I suppose I am writing this because I feel almost obligated to tell the other side of the story-- my side, my perspective. In a hundred, a thousand years, High King Arthur Pendragon's name will live on, as a wise and strong ruler, a peace bringer, who united all of Albion in its glorious Golden Age; and I, forever remembered as the cold-blooded villain. It pains me to think that the good peoples of this kingdom would be so easily fooled by the lies the king had spun with the aid of his treacherous sorcerer, Merlin. But as long as these short pages endure, my story will be told. I only hope that some trader in a far off country would be able to see beyond the glamour of the king, so that the truth will live on.
I realize that I had strayed somewhat, had become lost in the sea of bitterness that predominates my life. Read on, whoever it be that sets eyes upon this, and you shall learn of all the woes that shaped who I am, and who I must become, at dawn tomorrow, on the fields of Camlann, under the blood red sky.
Every woeful tale has its beginning, and mine began the moment I opened my eyes to the world. My mother was Morgause, esteemed priestess of the Old Religion and half-sister to Arthur Pendragon himself, though neither my mother nor the king knew it at the time. When he finally learned of the truth, my mother was already with child...his child. And how cruel is fate that I must call him father, when in truth I hate him more than any other man I've known. For it was not enough that he turned my pregnant mother away in her time of need, no, he drove her out of the great city of Camelot and hunted her across the kingdom to protect his precious throne from an illegitimate heir. Well, how ironic that by doing so, he himself planted the seed of hate that would bring the very thing he feared above all-- his usurpation, his death. He hunted my mother like a criminal, forcing her to flee in the dead of the night, to one sleepy village after another, never stopping, in fear of her life. And it was in one such village that I was born, screaming, into the world, destined to deal King Arthur the fate he deserves.
I was a queer child, they say, aloof. I never quite fit in with the other boys, but I envied their lightheartedness and their camaraderie, and I knew that they would never betray my mother and me. But alas, King Arthur just could not let us be.
I was merely 6 when they came, those knights of King Arthur's court, looming over us children on their high horses, brandishing their sharpened swords. I recall it so vividly even after all these years: their reddened faces (whether from liquor or exertion I could not tell), the predatory manner in which their gazes sought out the children. Then they just murdered them all-- every young child, every companion I ever had-- just smote them all down in broad daylight, while the villagers stood by in stupefied horror. Being a little apart from the other children, I was spared their fate, but not those terrible memories. I ran home to my mother, and we fled, never looking back; but I knew that I would never forget what the king and his knights did.
From then on, my mother and I lived in seclusion, deep in the mountains, far away, where we hoped that the king's forces would never reach us. I later learned that it was not just the village we stayed in, but every single one in the whole kingdom, where the knights rounded up and killed all the younger children. It was said to be "for the good of the kingdom", for Merlin had foreseen that it a child of the age of 6 who would grow up to be the killer of King Arthur. (Ha! And he was right.) But of course, the knights could not even be bothered to spare the others.
Some children aspire to be great physicians when they are older, others knights in shining armor, rescuing damsels left and right. I've always wanted to become a knight, though for vastly different reasons-- I wanted to kill the king. So I trained hard, every day, in hopes that I would master the art of weaponry and one day, end the life of the deceiving ruler, the cruel murderer, the cold-hearted father.
I joined the court of King Arthur when I became of age, to get to know my mortal enemy. I stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the older knights, yet the king, in his arrogance, never doubted me as I pretended to be a half dozen years older than I am. And so I watched, for his weaknesses, and waited, for that fateful day.
My tale reaches its end. Dawn has come at last, casting crimson rays onto allies and foes alike. I know not whether I will live to see another, but now is not the time for regrets. I must do this. Today, at Camlann, I shall fulfill my destiny to avenge all those that King Arthur Pendragon has wronged. To the death, it shall be, father and son, sword to sword.
These are to be my last words. Before I march to battle, I ask of you, reader, one last thing: no, neither pity nor forgiveness, but remembrance. Remember my story; remember me, the lonely, fatherless little boy named Mordred.
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My attempt at writing a story from the villain's perspective. Hope it was believable :)
