Sir Bors and Sir Gareth stood over Arthur's son.
Their blades were placed directly at the sides of his neck the cold steel pressed against his skin, reflecting the grey light of Valhalla. One wrong move. One twitch. One flick of their wrists and the traitor's head would roll across the sand.
Mordred looked at the blades.
He saw his reflection in the polished steel distorted, shattered, split between the two edges. His dark hair. His sharp jaw. His father's eyes.
"What's this feeling?" His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Is it possible... nostalgia?"
He lay still, his arms spread, his chest heaving, his body trapped beneath the swords of his uncles.
"Or weakness?"
He closed his eyes.
"No." The word was firm. Certain. "I'm not feeling it. It's both of them." His brow furrowed. "I need to be reminded of it."
He opened his eyes.
"I'm strong. But I lack foundation." His voice was calm, analytical. "The foundation of swordsmanship."
He looked past the blades past Bors and Gareth, past the battlefield, past the grey sky toward something only he could see.
"If I'm to continue this journey... then I need to learn it." His voice hardened. "True swordsmanship. From the basics."
He smiled.
His hands his empty, weaponless hands rose from the sand. They moved between the blades, pushing them apart, creating space. His fingers wrapped around the flat of each sword, gripping the steel as if it were a railing.
He pushed.
The blades shifted just slightly, just enough to loosen their hold on his neck. His core muscles tightened, his waist coiled, his balance shifted. He used the strength in his abdomen to lever himself off the ground.
His body rolled backward.
A backflip clean, controlled, effortless. His feet landed on the sand, his knees bent, his hands raised in a loose guard.
He stood.
Across from him, his uncles stood as well their swords still raised, their eyes still fixed, their bodies still ready.
Mordred looked to his left.
A small shine caught his eye the gleam of steel among the bodies. A pile of Roman corpses lay nearby, their armor dented, their blood still wet. And protruding from their flesh from their chests, their lungs, their hearts were swords.
Roman steel. Worn by centuries. Forgotten.
He smiled.
"Well." His voice was light. "Time to return to something like that."
He ran.
His feet pounded across the sand, carrying him to the pile of corpses. He reached down his hands closing around two blades that were still embedded in a dead soldier's lungs. They were stuck held in place by drying blood and clotted flesh.
He pulled.
SHLIK. SHLIK.
The swords came free long, straight, unadorned. They were not his blade. Not the black sword he had been forged. But they were sharp. They would cut.
He held one in each hand.
"I shouldn't use my blade." He turned to face his uncles. "At least not until the fight is over."
He lunged.
The two Roman swords sang as they cut through the air one aimed at Bors, one aimed at Gareth, both aimed at death.
He reached Bors first.
His left leg came forward, his foot slammed against the sand with a stomp that shook the ground. The momentum from the stomp transferred through his body up his leg, through his hips, into his core. His second leg stabilized him, planting firmly, locking him in place.
His right hand swung the first sword.
A straight cut aimed at Bors's chest, at his heart, at his life.
Sir Bors's eyes narrowed.
He did not retreat. Did not dodge. He lowered his body, bending at the knees, slanting his torso at an angle. The position looked awkward unstable but it was anything but.
It was a guard.
A technique designed to receive the force of an attack and transfer it throughout the body. The impact would not be absorbed in one place it would spread, diffusing through muscles, through bones, through everything.
The force would become nothing.
CLANG!
The Roman sword crashed against Bors's blade. The sound was loud a deafening ring that echoed across the battlefield. But Bors did not move. Did not shake.
He held.
Sir Gareth saw the opportunity.
His eyes tracked the exchange Bors blocking, Mordred pressing, the opening that had appeared in the traitor's side. He moved.
His blade shot forward.
A stab short range, precise, deadly. He aimed for an opening in Mordred's side, for the gap between his ribs, for the soft flesh beneath his armor.
He won't be able to dodge this attack, Gareth thought, his blade already halfway to its target. Even if he does, Bors will use that opportunity for a counterstrike.
He pushed more strength into the thrust.
Faster.
Harder.
Closer.
Mordred did not dodge.
His eyes those cold, ancient eyes tracked the incoming blade. His body trained by centuries of combat calculated its trajectory, its speed, its point of impact.
His left hand moved.
The second Roman sword the one that had been hanging at his side, waiting, patient rose. It intercepted Gareth's thrust, catching it in the middle of its arc.
CLANG!
The blades met.
Steel against steel.Will against will.
Mordred smiled.
The three of them stood frozen blades locked, bodies straining, breath held.
The lesson had begun.