Young Writers Society

“What is it, Mordred?” asked Morgan, pulling me into her lap.

“Why does King Lot hate me?”

I can’t remember why it had been so important to know.

I must have disconcerted people. No one wanted to talk about such things with someone so young. Looking back, though, it might have bothered them more that it was me asking.

Going to mother had been a mistake. She had actually looked at me for once, but she seemed so hurt that it didn’t seem worth it.

Morgan would always answer my questions though. She didn’t care how young I was.

“Because he knows you are not his son,” she said.

I suppose I should have been surprised by this. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged the fact. But I was obviously nothing like Lot’s boys, in personality or appearance.

Actually, with my black hair and blue eyes, I looked a lot like Morgan herself. It was one of the reasons people often mistook her for my real parent, rather than just my aunt. I had always assumed I took after my mother’s side of the family. This turned out to be true in a way no one was comfortable with.

“But who is my father?”

“He’s a knight at Camelot.”

That was disappointing. No one in Lothian had anything good to say about the High King’s court. My oldest brother Gawaine liked to regale his younger siblings with tales of glory and splendour, but his visits home where rare, and even as a child I was suspicious of those stories.

“If Lot was smarter,” Morgan continued. “He would be a lot nicer to you.”

“Why?”

“Because your true father is a very influential man, and so far he has no other children.”

This information was a lot more exciting. To the youngest of five, the sudden promise of an inheritance could be quite thrilling.

“Does he know about me?”

“He knows he has a son. Now go play for a while, I need to go speak with your mother.”

I told Agravaine of my good fortune that evening. Usually I kept my own confidence, by he was closest to me in age, and I felt I could trust him. It was nice to have someone other than Morgan to conspire with.

“Oh. So that’s why you never call him father.”

Agravaine didn’t have enough imagination to be shocked. For the first time I could clearly see all of the differences between my brother and myself. He was naturally brawny, with the bright red hair that the rest of the family all shared. We were both pale skinned, but his was naturally fair, dotted with freckles and often sunburned. I was pallid because I was sick so often, and I didn’t spend enough time outside even when I wasn’t ill.

“But Morgan’s a witch,” he said.

“So?”

“Witches lie.”

“Morgan would never lie to me.”

She didn’t lie at all actually. It was a point of pride for her. She would, however, twist the truth. Often by omitting important details.

I confronted her about it years later. I had already been living with her for awhile then, but I decided over breakfast one wanted to air my grievances.

“It was a dirty trick.”

“What was?” demurely continuing with the meal.

“Telling me that my father was just a knight. Neglecting to mention that he is also High King.”

“He’s the one who goes on about everyone in his court being equal.”

“You intentionally made me think that I could be his heir,”

“And why can’t you?” She demanded, “It’s perfect. He can leave his kingdom to his beloved nephew. He wouldn’t even have to lie.”

I didn’t even bother pointing out how depraved that was, she wouldn’t care, but I doubted Arthur wanted anything to do with me even if my origins were a secret.

“He tried to kill me,” I pointed out.

She waved off my interjection as if it were a minor detail.

“That was the wizards fault, and from what I hear Merlin is getting old. I’m sure once he’s gone Arthur will be forced to make his own decisions.”

I didn’t argue with her any further. Deep down I wanted her to be right. I already felt like the Prince of Camelot. I hoped more than anything that I could someday be known as Mordred Pendragon, High King.

Eventually I simply thanked my aunt for not telling me right away. At least I had that short time to believe that I was the child of someone worth being proud of.