Rise

My teenage years were spent training relentlessly. Each day after the day's chores were complete, my father educated me in many different means of combat, including hand-to-hand, swordsmanship, jousting, even fighting dishonorably should the need arise. For what I thought to be a meek old man, my father truly proved himself to be a fierce warrior. He seemed to surprise me at every turn in my life - wiser than any sage, stronger than any soldier, and more loving than any I had ever known. He tempered me without hesitation, ensuring that I could rise to the destiny I was apparently meant to fulfill.

In my fifteenth year, I entered into a tournament held by a knight local to our humble village - Sir Agravain. The hearsay that proceeded him made him out to be a misanthrope of a man to be around, but his actions reflected a sort of gilded edge of his heart. He was charitable, and always sought to improve the community that raised him from peasant to Knight of the Round Table. To that end, he held these tournaments once every three years. They were meant to find the cream of the crop amongst the boys, in scholarship, swordsmanship, and sportsmanship. The first day consisted of a series of tests proctored by a Camelot scholar, and those who passed participated in the next two days' activities. The next day was an exercise in teamwork, with all of the boys divided into four teams working together to capture a flag placed atop a tower in the middle of a field. Despite the wooden armaments used, returning home bloody wasn't uncommon. The winning team moved onto the third day, which consisted exclusively of sword duels, one on one. The winner of the final day was offered the chance to become Sir Agravain's squire - and thus a chance at becoming a knight himself.

For me, the tests required no difficult thought. I made it to the second day with ease, and was placed with a contingent of seven other boys my age. I took the lead of our small squadron, making it so that I had little chance to fail. Each other mock soldier I had performing difficult tasks suited to their person, namely holding back the other teams' attackers, while I ascended the tower. This provided an incredible set of benefits to me: the glory would be mine with little fighting, my teammates would be most injured from the combat, and I would be nearly unscathed. My plan came to fruition as I lithely climbed up the tower, my comrades making a hole for me to easily strike through. I had already seized the flag by the time the other would-be climbers had even laid hands on the tower. On the third day, my former teammates were too weakened to put up a good fight. In each of the rounds, I gave some ground to the opponent to make it appear fair, before disarming and nearly humiliating them.

Following the last fight, Sir Agravain approached me, my father in tow. Reflexively, I knelt down, thrusting my blade into the ground with what remained of my strength from the event. "Rise, Mordred. You have succeeded, against my expectations I might add," the knight said. As I rose, I saw him scanning me up and down. "For someone of average stature as yourself, you fight like a giant, and move like a carp down river." he said, almost ignoring the fact that my opponents were injured thrice as much as I. My father showed no emotion on his face, to a degree that even I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Mordred, you will return with me to Camelot, and train not as a squire but a knight. Any man could tell your blood is far nobler than your clothes seem to inspire - your movement, your form, your golden hair and azure eyes - everything indicates that your destiny lies amongst knights, not farmers." the knight declared, in total disregard for the good farmers around him. His words stunned me, and I turned to my father for some indication of what to do. His eyes told me more than words ever could - this was the next step on the path of fate.

Bibliography: The story of Mordred becoming Agravain's squire as his first step to Camelot comes from the Vulgate Lancelot series of tales.