[Third person POV]
Arthur looked around, disoriented and confused. He had expected to find himself in the familiar confines of his usual training field, the same one he always ended up in when dreaming. But this time was different. The scenery that greeted him was not one of peace or routine drills—it was a broken, devastated battlefield. The land around him was ravaged, torn asunder by war and violence. Blood soaked the earth like rainfall, and the air was thick with the lingering stench of death and smoke.
Everywhere he looked, remnants of battle littered the ground. Swords were impaled upright in the dirt like grave makings, while others lay scattered beside fallen knights in tarnished armor. Some of the corpses still clutched their weapons in a death grip, their eyes wide open in a permanent expression of terror or defiance. Horses, too, lay in twisted heaps, their noble forms brought down by arrows or savage wounds, mirroring the fates of their riders.
Arthur walked slowly, cautiously, each step deliberate as his boots pressed into the soaked, bloodied soil. His brow furrowed deeply, torn between confusion and a gnawing concern. He carefully stepped around the fallen, avoiding the bodies out of respect for the dead. His eyes lingered on a knight at his feet, and a strange, cold unease settled over him.
Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the sky. The ground trembled violently, a sudden quake rumbling beneath his feet and nearly knocking him off balance. Arthur instinctively widened his stance, grounding himself as he looked up toward the heavens. His eyes narrowed into slits, focusing on the source of the commotion above.
Soaring through the smoke-filled skies were two massive dragons locked in a brutal clash. One was white and gold, radiating with a noble, ethereal presence—Seraphenex. She was familiar to him, as though tied to his very soul. But her opponent was a terrifying monstrosity—a green dragon with jagged bone protrusions jutting from its back and wings, its entire body shaped by cruelty and chaos. Spikes crowned its skull and limbs, its very presence screaming destruction. The two titans clashed midair, snarling and roaring as they tore at each other with tooth, claw, and flame.
As the dragons drifted beyond hearing, Arthur's attention was pulled to a different sound. The unmistakable clashing of metal against metal echoed nearby, sharp and furious. Shouts followed—words dripping with rage and pain.
"Are you proud of me now, King Father?! Or are you still repulsed by my presence?!" a voice shouted, raw and jagged, metallic and layered in a way that sent a chill up Arthur's spine. "How repulsed are you now that I've managed to drag your precious kingdom into ruin?! The kingdom you loved so dearly, now reduced to ash and screams!!"
Arthur froze. His entire body trembled, his breath catching in his throat. He couldn't move—couldn't speak. His legs were rooted in place, paralyzed by a strange mix of foreboding with something else.
Then came another voice—this one older, weathered, and familiar. It carried the weight of sorrow, of battles lost both on the field and within the heart.
"You are my son! How could I possibly be repulsed by you?" the voice rang out. "It was your mother who twisted your mind with false beliefs. I tried to undo the damage, to steer you away from her misguided teachings. But her influence… it ran too deep."
Arthur shut his eyes tightly, his heart pounding in his ear. He forced himself forward, each step up the hill a battle of its own.
"Mordred, no matter how twisted your nature, no matter how far you've fallen, you are still my son. My only son. I could never truly hate you. And it wounds me more than anything to know that you don't understand that."
At last, Arthur crested the hill—and what he saw took his breath away.
Two knights stood locked in a deadly dance. One of them Arthur recognized instantly, despite the toll time and war had taken on his features. It was an older version of himself—his hair once bright now dulled with filth and age, his face hardened by time, marked with lines of fatigue and pain. His eyes, once full of innocent clarity, were now dimmed with the wisdom and sorrow of a king.
He wielded a blade unlike any Arthur had ever seen. It shimmered with a divine, untarnished light—a sword even more magnificent than Caliburn. Its luster was almost too pure, as though no blood had ever touched its edge.
Facing him was a knight clad in full, darkened armor, sleek and menacing. Two sharp horns protruded from his helmet, and in his grasp he held a crimson blade that pulsed with rage and malevolence. There was no mistaking him—Mordred.
The armored knight let out a laugh, unhinged and filled with hatred.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You don't hate me?! After everything I've done?!" he bellowed, madness dripping from every word. "I destroyed your precious Round Table. I butchered your loyal knights. I set fire to your kingdom and drowned it in blood! And still, you say you don't hate me? You're either as insane as I am, or just the biggest fool to ever wear a crown!"
King Arthur did not flinch. His voice, when it came, was heavy with sorrow and failure.
"Then call me a fool," he said. "If believing there's still a shred of the boy I once raised inside of you makes me a fool, then I wear that title proudly."
He stepped forward, sword raised—but not in hatred. In resolve.
"You are your mother's son in your fury… but I know there is just as much of me within you. I saw it. I celebrated your victories, I watched you become a knight, and my heart swelled with pride. Perhaps I never said it often enough… Perhaps I failed to show it. And for that, I am truly sorry."
Mordred gritted his teeth behind his horned helm, the metal creaking faintly under the pressure of his clenched jaw. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his crimson sword, trembling with barely contained fury. His voice dripped venom as he growled, "You're so goddamn pathetic, you make me sick."
He spat the words with raw hatred, each syllable sharp and scathing.
"It's far too late for apologies, old man. You still think there's any good left in me? Then let's see how much of it remains after I reduce the rest of this kingdom to rubble. After I burn down every monument to your name and slaughter the peasants who still kneel to your cursed rule—after I put your corpse in the ground!"
King Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting out a slow, mournful breath. There was no fear in his expression—only sorrow.
"I can't allow that, Mordred," he said softly, his voice heavy with resignation and regret. "I cannot allow you to do any more harm."
Mordred's voice rose into a furious crescendo. "So what now?! Are you going to kill me?!" he shouted, stepping forward, his armored frame brimming with rage. "Are you going to strike down your son for the sake of your precious kingdom?!"
Arthur's eyes opened, cool and unwavering. "I will not be acting as a father," he said, stepping into his stance. "But as a king."
That single sentence was the final spark.
With a guttural roar, Mordred's magic burst outward in a shockwave of burning red energy, cracking the earth around him. "THIS IS WHY I DETEST YOU!" he screamed, his voice thunderous, shaking the very heavens. "YOU ALWAYS CHOSE THE CROWN OVER ME! YOUR DUTY AS KING BEFORE YOUR DUTY AS A FATHER!"
He charged, sword raised, fury blazing in his movements as he rushed toward Arthur.
Time seemed to slow as Arthur stood his ground. He took a deep breath, then closed his eyes, the lines on his weathered face relaxing—not in peace, but in grim acceptance. He made no move to dodge. He let Mordred drive the cursed blade deep into his midsection, piercing through steel and flesh.
At the same time, Arthur thrust his own shining blade forward, guided not by sight but instinct, and embedded it into Mordred's chest—directly through his heart.
The world went still.
The wind died. The battle cries faded. The two warriors stood locked together, swords buried in one another, blood blooming from their mouths.
Arthur coughed, a weak smile curling across his bloodstained lips. Tears shimmered in the corners of his eyes, brimming and falling silently down his dirt-covered cheeks. "Forgive me…" he whispered, voice trembling, "Forgive me for being such a terrible father…"
Mordred shuddered, his voice hoarse and wet from the blood filling his throat. "I will never forgive you," he rasped. "Even in death… I'll haunt you. I'll chase you through every corner of the afterlife. You'll never know peace."
Arthur, hands shaking, reached up and gently touched the back of Mordred's helm. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the cold metal. For a brief moment, they were father and son again—not king and traitor.
"…What a shame," Arthur murmured. Then he kissed the top of Mordred's helm, his tears falling down his face. "But… I would appreciate the company. Maybe then we could start again… and I could finally be the father you needed."
Their arms slackened.
In one final, mirrored motion, they pulled their bloodstained swords free from each other's bodies. Crimson poured from their wounds like rivers.
Then, together, they collapsed—falling backward onto the scarred, blood-soaked battlefield.
As Arthur's vision dimmed, his voice drifted on the wind.
"…The father you truly deserved."
Mordred landed hard against the earth, his breath shallow, ragged. His gaze turned to the sky above, clouded and war-torn. His eyes trembled, glistening with unspoken emotion. And in the reflection of those eyes the image of a young Arthur appeared staring down at him.
Slowly he knelt behind.
Tears streamed freely down Arthur's face as he dropped to his knees, he carefully pulled Mordred's head in his lap with a gentleness and care. His hands trembled. His lips trembled, unable to form words. He held his son close as Mordred's blood mingled with the dirt beneath them.
Hot tears splashed against Mordred's helm, trailing down from Arthur's chin the battle field empty and quiet except for Arthur's sobs.
in that moment, for all their sins and failures, King and son became simply what they always should have been—
A father and his child.
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