This is my current serial story that I am posting on my blog "Tales from a Modern Bard". It's a Arthurian retelling from Mordred's point of view. It's very loosely based, and that was intended, so if you are a purist, this is probably not a story for you. If you want to find out more, visit the link below. I hope you enjoy! I always appriciate constructive comments so don't be afraid to leave one. But flamers will be ignored.

Rated PG-13 to be safe, for violence and angst, mostly in later chapters.

Chapter One


I had no recollection where I had come from, except that my name was Mordred, and that my parents had died in a fire when I was only a babe. No one knew their names, and I suspect that the one I carry was not the name given to me at birth. But it mattered little, when all was said and done, for it would be the name of Mordred that would be remembered. But it would be a long time before that would happen, and many things must be explained before the telling of those events.

            I had lived on the streets for as long as I could remember. I don’t recall who had cared for me as a babe and small child after the death of my parents, but they obviously cared little, for even my earliest recollections held no kindly adults looking after me, but only squalor of streets, other filthy children I was grouped with begging there, mostly invisible to the passers by, and starving for want of nothing more in life than a simple crust of bread.

            Until she came.

            I still remember that day with the utmost vividness and will until I am on my deathbed, partly with the awe I felt on that day, but mostly with a shudder that I knew to adopt later once I had discovered the full meaning of our fated meeting.

            She was always the kind of person who can take charge of a room, or any place she decides to go—I will have to always admit that to her favor. Her presence was mesmerizing, and her smile was the same, but could so easily turn chilling when she chose. Or when you knew what lay behind it. But her presence was why she caught my attention that day when I was begging in the market. She carried herself like a lady as I suppose in her own right, she was, and there were few ladies who came to the small fishing village I lived in. I was about five or six at the time, though my real age was never truly determined, and I remember wondering what had brought her there. How strange and horrifying it would have been to the filthy child I was to know then that it had been me who brought her there.

            She did not seek me out straight away, though her eyes did meet mine as she passed and she offered a smile to the poor orphan who stood, filthy and half frozen on the street. It was not until the next day that she came back to speak to me. I was startled, for no one, especially ladies, ever spoke to the street rabble. If they wanted to be kind they would toss a scrap of food or a farthing, but never would they stop to speak, but this lady did.

            “What is your name?” she asked me.

            It took me a moment to reply to the uncommon question and find my voice. “I am called Mordred, my lady.”

            She smiled at that. “My name is Morgan la Fay,” she told me in return. “Do you have anyone to care for you, Mordred?”

            I shook my head. “No, my lady.”

            “I’m in need of an apprentice. I like the looks of you. Would you like a home, a bed and food?”

            I didn’t know what to say. Of course I did, but the fact a lady was offering it to me…I should have taken caution, but I was only a child, and I was hungry and cold, and she was uncommonly beautiful to the eyes of a naive boy, so I simply nodded. She smiled again and took my hand.

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