Sir Bors and Sir Gareth dismantled from Mordred.
They moved as one two bodies, two blades, two wills operating in perfect synchronization. Bors stepped back and to the left. Gareth stepped back and to the right. The space between them and Arthur's son widened, creating a triangle of potential violence.
Mordred straightened.
The two Roman swords hung at his sides dripping, waiting, hungry. His eyes followed his uncles' movements, reading every shift of weight, every flicker of muscle, every breath.
"What's this, uncles?" His voice was light, almost playful. "I was learning. You're teaching me, aren't you?"
He tilted his head.
"I want to learn more."
Sir Bors smiled.
It was not a warm smile. Not a mocking smile. Something in between the smile of a man who had seen too much, who had lost too much, who was tired beyond measure.
"Hey, Gareth." His voice was quiet. "Let's make this nostalgia, shall we?"
Gareth's brow furrowed.
"He wants to learn." Bors's smile widened. "It's reminding me of our first lesson."
He closed his eyes.
A training ground. Not the grand courtyard of Camelot a smaller place, a private place, hidden behind the castle walls. The stones were worn smooth by countless feet. The wooden dummies were chipped and splintered from countless strikes.
And in the center of it all, a boy.
Twelve years old.
Dark hair. Bright eyes. A face that had not yet hardened into the mask of the man he would become.
Mordred.
He held a wooden sword in both hands too large for his frame, too heavy for his arms. But he held it anyway. Grip tight. Knuckles white. Determination burning behind his eyes.
Sir Bors stood across from him.
He too held a wooden sword shorter, lighter, balanced for his experienced hand. His stance was relaxed. His breathing was steady. His face was kind.
"Come forward," Bors said. "Show me what you've learned."
The boy charged.
He moved faster than Bors had expected faster than most adults he had trained. His wooden sword whipped through the air, cracking against Bors's guard.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
He attacked without rhythm. Without pattern. Without thought. Each strike was a surprise not because it was clever, but because it was chaotic. Bors blocked them all, but barely.
He's a genius, Bors thought, his eyes tracking the boy's movements. A raw, untamed genius.
But genius was not enough.
The boy's attacks were wild. Uncontrolled. He put everything into each strike all his strength, all his rage, all his self leaving nothing for defense. His sides were open. His back was exposed. His legs were unguarded.
Bors kicked.
His foot slammed into the boy's leg not hard, not cruel, just enough. The boy's balance broke. His feet tangled. His body twisted.
He fell.
CRACK!
His head slammed against a rock at the edge of the training ground. The sound was sharp ugly enough to make Bors wince.
But the boy did not cry out.
He lay there for a moment, his eyes wide, his breath heaving. Then he rose.
His face was twisted not with pain, but with anger. With hate. His eyes burned as if he wanted to bite Bors, to tear him apart, to destroy everything that had made him fall.
He charged again.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
Wilder than before. Faster. Harder. His wooden sword cracked against Bors's guard like a hammer against an anvil.
Sir Bors smiled.
"Hey, young master." His voice was calm, gentle. "That isn't how you fight."
He blocked another strike.
"You really should calm down your temper." His eyes met the boy's. "It won't be good at all if you keep doing things like this."
The boy did not answer.
He slammed his head into Bors's stomach.
The impact was sudden unexpected. Bors's breath left him in a great whoosh. His guard dropped. His wooden sword lowered.
The boy did not stop.
He raised the hilt of his wooden sword the pommel, the blunt end and brought it down on the same spot. The area Bors had already been hit. The weak spot.
THWACK.
Bors staggered back, one hand pressed against his stomach, the other still gripping his sword.
Not only does he have a tenacious attitude, Bors thought, his eyes fixed on the boy's furious face. He has rage. No patience. He's always chasing victory... even if that victory must not be stable.
He smiled.
The young master is very dangerous.
He grabbed the boy's hand.
His fingers closed around the boy's wrist hard, firm, unbreakable. He pulled, lifting the boy off the ground, raising him until their eyes were level.
"That's not the way a swordsman does battle." Bors's voice was quiet, but it carried weight. "I agree that most swordsmen's paths are not straight. They are filled with tricks, with deceit, with cleverness all meant to defeat the enemy."
He shook his head.
"But yours..." He looked at the boy's face at the rage, the hate, the hunger. "I could not even call it a sword style."
He threw the boy to the ground.
The impact was soft the sand cushioned the fall. But the message was hard.
"You should stick to the sword." Bors raised his wooden sword, pointing it at the boy's chest. "Again. Come at me, young master."
His voice hardened.
"With the way of the sword."
FLASH.
The present.
Sir Bors opened his eyes.
The memory faded but its weight remained. He looked at Mordred at the man the boy had become, at the monster he had helped create.
"Come at me."
His voice was low. Cold. Absolute.
"You rebel."
Mordred held his Roman swords.
Bors held his blade.
And the grey sky watched.