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“I was always the outsider.” Mordred’s voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear him. She walked up beside him and hugged his arm, not minding the chill of his armor. She was used to its sharp pointy bits and the texture of the engravings. “Even as a mortal man, I was never truly welcome.”
“Arthur believed in you.”
Mordred snorted. “And look what happened.”
“I dunno. I think you did the best you could, given everything you had to work with.” She rested her cheek against his upper arm. “I think he’d understand.”
“If I were cleverer, like him—if I could lead, command the respect and loyalty the way he did?” Mordred shut his eyes and shook his head. “No, Gwendolyn. I was a poor choice. He should have chosen Lancelot or Galahad. Not me.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re secretly his kid,” she teased. “Nepotism!” She was trying to cheer him up. All she got was a slight and temporary smirk. Sighing, she took his hand and wove her fingers through his. The metal of his gauntlet was no longer strange or foreign to her. It was weirdly comforting. “Can we go somewhere cheerier? Take me to a happier memory.”
“This is a happy memory.” He grimaced. “Bah. When did I become so morose?” He shook his head. “Forgive me. I am acting like a child.” But there was a strange grief in his voice.
“You don’t…expect to survive this, do you?” She frowned up at him. “You’re planning on dying.”
“I am not planning on anything. I am merely accepting that it is—” He stopped himself.
“Say it. Don’t lie to me.”
“Yes, because you are a paragon of truth.” He rolled his eyes. His shoulders drooped a little. “I did not mean to lash out.”
“You’re not wrong.” She rested her cheek against his arm again. “I keep hiding things from you.” I still am.
“I leave you little choice in the matter.” He shifted to wrap his arm around her and pull her close. After a long pause, he finally finished his thought from before. “I am merely accepting that my death is inevitable.”
“Why?”
“A band of other elementals wish to place me on trial after Grinn is defeated. In exchange, they will aid me in my quest to see the monster finally felled.” His jaw ticked. It was clear he wasn’t thrilled with the idea. “Caliburn is lost. And I do not have the allies I would need to end him. I see no other way forward.”
“That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” She leaned back a bit to watch his expression. “You agreed to this? You know they’re going to find you guilty.”
“Yes. Of course they will. I held them imprisoned for three hundred years in a hell of my design. I did all that I could to fulfill my vow to Arthur that I would keep Avalon safe. And I will fall, knowing that I saved this isle from Grinn at least.”
Resting her forehead against his breastplate, she sighed. Why did he have to be so weirdly tyrannical and yet noble at the same time? Couldn’t he just cackle and laugh like a normal villain? Why did he have to be so…good about it?
The air around her changed. It was no longer warm and filled with the smell of burning wood and the sound of laughter. It was cold. And silent.
She turned. When she saw where she was, she tried not to laugh. “I said cheery, Mordred.”
“I fear this is the best I can manage.”
It was a crypt. Not just any crypt, however. The sarcophagus in front of her was made of white marble, polished and untouched by the weather. Every detail on it was as crisp as the day it had been carved. The figure lying atop it was of King Arthur in repose, hands across his chest and holding the hilt of a marble Caliburn.
Nudging away from Mordred, she stepped up to it to examine it. For some reason, it felt more significant than the memories of the man that the Prince in Iron had shown her. But it wasn’t the only sarcophagus in the room. There were six more, arranged in a circle, around the main dais. One for each of Arthur’s knights, depicting them all, and made of the elemental metal that represented them.
Except one was missing.
Iron.
She furrowed her brow.
As if reading her thoughts, Mordred shook his head. “I do not deserve to be buried here.”
“Mordred…”
“You are one of the few in this world to hold a high opinion of me, Gwendolyn. For that, I am grateful. But you must understand.” He gestured with a clawed gauntlet at the monuments around them. “Arthur suffered mortal wounds. Merlin, in his great wisdom”—the sarcasm was as subtle as a train—“brought Camelot here in an attempt to save his life. In hopes that the magic of this place might recognize the greatness in Arthur. And magic did arrive that night. And magic gifted all of his knights with elemental powers of honor and dignity. And it gave to me the gift of iron—a gift that should not be. A gift that gave me power that was meant to be his. Arthur, upon seeing this, gave me Caliburn and made me swear an oath to protect this place. To protect those who could not help themselves.”
She listened. She had heard this all before, but there was something about this retelling of it that felt…raw. That felt final.
