Chapter 9

Mordred remembered the wonder he felt when he first set foot in Avalon. The magic that his mother had gifted him by her lineage sang within him in a way he had never heard before. It knew its own kind—it knew that Avalon was a place of power.

He wondered, now, so many centuries later, if that was why Avalon had chosen him over Arthur. Kin to kin, magic to magic, chaos to chaos. But it was only speculation.

The knights had trudged through the fog and mist for days before reaching the shore of a lake that he did not recognize, nor had he seen on any map. But Merlin had never led them astray in such matters. And there the wizard stood, waiting, leaning upon his gnarled wooden staff. A skiff sat in the water beside him, the still waters of the mirrorlike surface undisturbed by its presence. The figurehead was carved in the shape of a dragon, its eyes glowing a faint white that glimmered with shades of every color.

The silence in the air was deafening. There was no wind. No rustle of leaves or chirp of animals. Not even insects buzzed. It was as though this were a place somehow removed from reality, separate from all that they knew.

There would be no going back.

What waited for them on the other side, he had not known at the time. But in his heart, he was certain of the fact that this was, one way or another, a journey from which he would not return. The duty remained, however. The king lay dying, and only the magic of the isle of Avalon could save him.

What choice did he have?

He had sworn an oath.

They carefully lifted Arthur's stretcher into the skiff. It barely moved with their weight as they clambered in, as gracefully as they could in their armor. Merlin was the last to board, his face set in grim determination.

Mordred always wondered if he knew what was to follow. If he had a vision of the future and could see with certainty that Arthur was already doomed. If he could have but told Mordred to stay behind—to change his path forward.

If such things were even possible.

Wondering whether or not his fate could have been rewritten was pointless. Such backward gazing did no good to change the path ahead. He climbed aboard that skiff. It set away from the world as he knew it. And when the mist broke, the beauty before him had taken his breath away.

Such color. Such wonder. Creatures the likes of which he had never seen nor even dreamed of. Bizarre and wonderful, strange and fantastical. Only Galahad seemed unimpressed—but as he was Seelie, Mordred knew the fae knight was far more accustomed to such things than the others.

Their march had not yet ended.

Merlin led the way through the woods. None of them dared question the wizard as to where they were headed. Arthur's fever was slowly worsening. They did not whisper of the possibility of the king's demise. Such things were unheard of. Unthinkable. Impossible.

He was the King of the Britons. The rightful ruler of them all. The world would be lost without him. It was as the sun turned the sky ambers and reds when it set toward the horizon that they finally stopped to make camp.

Mordred was the one on watch when the elementals arrived, though he had not known them by such a name at the time.

She drifted into camp like a wisp upon the wind, her butterfly wings shimmering in the firelight as she approached from the darkness, a bundle of gifts in her hands. Herbs. Food. Medicines.

When she approached Arthur, Mordred gripped the hilt of his sword. Galahad was the one who stopped him from drawing it, the fae placing his hand on Mordred's arm to give him pause. Mordred had not missed the expression of awe on the other knight's face, though at the time he had not been able to name it for what it was.

Wordlessly, the woman he would come to know as the Gossamer Lady placed the gifts on the ground next to King Arthur, bowing her head in reverence to the dying man.

Others came then. Beings made of fire. Of ice. Of water. Of the trees. Of the very air itself. Men and women and all else that seemed to be born of the very marrow of the world around them.

One by one, in a procession, bringing gifts of their own. It was not until the last visitor had placed their gifts that the Gossamer Lady spoke, her hands clutched over her heart.

"Long have we waited for the King of Avalon to come." Her soft words carried through the air like the caress of a spring breeze. "Long will he reign, and long will we serve." She bowed her head. "Noble King Arthur, we welcome you."

Each of the elementals bowed before retreating into the darkness. It was only as the last one disappeared into the shadows of the woods that Mordred allowed himself to exhale the breath he had been holding perhaps the entire time they had been present.

The sense of hope was palpable. If the denizens of Avalon knew of their coming, Arthur must be destined to live. There was laughter amongst the knights for the first time since the Battle of Camlann as they shared in the bounty of the gifts.

Only Mordred stayed at his post by the king's side, keeping guard while he watched the others banter and tease each other.

"You were always the outsider. Always different."

This conversation had not happened. "Yes," Mordred said. "You needn't remind me."

"You knew you were different. And they could sense it." Arthur's voice was thin and strained. "Sense in you the river of darkness that runs so deep in your soul."

"This conversation is merely a figment of my shattering mind. This is not real. Your opinions do not matter." Mordred rolled his eyes. "Please stop disgracing the memory of the man who would never have wished me to become a rampaging beast."

"When did I tell you to become the feral wolf?" The king sighed. "You are not listening to me."

"You are not here!"Mordred fought the urge to punch the vision of his uncle to death. His shout of rage did nothing to alert the other knights who still chattered and told each other stories the way they had on that fateful night.

The night that his life had taken such a terrible turn.

The night that Arthur had died.

"Perhaps. Perhaps you are talking to yourself. Or, perhaps you are not. Either way, there is wisdom in listening to one's heart, do you not agree?" Arthur turned his head to watch the other knights. "I gave you Caliburn and my crown in hopes you would do what they could not."

"Murder."

"No. What needed to be done. What needs to be done still to this day."

Mordred curled his knuckles and rubbed his temples with them; using his clawed fingertips would certainly add to his headache, not relieve it. "This is farcical. If I must relive these dreadful memories, must you provide commentary? Though, I suppose I only have myself to blame if you are a figment of my own soul."

"That is precisely what I am attempting to tell you—repeating the mistakes of the past will get you nowhere new, Mordred. If Gwendolyn frees you—when she frees you—what will you do? Act in self-defense alone as the elementals unite against you? Raise your head up high and pretend to be the noble king you were never meant to be?"

"I have given up on such foolhardy hopes."

"Then why do you still act as if you have not?" Arthur grunted in frustration. "You muzzle your wrath. They should fear you."

"They do."

"But not enough. You present to them a foe that can be challenged. A wall that can be breached. There is another way forward. A way that embraces your true nature. Your true self." Arthur reached out a hand and weakly placed it upon Mordred's wrist. "The wrath in the shadows. The fear of what will come when they disobey."

He grimaced. "You would have me become some fairytale boggart? The whispers that are told to children to ensure they eat their vegetables? Now, you insult me."

"If you had ever met a boggart, you would know they are far more than myth." Arthur let his hand fall back into his lap. "She needs you. And she needs you to be your true self. For she cannot walk the path you are meant to tread."

Mordred felt his jaw tick. To that, he had no answer. To that, he had no riposte.

For Gwendolyn, he would do anything.

Become anyone.

And destroy the world if he must.

For her.

He shut his eyes. "I am remiss in my duties. I promised her I would seek to find a hint to where they have hidden the Crystal. If I am to become this wrath in the darkness that you entreat me to become, I cannot do so languishing inside a prison of my own madness."

"Now you are finally speaking sense, boy." Arthur struggled to sit up but was too weak to do so. "Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

Mordred resisted the urge to help him. "Finally, you may prove to have an actual purpose."

"Now, now. I am not the truth you must face. I am not the one blocking the path to your freedom. There is another you must confront for such things."

Fantastic. "Who?"

Arthur laughed as the memory faded away. "You know who."

Yes. He supposed he did.

Gwen decided that the ability to magically fashion herself things was really coming in handy. It made the idea of camping under the stars with no supplies more palatable than sleeping on the dirt in her clothes. She could at least create enough fabric to make a bedroll and some blankets. Starting a campfire was the easiest part, for obvious reasons.

She snuggled into the makeshift pillow and watched the fire dance. She missed having someone to talk to. Or Eod to snuggle with. It was…strange, being on her own. She hoped everyone was okay. She hoped all of Bert's friends survived, though she knew that was highly unlikely.

Rolling onto her back, she gazed up at the stars overhead. They weren't the stars from home, not that she was expecting them to be. Avalon was a world between worlds, after all—a junction between other realities. She wondered how many there were. Probably countless universes, filled with strange and fascinating people and monsters. She wondered if that's what Avalon's stars were—all those worlds.

It made her feel a little less alone, strangely. Watching them watching her, twinkling high above. Taking a deep breath, she let it out, and reached her hand up toward them. She didn't know why. She didn't even know what she was after.

Letting her hand fall back down after a moment, she rolled onto her side and snuggled into the pseudo-pillow again. When she dreamed, she would be with Mordred. Or what was left of him, at any rate. The thought of it encouraged her to take a deep breath and try her best to fall asleep. And not long after, she was.

For better or worse.

She didn't need to ask what memory she had popped into. She could guess, judging by the shouting. Judging by the knights standing off against Mordred.

"Traitor!"

"Murderer!"

"Usurper!"

Even Galahad stood with his sword raised, ready to attack.

Mordred was on one knee, tears streaking down his cheeks, staring down at his palms which were now covered in iron with those twisted, cruel, and jagged claws. King Arthur lay on the cot behind him, eyes open and sightlessly staring at the night sky. At the same stars she had just been contemplating.

He was dead.

Mordred had become an elemental.

And the knights sought to kill him for it.

"I did—I did nothing—this is not my fault!" he shouted at the other knights, his voice cracking in his grief. "I do not know what has transpired, my brothers, please?—"

Lancelot stepped forward. "You killed him. This place was clearly meant to choose him, and would have, had you not murdered him first!"

"I did not—he died of the fever—" Mordred pushed himself up to his feet, grief and rage now mixing on his features in equal measure. "I am no usurper! He is my uncle, my family. He was going to leave his crown to me, why would I hurry to have him dead?"

"He left his crown to you?" Lancelot sneered. "Liar. Thief. Usurper. He would have never chosen you over any of us. Your blood is cursed, your mother saw to that when she seduced Arthur!"

Mordred snarled, his hands clenching into fists. "I will have your slanderous tongue."

"Come and take it. I have long awaited the chance to make you eat my blade, bastard."Lancelot laughed.

"Enough." Galahad stepped in between Lancelot and Mordred. "Our king is dead. Our brother has become…" Galahad's jaw twitched. "Something else entirely. I recommend we rest and grieve, and deal with this in the morning when cooler heads might prevail."

"You mean to make camp with this—this—" Lancelot paced away, incensed. "I will not break bread with him."

"Then do not. I do not care." Galahad shook his head. "The truth of the matter is, we do not know what has happened." He turned his gaze mournfully to the dead king. "And I have no taste for bloodshed."

Lancelot spat on the ground and paced farther away, slumping down on a rock by the edge of the clearing. The others dispersed. All save Mordred and Galahad.

Galahad said nothing, simply stared at Mordred for a pregnant pause before shaking his head and turning away in clear disappointment.

"They will wait until I am asleep," Mordred said, addressing Gwen for the first time. His tears were dry, but it was clear his anger and sorrow remained. "They will plot to slit my throat. You know what happens next."

"Y…yeah, I do." She walked up to him, almost afraid to approach. But he wouldn't hurt her. That much she was certain of. Reaching out, she hugged him, pulling him close and letting him bury his head in the crook of her shoulder. He clutched her to him like she was a lifeline. Or a raft in a terrible ocean storm.

Maybe she was.

"I know what I must become to be free," he murmured, barely audible.

Furrowing her brow, she pulled back to meet his rusty-colored gaze. "What do you mean?"

The smile he wore was weary, but there was affection in his eyes. More than affection—love. He stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckle. "I will leave the decision to you, my lady. Would you still love me, come what may?"

"I—yeah, but—I—I don't know what you're asking me." Nervousness began to prick at her. "What are you saying, Mordred?"

"I know now what must be done. What I must do to save Avalon from itself." There was a look in his eyes then, a darkness she had only seen a few times. It sent a shiver of fear down her spine, and if she was being honest with herself, attraction. "Can you love me as a monster? For if you cannot, I would rather languish here in this cage until there is nothing of me left to rescue."

The idea of him surrendering twisted something in her gut. "I love you, Mordred. I love you for who you are—not in spite of it. You can't give up. I need you. I can't do this alone. I can't—I don't want to do this without you."

He smiled. And his expression was not altogether kind. "That is all I needed to hear. Come. Let us discover what we can together." He held his hand out to her, palm up. Those claws of his never ceased to be intimidating, even if she knew how gentle he could be with them when he wanted to.

This was a mistake.

This was a big fucking mistake.

Swallowing the rock in her throat, she put her hand in his.

But she loved him.

And in the end, that was all there was to it.