Blood. Cold. Cries. The grey skies were frowning down at the crooked land which was covered with fallen knights and horses. There was nothing but destruction and despair, every inch of the land burned or damaged. All the birds and animals have fled. The king’s loyal friends were all either dead or mortally wounded. So were his enemies. The wind was carrying the song of the death around the Camlann field.
Arthur was still standing, surprisingly, with Excalibur in his hand, ready for its last battle. Against him, Mordred, breathing heavily, though still determined to finish this. This was what he had been preparing for all those years. This was his moment.
She wanted to move forward but couldn’t. As if some invisible force was holding her back and she could do nothing but to watch this bloodshed until its bitter end. She could also feel another pair of eyes watching. Older, sadder eyes.
The king moved forward, his step heavy. His son evaded the attack, meeting Excalibur with his own blade and pushing back. Both of them clearly found each and every move equally exhausting but none was willing to step down. This is where it ends.
Now Mordred jumped at Arthur, aiming at his shoulder with a loud cry. Perhaps it caught him by surprise when the blade met with something else but the air but when Arthur winced with pain; it was as if a new life was breathed into Mordred’s veins. His next charge was faster, more energetic. He had nothing to lose now. One by one his allies and enemies fell in this battle which had led them to this moment. Camelot was gone, the naïve idealistic kingdom destroyed from within. If he won- once he won -he could build a new kingdom, stronger and better than any before.
He charged again, twice, three times, pushing Arthur backwards with each hit. The king was bleeding and seeing him weakening only drove Mordred forward. Then, as if by magic, he got a second wind. Not ready to give up on his creation quite yet, the king swung Excalibur at his son as if he wasn’t badly wounded himself.
Morgause could see it all. She could see every flaw in each of their’s movements, every weakness and strength. She knew many spells she could use to help Mordred defeat Arthur but couldn’t use any of them. For once in her life, she felt as desperate and helpless as she did the day Uther first came to her home, disguised as her father. Somebody’s hand connected with hers.
It felt as if it should never end. When one started to get fatigued, the other rose with more energy and vice versa. As if the gods wanted to see what the warriors can really do. Which one of them is more worthy. Finally, as the sun started to go down, a ray of sunshine reflected from the blades and blinded the once and future king, leaving his body exposed for just a split second. That was enough for Mordred whose blade thrust into Arthur’s flesh, inflicting the final, mortal wound. Mordred’s eyes shone with a spark of disbelief and pride, his lips curling into a smile which froze on his face as the legendary sword dealt him with the same. The king and the fallen prince both collapsed to the ground almost simultaneously, their eyes peeled on each other before losing consciousness.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to run to him and hold him in her arms, tell him how proud she was of him and how she’d help him heal. But none of that was possible. She realised she wasn’t there; this whole scene was a vision, one she didn’t invoke and one she couldn’t affect. When she finally returned to the present, Morgause was trembling. She knew that even though this was not the way she’d plan this, there would be nothing she could - or would - do to prevent it in the end.
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