Sir Mordred #2

(x)

Oh, you’ve returned. 

You want to know my appearance, you say? 

Very well, to whet your curiosity, I’ll do it, though I would think it should be an obvious enough thing. I’m fair complexioned, with pale eyes and dark, curly hair. I’m taller than any of my brothers, but, then again, despite their claims otherwise, that is no hard feat. My years of training as a knight have given me a fine form, with a lean, nimble body well-suited to the tourney. Amid all the usual equipment you would expect a knight to carry, my shield is probably the one thing that particularly stands out, as it is black with a silver bend sinister on it. Indeed, it is so recognizable that once, King Mark-But that was another time, long ago. Outside the blood and sweat of the tourney, I usually favor the proper clothes for my rank. Dark velvets, silks, etcetera, etcetera. I’ve heard tell by some in the castle that I would be handsome, were it not for a certain wickedness to be found in my expression, though I’ve not the slightest idea what they mean. But I suppose that gossips will do what they will, and their prattling are nothing to me, as there are plenty of others who seem willing to put up with my all my expressions, wicked as it may be. Indeed, I suspect they might appreciate them all the more.   

Oh, after my riveting tale last time, you want more of the dark side of Camelot? Who shall I discuss next, then, I wonder? What part of the bright, gleaming glamour that is Camelot shall we pick at today? (Sometime, I will have to tell you the sad truth about the weather, though that would take the better part of a day.) 

Hm, I believe I have discussed my father and mother in more than enough detail. If you cannot guess my feelings as to the former in particular by now, I’m not entirely convinced you’re intelligent enough to be worth my time. 

Very well, I suppose that now we should move on to the true king of England, Sir Lancelot. Good, decent, faithful Sir Lancelot, the dream of every young maiden and the envy of every young squire. Even, I will admit, a certain young knight from Orkney, at one point. What can I say? I was naive; I was excited to be out among all these knights of renown and bravery for the first time. We even travelled together, after Lancelot dealt with a…minor inconvenience of mine that is best not spoken of. Suffice it to say, I had the situation entirely under my control, however in my chivalry-addled state I viewed his intrusion as some sort of rescue. We even traveled together for a time, after he freed himself from some regrettable circumstance with Aunt Morgan. He does have something of an awful habit of being kidnapped by her, doesn’t he? Almost as awful as Queen Guinevere’s habit of being captured by every petty king, sorcerer, and bandit in the British Isles, but I digress, of course. My young, stupid self was absolutely thrilled to be in the company of The Great Sir Lancelot. It was like every idle daydream of my youth come true. 

Then we met the old man. He wouldn’t keep his mouth closed, no matter what I did or said. He just went on and on, even when I tried to close my ears he wouldn’t stop, telling me how I was a bastard, fated to destroy my father and ruin Camelot. 

So, I silenced him the only way I knew how. Vae Stultīs and all that. Lancelot, naturally, felt rather put out. He had been so eager, you see, to hear his own sordid destiny, and was upset that I’d denied him his chance. (Did you actually believe that the great Sir Lancelot would have a care to a man’s life?) 

I…disgusted him. I could see it in his eyes. I believe that he would have killed me then, had he not known my brothers would take vengeance. From that moment on, he turned cold to me, and I learned well enough the truth about what true, virtuous knighthood was. It was for the best; I was cured of my childish infatuation and in turn set my sights on better prospects, and, as an added benefit, I was never able to be disappointed again. Every time afterwards he killed some…meaningless peasant whose existence inconvenienced him some way, every time he laid with Guinevere while proclaiming his love for the King, every time he was showered with applause and praise while he showed himself to be nothing more than a braggart and a hypocrite, I no longer felt the burning outrage of youth but the cold disdain of manhood. 

While the rest of the court was shocked at the arrival of Sir Galahad, I could only sit back in mild amusement. What did they expect? Though I will own that it was greatly amusing to watch Lancelot scurrying around the woods as a madman for a few years. My greatest surprise was that his bastard was so…genuine. Rather like my younger self. I could own to some pity for him, in truth. There he is, eyes cast down on a singular, straight path, completely unaware of what life could offer if he freed himself from it all. It is rather a pity, you know. We would make a fine pair, he and I, the king’s bastard and the knight’s bastard, each of us bound to an epic fate, creating the world that would cause our fathers to rouse even from the deepest slumber and cry out in fear. But, alas, he insists on being dull and licking at the Church’s boots like a lady’s spaniel, so any dreams of shared patricide must be left as only that. More’s the pity. 

Really, the sad, bitter truth is that the only one in the court who I have any use for is my brother, Agravaine. He is the only one of my brothers not at Arthur’s heel at all hours of the day, the only one who’s not choking himself on useless vanities like “virtue” and “goodness.” Really, in this sad world we live in, he’s probably the closest thing I have to family. I believe I might almost care for him. He will be a useful asset to have on my side in the coming days, provided he doesn’t lose himself in his pride and do something foolish before the time is right.