All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
The sound of crashing metal fills my ears. Strike for strike, hit for hit, my soldiers and the enemy exchange blows, neither wavering, neither stopping. Sword meets sword, spear meets spear, arrow meets body. All around me, bodies thud to the ground, the Camelot red mixing with the enemy’s black in a sea of chaotic colors until there are only two people left standing. I, on my magnificent white stallion, and my opponent, on a gigantic black horse. He’s dark, both in mind and in body, with a thirst for revenge and violence that will never be quenched. The two of us are linked through time, through space, through life. He is my destiny, he is my doom. He is a traitor and he is a savior. He is the shadow to my light, the moon to my sun, the clouds to my sky. He is Mordred, my enemy, my knight, my son.
“So, father,” he sneers. I flinch. He is my son, but he is also my sister’s son, and therefore a child born of sin. A child who should never exist and a child that is cursed for life. “Are you ready to die?”
Half of me is dead already, I think. When my beloved wife betrayed me with my best friend, and most trusted knight, I died inside. I am just a shell of my former self.
“Are you thinking of Guinevere? Oh, dear, sweet Guinevere. Pale, beautiful, like a flower opening its petals to the morning light, but icy, cold, and unfeeling on the inside. How could she betray you like that? After all, you have done no wrong, father,” he says, goading me. I refuse to react.
“Son–” I start.
“Don’t call me that!” he hissed. “I was your knight, your loyal supporter, but I am cursed. Cursed because of you!”
No, I think, it was your mother who cursed you, not I. “Mordred, then,” I amend hastily. “Call this off. There is no need for endless bloodshed and suffering.”
He laughs maniacally. “My men are dead. Your men are dead. There is no one on this field but us two, and I intend to finish what I started.”
I hear a familiar clang of metal and notice that Mordred has lowered the screen on his helmet. He readies his lance and charges toward me, intent on plunging it into my heart.
I refuse to fight. How can I fight my own son? He may be a child born of sin, cursed, and my mortal enemy, but he is my son. Instead, I drop my sword and spread my arms, happy to give my life to a man who would have me dead.
When the blow comes, I gasp at the pain. The metal cuts into my flesh like a butcher’s knife into beef. Mordred rides past me, effectively unseating me. My back hits the ground with a satisfying smack and my vision blurs. I can see a women with long black hair holding their arms out to me, and beyond them, a flawless blue lake.
Avalon, I think with the ghost of a smile on my lips. I am going to paradise.
“One day, I will return. One day, when the world needs me most, I will return,” I rasp.
One day, I think contentedly, I will save the world.