The Whumps of March 2024: "Hell is empty and all the devils are here." (Shakespeare, The Tempest)
A series of vignettes based on Arthurian legend, collected on AO3 here.
Almost as far back as he could remember, Mordred wanted to become a Knight of the Round Table.
He could he not, with all of his older brothers already in Camelot, lauded as some of the greatest champions in the kingdom? The rare times when they came home, he was regaled with stories of their adventures, and of the glories of King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, and the knight Lancelot, who was Gawain's best friend and Gareth's favorite mentor. Songs of their exploits were find their way to the Orkneys, each one whetting his appetite for adventure.
He spent long hours fantasizing about how it would happen. He would arrive dramatically, during a feast, and his uncle would be so pleased that he would knight him in front of everybody. Or maybe he would sneak in like Gareth, and surprise them all with his hidden mettle. In the end, it was nothing so spectacular—he was sent to the court as Agravaine's squire, and a few years later was knighted alongside several other boys for fighting against a petty rebellion. And he soon realized, sheepishly, that he was not the greatest swordsman or jouster at the court, and that it was hard to be seen as anything but the youngest in a familial set.
It didn't matter. He was now part of the Round Table, renowned as the most valiant and noble knights in Christendom.
It was, perhaps, less rarefied than he had imagined—some of his fellow knights were rude, or boring, or what have you. It was foolish, he supposed, to imagine that they wouldn't be, especially when he had four of them in his family. But he had his friends, Sagramore and Gingalain and Galahad, for a while. More to the point, he had his calling. Defending the needy, upholding the righteous. He would play whatever small part fate demanded in maintaining King Arthur's rule.
He didn't believe the story when he first heard it. The queen and Sir Lancelot? It sounded too much like gossip. A scandalous prospect, outlandish in how little it fit their sterling characters.
Then he saw Lancelot slip into her chambers.
And then Agravaine and eleven others, dead. Mordred himself left unconscious on the floor. Lancelot, the murderer whom he always admired, abandoning his mistress and fleeing like a coward.
Gawain winced, but he didn't answer, didn't even turn toward his brother. Just kept staring into the distance, just like he had since he first heard the news.
Mordred took his brother's shoulder and shook him, roughly. "DIDN'T YOU?!"
"Mordred—!" Sagramore grabbed his arm, but Mordred pulled away, snarling.
"Did you know, too?! That's what I'm hearing! Did everyone in Logres know, except the king and those of us who walked into a slaughter?!"
Everyone was staring at Mordred, but he didn't care. He felt dizzy all of a sudden. He still had a bandage wrapped around his head. The doctor had told him to stay calm, but there was little chance of that happening.
His eyes burning, Mordred pushed past Sagramore and stormed out of the room, leaving the Knights of the Round Table—the same noble heroes who had let this all happen—to gawk at his back.