Chapter 6

Mordred was still not certain whether or not his speaking dreams were ghosts or figments of his own shattered psyche.

He did not know which was worse. Nor did he particularly care, to be honest. The effect was the same. This memory was harsher than the others. He knew the field immediately. While he had fought in many battles with his fellow knights in the service of his uncle, this one in particular stuck in his memory. This one was the worst.

The Battle of Camlann. What the mythos would remember of this day, he did not know. While he listened to other legends and stories with a sort of half-hearted amusement later in his years, he tried to avoid all the tales of Camlann. Sometimes, however, it was inevitable. It seemed that most agreed that this was where he and Arthur fought to the death. That was painfully untrue. He had never once raised his blade to his uncle. But it seemed even the history of Earth wished to paint him the villain, and there was no point in fighting it. The better story would always win, regardless of the facts.

And the facts were crisp in his mind, even a thousand years later.

The mud was thick, as it often was when two armies fought to the bitter end. The dirt and rain mixed with the blood of the fallen. Mordred was bleeding, too, from a deep wound. A lancer had landed a lucky strike between two sections of his plate armor.

But in the end, the other army lay slain. Arthur was victorious…but at a terrible cost. Mordred remembered him standing there, ankle-deep in the mud, chest rising and falling with exertion as the King of the Britons gazed out over the carnage. It was not until Mordred drew closer that he saw that he was not the only one who had suffered a wound.

Blood oozed from under Arthur's own armor, dripping down his thigh and to the ground below, mixing with that of the others. Panic welled in Mordred—a sudden fear that tore at him in a way he had not known since he was a child.

He ripped his helm from his head, tossing it away without a thought as he ran toward his uncle. "My king!"

Arthur turned his head to him and smiled faintly. "I have not been your king for some time. When will you let me go?"

Mordred's steps hitched to a halt. That was not what Arthur had said to him on that fateful day. Arthur had instead told him that he believed he might have made a bit of an error, downplaying the fatal wound he had received. "I—" He did not know what to say.

Arthur fell to one knee, gripping his side. He leaned heavily upon Caliburn. "You know what comes next. We both do."

It was only then that Mordred realized he was not the man he had been so long ago. He was himself from now. With the terrible, morbid iron armor and the rusted, jagged claws. This was not another simple memory, playing out before him like a stage production. This was something else. "Am I speaking to myself?"

"Does it matter?" Arthur undid the fastenings of his gauntlet with his teeth, shaking the piece of armor loose. He wiped his brow, trying to clear some of the dirt, sweat, and blood that was obviously obscuring his vision.

"I suppose it does not." Mordred stepped forward and offered his king a hand to his feet.

Arthur took it, accepting the help without pause. He had never been an egotistical man. He had never been overly proud or righteous. Sometimes—no, most of the time—Mordred found it positively infuriating how effortlessly noble his uncle had been. Arthur let out a sigh, looking out at the devastation of the battle. "I knew that this battle would be where I fell. Merlin came to me the night before and told me what would come to pass."

"Then why did you fight?"

"Because I had to be the man I was meant to be. And do what I was meant to do. Fate comes for us all, and we can only resist it for so long. Even you, though you have put it off better than most." Arthur huffed a laugh. "You always were a stubborn bastard."

Mordred could not help but smile, just a little, at the insult. It was true. "What do you mean, about my fate?"

Arthur took one step forward, and the scene around them changed and shifted. No longer on the battlefield, they were back in their camp. Arthur was lying on his cot, his chest bandaged. But a fever had set in quickly, and the pallor of his cheeks and the darkness of his eyes told of what was coming.

Their king was going to die.

The other knights were gone. Even Merlin was nowhere to be seen. Only Mordred and Arthur remained.

"This was the worst of it, you know." Arthur shut his eyes tiredly. "Being nursed by a pack of grown men who were about as delicate as a wild boar. Do you know how terrible Lancelot was at tending to a wound? By God, it was like being stabbed all over again."

Mordred chuckled. "I cannot imagine." Although, apparently, he could. This was still a memory, after all—even if it was warped by this strange interaction. He sat on a stool next to Arthur's cot. He did not bother to give his dying uncle any aid, though the impulse was still there.

This was not real.

"A bunch of bucks in heat, you lot were. I often felt like a nanny, not a king, trying to keep you all from beating each other senseless over some game of cards or some lass from the nearest village. You were all damnably exhausting." Arthur smiled, belying his fondness for them, despite his teasing.

"And you deserved it. Saint that you were—living in your shadow was impossible." Mordred rolled his eyes. "Always willing to die for whatever cause crossed your path, without a care for what it would do to the rest of us."

"You were never meant to live in my shadow, Mordred." Arthur turned his gaze to him. As always, he seemed to look straight through Mordred—seeing to his soul. "You were meant to be my shadow."

"I… don't understand."

"You never did. And look where it has gotten you." Arthur grunted and shut his eyes again. "If only you had paid a little more attention, you might have avoided all of this nonsense. Imprisoned within your own magic—within your own mind. Your mother would be beside herself. And likely is, in whatever nether realm she found her way to." He hummed thoughtfully. "Though I suppose she may have returned to the ether from which she came. If she were still in existence, she would have never let death keep her away."

"That is true." Mordred shook his head. Death would not have stopped Morgana for long. Her soul had likely returned to the dust and stars. "And I do not need reminding of how disappointed you both would be with me."

"It can change. You still have a chance to become who, and what, you were meant to be." Those blue eyes met his again, faded though they were with the fever.

"You say I was meant to be your shadow. Was I not always at your heel, eager to learn? Eager to follow in your footsteps?" Mordred clenched his fist. "Yet I was never good enough—not for you, not for them"—the hatred in his voice for the other knights was thick, and he saw no need to hide it—"and you see what they tried to do."

"I did not need an heir, you fool!" Arthur coughed. It took everything in Mordred not to reach for the pitcher of water. "I needed the darkness in you. I needed you to do what I could not."

Mordred furrowed his brow. He shook his head before muttering, "You are making little sense, which I suppose is not surprising, given that you are a figment of my failing mind."

"There are times, as king, when decisions must be made. When lives must be spent. When the path of darkness must be followed. There are times when the sacrifice of the few protects the peace of the many. This cruelty—this unkindness—is necessary." Arthur sighed. "I needed you to be the enforcer of such deeds, where I could not."

"To what end? To protect your conscience, so you could sleep at night?" Mordred sneered.

"You are what you are meant to be, same as I. This was not to protect me, boy." Arthur shut his eyes, the sweat of the fever still beading upon his brow. "Your feeble attempt at nobility is what binds you. Weakens you. Holds you back from your potential. You are not meant to be the righteous king, son of Morgana—you are meant to be the knife in the shadows. The fear of the abyss that keeps others in the light."

Mordred ran a gauntleted hand over his face. This had to be the ramblings of his own mind. Arthur would never tell him to be the shark in the waters, waiting to maim any who strayed into deep waters.

Or would he?

It did not matter.

"You mean to tell me that my attempts to be good and kind are wrong. That is not the Arthur I knew."

"That is the Arthur you did not see. The one you could not accept. Why do you believe Avalon chose you over me? Why did it let me die, while you were given the gift to foil all the others in the land? No other soul was given the gift of iron."

"Save Gwendolyn."

"That girl…" Arthur chuckled. "She will be the death of you."

"I believe she already has been." Mordred gestured idly at the tent around them. "Or, at least, my downfall."

"Do not think my words are meant in derision." Arthur opened his eyes again to watch Mordred. "I would have adored her. And you two together are a perfect match. She reminds me of…" He coughed.

"I noticed the similarities, yes." Mordred smirked briefly. "I would think it a coincidence, if I did not know Avalon for what it was."

Arthur reached for the pitcher of water but was too weak to stretch his arm far enough to grasp it. With a heavy sigh, Mordred poured his phantom king a mug of water and helped the other man drink it. "This is foolish."

His uncle laid his head back into the pillow. "I will not argue with that."

Mordred studied the dying man. "What would you have me do?"

"Be true to yourself. Be true to your nature. All these centuries you have lingered within a purgatory of your own making as you strove to be what you cannot. You are right—God needs his devil. And Avalon needs you to fulfill your destiny, whether you like it or not."

"You wish me to become the monster that others believed me to be."

"Mordred, have you looked at yourself?" Arthur smiled. "You are hardly doing yourself any favors."

"Now, you sound like Gwendolyn." Mordred stood from the stool to pace the room. This was the work of his own mind, his own psyche. But the words hit him no less hard than if they had been uttered by the man himself.

It would be freeing, he supposed, to give in. To be that which others saw—that which they seemed to wish for. He wondered how Gwendolyn would react, should he surrender to his instincts to destroy all those who would stand in opposition to him, regardless of the cruelty it would require.

Would she still love him?

Would she still desire him?

But I cannot lie to myself to keep her. I cannot deny who I was meant to become any longer. If she truly loves me, she will see the truth in it.

"I miss you, Uncle." Mordred shut his eyes. And some part of him that had held the line for all those centuries finally put down the shield. "And I loved you like a father."

"I know. And I looked upon you like my son. But let me rest. Let the memory of me finally die. You were never meant to become King Arthur, or King of Avalon. You were meant to become Mordred, the King in Iron."

The King in Iron.

Yes.

He supposed that would be suitable.

Now, all that remained was to see how long he would remain trapped within his own psyche, or if Gwendolyn succeeded in freeing him.

And after that?

How many dead he would leave in his wake.

If this is what Avalon needs of me…so be it.

And may the Ancients have mercy on all those who stand in my way.