AN: This is just snippets of my idea. I want to show a more human version of Mordred. I know that Vivian van Velde, Douglas Clegg *sweatdrop*, Nancy Springer, Thomas Mallory, etc. all have their little views of him (some quite disturbing, others ludicrous, some plain depressing). But I have my own idea and I want to share it with the world. So If you like the idea, just review and tell me what you expect, and I'll write some more :D

There was silence in the court. The king was watching, observing the dark-haired boy. He stood, presently, the king, and stepped down from his throne. As if in a trance, he walked towards the boy. Yet, it was impossible for him to have been in a trance, as utterly focused as he was. So utterly focused that all nearby were compelled to anxiety. The king stopped, before the boy and the old man, and stood, staring down. It was a long, long moment before he spoke:

“Stand up.” His tone was soft and polite, but like the strike of flint.

The boy stood, like a whip cracked. The old man followed him clumsily.

It was then that the king finally saw fit to tear his eyes from the dark youth before him. He glanced impatiently at the standing old man and motioned for him to return to his knees. The old man obeyed immediately, and the king’s attention was once again upon the boy.

The king did something very strange. He reached, through the stray locks of ebony hair that hung in the boy’s down-turned face, and placed a curled index finger tenderly at the base of his chin. Not tenderly, no, but perhaps shakily. Fearfully. Disbelievingly. With this soft but never subtle gesture, the king urged the boy to lift his head. This achieved, he studied the young face, the dark eyes. The king’s brow became ever more stressed, his eyes ever more troubled.

He turned from the boy so swiftly that it was a shock, and the court gasped and the boy jolted. The king was looking towards his throne, looking to the balconies, looking among the gathered nobles and servants. As he looked, his shoulders dropped and his breath evened. He would not lay eye upon his queen. He marched back to his throne and seated himself, folding his hands and resting his chin. The boy had fallen back into a genuflect.

Upon the king’s face, a storm brewed. The storm swelled over his body, and dark clouds gathered over his eyes.

Queen Guinevere sat beside her king in their bedchamber. “He is your son?” she said softly, questioningly but matter-of-factly.

The king need only glance at her with shame-filled eyes. She already knew. But she would not implore further. And he was glad of that. He would not have to tell her who the boy’s mother was. He would not have to tell her what the boy’s destiny was. And he would not have to tell her why he had never expected the boy to still be alive.

“Boy, you know that the old man is not your father.”

The boy Mordred nodded. “Yes, your highness.”

“Do you know who your real parents are?”

“No.” The answer was quick. It was almost unperceivable, the glance to the left. But the king saw it. The king had seen many things.

He watched her soft white hands as they weaved the bandage through his fingers. His breath was shaking and his eyes were wet.

“Dear Gwynevach,” he gasped. “I believe you have more than the power of healing within you, for not only are my wounds healed, and my heart at ease, but my head is cleared. You can free a man from enchantment.”