I keep comparing turning Alexander the Orphan and Brunor le cote mal taile around in my head like. I'm so sure Malory wrote them to be parallels/foils (similar to how Tristan is very much Lancelot's foil in terms of showing what makes an ideal knight) and it's so interesting to me that while Brunor achieves his quest of revenge, Alexander doesn't, and yet we don't actually see the conclusion of either's quest on page. Also it's like their oposites in that while Brunor is said to achieve his quest, we never actually see him again, not even in a list of names at a joust. Whereas though Alexander dies, his quest and name continue on through Bellengere le Breuse, who succeeds in his revenge. Brunor as a fair unknown who became forgotten and Alexander as someone who never got to be a fair unknown (he never reaches Arthur's court in Malory) yet his name lives on. I don't know where I'm going with this. I love Malory sometimes
It was almost May in Camelot, the weather was warming and the ebbs of wind were just beginning to cease. Flowers were blooming by the creek, water lilies, and daffodillies, and Mordred sucked a drop of blood from his finger. He placed the roses he picked onto a nearby grave, and kept walking. It was bizarre, mourning those he knew would hate that attention. Mordred could almost see Gaheris’ grimace, Gareth’s wet eyes, Agravaine’s empty stare.
‘They said your name a million times at the wake.’ Mordred told him, ‘Isn’t that what you always wanted? To be celebrated? You should have seen how the king held you. You’d think you were his very own son.’
Of course, Agravain didn’t respond. He didn’t snark, didn’t even humor him. He never will again.
‘Well fuck you too.’
It was almost May in Camelot, and the staff usually would be making preparations in a few weeks. Between May Day and birthdays to celebrate (though never Mordred’s, admitting the date of his birth only ever got him sympathetic looks and hard-to-answer questions) it seemed May was one big celebration. Of course, to any common knight, any of these supposed holidays were just pretense. Who gave a shit about Gawain’s birthday other than people trying to curry favor? By the end, knights could hardly tell you the day of the week if they were even sober enough to speak. The staff would be exhausted.
Mordred stopped walking, shook his head, and continued. He quickly steered his thoughts away from Gareth. Gareth, who always got him something for his birthday, despite Mordred’s wishes. He was utterly gone by May 31st last year, somewhere between the busyness and the merriment he had forgotten, or just forgone, moderation. Mordred had simply put him to bed, leaving quickly and letting his gentlest brother forget that he had borne witness to his momentary degeneration.
‘I knew no one could be perfect.’ He told no one at all. ‘You’ve always told me that.’
It was always about Gawain, but still.
Almost May in Camelot and where were all the people? The hall seemed empty, only a few straggling knights and servants. Lucan didn’t meet his eyes when Mordred waved him over, his face neutral and steady, he poured him a cup of wine. Mordred considered dropping the chalice, let him not react then, as wine spilled across the floor and over them both, let him wash out some red stains of his own. At least he still had his brother with him.
Gawain would be coming back soon.
‘God dammit.’
Mordred took another long drink.
He didn't remember Lot's death, being much too young at the time, but his brothers spoke about him like he hung the moon and stars.
“Don't be like that, Mordred.” Gaheris had told him one night, his gaze tracing the scar on Mordred's forehead, “He went to war for you.”
Mordred was harsh, he knew he was harsh, and he didn’t need everyone telling him all the time. In his opinion, he couldn’t be the worst of his brothers, how could he? Yes, their deeds far surpassed his own, but so did many of the ones they swept under the rug, overlooked, or wore as a public confessional if they were clever enough. Besides, Gaheris had funny ideas about a parent's love. Mordred had to discount his opinion long ago. Mother's death was regrettable, but Mordred followed everyone's example and moved forward swiftly. Why waste time thinking about something so unpleasant?
“Why waste time indeed,” Mordred muttered, leaning back on his throne.
“Ah, my lord?” Sir Brunor was looking uncharacteristically nervous, “Mordred?”
“I didn't hear you enter.”
I didn't invite you in.
“I just want to offer my condolences.” Brunor sat beside him, again uninvited, “I know it's hard. Losing Sir Galahad and then your brothers and the king.”
Mordred grunted, gesturing for Lucan to refill his cup. Why even bring up Galahad? It felt like eons since he had last seen that poor doomed youth. He had died, apparently wondrously and prettily. Holy. They used much nicer words for it than ‘easily.’ Mordred had imagined it dozens of times, his final breath of earthly oxygen as his hands grasped for what he had chosen above all else. All that effort in blocking Galahad out of his mind, and Brunor had to remind him.
“My father is dead. My brother too.” Brunor took Mordred's hand in his, “I know how it feels.”
“These things happen.”
“Doesn't mean we can't avenge them.” There was that cold fire in his eyes that got Mordred's attention when Brunor had first arrived at Camelot, “You know that. It was murder.”
“Yes. Yes, if I learn anything you'll be the first to know.” Mordred tilted his head upwards, examining the higher stonework of the walls, stone put in place only decades ago yet never touched by human hands. He was starting to feel dizzy when he moved too fast. “For now I need your service, Brunor. We’re at war.”
And where would Mordred be without his supporters? If there was one thing he was glad to have learned at this farce of a court, it was how to perform.
“Yes of course.” Brunor straightened, “There’s a fleet coming from the south. Just say the word.”
“From France?”
“We think so.”
“You know so. We can’t afford to allow enemies any closer.” He especially can’t afford for it to be Arthur. Mordred was confident that even if he did return, there were enough people on the court on his side to end the battle early. He hadn’t done the exact math yet, but even a handful of kings had plenty of men at their disposal. Even so, it would be simpler if Arthur just didn’t come back.
“Shall I prepare an offensive?”
“A man after my own heart.” Mordred smiled, crooked two fingers, and beckoned him forward, “Come here, Brunor.”
He didn’t miss Brunor’s sigh of relief as he kneeled before the throne and accepted Mordred’s kiss gratefully. He really was such a good marshal, fearing him just enough. He was a good friend too, when Mordred still considered himself worthy of such privileges. At least the loyalty remained.
Keep him close in hand and he’ll never learn what happened to Dinadan.
‘I should really get married.’
Mordred knew just the person, but for now, Brunor was set to sail for battle tomorrow and Mordred might as well give him a few more hours of his time.
Hopefully, Gawain and Arthur were already dead. If they weren’t, Mordred prayed they’d die easily.
