by Megan Derr
"Knave, is it? That's kinder than I was expecting."
Mordred's buckler slipped from his hand as that familiar, loved, hated voice washed over him. He rounded the corner and stepped through an archway, and stared in fury and disbelief at the figure before him.
He was still achingly beautiful, his fair skin perpetually tanned because he'd never been good at staying indoors. His hair fell to his shoulders, the color of sun-struck wheat, and his eyes were the clear, brilliant blue of the waters he'd been raised in. Here and there were smatterings of blue-green scales with a faint opalescent shimmer, and instead of nails, he had short, sharp, blue-black claws.
Stolen away as a boy by the Lady of the Lake, once the most beloved knight of the Round Table, and the man who'd once claimed to love Mordred above all others before he'd run away with Guinevere and left the remaining pieces of Mordred's heart in tatters: Lancelot du Lac.
"You," Mordred snarled, and lunged for him, sword glinting in the dim light as he swung it in a deadly arc—
Only to be met by Lancelot's nigh-indestructible scales. "Mordred, stop! I came to explain—"
Mordred slammed a gauntleted fist into his face, though he felt only misery at the smashed nose and copious blood that resulted. Which really just proved that even centuries later, he was still a damned fool. "Explain? Explain what? Why you were a cheating whore? Why you lied to me and used me and left me to die while you ran off with—"
Lancelot dove and rolled as Mordred came at him again, gaining his feet just in time to bring his arms up to block another brutal swing. With anyone else, their arms would have been broken beyond repair by the force of Mordred's blow, but of course the Lady's adopted son could withstand much, much worse before he began to even significantly feel it.
Long ago, Mordred had been honored that Lancelot trusted him enough to banish those scales, save for the patches that could not be. Had trusted Mordred enough to invite him into his bed, to see him—and have him—at his weakest.
All of it damned lies.
Bellowing in rage, Mordred gave up steel for fire. "I will roast you like the coward you are, you worthless minnow, and dump your blackened bones in your mother's lake."
"It wasn't me!" Lancelot said, throwing up shields of ice to counter Mordred's flames. If Lancelot was water, Mordred had always been fire, the bastard whelp of Arthur and Morgana, far greater in might and magic than the sum of those two parts should have been.
"I saw you," Mordred said. "I don't know what treachery brings you to try and play me for a fool a second time, but time has not dulled my edges or my heat, traitor of the lake." He summoned more fire.
Lancelot dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "I beg the mercy of the True King of Camelot, Rightful Hand of Excalibur, Sworn Knight of the Round Table."
Mordred curled his hand into a fist, smothering the flames. "Damn you."
Releasing a shuddering breath, Lancelot collapsed to the floor. For a moment, it almost looked as though he were crying—but it was probably only sweat.
Banishing Excalibur with a flick of his wrist, Mordred bit out, "You have your mercy then, craven, lying worm though you are. What do you want, du Lac?"
Flinching, Lancelot returned to one knee, head kept low. "Y-Your Majesty, I know you have every reason to distrust me, but I beg your mercy only because the information I bear is worth my life."
That drew Mordred up short. "What are you talking about?"
"I only learned a few decades ago of all the treachery that befell us—the two of us, I mean, not the treachery that ultimately destroyed Camelot." Lancelot looked up briefly, blue eyes full of a pain that seemed an echo of what Mordred endured every single day, then looked down again. "That—that day you saw me kissing Guinevere…"
"What of it?"
"That wasn't me," Lancelot said quietly, eyes fastened on the scorched, broken floor. "Arthur sent me away early that morning, before the sun had even risen. By the time I returned… all was lost, and my only thought was to get the queen to safety, as I was sworn to do. I sent someone to tell you I was back and taking her away. I never realized that you never got the message." He looked up, and this time there was no mistaking his tears as anything else. "Whoever you saw kissing her, it was not me. Did you know, after all was ended, I looked ceaselessly for you? Everyone said you left, that you wanted nothing to do with any of us ever again. Do you know how that felt? I've spent centuries thinking you had cast me aside. And then to realize what really happened… and to then spend another fifty years trying to find you…" He dropped his head again, but Mordred still caught the edge of the sob that Lancelot tried to muffle.
Fresh pain and rage filled Mordred as he realized how easily they had been played for fools. "Lancelot…"
Still looking at the floor, Lancelot said, "So will you give me another chance, Mordred? My affections for you have not waned in all these centuries."
"Nor—nor mine for you," Mordred said raggedly. "No matter how hard I tried. Stop kneeling, you bloody knave."
With a rough, pained noise, Lancelot surged to his feet and rushed Mordred, who swept him up and kissed him with all the pain and longing he'd banked for hundreds of years.
Lancelot had always tasted of summer—sunlight and fresh water and warm grass—but that taste was deeper now, with a new earthiness, or something like petrichor. His body was harder, leaner, but still so familiar and right in Mordred's arms.
"I've missed you," Lancelot said, the words a fragile whisper.
Mordred kissed his tears, then took his mouth again, until they were both left gasping for breath. "I can't believe I was such a fool."
"You had more enemies than you could count," Lancelot replied. "Even you cannot win every battle, and games of deceit were never your strength. I wish I'd found you before you vanished."
Mordred just kissed him again, because if he didn't, anguish and fury and regret would consume him. He'd waited too long for this impossible dream to come true; he would not waste good fortune on being distracted by things he could not change.
Tearing away again, nuzzling Lancelot's scaly cheek and smiling faintly at the sorely-missed sensation, he asked, "How did you manage to get here? Breaking wardings and the like is not your brand of magic."
Lancelot frowned, brow drawn down in puzzlement. "What do you mean? Silenus let me in and told me to wait here."
"I'm going to kill him," Mordred muttered, then called out, "A word, Your Majesty?"
Silenus appeared before them, beautiful as always—smirking as always. "Thank you for attending to the matter of the intruder, Sir Mordred. Your performance is, as ever, flawless." He looked around the singed and soaked room. "If…enthusiastic."
Mordred didn't roll his eyes, but only because he would never be so blatantly disrespectful. "He's not an intruder if you let him in."
"I suppose you have a point," Silenus said, smirk widening. "I hope you're not expecting me to apologize."
"Perish the thought, Majesty," Mordred drawled.
Silenus swept a bow. "I will leave you to your reunion, my knights." As suddenly as he'd appeared, he vanished.
Around them, the room slowly repaired itself, until it looked precisely as it had before Mordred and Lancelot had destroyed it.
"So where is your painting?" Lancelot asked.
"This way," Mordred said gruffly and turning neatly on his heel, led Lancelot back through the gallery to the room that held his painting.
Lancelot stopped in front of it, staring at the large, smooth rock in the foreground, the lake and castle beyond. Tears fell down his cheeks. "This is my lake." He looked at Mordred. "And your castle."
Before Arthur had razed the castle and time had taken the lake. In life, the two had been nowhere near each other. After he'd joined forces with Silenus, Mordred had not been able to resist a chance to combine the two places he'd loved most—even if the result left a constant, bittersweet ache.
Mordred took his hand and touched the painting with his othe
r one—and then they were home.
Castle Amhar, the first place he'd called home, the place to which he'd retreated when he'd realized that his father would always be happy to have him as a mindless, obedient soldier but would never regard him as a son. No, his only real sons had been those born of Guinevere.
"It's beautiful," Lancelot said.
Mordred smiled faintly. "I'd be surprised if you suddenly found your precious lake anything less." He shifted his gaze from the castle to Lancelot—and startled slightly to see Lancelot staring raptly at him. "What?"
Mouth twisting into a sad smile, Lancelot replied, "I'll never forgive that bastard for all his selfish choices, everything that led to Camelot's ruin. Seeing you here, I remember the king you could have been—should have been. In scraps and moments, the king you more or less were. You deserve more than a dream castle in a pocket universe."
"Thinking he deserved first Camelot and then the world was what damned Arthur. There was only one thing I ever truly wanted, that I would have gladly worked to earn every day of life, and given my life to have for just one day."
The sadness slipped from Lancelot's smile as he took Mordred's hands in his own and leaned in to kiss him softly. "I've never had your poetic ways, beloved, but I've been yours from the first moment I saw you."
"Covered in mud and setting things on fire?" Mordred asked with a snort.
Lancelot laughed and reached up a hand to stroke his thumb over Mordred's lips. "You were like nothing I'd ever seen before."
Scoffing, Mordred replied, "You've seen plenty of angry knights losing their temper."
"I'd seen knights be malicious and exercise their powers to stroke their own egos. I'd seen knights posture and preen. I'd seen them do all the right things for the glory and prestige. But I'd never seen one who honestly risked himself, with no expectation of reward, to defend a group of children from certain death—and that death a bog wyrm. Arthur always said I was his greatest knight, but he just liked how good I made him look. You were always truer a knight than the rest of us." He draped his arms around Mordred's neck. "Well, except for maybe Galahad."
Mordred grabbed his hips and bit at his nose. "Do not mention that little upstart's name. If he'd flirted with you one more—"
Lancelot cut him off with a kiss, and Mordred chuckled into it. Unlike Guinevere, Galahad and his cute, boyish flirting with a man twice his age had been endearing. Mordred shuddered and pulled Lancelot even closer, unable to believe that after centuries of anger and misery and misunderstanding, the love of his life was back in his arms.
Drawing back, beautifully mussed and flushed, Lancelot licked his lips and said, "So you've already proven you're still capable of holding your own in a fight. Are you going to show me what else you can still do after all this time?"
"I can still throw brats in the lake."
Lancelot pressed the back of one hand to his forehead, the scales on his wrist flashing in the sunlight. "Oh, no, not the lake."
Rolling his eyes, Mordred pulled him close again—then threw him over the edge and into the water several feet below.
After a couple of minutes, Lancelot broke the surface, covered in blue-green scales, his features sharper, more angular, gills at his throat, webbing between his fingers, and his hair dark green. "I really should have expected that."
"You really should have." Mordred dove smoothly into the water, his clothes vanishing right before he hit it. He dove deep, enjoying the cool dark of the bottom of the lake—and kept going and going, headed for one of many little secrets tucked away in his little kingdom of one.
Of two, now.
He swam faster, though there was little worry of an immortal knight running out of air. Reaching the easy-to-miss opening to the cave, he paused long enough to look back at Lancelot, who followed him with a curious look, then swam on.
The cave was little more than a narrow tunnel, spared from being pitch black by way of tiny glowing plants and fish.
Eventually, the tunnel widened, and Mordred swam up until he broke the surface. He climbed out of the water, and waited.
As he surfaced, Lancelot gasped.
All around them were glass walls, arranged in panels set in gleaming stone. But instead of the lake, the secret room looked out into the ocean, with all manner of creatures swimming around them. In the ceiling was stained glass in a sunburst design, the light of an eternal full moon casting soft colors on the marble floor and the rugs scattered across it.
Most of the small space was taken up by a large, low-set bed half-drowned in pillows. Mordred had always had a weakness for a good bed, and pillows especially.
"This is beautiful." Lancelot finally tore his eyes away from the shark that swam by to stare at Mordred. "What else do you have to show me?"
"All in good time," Mordred replied. "So you like it, then? My little hideaway? My kingdom?"
"You know I love it." Lancelot pounced him, sending them stumbling-falling until they landed on the bed. Then Lancelot attacked him in the best way possible, cool from the water but warming quickly, his gleaming scales slowly receding.
Mordred ran his fingers over them, down Lancelot's back to grip his ass, moaning as sharp teeth bit and scored his throat. He'd always been teased mercilessly by their fellows for his ravaged neck, but he'd worn the marks with relish and pride.
Pulling back, Lancelot licked his lips, then dipped his head to feed on Mordred's mouth, tasting of fresh water and them.
He was panting as he pulled away, and shifted so he could press kisses to the rest of Mordred's body, lapping away lingering beads of water, teasing his nipples and sucking up marks on his smooth chest. He lingered on the scars that raked down Mordred's right hip and around to his ass. "What happened here?"
"Disagreement with a draugr."
"And the one here on your thigh?"
"Altercation with a few gargoyles. Is now really the time to ask about my new scars?"
Sadness filled Lancelot's eyes. "I just hate that there's now so much I don't know about you."
"And there is much I do not know about you, but we've time enough to learn it. But right now, beloved, I ache for you—leave the talking for later."
"Impatient," Lancelot whispered, but smiled and bent back to his work. "Do you want to fuck me?"
"You know what I've always liked best. Unless things have changed, it's always what you've liked best too."
Lancelot chuckled, low and rough and hot. "Nothing in heaven, hell, or earth could compel 'Mordred riding me' from first place on the list of my favorite things."
"Shut up." Mordred grabbed him and flipped them, pinning Lancelot down by way of sitting on his chest, cock in his face. "If you require assistance, I have something that might help."
Lancelot snickered, but in the next moment obediently swallowed Mordred's cock. His blue eyes blazed with desire—and challenge. Growling softly, Mordred accepted. Bracing his hands on the wall, he fucked Lancelot's face, driving his cock deep, all the way to Lancelot's throat, groaning at the feel of it, at the lust-drunk look in Lancelot's eyes, the hands that gripped his ass and urged him on.
But a hard pinch made him back off before he came, though he did it with ill grace. "Knave."
"I want you to come on my cock," Lancelot said.
Mordred rolled his eyes, but a smile twitched at his lips. "There's a drawer in the wall behind you. It has the lubricant."
Lancelot twisted and contorted to get the lube without removing Mordred from his lap, laughing briefly as he pulled out a modern looking bottle that was jarring against everything else in the room. "A far cry from the stuff we used the last time we did this."
"I certainly don't miss the hay of those days," Mordred replied, and got his fingers well-slicked before reaching back to prep himself.
Lancelot watched him throughout, eyes like blue fire, hands hot on Mordred's skin. "I didn't think you could possibly get more beautiful, but you've become breathtaking—especially like this."
"Be
quiet," Mordred retorted, face going hot. "I've barely changed at all—a few scars, new tattoos, longer hair."
"No," Lancelot said, and groaned as Mordred took hold of his cock and slowly sank down on it. "The last time I saw you, I thought you looked like a prince. Now you look like a king."
"I'm no king. Now shut up and fuck me."
Lancelot's hands tightened on his hips, but his eyes gleamed mischief when he replied, "I seem to recall you enjoyed doing most of the work, my king."
Mordred slapped his chest, but then braced his hands and began to move, rising up until he was nearly clear of Lancelot's cock then shoving back, taking him deep once more. He'd scoured the world and never found anything as captivating as the look on Lancelot's face as he watched Mordred ride him.
Part of Mordred still could not believe Lancelot was here. Was his again. If he thought too hard about all the stupidity that had kept them apart, he'd lose his mind. So he didn't. He simply focused on the heat of his lover, the feel of that familiar cock filling and stretching him, the way Lancelot moved beneath him, the way the low light gleamed on his beautiful scales—
He came with a cry, nearly surprising himself at the force and suddenness of it, spilling over Lancelot's chest. Lancelot drove up into him a few last time, clamping down hard on Mordred's hips as he finally came.
After he got his breath back, Mordred carefully pulled off Lancelot's softening cock and sprawled next to him, sore and sated and so happy it felt fragile and in danger of being broken. "I'm glad you found me. I'm sorry I nearly set you on fire."
"It was worth the risk," Lancelot replied, and snuggled in closer before falling asleep. Mordred let him rest, content to watch the creatures swimming beyond the glass and enjoy the warmth and weight of the man in his arms.
The Demon Slayer
Rathanael arrived to disaster. He killed the engine of his bike and kicked down the stand, removing and discarding his helmet as he took in the mess before him: the building that he presumed had once been the Gallery, realm of Silenus, King of the Satyr and a Prince of the Court of Lovers, was currently a pile of rubble and half-consumed by flames.