A/N: Here's a new fic. This one's somewhat close to my heart, because it's darker than my other fics (you know, I have a penchant towards silliness) and it's adapted from one of my favorite legends (aka. obsessions). It kind of embodies my idea of a perfect story, for lack of a better term, and while it definitely isn't perfect, I like how it's coming along.

Disclaimer: The idea for the story is mine, along with a good number of characters, but it is adapted from Arthurian myth, so there are things I can't lay claim to. To be fair, neither can anyone else. ^^

Warnings: Mentions of incest, future slash, historical inaccuracies, violence, mentions of infanticide, and whatever else I can think to throw in. Don't read if you think you can't stomach it.

Summary: A curse to his father and a tool to his mother, Prince Mordred has always been a servant of fate. Upon meeting a certain, seductive Roman Wizard, apprentice to the great Merlin himself, Mordred realizes that destiny is not set in stone, and together they recreate their fates.

Prologue: Sin

Queen Morgause of Orkney and Lothian stood over the bed of the High King. With his father's passing, that was the title the boy would ultimately have. Morgause smiled wickedly, holding an almost loving hand over her still warm belly.

“He may be King now, but you and I shall rule Briton someday,” she whispered, and, pulling her gown back on over her nude body, she left the sleeping form of Prince Arthur, smiling obliviously, completely unaware of the sin he’d just committed.

In another chamber, lost in the throes of sleep, Merlin was wracked with nightmares. He woke up knowing that, on that very day, the rise and fall of Camelot had been created.

A boy sat upon his throne, head buried in his hands, in the kingdom of Uther Pendragon. Now, however, it was no longer Uther’s, as the man was dead and gone. His son, Arthur, was left to bear on his youthful shoulders not only the majesty of the Pendragon name, but the crimes his father had committed as well.

“Merlin,” the boy cried, finally uncovering his face from his bowed position. He was young and strong, with an honest face set on a lean, wiry body. But his youthful face was strained with troubles, his verdant eyes red from shedding tears. He looked like he was going to be sick, and perhaps he was. “h-how could this happen?”

The man he was speaking to was very old, and it was apparent that he had aged gracefully, for he had a flowing white beard and wise gray eyes. Those eyes, usually so enigmatic, now portrayed his every emotion like a mirror. He was sad, disgusted, angry, and oh-so-weary of the world. Even so, he offered the boy — the young man — a comforting smile, the wrinkled laugh lines of his face becoming more pronounced. He placed a gnarled hand on top of the boy’s unruly black locks, ruffling lightly.

“Oh, Arthur,” he whispered tiredly. “My boy. It will all be fine.”

“B-but,” the boy began, green eyes tearing up once more. His usually tanned face was pale, and Merlin thought, tinged with too much green to be healthy. Arthur threw up, the contents of his stomach hitting the marbled floor at his feet, dripping onto his boots. Merlin watched him patiently, face as placid as a frozen lake. When the boy finally finished, he urged him on with his eyes. “h-how will it be all right, Merlin? How? You are a great Wizard, yes, the best in all the land, but even you cannot save me from the horror I created yesterday evening. With my own sister...”

Merlin opted to let him ramble, staying silent, and only spoke after it had become apparent that the boy would say no more.

“You will not want to hear this, my boy, but it is the only solution. It is for the best.” He spoke with determination now, face set like stone, and Arthur gazed up at him trustingly.

“What must I do, Merlin? How can I fix this mistake?” The desperation in his voice was almost wild. Merlin had never heard anyone sound so broken, but he remained passive, offering the boy his silent strength.

“You will learn in time, Arthur, that no man, not even I, can turn back time,” he intoned steadily, and the young King, who was beginning to look hopeful, let his face fall in disappointment once more. Merlin looked almost amused when he continued. “But you can nip this problem in the bud, so to speak.”

Arthur stared up at him with wide, horror-struck green eyes.

“You want me to kill her?” he finally asked, sounding awed. Merlin thought that the boy might be sick again, and took a calculated step back.

“Does this surprise you, young King?” he asked, bemused. Arthur swallowed, suddenly finding himself unable to speak, and nodded to answer. Merlin’s kind, wrinkled face twisted almost cruelly; the set of his face becoming harsher than Arthur was used to. “Well, it shouldn’t. After all, I live to serve you, Arthur, and if I could have — if she hadn’t fled to Orkney — I would have slain her myself.”

Arthur swallowed, eyes as wide as saucers. He was still a child, Merlin mused, only recently having fought in his first battle. The blood on Arthur’s hands was tainted with water yet, and he would still retain some of his childish qualities for years to come, but Merlin knew that the child before him would someday become the greatest King in Briton. And what Merlin knew always became a reality. For this, for the future of Briton, Merlin would remain by Arthur’s side, staining his own noble hands with blood that should have belonged to the King.

“W-what do you propose I do?” the boy finally managed to ask, hating the way his voice wavered. He wanted so much to become a man, so the troubles and mistakes of childhood could plague him no longer. Merlin knew the truth. If Arthur had only lived out his childhood naturally, letting the flow take him, the situation they were currently in would never have taken place.

“You will do nothing. I, however, shall arrange for Morgause’s curse to be eradicated — before he can become a threat to your future kingdom.” Merlin spoke with such faith that Arthur believed him to be true. The boy began to hope again. After all, Merlin was the greatest magician in the land — the child of the devil, it was said — and could see into the future. Arthur melted into his newly acquired throne with relief.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he whispered with conviction. “Thank you so much. I could never do this if you weren’t at my side.”

Merlin smiled at him, but it was tinged with sadness. The tired boy could not see it, however, for which Merlin was glad. He would bloody his hands for Arthur as long as it was needed.

“It is fine, my boy. Now, why don’t you go rest? I shall make a draft of honey for you, and you will sleep dreamlessly. That, I promise.” His gray eyes twinkled almost merrily at this, and Arthur sighed, already feeling relaxed and completely worn out. He rubbed a grubby fist into his grungy eyes in the same manner as a child might, wondering if perhaps Merlin had already spelled him, but a yawn cut off the thought, and he nodded, allowing the Wizard to grasp him by the arm to help him out of his throne and to his bed chambers, even allowing the man to tuck him in. He slept as quietly as predicted, when Merlin checked on him a few hours later, and the Wizard smiled.

“After all,” thought the man. “Merlin’s predictions are always true. I wish, however, that they were always things to look forward to, as well.”

Almost a year later, mass infanticide occurred in Lothian and Orkney. By order of the High King, the folks, both peasant and noble, were forced to give up any newborn male child to the High King’s knights.

The children, taken from home, were piled together on a boat like so many dolls left by an uncaring tot, and pushed, unmanned, from the shore. Cries of outrage rang from the people as realization dawned. It was apparent — the High King wanted their children dead. But what could they do? Their lives, souls, and earthly materials had already been sworn to the High King.

Miles away from peasant land, in the fortress of Orkney, King Lot’s enraged roars were heard. His youngest son had been marked for death by Arthur — who, in his case, would not be upset?

“How dare he, that wretched child King!” he cried, nearly tearing off the head of the High King’s messenger, ignorant to the man’s pleas. “Why should I, the King of this land, be forced to conform with the same punishment as the peasants? And without even giving me a reason for it!”

His wife, Morgause, placed a dainty hand on one of his muscled biceps. This action seemed to calm him, somewhat.

“Peace, my lord,” spoke the beautiful lady with her silver tongue. “My brother will have his reasons, I’m sure. What reason have you to be upset? This child is, after all, a fifth son. You’ve no need of him.” She pressed painted red lips to his cheek coquettishly, before brushing off the mark with an embroidered handkerchief. “Forget about it.”

The king allowed her to ease his hands off the messenger, letting the man fall to his knees, and instead wrapped his arms about his wife, tucking her fiery red head under his scarred chin.

“You are a very odd lady, Morgause,” he said with a chuckle, voice fond. She pulled away to look up at him, giving her most innocent, wide eyed look.

“Why say you that, my lord?” she asked, as if surprised, and he laughed all the more.

“Well, it’s just that most women would be mourning at the very word of giving up their infant sons, whether he be the fifth son or not, and yet you allow him to be taken? We’ve been wed-locked for years already, my dear, but you never cease to surprise me.” She fluttered her dark lashes becomingly after he said this, and gave a chirping laugh.

“A woman must have some secrets, no? You might lose interest in me otherwise,” she whispered coyly, standing up on her toes to speak into his ear. He shivered, shaking his head.

“I doubt that could ever happen, my lady,” he said, and the woman giggled upon hearing the throaty sound of his voice. She pushed away from him, and, giving him one last bat of her lashes, left the room, her many skirts flowing around her effortlessly.

“Take what remains of my sons,” she called over her shoulder. “and give them sword practice. Gawain is becoming rather good at it, if what the armory master tells me is true.”

The King of Orkney nodded obediently, still unable to take his eyes off his wife, before clearing his throat and shooting one last glare to the High King’s messenger. He left the room, leaving the messenger gaping. The abused man shakily stood up and looked into a pearl-white cradle, gazing at an infant child. The child, awake, gazed up at him with dark eyes. The man shivered, lifting the child into his arms in a swath of blankets, and left the fortress of Orkney.

A woman’s cry rang out sharply from lady Morgause’s chambers. The woman, a lady-in-waiting for the Queen of Orkney, was wailing over an empty set of blankets. Other ladies-in-waiting watched her with sympathy, while Morgause, mouth tightening, glared at her with hateful green eyes.

“What reason have you to cry, wench?” Morgause asked, the words slipping out from between her teeth. The woman wailed louder, and the ladies-in-waiting crowded together, offering their mistress a pitiful look.

“Lady Morgause,” one spoke, and she turned, giving the girl her best withering look. It worked, and the girl took many long moments before continuing. “...you did just trade off her child to be slaughtered by the High King...”

She trailed off, and the woman’s wails were now reaching a near-keening pitch, causing Morgause to look as red as her hair in anger.

“So what? She’s now the surrogate mother of a Prince, is she not? The child of a King! And I am kind enough to send her, with guards no less, to our country home in Wales, aren’t I? The fresh air should be good for one so recently pregnant — I should go there, but no, I’m giving it up to her!” As she spoke, her beautiful face grew redder and redder, and the crying woman, finally seeing this, let her sobs die down into pitiful hiccups. “Feeling better, now?”

“Y-yes, my lady,” the woman answered, and Morgause gave her a wicked, foxy smirk.

“Good,” she said, in a manner that implied she didn’t really care. “Now, take my child — your child — and go. My personal guards are waiting outside for you. You will leave by boat, and tell no one of this. Don’t even speak to the guards about it. If anyone should ask, tell them that Queen Morgause, mourning the loss of her own babe, wanted to see no more bloodshed in her home, so she has sent you off to Wales with your child. Understood?”

“Y-yes, my lady,” the woman said again, sounding docile. She stood up shakily, and lifted a tiny, quiet infant into her arms. He stared at her with innocent green eyes, the same shade as the Queen’s. But unlike the Queen, this child was guiltless. He offered her a tiny smile — his first — and made a soft cooing sound. The woman felt her heart pounding inside her bosom, as she lifted the dark haired child closer to her body. His newborn baby smell — of milk and powder — made her flush. She had lost her son, true, but maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing. She now had the baby in her arms, and no one would take him away from her. For the first time since her son was taken, the lady-in-waiting smiled. “W-what is he called, my lady?”

Morgause narrowed her eyes in response, turning away quickly, but she replied.

“He is called Mordred,” she spoke, voice oddly soft, and the other woman wondered if perhaps she would miss the child. But Morgause would never admit it, even if it was true. “Now, go!” she said instead, waving her hands towards a secret exit out of her room. The lady-in-waiting, child in arms, obliged, running out the door carefully with one last muttered farewell to her companions. Morgause sank into a chair afterward, shooing her servants away, and laughed. Revenging herself on Arthur was easier than she’d thought.

Arthur was almost seventeen; not quite a man, but no longer a boy. He stood in his balcony, letting the wind play with bits of his unruly black locks.

“Was this really necessary?” he asked someone behind him, voice a whisper. Though he asked, his voice was laced with defeat. He knew it was necessary, or at least that it had already been done. There was no going back.

“Yes,” an elderly man answered. Though the wind was strong, he was completely unmoved. One would wonder if, perhaps, his beard was pinned in place.

“It’s such a horrible way to start my rule, though,” the young man replied, foggy eyes staring down at his lands. The man behind him, Merlin, placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

“I know, my boy. But no one will blame you. I shall take the blame myself, when Lot’s wrath becomes publicly apparent,” the Wizard said, voice confident, and Arthur closed his eyes, blinking back tears.

“They were all children, Merlin. They never even had a chance to live, because of me...” He thought of his own son, his cursed son. What did he look like? Did he resemble Arthur? Was he quiet or loud? Would he have grown into an honorable man? Was he already dead? “Maybe there was another solution. Perhaps my son—”

Merlin cut him off with an almost painful squeeze to his shoulder, making the young King wince.

“Do not broach this any further, Arthur,” the man demanded, voice losing some of his epic calm. “The children did not die because of you, but because of Morgause, and it never would have worked out between you and your son. He would have grown to kill you, if we had allowed him to live. Always remember that.”

“I see,” said the King, but he really didn’t. Merlin knew that. But Arthur was still new to his rule, still new to being a man, so he didn’t yet know what was best for him. Merlin did, so Merlin would bear the blame on his shoulders.

“Let us return to the fireside, shall we?” the Wizard asked politely, and Arthur nodded. He came docilely as the elderly man brought him inside, and pretended to make merry with his new men until nightfall came. Then, the King excused himself to bed and cried himself to sleep. Merlin, a chamber or so away, had spelled himself into a deep sleep, trying to gaze into the future. It bothered him when all he could see was darkness.

A/N: What do you think so far? If you're confused about the bits with Arthur and Morgause (though I really hope you aren't, since I tried to hint at it pretty heavily), they're siblings, specifically half-siblings, so their child is an incestuous bastard, who Morgause tries to pass off as her husband's. Drama, drama, drama...where's Jerry Springer when you need him? Oh well, the next chapter shall have slash.

R&R: I hope you'll enjoy this story, since I'll try and make it fun, with a little bit of every genre thrown in for flavor. ^^ Please leave me feedback, so I know you're out there...if you are? I have actually put deep thought into this story's plot, so, hopefully, the chapters should be quick in coming.