King Arthur and his son Mordred stood against each other.
The space between them was five metres no more, no less. It might as well have been an ocean. It might as well have been a universe. The golden light of Arthur's blazing form pushed outward in waves, melting the sand, scorching the air, turning the grey sky to gold. Mordred stood within the Zone, untouched, unburned, unseen.
Despite them not being able to see each other Arthur blinded by his own light, Mordred detached from his senses they knew each other was there. They could feel it. The bond of blood, of history, of love and hate and everything that had passed between them.
In Mordred's heart was an emotion of hate, yet love. It was like the emotion of a child at its youngest, volatile, and as porous as possible. Emotions bled into each other. Hate became love became fear became longing. He could not separate them. Could not name what he felt.
As such, the battle that was about to begin was no longer a battlefield with a goal. It was a battle with emotions. Both, at this point, had lost an essential part of war: to not be swayed by emotion.
But the situation of Mordred was one that was destined to come to pass.
Within the Zone, one is at their true self. There are no masks. No desires. No dreams. No goals. They are stripped of everything because they are within themselves and detached from the world.
He became his true self.
A child.
Mordred spoke.
His voice was quiet not the commanding tone of a warrior, not the sharp edge of a traitor. Something softer. Something younger.
"Hello, Father."
He paused, as if waiting for a response that did not come.
"How are you doing?" A pause. "You're strong. I can feel it." His voice dropped. "You've never been this strong."
He did not know what to ask. Did not know what to say. The words came out awkward, stumbling, uncertain.
"How's your ideal nowadays?" He tilted his head. "That nation. The one you protect above everything else in the world." His voice hardened slightly. "But those that are close to you... you couldn't even look your own son in the eye."
He paused.
"Till now."
His voice cracked.
"You still avoid me. Just like that day. Just like always." He took a breath. "What's wrong? Did I ever do anything wrong to you?"
He touched his chest over his heart.
"All I wanted..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "...was your love."
His mind went to the past.
A long-gone memory began to play faint at first, then sharper, more vivid. He was young again. Small. Vulnerable.
He was standing in the great hall of Camelot, surrounded by knights and nobles and servants who bowed when he passed. But he was not looking at them.
He was looking at his father.
Arthur stood at the far end of the hall, Excalibur at his hip, his crown on his head, his face turned away. Mordred had run to him had crossed the entire length of the hall, his small legs pumping, his arms outstretched.
He had reached his father.
And Arthur had walked away.
Without a word. Without a glance. Without even acknowledging that his son had been there.
Mordred had stood there, his arms still outstretched, his mouth open, his heart shattering. The knights had watched. The nobles had whispered. The servants had averted their eyes.
He had been seven years old.
He had never run to his father again.
The memory faded.
Mordred stood in the Zone, his eyes though they could not see fixed on the blazing light where his father stood.
"All I wanted," he repeated, his voice barely audible, "was your love."
Arthur blazed.
Mordred stood still.
And the storm gathered above them.