Mordred sat near the body of his master.
The corpse had begun to go cold the flesh losing its warmth, the blood slowing in its veins, the life that had once filled Sir Bors fading into memory. Mordred looked at the face of the man who had raised him, who had taught him, who had loved him when his own father could not.
Sadness filled his heart.
Not the sharp, cutting sadness of grief. Something deeper. Something that settled into his bones and stayed there.
"I shall not turn myself into a stone," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "Incapable of feeling emotion. Simply because of the goal I have to undertake."
He looked at his hands at the hands that had just killed his teacher.
"In this world, there are people who do not accept the fact that they are human." His brow furrowed. "By narrowing themselves... and then bringing all their emotions to a single point."
He thought of Arthur. Of his father. Of the king who had exiled him, who had fought him, who had killed him.
"That is who my father the king is."
He shook his head.
"So weak. Yet at the same time... he is so strong." A pause. "I will not walk in that same path."
He touched Bors's cold hand.
"If I feel anger, I will be true to myself. If I feel happiness even when I'm supposed to be sad I will be true to myself. If I feel hate..." His voice hardened. "Then I will hate."
He looked at the grey sky.
"The beginning of strength is not having one conviction. The beginning of strength is weakness. For only if there is weakness..."
He trailed off, remembering.
"Perhaps, if things had turned the other way, you would be alive. To see the growth that I currently have."
He paused.
"No." He smiled. "I'm pretty sure that you have already seen it. Through the sword." His eyes softened. "Perhaps that is why you decided to challenge me in battle. You wanted to understand me. Through the blade."
He looked at Bors's face at the smile that still lingered there.
"It was truly beautiful. Beautiful. The best ever." His voice cracked. "I too was able to understand you. All your emotions. And the entire of your life."
Mordred drew out his main sword.
The black blade curved at the tip, forged from metal that had never seen the sun came free from its sheath. He raised it into the sky, letting the grey light glimmer along its edge.
For a moment, he held it there.
A tribute.
A promise.
A goodbye.
Then he stabbed the sword into the ground.
THUNK!
The blade sank deep into the sand, standing upright beside Bors's body like a grave marker, like a vow, like a sword waiting for its master to return.
Mordred stood up.
He bowed his head to the sword to the weapon that had killed his teacher, to the blade that had ended a life he loved.
"I will accomplish it," he said.
He pulled the blade from the ground.
And he turned to face Sir Gareth.
Gareth looked at him.
His eyes were filled with hate not the hot, burning hate of rage, but the cold, steady hate of a man who had made his peace with what he was about to do.
He looked at Mordred.
And he spoke.
"Step away from him. Now."
His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous.
"You are done with your respects." His hand tightened on his sword. "Now... you will face my form of judgement."
His eyes burned.
"So that I may show you what I mean."
Mordred tilted his head.
"Aren't you a bit heartless?" His voice was almost cheerful. "I expected that you would play dead. So that I could just... walk away."
He gestured at the battlefield around them at the bodies, at the blood, at the carnage that surrounded them all.
"Today has drawn a large toll. Death flows everywhere. There are bodies. So many bodies."
Gareth's expression did not change.
"Whatever you just said..." His voice was flat. "Whatever you mean... I really don't give a flying fuck about it."
He raised his sword.
"You were met with the gracious fight of a righteous man." His eyes narrowed. "I am not righteous. I am more deeper than that."
He launched forward.
His body blurred across the distance between them faster than Mordred expected, faster than any of his uncles had moved before. His sword swung not a thrust, not a stab, but a cut.
Aimed at Mordred's face.
Mordred bent.
His body folded low, deep, his back arching, his knees bending. The blade passed over him, close enough to stir his hair, close enough to cut if he had been a hair slower.
He straightened.
"So." His voice was quiet. "This is the devil's sword."
He looked at Gareth at the knight who had been Bors's friend, at the man who had watched his master die, at the fury burning behind those cold eyes.
"To battle with the devil..." He smiled. "I am proud."
Gareth's blade was raised.
Mordred's smile was wide.
And the grey sky watched.