Heir of Avalon

Its name was Khala-Bhanda, the Ender of Stories, a powerful Demon of Hell that once single-handedly invaded the Isle of Avalon and laid low the greatest champions of the Fae. It was eventually overwhelmed and shackled in Faesteel and dragged before the Fae King and Queen.

For its impudence and arrogance, the Fae rulers had it imprisoned in a seal, damned to spend eternity in isolation.

But a powerful Fae seer foretold that the demon’s presence would break down the prison, and no Fae could slay it when it was free. This news concerned the King, and so he sent out people in search of a mortal hero whose lineage would be enough to defeat Khala-Bhanda when it was free. Though many potential candidates were found, only one was chosen.

This mortal hero became known as Uther Pendragon.

To him did the Fae gift two swords and a suit of armor, and when he died, these armaments were passed down to his son Arthur. And when he died battling his nephew Mordered, his Fae-forged armaments were passed down to his son, and the cycle of inheritance between an elder and a younger Pendragon continued to the present day.

Morgan knew this, for he was once Alexander Pendragon; descendant of King Arthur and rightful heir to the armaments wielded by his twin sister Amelia.

A sister who plotted his death so that she could have the armaments, and the honor of using her fabled ancestor’s belongings, for herself.

“You did good, Morgan.” the young man’s earpiece crackled with Mellow’s congratulations. “The fucker’s dead and the package is safe. It’s time to go.”

He stood before the charred remains of the feared demon, the Defiler of Avalon, the Great Foe of the Fae, then turned to the quivering form of his sister.

The Pendragon family armor she wore was half-melted, the clothes under it torn, and the flesh under that was bleeding. No doubt she had a few broken bones here and there, and he was certain the pain she was feeling must have been unimaginable.

But it was nothing compared to the pain he felt when she betrayed him.

He gripped Excalibur tight and the fabled weapon grew hotter in his hand, his contempt for his twin feeding the weapon with righteous anger.

He remembered that rainy night, when he stumbled into the living room wet and injured from the failed assassination attempt at the bridge. She was there, she helped him up, and carried him in front of the fireplace to warm up. She put a towel around his shoulders, told him that she would get to the bottom of this, and that he could rest easy now that he was with her, his sister.

Then she pulled a gun and shot him thrice in the chest.

He remembered her look of disgust as she wiped his blood off her hands, how she growled a promise to make the failed hitmen pay, and how he was staining the fur carpet with his blood. He remembered her kicking him a few times, gloating about how Exaclibur was finally hers and how she would be the rightful ruler of England with him gone. He remembered her laugh as she shot him again, the bullet striking his head and knocking him out.

He remembered the months of hell he endured out at sea while a few passing sea spirits took pity and healed him. He remembered every ounce of pain and every instance of suffering he felt since that fateful night.

But most of all, he remembered the tears. The silent pleas. The begging.

He took a few steps forward and Amelia tried to scrabble back, terrified tears leaking from her eyes.

“A-Alex, h-h-how are you…?!” the young woman blubbered. “I-I shot you!”

“You did.” Morgan nodded.

“In the h-head! Y-You died!” Amelia was screaming now. “I checked your vitals! I threw you into the sea! You were DEAD!”

“I was.” Morgan twirled Excalibur in his hand, seeming casual despite the white-hot heat that radiated off Excalibur. “And you did kill me.”

Amelia’s back hit a boulder and she paled.

Morgan raised Ecalibur, held in a reverse grip.

Amelia screamed.

The sword thrust forward.

“Alexander Pendragon is dead.” Morgan said. “What you’re seeing now is his ghost.”

Morgan’s hand left Excalibur’s grip and the weapon lost its white-hot glow. Amelia’s eyes roamed the length of the blade, from the pommel to the sword tip buried in the rock a mere inch away from her head. She sighed in relief and soiled herself out of fright. She turned to him, face red with shame and tears streaming from her eyes.

“…A-Aren’t you going to kill me?” she whimpered, scared and timid like a child.

“Hm.” Morgan grunted. “No.”

He looked at her, and the disgust in his eyes made the Pendragon heiress look away in utter shame.

“I’m not letting you live because I’m merciful.” Morgan put his hands in his pockets, voice uncaring. “I’m letting you live because I want you to live with the knowledge that the destiny you’ve been led to believe is a lie. That you failed, and that you only survived fighting Khala-Bhanda because the ghost of your dead brother came out of the darkness to save you. That you aren’t the ‘Last Pendragon’ as you’ve led the media to believe, but a kinslayer and a selfish little girl who thought the chance to swing an old relic was worth than her brother’s life.”

He spat at her feet and she pulled her legs to herself, curling into a ball.

“Good job, chosen one.” He sneered at the last two words, turned, and walked away. “This’ll be a fine lie for your kids. Assuming you find a guy dumb enough to marry you and that filthy mouth of yours, that is.”

He managed to catch the first sobs just before he got out of earshot. He laughed to himself, feeling his own tears running down his face.

"Stupid sister."