The heavens above Camlann were dark and brooding, as if mourning the tragedy about to unfold. A bitter wind howled across the bloodstained fields, carrying the scent of iron and death, while the heavens wept in a mournful drizzle, washing over the earth now sodden with the fallen.
Amidst this grim tableau stood Arthur, King of Britannia, his body battered and weary, yet his spirit unbroken. His warriors, few though they were, had formed their last desperate stand against the countless ranks of their foe. Before them loomed the traitor, Mordred—once a son, now a usurper, donned in sable armor, his crimson cloak billowing in the tempest.
At Arthur's side remained but one knight, Sir Bedivere, his blade yet clenched in both hands, though his breath came ragged and his form bore the scars of many wounds. Desperation flickered in his gaze as he turned to his sovereign.
"My liege," Bedivere implored, his voice hoarse. "You must flee! All hope is lost!"
Arthur turned upon him with a gaze as sharp as the steel he bore.
"Would you have me stain my honour, Bedivere?" he intoned, his voice a thunderclap despite his exhaustion. "Would you dare counsel your king to abandon his duty?"
The knight faltered beneath that withering stare, shame washing over him like the tide upon the shore. He bowed his head. "Forgive me, my king."
Yet the moment for discourse had passed.
The enemy legions, their ranks vast and unyielding, moved to encircle Arthur's dwindling host. Mordred himself strode forth, exuding a cruel confidence, his sword resting lightly in his grasp. The very blade that Arthur had once gifted him—a token of trust, now turned against him.
With measured steps, Mordred closed the distance before addressing his father.
"Yield, father," he commanded, his voice as smooth as silk yet laced with venom. "Britannia is already mine. Spare yourself and your men needless suffering. Lay down your arms, and I shall be merciful."
Arthur's eyes burned with contempt. "Britannia is not yours to claim, Mordred. You are no king—you are naught but a craven, a traitor whose very name shall be spat upon for generations to come."
Raising Excalibur high, he let forth a mighty cry:
"Shieldwall!"
At once, his warriors tightened their ranks, shields locking together in an impenetrable bastion of steel. Their formation, though weakened, remained formidable—a bulwark against the coming storm.
From the enemy lines, a commander turned to Mordred with concern. "That formation… is it not the way of the Saxons?"
Mordred merely smiled.
Then, the battle was joined.
Like thunder upon the hills, Mordred's host crashed upon Arthur's defences. Steel rang against steel; the cries of the wounded rose to the heavens. The shieldwall held—unyielding, unbreakable. Arthur and Bedivere fought as titans of old, their blades striking down foe after foe.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though hope yet endured.
Then—
A single arrow, loosed from the shadows, found its mark.
With a sickening thud, it struck Arthur's breast.
The world seemed to slow as his body recoiled from the impact, his grasp upon Excalibur faltering. A cry of dismay arose from his men.
"The king is struck!"
Panic rippled through their ranks. Their discipline wavered. A chink had formed in the armor of their unity.
And Mordred, ever the predator, saw his chance.
"Break them!" he bellowed, his sword raised high.
With renewed fervour, his forces surged forward. The shieldwall collapsed under the onslaught. Arthur's warriors were hewn down, their cries swallowed by the storm.
The massacre was swift.
When the din of battle abated, all that remained were the dead and the dying. Arthur, wounded and breathless, remained upon his knees. Beside him, only Bedivere yet stood, his sword a final defiance.
Surrounded by Mordred's host, the knight spat upon the ground before his foe.
"Fool," Bedivere seethed. "Your greed has wrought naught but ruin upon this kingdom. You call yourself a king? You are naught but a blight upon Britannia!"
Mordred's gaze was cold, his lips curling into a smirk. Without a word, he swung his blade.
The knight's head fell to the ground.
Arthur let forth a ragged cry, anguish and fury mingling into a wretched curse. "MORDRED!" he roared. "May the gods damn you! May your name be cursed for all eternity!"
But Mordred only chuckled, stepping forward with measured pace.
"You are finished, old man."
Arthur, with the last vestiges of his strength, lifted Excalibur once more. Yet his grip was weak, his vision blurred. He was but a shadow of the warrior he had once been.
Mordred did not hesitate.
With one final stroke, the blade struck true.
Arthur Pendragon, King of Britannia, fell.
His head rolled to the sodden ground.
The battlefield fell silent, save for the patter of rain upon steel.
Mordred stood over his father's corpse, gazing upon the lifeless face with an expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, he murmured,
"Go to Hell, father."
The storm raged on, and with it, the last light of Camelot was extinguished.