=== Godrick, age Sixteen ===
Just under a year had passed since Godrick and Mordred had been judged unworthy of joining the Knights of the Round Table, and much had changed in that time.
The relationship between Mordred and Artoria had continued to deteriorate, growing colder and more bitter with each passing month.
Every disagreement drove another wedge between mother and daughter until conversations became few and far between, leaving an uncomfortable tension hanging over Camelot.
Morgan and Merlin, meanwhile, had made significant progress in their study of the four weapons recovered from Aberrheidol Castle.
Their research revealed that the remaining runes enhanced the sharpness and durability of weapons while also strengthening the bodies of those who wielded them.
More disturbingly, they discovered that the runes drew their power from human souls, finally explaining why the Warlord’s armies left nothing behind but butchered villages wherever they marched.
Aside from those discoveries, life settled into something resembling normalcy.
Godrick continued his training under Sir Lancelot, Sir Agravain, and Sir Galahad, refining not only his skill at arms but also the self-control that had eluded him during the battle at Aberrheidol.
Mordred, meanwhile, remained under the direct instruction of Artoria and Sir Gawain, preparing herself for the responsibilities of one day wearing the crown.
His own relationship with Mordred had become strained as well.
Godrick refused to place the blame for their failures on Artoria, insisting that they alone had fallen short of the standards expected of them, while Mordred continued to resent the judgment their mother had passed.
It was an argument they had countless times over the past year, and although they rarely raised their voices anymore, neither had managed to change the other’s mind.
They spoke far less than they once had, yet Godrick refused to let that distance become permanent.
Every day he made an effort to reach out to his sister, whether through training, conversation, or simply sharing a meal, hoping that little by little he could mend the bond they had nearly lost.
That uneasy routine came to an abrupt end when a maid burst into Artoria’s study, breathless from running.
“Your Majesty!” she gasped.
“Prince Mordred has ridden out of Camelot… and Clarent was strapped to his waist.”
Godrick stared at the frightened woman in disbelief, but Artoria wasted no time.
She rose from her desk so quickly that her chair toppled backward before she hurried from the room.
Godrick was close behind as they raced through the long corridors toward the passage leading into Camelot’s treasury.
Throwing open the heavy doors, Artoria strode past the rows of guards stationed along the walls until she reached the massive man standing watch over the vault itself.
“Move.”
The guard stepped aside immediately, allowing her to throw open the great double doors.
She entered without hesitation, Godrick following only a step behind.
“Did Mordred come through here?” she asked the guard as he hurried after them.
“He did, Your Majesty. Prince Mordred claimed he was acting under your orders and had come to retrieve the sword Clarent.”
Artoria said nothing as she pressed deeper into the treasury.
Mountains of gold and silver, precious gems, and countless spoils of war lined the chamber, but she ignored every treasure, making directly for the rear of the vault where her most sacred relics rested.
Three pedestals stood atop a raised stone dais.
The one on the left sat empty, reserved for Excalibur, which never left Artoria’s side.
The center pedestal held the holy spear, Rhongomyniad, untouched by any hand but her own.
The third…
The third pedestal was empty.
Artoria came to a stop, her eyes fixed upon the vacant stand where Clarent should have rested.
“We have to go after her,” Godrick said immediately, already turning toward the exit.
Artoria followed after him.
“Godrick, you ride ahead,” she ordered as they hurried from the vault.
“I’ll gather the Knights of the Round Table and follow as quickly as I can.”
He answered with a sharp nod before changing course toward his chambers.
To his surprise, Morgan was already waiting for him, seated beside the small round table that occupied one corner of his room.
“I heard what happened,” she said as she rose to her feet.
“Let me help you get armored.”
Godrick wasted no time pulling on his padded gambeson and leather jerkin before Morgan expertly fastened the plates of his armor into place, securing every buckle and strap with practiced hands.
When the last piece was fitted, she lifted his massive halberd and placed it in his waiting hand.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
With that, he hurried from the room, his armored footsteps echoing through the castle so heavily they seemed to shake the stone beneath him.
Within moments he reached the royal stables, where his enormous warhorse greeted him with a low snort.
It was the same powerful beast he had taken from Marquess Grasso’s son years before, and it had become as loyal to him as any knight could hope for.
Godrick rested a gauntleted hand against the horse’s neck, running his fingers through its thick mane before tightening the saddle one final time.
Then, with a single motion, he swung himself into the saddle and spurred the great beast into a gallop, racing from Camelot in pursuit of his sister.
===
Artoria and the Knights of the Round Table searched one stretch of the countryside while Godrick rode through another, the two groups separated by miles as they searched for any sign of Mordred.
It was Godrick who found her.
Hidden within a valley north of Camelot, a small encampment had been established around a crackling fire.
A dozen figures sat or moved about the camp with surprising ease, as though they had no fear of being discovered, or simply no longer cared if they were.
Godrick reined his horse to a halt roughly two hundred feet away, his eyes immediately finding his sister among them.
“MORDRED!” he bellowed, his voice echoing across the valley and drawing every eye toward him.
She shot to her feet, and the moment their eyes met, Godrick realized something was wrong.
This wasn’t the sister he knew.
The fiery, loud, and hotheaded woman who had always rushed headlong into trouble was gone.
In her place stood someone visibly anxious, her posture tense and her expression filled with fear.
A towering knight rose from beside the fire and stepped to her side, resting a hand on her shoulder as though to comfort her…
or perhaps to keep her from running to her brother.
“Leave, Godrick!” Mordred cried, desperation unmistakable in her voice.
“Not without you!” he shouted back as he dismounted his horse.
More armored warriors emerged from the surrounding tents, forming a loose line between him and his sister.
Godrick scarcely noticed them, his attention fixed entirely on Mordred, until a cold, familiar voice cut through the air.
“My… my. What do we have here?”
The words sent a chill racing down his spine.
The scars that crisscrossed his back burned as though fresh lashes had been laid across them, and for a heartbeat he was no longer standing in the valley.
He was back in chains.
The woman stepped through the gathered warriors, her armor as black as pitch and so battered it looked as though it had gone years without repair.
Countless dents and deep sword cuts scarred the plates, while old bloodstains had soaked permanently into the metal, giving it an even more sinister appearance.
Her helmet was forged from the same dull black steel, its faceplate riddled with narrow breathing holes.
One thick braid hung down her back, with two shorter ones framing her breastplate.
Her gauntlets ended in wicked talons, and in one hand she carried a longsword wrapped in worn leather.
The crossguard matched the black steel of her armor, while the blade itself was dark and jagged, its serrated edges clearly designed to tear flesh rather than simply cut it.
She walked toward Godrick with measured, confident steps before stopping a dozen yards away.
“And who might you be?” she asked, genuine curiosity coloring her otherwise icy voice.
“That is none of your concern,” Godrick replied, tightening his grip on his halberd.
“Step aside.”
Without waiting for an answer, he continued forward, fully intending to walk past her, take Mordred, and cut down anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
He never made it past her.
A flash of black steel erupted toward him with frightening speed.
Godrick reacted on instinct, taking a massive step to his right while bringing the shaft of his halberd across his body.
The enemy blade glanced off the reinforced steel banded wood with a shower of sparks before the woman reversed the swing in one fluid motion, forcing him to catch the second strike just as quickly.
The clash rang across the valley, and in an instant, every warrior present understood that the two knights standing before them were monsters.
Godrick’s anger began to rise, but unlike the boy he had once been, he forced himself to draw slow, measured breaths, fighting to keep his emotions under control.
The woman mistook his restraint for hesitation, and the slight tilt of her helmet suggested she believed she had already gained the upper hand.
With a sharp twist of his wrists, Godrick knocked her blade away before whipping his halberd low in a wide arc aimed at her legs.
She tried to evade the sweep, but not quite quickly enough.
The haft crashed into her shins, knocking her balance away and leaving her exposed for the briefest of moments.
Godrick seized the opening instantly.
Pivoting on his right foot, he spun with tremendous force, bringing the hammer side of his halberd around in a devastating strike toward her chest.
She reacted with remarkable speed, raising her sword just in time.
The hammer slammed into the flat of the blade with a deafening crack, launching her clear off her feet and hurling her through the air.
To Godrick’s surprise, she landed gracefully beside the massive warrior standing near Mordred, absorbing the impact as though she had expected it all along.
Then she laughed.
The sound was wild and unrestrained, echoing across the valley with a madness that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
After a few moments the laughter faded, and she looked back at him through the dark eye slits of her helm.
“You are strong, I’ll give you that,” she called.
“Perhaps even as strong as Anthrax.” She said, patting the massive warrior next to her.
She began walking toward him once again, her confidence utterly unshaken.
“But strength alone won’t save you in this fight!”
The instant the final word left her mouth, she exploded forward.
Godrick met the charge head-on, bringing his halberd down in a crushing overhead strike, intending to catch her the moment she entered his reach.
Instead, she collapsed into the attack.
Their weapons met with a loud clang, but there was almost no force behind her blade.
Rather than contest his strength, she yielded to it completely, allowing his halberd to drive her sword downward and carry his own momentum far beyond where he intended.
As his weapon continued through its arc, he saw her hands tighten around the hilt.
Planting her feet firmly beneath her, she twisted through her hips and shoulders, unleashing a perfectly timed counter that crashed into the right side of his breastplate with every ounce of her strength.
The blow launched him backward across the field.
He struck the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, but years of relentless training took over.
Before she could capitalize, he rolled through the impact and forced himself back onto his feet, but she was already there.
Her sword flashed toward his abdomen, and although he managed to twist aside, the black blade still sliced through the gap in his armor, carving a deep line across his side.
Godrick retaliated immediately, driving the steel butt of his halberd toward her chest, but she calmly batted the weapon aside before pinning its shaft beneath her boot.
With his weapon trapped, she thrust again.
The serrated blade punched clean through the armor protecting his left thigh.
Pain exploded through his leg, and a roar of fury tore from his lungs, his ragged breath pouring through the vents of his helmet.
She wasn’t trying to kill him.
She was playing with him.
And in that moment, Godrick decided restraint had run its course.
Godrick tore his halberd free from the ground with such force that it wrenched the woman off balance.
Using the opening, he spun and slammed the weapon into the earth at his feet.
Stone split apart beneath the impact, sending slabs of rock and clouds of dirt hurtling toward his opponent.
Before he could capitalize, however, a searing pain exploded through his back.
He looked down in disbelief.
The black tip of her sword protruded from the right side of his abdomen.
A heartbeat later, she ripped the blade free.
The humiliation stoked every ember of fury he had fought so desperately to contain.
The discipline Lancelot had drilled into him, the restraint Galahad had taught him, and every lesson Artoria had spent years instilling were swept aside beneath a tidal wave of rage.
With a deafening roar, he twisted and hurled a backhand at the woman with all the monstrous strength his body possessed.
His gauntlet grazed the crown of her helmet, but even that glancing blow launched her into the ground hard enough to crater the earth beneath her.
Godrick gave her no time to recover.
Raising his halberd overhead, he brought it down with every ounce of strength he possessed.
The impact unleashed a violent shockwave that ripped through the valley like the wrath of the gods.
The ground exploded upward for hundreds of feet, boulders shattered into dust, ancient trees were torn apart into splinters, and the nearby stream burst into a cloud of steam beneath the force.
The enemy encampment simply ceased to exist.
Tents, wagons, and men alike were hurled through the air as though they weighed nothing.
Godrick never saw that Mordred had already begun fighting the camp’s inhabitants in an attempt to reach him.
She, too, was swept away by the cataclysm.
At the center of the devastation, his eyes widened.
The Warlord still stood.
Her jagged black sword was locked against the blade of his halberd, somehow holding back a strike powerful enough to shatter the earth itself.
“What did I tell you?” she hissed, forcing his weapon aside inch by inch.
“Strength won’t help you here.”
With a sharp twist she knocked his halberd away, throwing his balance off just enough to create a single opening.
She needed only one.
Sliding behind him like a shadow, she drew her blade across the back of his right knee, severing the muscles before driving the sword deep beneath his right shoulder blade.
The black steel burst from his chest just below his left collarbone.
For the first time since he was a child… Godrick screamed. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Not in anger or defiance, but in pure agony.
The Warlord leaned close enough for only him to hear.
“I recognize that scream.” She said, her voice dripped with cruel amusement.
Before he could recover, she ripped the ruined armor from his shoulders, then used the edge of her blade to slash away the torn cloth covering his upper body.
She stepped back and watched with quiet satisfaction as he collapsed onto his hands, trembling beneath the pain.
Then she laughed.
The sound shattered what little resolve he had left.
Suddenly he was no longer standing in the valley.
He was a frightened little boy again.
He remembered every nightmare, every sleepless night, and every time he had cried himself to sleep against Artoria’s chest.
His fingers dug into the dirt until they bled.
With a broken roar, he turned and lunged at her.
The rising sun caught the edge of a dull black blade, and the entire world seemed to fall eerily silent.
Godrick remained on his hands and knees, one hand clutched desperately around his throat as he struggled to breathe.
Blood poured steadily between his fingers.
As he had charged, the Warlord had flicked her sword forward, driving only its tip into his throat.
The wound was shallow enough to spare his life, yet deep enough to destroy his voice.
Every attempt to draw breath ended in a wet, choking gurgle.
No matter how tightly he pressed against the wound, the blood refused to stop.
His strength finally gave out, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
A heavy boot slammed into his ribs.
Then another.
The third kick rolled him onto his back before iron talons seized his face, forcing him to meet the gaze hidden behind the battered black helm.
The Warlord stared down at him with something almost resembling disappointment.
“You’re far more handsome than the boy I remember,” she said quietly.
“Back then your face was covered in tears and snot.”
She tilted her head ever so slightly.
“It’s a shame you’ll die here.”
Her voice grew colder.
“But that’s war… and that’s what Artoria gets for sending a boy to do a king’s job.”
She drove a vicious kick into his chest, her clawed sabatons carving bloody lines across his face as his head snapped backward.
Godrick weakly raised one trembling hand, trying to ward off the next blow, while somewhere in the distance he could hear someone screaming his name.
The sound was faint.
Almost impossible to recognize through the pounding in his skull.
The Warlord slowly raised her sword for the killing strike…
Then paused.
Her attention shifted toward the shattered remains of her camp.
The Warlord looked down at the boy and tilted her head slightly, listening to the distant cries that echoed across the ruined valley.
“You probably can’t hear it,” she said quietly, her voice carrying an unsettling calm.
“But your sister is begging for you to get up.”
Her gaze lingered on his blood-covered face before she gave a faint smile devoid of warmth.
“Too bad that won’t happen.”
She drove her sword downward with both hands.
The black blade pierced through Godrick’s raised right hand, buried itself deep into his chest, and continued into the earth beneath him.
She forced the weapon all the way to the hilt, pinning him to the ground as though he were nothing more than an animal meant for display.
For several long moments she simply watched him, observing the blood bubbling from his ruined throat as each pulse grew weaker than the last until, at last, it stopped altogether.
Only then did she wrench her sword free.
His body remained motionless.
Without sparing him another glance, the Warlord turned and walked back toward the shattered remains of her camp.
Anthrax stood waiting for her, effortlessly restraining Mordred despite her desperate struggles.
His enormous right hand held the back of her neck while his left gripped her sword arm, preventing her from raising Clarent against him no matter how fiercely she fought.
“A magnificent fight, my Lord,” he said in his cold, emotionless voice.
“Yes,” the Warlord replied, inspecting the dark blade in her hand.
“Though he nearly had me for a moment. Grizrig’s work with his runes continues to impress me.”
Her thumb traced one of the symbols carved into the black steel.
“The Rune of Thorns prevented healing magic from mending the wounds he inflicted while slowing his own natural recovery. Without it…” She allowed herself a small smile.
“…this fight may have ended very differently.”
Another rune shimmered faintly beneath the morning light.
“And the Rune of Strength was the only reason I could withstand his blows.”
Her eyes drifted back toward Godrick’s body.
“He was only sixteen…
perhaps seventeen.
Yet he was already stronger than you.” She let the thought linger before quietly adding, “Had he been allowed to grow into a man, I doubt anyone could have predicted where his strength would have ended.”
She had made the correct decision.
He had to die.
Mordred continued staring at her brother’s body in stunned silence as tears streamed down her face.
Suddenly she erupted into motion, twisting violently in Anthrax’s grasp as she tried to throw herself toward Godrick, but before she managed even a single step, the Warlord struck her across the side of the head with the pommel of her sword.
The blow dropped her instantly.
Anthrax released her without ceremony, allowing her unconscious body to crumple into the dirt.
The Warlord bent down, pried Clarent from Mordred’s limp fingers, and secured the royal sword at her own side before turning to the remnants of her army.
“Pack up!” she ordered, her voice echoing across the ruined valley.
“We’re leaving.”
===
I promise I’ll take good care of them:)