Page 18 of To Love a Dark Lord

“I… don’t understand.”

“You never did. And look where it has gotten you.” Arthur grunted and shut his eyes again. “If only you had paid a little more attention, you might have avoided all of this nonsense. Imprisoned within your own magic—within your own mind. Your mother would be beside herself. And likely is, in whatever nether realm she found her way to.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Though I suppose she may have returned to the ether from which she came. If she were still in existence, she would have never let death keep her away.”

“That is true.” Mordred shook his head. Death would not have stopped Morgana for long. Her soul had likely returned to the dust and stars. “And I do not need reminding of how disappointed you both would be with me.”

“It can change. You still have a chance to become who, and what, you were meant to be.” Those blue eyes met his again, faded though they were with the fever.

“You say I was meant to be your shadow. Was I not always at your heel, eager to learn? Eager to follow in your footsteps?” Mordred clenched his fist. “Yet I was never good enough—not for you, not for them”—the hatred in his voice for the other knights was thick, and he saw no need to hide it—“and you see what they tried to do.”

“I did not need an heir, you fool!” Arthur coughed. It took everything in Mordred not to reach for the pitcher of water. “I needed the darkness in you. I needed you to do what I could not.”

Mordred furrowed his brow. He shook his head before muttering, “You are making little sense, which I suppose is not surprising, given that you are a figment of my failing mind.”

“There are times, as king, when decisions must be made. When lives must be spent. When the path of darkness must be followed. There are times when the sacrifice of the few protects the peace of the many. This cruelty—this unkindness—is necessary.” Arthur sighed. “I needed you to be the enforcer of such deeds, where I could not.”

“To what end? To protect your conscience, so you could sleep at night?” Mordred sneered.

“You are what you are meant to be, same as I. This was not to protect me, boy.” Arthur shut his eyes, the sweat of the fever still beading upon his brow. “Your feeble attempt at nobility is what binds you. Weakens you. Holds you back from your potential. You are not meant to be the righteous king, son of Morgana—you are meant to be the knife in the shadows. The fear of the abyss that keeps others in the light.”

Mordred ran a gauntleted hand over his face. This had to be the ramblings of his own mind. Arthur would never tell him to be the shark in the waters, waiting to maim any who strayed into deep waters.

Or would he?

It did not matter.

“You mean to tell me that my attempts to be good and kind are wrong. That is not the Arthur I knew.”

“That is the Arthur you did not see. The one you could not accept. Why do you believe Avalon chose you over me? Why did it let me die, while you were given the gift to foil all the others in the land? No other soul was given the gift of iron.”

“Save Gwendolyn.”

“That girl…” Arthur chuckled. “She will be the death of you.”

“I believe she already has been.” Mordred gestured idly at the tent around them. “Or, at least, my downfall.”

“Do not think my words are meant in derision.” Arthur opened his eyes again to watch Mordred. “I would have adored her. And you two together are a perfect match. She reminds me of…” He coughed.

“I noticed the similarities, yes.” Mordred smirked briefly. “I would think it a coincidence, if I did not know Avalon for what it was.”

Arthur reached for the pitcher of water but was too weak to stretch his arm far enough to grasp it. With a heavy sigh, Mordred poured his phantom king a mug of water and helped the other man drink it. “This is foolish.”

His uncle laid his head back into the pillow. “I will not argue with that.”

Mordred studied the dying man. “What would you have me do?”

“Be true to yourself. Be true to your nature. All these centuries you have lingered within a purgatory of your own making as you strove to be what you cannot. You are right—God needs his devil. And Avalon needs you to fulfill your destiny, whether you like it or not.”

“You wish me to become the monster that others believed me to be.”

“Mordred, have you looked at yourself?” Arthur smiled. “You are hardly doing yourself any favors.”

“Now, you sound like Gwendolyn.” Mordred stood from the stool to pace the room. This was the work of his own mind, his own psyche. But the words hit him no less hard than if they had been uttered by the man himself.

It would be freeing, he supposed, to give in. To be that which others saw—that which they seemed to wish for. He wondered how Gwendolyn would react, should he surrender to his instincts to destroy all those who would stand in opposition to him, regardless of the cruelty it would require.

Would she still love him?

Would she still desire him?

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