spiritual rejection of Galahad, this was far more powerful and hateful. Something in his heart rejected Father's power violently and took its toll on Mordred's psyche. His vision flickered; members of the Round Table surrounded him with Father standing before him. There was no trace of the refugees that crowded the courtyard, instead, Mordred knelt in an open field.

"Mordred Pendragon, my son." Father said, "We have come to pass judgement upon your worthiness. Should you fail, you shall never wield Caliburn in honour."

The knight was confused but stood his ground. Was this reality or just an illusion? He couldn't afford this encounter to influence his current predicament. Lancelot stepped forward.

"Those against, raise your blades."

Interestingly, no one did. Not even the knights he had laid low at Camlann deigned to raise their swords against him. Mordred must have been hallucinating. He dared to look at Father's face. Father gave a muted smile.

"Those for, raise your blades."

Every Knight did so; Lancelot, Kay, Percivale, Bore, Yvaine and others. The Heir choked; he was stunned to see that every single one had placed their full trust in Mordred. Incredulously, Mordred glanced at Agravain, who merely flashed a friendly grin.

"Why?"

"Our King told us everything, Sir Mordred," said Hector, "We do not blame you for the burden of fate, it was your hesitation that allows our liege to slumber in Avalon, once and forevermore. If you had truly wished to slay our King, you would have done so."

"My thanks," Mordred lowered his head, Father drew Excalibur and laid it to rest on Mordred's shoulder. For a moment, the darkness in his heart seemed to curl up and die at the presence of the holy Sword of Victory. The world just seemed a little more vibrant and beautiful.

"Rise, Mordred of Pendragon. Rise as the worthy heritor of Camelot's glory. Go forth and do my bidding."

Mordred closed his eyes before reopening them. Both Fathers had disappeared, only this duplicate of Gawain stood before him wearing the same irritating smile that irked Mordred. The Heir slowly breathed as he glanced around. Three beams of light marked out only three in the crowd of thousands. His heart fell, clearly, he wasn't worthy to enter this divine parody of Camelot.

"It disheartens me, truly," Gawain declared. "But this is necessary to ensure the preservation of humanity. The king has ordered the remainder to be purged. So, we shall begin the divine punishment without any hesitation. Please, accept my condolences."

Around him, the refugees panicked, scrambling over each in a bid to escape but it was useless. Even as people died under trampling feet, arrows launched themselves from the ramparts before diving in lethal arcs. Mordred was in shock, remaining frozen in place as arrows rattled off his armour, cutting away his ragged cloak to reveal the black plate underneath. The knights waltzed through the crowd leisurely, blades flashing as they split arterial red across the ground.

Dark thoughts whispered in his mind as he struggled to comprehend the enfolding actions. Only one word came to his mind. He tore Caliburn from its sheath and flourished Rhongomyniad.

"TRAITOR!"


AN: I am genuinely surprised to see such a positive reaction to this. I expected people to hate Mordred for the fact that he was gender flipped as well as having a background change but I am grateful for your support. Believe me, every follow, favourite and review makes a huge impact on my stories so I thank you all.

I hope someone guesses Mordred's class correctly.