Chapter Text
Sir George and Sir Gregory stood on the battlement of Caerleon Castle, watching the mob below: a mindless, violent, and vandalic force which destroyed everything in its path. “They’re getting louder,” Gregory observed.
Sir George nodded. “Lord Mordred’s gotten them all riled up. They’ll be within the castle any minute now—soon enough they’ll be up here, even.”
Gregory sighed. Neither knight said anything about what they would do when that happened. “With the true king off fighting the Romans—”
“Good evening, gentleman.”
Obviously startled, the two knights went for their swords as they spun around. They had been watching the mob so intently they hadn’t even noticed Mordred coming up behind them. “Usurper,” spat out Sir Gregory on seeing Mordred.
Mordred only smiled. Now, Sir Gregory, certainly we can keep a civil tongue. Especially in the presence of the king.”
“If the king were here, he’d. . . .” Sir Gregory trailed off.
“Oh, but the king is here. Do you know why?” He pulled a dagger from his belt. “This blade says so. I’d advise you to remember what it has to say from now on, before it has to communicate its message in a more direct manner.”
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Sir George stepped in, conciliatory. How can one not mean anything by “usurper”? mused Mordred. It was a rather loaded word.
In any case, Sir Gregory seemed to hold no interest in letting George to be diplomatic. “I certainly did,” he said, “you treasonous bastard—”
“A bastard I am,” admitted Mordred. “Only weak men fear the truth.”
“Lord Mordred—King Mordred! I—I—” Sir George could only stammer. At least he has that much wisdom, Mordred thought. He knows when he ought to be scared.
Sir Gregory’s reaction to George’s attempt to play diplomat was one marked more by disgust. “You weak-willed excuse for a—”
“Certainly the sniveling wimp has no backbone, but at least he has the good sense—which you lack—to side with the inevitable winner.”
“Inevitable, my ass. When the true king returns,” Gregory said, looking Mordred in the eyes, “he’ll—”
Mordred slapped him, a strong blow across the jaw which sent the man reeling. Gregory grabbed his cheekbone, clearly embarrassed at being injured so easily by a seventeen-year-old being. He drew his sword.
“You are getting weak, old man,” Mordred taunted. “Why do you think Arthur left you behind? You were no good to him, and now you defend him still? With your life?”
“There is something,” said Gregory, clutching his sword, “called honor. You do not understand it.”
“Oh, I understand it. It’s what keeps you in your place, and Arthur on his throne. I’m quite grateful for it, actually. It’s your honor which kept Arthur king until it was my turn, and which will keep me king when he is but a memory, like all of the tyrants of old, his father before him included.
“But enough of this. I am the king now in the only real sense, the only sense that matters: I hold the power.” He flipped his dagger into the air, then caught it by its hilt. “In this case: the power of life and death. Let me guess which will be your fate.”
Sir Gregory lunged; it was little trouble for Mordred the old man’s thrust and plunge his dagger into Gregory’s chest. He turned to Sir George. “Give me one reason why I should let you live.”
“My king—”
“Time’s up.” He killed George.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Mordred turned around to see Nimue.
“The old fool couldn’t help being a spineless coward.” Mordred turned back around, facing his original direction, this time to see Merlin. They were surrounding him, was that it?
“Lord Wizard,” Mordred greeted Merlin.
“A delightful mob that you have riled up,” said Merlin. “You are quite the firebrand, I see?”
“What do you want?” Mordred did not trust the wizard any more than his mother did. He did not judge Merlin, understood the thirst for power, but that didn’t make the wizard any less unreliable.
It was Nimue, however, who answered. “To congratulate you,” she said, a sly smile on her girlish face. “On the successful seizure of your father’s throne, no less.”
“It’s quite a coup you’ve engineered, my boy,” Merlin agreed. “Rather impressive, I must say. Two dead bodies at our very feet, and how many elsewhere? So many others; new ones fall each moment, left and right. Drunken peasants calling out for freedom! How drôle. Yet so intense and so violent. When everything else becomes blasé, a riot is still a joy to watch, you know? As the passion takes hold of a people so that they do as a group, under its power, what they would never dream of doing as individuals . . . such a joy.”
“Get on with it, wizard.”
“Since you were a child,” Merlin explained, “it has been the same old thing. Oppressive taxes, terrible restrictions, the people practically reduced to slaves, toiling under the heavy burden of your father’s laws. And, I, in the shadows, causing it all, along with Nimue. It was delicious in itself for a few years, but such pleasures get old rather quickly. But it’s been culminating to this point, Mordred, waiting for you. Had it not happened tonight, then it would have ten years hence. Anger and frustration have been building, waiting to be released in a glorious insurrection. War, chaos, anarchy, all over again—it’s about time, don’t you think?”
What was this man’s agenda, Mordred wondered not for the first time. As he said, he lurked in the shadows, always, manipulating the affairs of Caerleon and of Britain. The combined might of his mother and the other Queens of Faerie could not stop him. But what did the wizard want? Could it be as simple as his mother painted it, a single-minded thirst for destruction?
“Wizard, you are insidious,” was all Mordred said.
Merlin nodded as if to accept the compliment, He turned, walked into the shadows, and vanished.
Nimue looked at Mordred, her face inscrutable. “And now,” she said at last, “to consummate your victory.”
“What do you mean?”
“She waits for you,” Nimue answered, stepping back into the shadows. “Go, my lord. Let the last blow against your father be struck.” Then the shadows engulfed her, too, and Mordred was alone.
* * *
The door opened. Mordred did not knock, Guinevere noticed, or ask permission; he acted. He came through the door, tall and handsome, ready to take that which he wanted. And here she was for him, was she not? Beautiful and stunning as always.
“So,” she said. “You’ve decided to show up after all.” Mordred paused, clearly taken back by her directness. “Well, come on, now. You came here for a reason, did you not? Certainly not to stand there and gape. It’s bad enough with Arthur. I’m not going to hold your hand through this. You are better than that, are you not? You are king. Take charge, show that you deserve your prize.”
Mordred glared at him, clearly aware that she was manipulating him, but complied anyway. “Take off your clothes,” he commanded. Again, no preamble, no courtesies, nothing but a brutal glorious, command. He said what he wanted.
Regardless, Guinevere did not move. She simply sat there, waiting for Mordred to make the next move.
Frustrated, he slapped her in the face.
Her face stung; the blow hurt. Mordred was strong; she had seen him in combat against Sir Bohort and twice against Sir Lancelot. Neither was Mordred afraid of hurting her. She was his now, and she knew he would do to her whatever he wished. None of Arthur’s nonsense of respect for his wife; Mordred would take charge, a real man.
The pain across her cheek continued, very real, allowing her to feel the force of Mordeds brutal passions, the Adamic drive that would not be satiated until it physically possessed her, his body pressing down upon hers. The drive controlled Mordred now.
And it was Guinevere who controlled the drive.
“Take off your clothes,” Mordred repeated, forcefully but calmly.
“Finally, you are beginning to take charge,” said Guinevere. “You are the king: act like one! Don’t depend on me—I am still Arthur’s wife, am I not? Till death do us part, as they say. Supposedly, it is my duty to resist.”
She raised her gaze to meet Mordred’s; she could see the anger and frustration in his eyes, a passion which raged so strongly for her body. “A girl has to hedge her bets, you know,” she said. “If you want my clothes off, you’ll have to take them off yourself.”
Mordred didn’t have to be asked twice. Violently, he stripped off her clothing, tearing at it with a single-minded enthusiasm, sending her body flying in this direction and that. She could feel the bruises form on her arms and legs, attestations that he had made her his. This was a man, who took charge, a real king, who did not have to depend on an enchanted sword or on a wizard, she thought as she was stripped naked by Mordred, her wholesome, voluptuous flesh revealed to him bit by bit—flesh that was now his. His prize, stolen from his unworthy father.
And then, like a king, he took her.