A/N: I've finally done it. After all my years of being a Mordred-loving freak, I've finally written a story about him. Well, it's not a story... More like a blurb. But you get the idea. I've placed it sort of outside canon, which states that he was killed by Arthur at Cad Camlann. (After which Arthur dies himself.) Instead, I reversed it, sort of, to where Mordred killed Arthur and escaped. This takes place a few years after the fact. Hope you enjoy.


How Fitting.
S.N. Wolf

The lake was still, as though it had been brushed by the unforgiving fingers of Death. Mordred laughed mirthlessly at this idea - how fitting was it that he find himself here, in this place where only corpses lay? He approached the shore and knelt there, gazing into clear-as-glass water at the face of the man who had ruined him forever. His reflection was haggard, and he looked ages older than his near twenty-five years. His dark eyes were dull and rimmed with dark purple smudges that spoke of years of insomnia and sleep tortured by nightmares. His lips, once full enough to make even maidens jealous, were now pursed lines, dry, chapped, and cracked. His face was gaunt and ghostly pale, and his black hair fell in tangles around it, shoulder-long and in desperate need of tending.

Absently, his fingers moved to the silver torque that sat snugly, but not tightly, around his neck. Who was this man that stared at him from beneath the lake's surface? Surely, it was not Mordred, bastard child of Morgan le Fay and King Arthur; knight and faithful ally of that same king? Where had the boy gone, fed all his life stories of his father's evil, yet desperate to win his love?

"He is dead." Mordred surprised himself with his own voice. It was deeper than he remembered it being, but that only went to show how far he had fallen. There was a profound bitterness in his voice when he repeated, "Mordred is dead." And he was. This man in the water had his name and his face, but everything that had made Mordred had been impaled at Camlann, by his own blade. Nightmares of his father's face, confused and betrayed, haunted his sleep where it had once been peaceful and calm. He could not lay himself down at night without hearing the man whose affection and respect he'd once striven for curse his name. Mordred reached out, as though to touch his reflection-face. When his fingers touched the surface of the water, the face became distorted with ripples. Again, he barked a humorless laugh. How fitting. How fitting, indeed.