Fate, such a fickle thing isn't it?
One second, you're ruling a kingdom, leading the land to a golden age.
Next, a rebellion is spurred in by your 'son' while the land crumbles.
Wasn't even the worst part, really.
That would be the blood.
It stretched as far as the eye could see.
It misted through the air, choking you as you breathed.
It soaked into the mud, forever staining the land.
It drowned out the cries of the dying, the cries of her people.
And all the legendary King of Knights could do is bite her tongue from crying out, from lashing out in pain at her kin twitching out lifelessly onto the battlefield.
Artoria buried the scream, ground it down behind clenched teeth until all that remained was the very steel in her hands. Excalibur rose and fell again, slashing through a knight, his wrists separated from his body as he fell to the floor... a quick stab to his neck ensured he didn't die too painfully.
A quick death, something these traitors didn't deserve but how couldn't she? She recognized the man, even beneath the blood and ash, he was an aide to her son and was someone she herself appointed.
Her sword arm never faltered, but her heart recoiled with every kill of hers. The thought gnawed at her raw... if she had spoken a word of love, if she had treated him like a son rather than a nephew, would this sea of corpses have ever risen? Would Gawain and the rest lived to see through the night?
Would Mordred have faithfully waited for his time?
Nevertheless, there was no time for these useless thoughts.
The clash of steel had dulled into near silence, broken only by the groans of the dying and the brittle snap of bones beneath her boots as she walked across the piles of bodies.
Friend, foe... it no longer mattered.
Both sides lay mangled, their blood pooling together in that same gutwrenching red.
Far ahead, a pillar of red light pierced through the sky, parting the clouds.
"Clarent… of all blades to take, you had to choose that one." She spits the words more to the dead than anyone in particular.
It hurts that he took the sword of peace, the blade meant for ceremony, brotherhood, coronation… and twisted it into a weapon of rebellion.
"A sword that was meant to bind, now raised only to sever… How fitting for my son."
The ground around the pillar was a shallow grave, strewn with bodies curled like broken offerings at its base. For a moment she stood still, breath locked in her chest, Excalibur trembling faintly in her grip as though it too recoiled.
She stepped closer, mud clinging to her greaves, as the stink of blood rose with every pace, and in the hum of that crimson blade she thought she heard the voice of all her failings.
"My son… Strange, that it feels so foreign on my tongue now."
Her boots grated across shattered shields, the broken emblems of knights who once swore to her cause.
"Had I given you the crown sooner, perhaps you would not have stolen it… Had I given you love, perhaps you would not crave vengeance… Yet here we are."
Excalibur shifted in her hand, the blade catching what little light broke through the smoke-choked sky.
"And still… I must kill you."
Artoria pressed a foot down, planting it like an anchor against the wretched earth, then pushed… hard, a clean shove that uncoiled through her hips and sent her practically flying. Mud spat from below as shields and broken helms rattled underfoot as she cleaved a path through this hellscape.
She did not run so much as become the very wind itself.
"I must kill the one proof I ever had of family, lest the dream die in your hands instead of mine."
The field was filled with nothing but dead men and memories of their wake… and it was those very memories that bore witness to the King sprinting across the battlefield, her speed scattering banners and stirring the blood-slick fog.
In the space of seconds she had crossed the graveyard that had once been a battlefield, until she slid to a halt, one boot carving a deep groove in the muck. Excalibur steadied her as she rose, its light shivering against the pall.
And there they stood... alone, untouched amidst the ruin.
A knight clad in white and red, horns of steel curling upward from their helm like a demon's crown. Clarent gleamed in their grip, red as the blood that drowned the earth, a stolen heirloom now turned against the very hand that should've... no, would've have blessed them.
"Mordred."
The helm tilted, just enough for the air to catch on the jagged edges of its horns. Beneath the visor, breath rasped... alive, too alive for her liking.
"…Father."
The knight let that word hang between them, heavy as lead.
"Do not call me that." Her grip tightened on her blade, her knuckles whitening beneath her gauntlets.
Steel groaned as Mordred flexed their grip, the red light of Clarent spilling a glow across their armour. "What else should I call you? The King of Knights? The Invincible King? The parent who carved me into existence, yet denied me what I was owed!?"
"I would've given it to you." Her voice was iron sharpened thin, trembling at the edge of breaking.
"Would have? Would have?" Their laugh came jagged, a bark too raw to be called mirth. "All of Albion bent its knee to you, and still you never bent so much as a finger towards me… Always duty…. Always destiny… And never… never me."
Artoria drew breath as though each word struck flesh, Excalibur's light wavering in her grip. "…I would have given it to you, had you not taken it first. Had you trusted me. Had you waited."
"Waited?" Mordred spat, Clarent humming with a venomous heat. "I was born waiting! Waiting to be seen, to be named, to be chosen. And in the end, you saw me only when my sword was pointed at your throat."
The fog coiled tighter between them, stirred by the weight of their voices, by the fury that sparked between the two..
Artoria lowered her head, shadows cutting sharp across her eyes. "…You are not wrong."
And before she could even continue another sentence, Mordred lunged first, Clarent flashing red as it cut through the mist.
Artoria raised Excalibur in response, the two blades colliding with a scream of metal that rattled her arms to the shoulders. Sparks flew where steel met steel, and the force shoved her backward, boots skidding through mud and over bodies.
She planted herself hard, muscles coiled, and swung horizontally. Clarent met it, the impact jolting up her arms, fingers white against the hilt. Mordred twisted, using their momentum to pivot behind her, forcing her to pivot on her heels, mud spattering in arcs around them.
Another strike, Excalibur rose, blocking a downward swing, then countered with a thrust aimed for Mordred's chest. The knight parried, stepping back only slightly, their horns catching the low sunlight as they angled Clarent for a horizontal slash. Artoria dropped her weight, side-stepped, and brought the blade down in a chopping arc that would have split a normal man in two… only to miss and leave a long stretch of earth sliced apart.
They both pulled back, circling.
The fog and blood-streaked mud provided footing for precise kicks, thrusts, and sudden shifts in weight. Each clash ringing like a hammer striking an anvil. Every missed strike left a dent in the ground, a groove in the mud, a spattered smear of gore from the corpses they used as footing.
Mordred feinted low, then twisted upward, trying to catch her off guard. Artoria raised Excalibur just in time, the force vibrating up her arm, throwing off her balance. She pushed with her legs, spinning into a full rotation to regain stance, Excalibur now leveled and ready.
They moved faster, their steps syncing with the rhythm of clash and parry. Mud flew, leather and steel screamed, and sweat stung her eyes beneath the helmet. Every swing drew small gouges in the earth, every block sent vibrations up through her shoulders. They were a storm contained in a narrow ring, a duel of pure mechanics, stamina, and timing… each strike a test, each movement a commitment.
Artoria was the first to break this parlay, this farce.
She shifted her weight low, boots sliding through the mud as she closed the distance in a mere moment, her hand shooting up to the jagged horns jutting from Mordred's helm.
Fingers locking around cold metal.
With a sharp, heaving pull, she yanked them forward, forcing her son onto the tip of Excalibur. The blade drove up through armor, through flesh, and a scream tore free whilst blood splattered out, seeping down from their helmet..
Mordred's knees buckled, their body folding over Excalibur, red flooding over the blade, soaking her gauntlets.
But the duel was not yet done. Even pinned and gasping, Mordred's free hand shot upward in a last ditch effort. Clarent's point drove into Artoria's chest just below the breastplate, searing through steel and flesh alike. Pain flared, a white-hot shock that stole her breath and knocked her balance for a heartbeat.
Excalibur quivered, blood seeping down the hilt, but she tightened her grip, pulling Mordred fully onto the blade with a final push. Their body went limp, weight sagging against hers… as at last, the rebellion was quelled.
The battle didn't even last 12 seconds, with the speed of it all.
And yet, the echo of Clarent burned through her chest, a painful reminder of what her failure had cost her, of what this filial son had cost her.
She swallowed a sob, her voice cracking for the first time as she willed herself to speak.
"Just one more... One last chance..."
Her knees gave way, the earth claiming her as it had claimed so many before her. Excalibur slipped from her grasp, sinking into the blood-soaked mud. Her hand pressed futilely to the wound that seared through chest and soul alike, but it was already too late.
Her breath came in ragged threads, fading as if the wind itself were stealing it. Eyes that had once burned with the fire of a kingdom dimmed, the light of a king fading with each passing second.
And there, at the Battle of Camlann, Artoria fell.
The King of Knights
The Once and Future King
The Red Dragon
- 539 CE
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Evinitive here! I'm trying something new with this fic, so let me know if you like the style
I'll probably had some more prologues in the future, add more focus onto the moments leading up to this.