Mordred in the Shadowlands (FGO Semitwinning)

The training grounds of Chaldea were quiet, the room filled mostly by grunts of exertion and the occasional thunk of wood on wood. At the odd time of day, it held only a single occupant. The purple-haired, bodysuit clad Scáthach, Queen of the Land of Shadows and powerful Servant, keeping herself to a strict training regimen as if she were back in her homeland, always prepared for a fight and occasionally training heroes.

She wasn’t really working up a sweat; even the harshest training seemed easy to her these days, and she couldn’t go all out if she wanted to leave the room intact, but all the same, it was important to keep up the routine. If she relaxed too much she’d fall to the level of most of those around her, and then what use would she be as a queen or as a warrior?

As she retreated from the battered dummy, and prepared for another round of drills, she heard the door slide open. Thinking it must be another person there to train, she didn’t pay it any mind - at least until a gratingly loud voice hit her. “Hey! Purple, yeah you!”

Scáthach sighed, and turned to face the intruder. A familiar Saber in white-and-red, Mordred, sword over her shoulder and an irritated glare on her face. “...I am not ‘Purple’. Call me Scathach, or don’t call me anything.”

“Whatever.” Mordred waved away the words, “You train heroes right? Like the blue dude with spikey hair and a bodysuit like yours.”

“Cú Chulainn. Yes, I taught him - what of it?” The Queen asked, wondering what could bring them up. “Did he have another battle with Artoria?”

“No, this has nothing to do with her! Any version!” Mordred snapped. “If you train heroes, then you should try me! I want to see what’s so special about your training, and you might learn something yourself if you work with someone as strong as I am!”

That was… unexpected. While delivered in her usual boisterous manner, Mordred had just asked for training; something she would have considered an admission of weakness. Knowing how she spent most of her time… it was probably that argument with the King of Knights’ Lancer incarnation, the other day. A particularly harsh episode for an already bitter feud, that was.

Well, it wasn’t like she had anything better to do with her time. And besides, she was sure the Master would appreciate making a more useful Servant out of Mordred. “You do have some potential, a cut above the mediocre masses - and from me, that is high praise. Your brute strength could be a terror indeed, if it were to be tempered by skill. But my training is not the sort of matter you can just waltz in here and take. It is a high commitment, the harshest you ever have or will face, and is not something to be taken lightly. Reflect on the matter, perhaps speak with Cú Chulainn about his experience, and speak to me again if you’re still-”

“What was that about my skill? You saying I don’t know how to swing a sword?” Mordred interrupted, face reddening. “You think I have to take that from you? I’m the best swordsman here! What would some spear-fondling hag know about sword skill?”

Scáthach planted her spear in the ground - her real one, not the wooden training weapon she’d wielded before. Her face was surprisingly calm for Mordred’s words. “Very well then. If you want my training, you will have it - we’ll see if you would still dare call the Queen of the Shadowlands a ‘hag’ when we’re through.”

Behind her, it seemed as though clouds gathered despite being indoors. A set of elaborate stone doors, flanked with strange statues, dropped from the storm and landed behind her, opening onto a vision of a frozen wasteland, a black portal to God-knows-where. Then, suddenly, there was a strong pull towards it, unsecured furniture and gear being pulled inexorably towards it. While the witch was unmoved by it’s power, the surroundings surely weren’t - Mordred tripped from the surprise suction and had to dig into the ground by the gauntlets to avoid being dragged in. “What the- you bitch! What do you think you’re doing!?”

“Giving you what you asked for, of course.” Scáthach said. “You want me to train you? Then, my insolent pupil, you will be given the full experience.” She walked up to Mordred, and using the butt of her spear, pried their hands from the floor. Screaming profanities, the Knight of Treachery was dragged into the portal, followed shortly by their new mentor.

-----

Mordred groaned, opening her eyes to find herself staring at a cold stone floor. Where was she? She’d been going to ask that hag to train her, and then she’d flipped, and… now she was there. It wasn’t quite the snowy wasteland she’d seen in the doorway, but rather a grim interior area. It was rather spartan, without so much as a carpet to give it the sense of being lived in.

The knight’s analysis of her situation was halted as she saw a familiar figure on a throne at the back of the room. Leaping to her feet, Mordred stomped towards the woman. “You! Where did you take me? I should stab you for that, you-” she said, but when she tried to hold out her sword, she found it wasn’t there.

In fact, none of her gear was. From her sword to her armor to the thin band that tied her hair back, she’d been completely stripped of anything that was hers. But she wasn’t naked - she was wearing a red bodysuit, just like Scáthach’s purple, that clung tight to her figure and showed off her conditioned body. “W-What the hell is this? Where’s my stuff!?”

“You won’t need it while we train,” Scáthach scoffed, “You want to be trained like a Celtic warrior? Then you shall dress as one, and wield a weapon like one. If it’s any consolation, the outfit confirms what I’d thought earlier. Your slim figure and comparatively thick musculature will only aid you on the battlefield.”

Mordred, of course, interrupted. “What was that about my size you arrogant bitch?” she shouted, raising a hand and trying to bring back Clarent for payback against the perceived slight - compare her to Lancer-Father in that way, would she? - but to her shock and dismay, the sword wouldn’t appear. “Hey, what gives? Clarent should be in my hand…”

The witch seemed unfazed by Mordred’s threats, tossing her a simple spear with an iron head. “That thing is no use for real training. It’s a ceremonial object more than it is a weapon. Using it while you train will do nothing but build bad habits. It’s fine enough for combat, but if we’re training, we’re going to start from the very basics.”

“I - what was that? I didn’t come here to be treated like some squire! I’m a full on knight, I already know how to fight!” Mordred complained, and Scáthach couldn’t help but notice what got the Artorias so angry with her.

“If that’s the case, hit me.” The Lancer-class Servant said, standing. She planted her spear in the ground, uncaring for the damage it might do to the floor. “If your commitment to the training was truly all bluster, then I’m happy to have you leave, if you show you don’t need it. All you have to inflict is a glancing blow, a graze. I will not arm myself. If you can make contact with that spear, then you can go on your way and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“I’ll do a lot more than hit you.” Mordred said, falling into a combat stance with the spear in front of her. “If you’ve ever wondered what a gaping hole in your gut would feel like, I’m happy to show you!” she said, lunging.

Decent form - she knew the basics of the weapon, at least. Which was good; a sword was the weapon of a flashy noble, but it was the spear that was the weapon of a true warrior. But it was clearly just the basics; she’d seen humans who could have won this battle even without her brute strength.

Mordred’s wild charge was turned against her as Scáthach stepped forward and a bit to the left, sidestepping the spear and getting in Mordred’s guard. “The spear is the king of the melee, but even it has weaknesses.” she said shortly, gripping the haft of the weapon and preventing Mordred from withdrawing it. “A misjudged thrust can spell disaster. Like so.” She squeezed her hand, snapping the spear in two.

“Wha-” Mordred barely had the time to react before the Lancer shoved her to the ground, pinning her in place as she grabbed her spear again.

“In that case, it looks like we will be training after all.” Scáthach said, flipping her spear so the point faced to the ground and Mordred. “And that means setting down the rules of our arrangement.”

With rapid, precise strokes, Scáthach wrote the runes onto Mordred’s very body. “The first shall ensure you follow my orders as I train you. The second makes certain you will not be leaving this castle until your training is done, under pain of death. Do you understand?”

“I understand you’re a psycho! What the hell do you think you’re-”

“Silence.”

Mordred tried to continue, but the rune on her gut pulsed an angry red, and her body was suddenly wracked with pain. It went on for a few minutes, until she stopped trying to talk.

Scáthach waited a moment, then nodded. “Good. You may speak now - but be respectful, as we begin your training immediately.”

-----

Mordred followed behind Scáthach as she was led through the castle. This was a fine mess she’d put herself in, wasn’t it? She tugged at the red bodysuit, the holes from the runes already sealed. It wasn’t very protective, evidently, but it did feel kind of nice to wear… maybe that hag had a point when it came to this kind of thing. Not that she’d ever admit that, of course.

She sighed. All this because that Lancer-Father said that Mordred was too brutish to ever be of that class herself even if she did wield a spear. Being called that by that version of Artoria… somehow it seemed worse than if it came from the version she’d actually beaten.

The room they walked to seemed to be some form of indoor arena, a huge circular space with hefty gates at either end, whatever was behind shrouded in shadow. As they reached the one on their side and it started to grind it’s way open, Scáthach turned to the Saber and tossed her another spear. “Prepare yourself. I’ll be observing your first fight with this weapon to gauge your present state.”

“Observing? Shouldn’t I fight you, if you’re training me?” Mordred asked, whirling the spear a bit. She had some harsh words, but remembering the earlier mind-breaking pain kept her tongue in check.

“You’ll learn nothing from fighting an opponent so far your superior that you can’t even understand what they’re doing. So no. We begin with a simple foe.”

Mordred sighed, stepping into the ring with her spear shouldered, feeling confident. Whoever she was fighting couldn’t be too tough, could they? It was for the best, anyway. Those runes Scáthach had carved on her were pissing her right off. And since she couldn’t go swinging at the bitch herself, it was a good way to work off steam. “Come on out, whoever you are! Unless you’re too afraid to fight a knight!”

The gate on the other side started to grind open, slowly, and Mordred’s opponent stepped out. She blinked in surprise. Rather than a human (or human-ish) enemy, it was… a boar? A weird one, with pitch black fur and red eyes, tusks as thick as Mordred’s leg, and a bit bigger than any she’d seen up to then, but a boar all the same. “Oi, h- Scáthach!” Mordred called over her shoulder, biting back the insult just in time, “You making fun of me? I can kill a boar with my hands if I had to, let alone this knife on a stick!”

“Focus.” Scáthach said, a single sharp word that left no doubt it was an order.

Mordred sighed, and then turned back to her opponent. Fine then - it looked like boar was on the menu for the night. It was stupid, but hey, she had to do what she had to do. “I’m not going easy on you just because you’re a dumb animal,” she told it, hefting her spear.

The battle was surprisingly brutal - it didn’t take much to dodge the thing, as it’s attacks were simple and easily predictable by a five year old with basic pattern recognition, let alone an experienced fighter like Mordred. But the damned thing was faster than it looked, and no matter how she stabbed and sliced it didn’t seem to even notice the wounds, even as blood soaked it’s fur until it was more red than black.

Mordred nearly slipped on a spatter of blood, and just barely caught her balance and dodged before the boar could gore her. “Enough of this crap!” she shouted, lunging in to stab it in the stupid face.

The spearhead sunk into the boar’s face with a satisfying wet thunk, and surely pierced the brain. But as Mordred was preparing to pull it out, the boar started pressing towards her, closing the gap rapidly and wrenching the spear from her hand. Mordred tumbled, and the boar reared back and prepared to slide it’s tusks into her gut.

There was a shouted word, and suddenly, the entire front half of the boar’s head was gone, quickly followed by it’s limbs.

“I… uh…” Mordred stammered as Scáthach appeared, pulling the Gáe Bolg from the corpse. “I… had that under control…”

“The boar was an opponent that was appropriate for you,” Scáthach said as if she hadn’t spoken, “A demon that could regenerate just about any internal damage. The only way to really put it down is to decapitate it. It fights without concern for injury or death, mindlessly. An appropriate opponent for a Berserker in Saber’s clothing such as my newest student, I thought. Evidently, I overestimated your abilities due to your title as a knight of the round. So many bad habits. We’ll start from the beginning.”

-----

The training was as harsh as Scáthach had implied - Mordred lost track of time as day after day and week after week passed by. Scáthach was a strict instructor, scheduling every last minute of Mordred’s life as her student - from the time she had to sleep to what she could eat to exactly how long she’d work on any specific exercise. The training started out simple and irritatingly basic, just swinging a spear at dummies to “work on her form” and build the right muscles. After the basics were down, she started doing the exact same drills, but this time weighted down with rocks.

She found herself forced to act the apprentice in more ways than one; after the first week, Scáthach insisted that she be referred to as ‘Mistress’, as a sign of the master and student relationship. Of course, Mordred couldn’t refuse her, so from then on Scáthach was called Mistress. She had to first learn to cook then to prepare their meals, and do assorted tasks around the castle that Scáthach insisted were core to the training.

By the time it had been three months, it was difficult to consider the Mordred of the present the same person as the one dragged into the Land of Shadows. The dull, repetitive routine wore away at Mordred’s resolve. As Mordred was just getting used to it, she started seeing results. Her toned muscles gained even further conditioning - she’d never had an 8-pack before. When she took the rocks off her arms and legs, she could suddenly move like the wind. Her skill with the spear was even approaching that with the sword, and Scáthach had begun to teach her some basic runes. The Lancer’s strict and harsh rules for their relationship had even curbed Mordred’s sharp tongue, leaving her speaking in similar stoic form as her Mistress. The results combined with Scáthach’s strictness made it all the easier to throw away her former desires and interests, leaving them behind one by one.

But things were beginning to slow. Even when she beat the second boar she faced, even as she beat down new opponent after new opponent gathered from the wilderness, a little voice in the back of her mind told her she just wasn’t good enough, that she’d never be good enough. She tried to work past it, but even so, her development slowed and stalled…

-----

“You called for me, Mistress?”

Scáthach looked her student over. Mordred had improved vastly since her arrival, even though she’d grumbled at first. The training was paying dividends, but there was so far yet to go. “I did. I take it you’ve noticed as well.”

“...I have, yes.” Mordred said. “I… don’t understand why I’m having such trouble. I know I can do this… I have to be able to do this…”

Mordred might have been left scratching her head, but Scáthach understood from just one look at her. “Apprentice. Tell me, what do you think of Artoria?”

“I- Mistress?” Mordred said, surprised at the left-field question.

“Answer the question, Apprentice. Speak honestly and clearly - I won’t punish you for it now.”

Mordred seemed uncomfortable at the idea. “She’s… a knight. A king. She looks down on me like I’m nothing, like I didn’t earn my place as a knight, like I’m just an irritation. She’s wrong, and I know she’s wrong...” Mordred trailed off, unable to make herself speak more.

“That’s enough. I understand.” Scáthach said. That was it. It seemed even one of her students wasn’t immune to such ails of the mind.

Even as Mordred discarded so much of herself in the pursuit of strength, Artoria remained a lead weight around her neck. She couldn’t grow while she had to consider everything in light of how Artoria would react, whether it was acceptance or anger she wanted to invoke. Artoria was a chain to Mordred’s old self, her weak self - and a chain like that had to be severed if Mordred was to continue to grow.

“The solution to your block is simple. I will excise Artoria from your mind, using rune magic. Any and all memories relating to her. All she’ll be is another of Master’s Servants, to you.”

Mordred blinked. “What? Why would you need to do that? Why would that help?” she said, unable to contain her questions even with the obedience instilled in her.

“Once you no longer define yourself by your relationship to her, you can instead define yourself by your training. You’ll be able to grow once again.”

That didn’t seem to pacify her, though. “You can’t do that! Removing so much of my memory is like… changing who I am. Would I even be me anymore?”

“People change every day. One could say that you’re already an entirely different person than the one who barged in and thought she could get a few pointers from me. It’s only the next logical step.” Scáthach said. As she spoke, she planted her spear on the ground. Behind her, a familiar gate showed up. “If you can’t take that step, though, then consider our training done.”

“You can’t do that!” Mordred cried out. “I… I haven’t even gotten close to your level yet, Mistress!”

“You’re stronger than you were. But there’s no point in training you further if you insist on handicapping yourself.” Scáthach continued. “Decide now.”

Mordred froze in place, visibly wracked with the gravity of the choice she was making. Scáthach decided to give her a little push. “You’ve been a good student, and it would be a shame to end it so abruptly. But if you offer me no choice, I will do so.”

The student hesitated for a few seconds more, before nodding. “...I have to get stronger. Do it fast before I change my mind-”

Before Mordred was even done speaking, Scáthach had drawn the rune on her.

No longer was she a knight of Camelot. No longer was she the progeny of an uncaring ruler, or the traitorous knight that ended them. Mordred felt the memories slipping away, memories of her battles and struggles dropping out of her head one after another until none was left. She was left a blank slate, an empty canvas on which Scáthach begun to paint her perfect student.

Mordred was, first and foremost, Scáthach’s apprentice. She’d been with her for so long, training in the Land of Shadows was all she could remember. She didn’t mind - she didn’t need memories of whatever her life was like before she’d met her Mistress, since it was completely irrelevant. All there was to her life was the pursuit of strength.

It would be inconvenient if she wondered why she looked like some unrelated king, so Scáthach made some subtle alterations to her face - a bit of a shift in the cheeks there, a bit of a pinch to the chin there, and of course some new eyes… and Mordred could no longer be mistaken for Artoria, the only notable commonality being her hair color. She looked more like her Mistress, than anyone, really.

Now, there really was nothing of Mordred’s original self left. Her name was all that remained - even her Class had been shifted to Lancer.

Scáthach withdrew, and Mordred blinked, newly red eyes trying to puzzle together what had been happening moments before. “We’re nearly to the final stage of your training, Apprentice. I had a gift to mark the occasion.”

The memory slotted itself into place, smoothing out the reason why Mordred was present. “Of course, Mistress. I am thankful for whatever you may offer.”

A new red spear appeared in the senior Lancer’s hand, and she offered it to her apprentice. “Gáe Bolg. A proper weapon for a student of Scáthach. With it, we may begin to spar with each other, starting tomorrow. Prepare as you wish - this will be the most intense part of your training.”

-----

Artoria Lily was… a bit confused, by what had happened to her friend Mordred. One day, she and Scáthach had vanished without a trace. Then, months later, they’d come back and Mordred was nearly unrecognizable - in body, face, attitude, everything.

It was truly strange. Mordred was an irreverent, sometimes brutish free spirit. But now she was completely devoted to her “Mistress”, Scáthach. Could her training have been so life-changing? Now, Mordred barely spent any time outside of the training grounds; she was either there, dueling other Servants and almost always winning, or she was right on Scáthach’s heels, serving her every whim.

Lily approached Mordred one day in the training grounds, after she was done dueling for the day. She had something to ask the warrior… “Uh… hey, Mordred.”

Mordred looked up, red eyes surveying Lily with disinterest. “...Artoria Lily. Good day.” she said respectfully, and went back to cleaning her spear. She had been a bit terse since she’d come back, but Lily was surprised at the coldness.

“So… I was wondering, what happened with you and Scáthach? I was surprised to see how strong you became after her training…” Lily said.

“Mistress is a great teacher.” Mordred said simply.

Evidently. She had become so strong, it kind of made Lily wonder if she could be that way. She always worried if she was strong enough to rule one day. “Would it be rude to ask… if you could train me? I feel more comfortable if it’s you, and not Scáthach…”

Mordred suddenly stood up, and for a moment Lily thought she’d made her mad - but she was smiling for the first time since she’d come back. “Of course. Of course! I’ve finished my training, so I can take on a student. Mistress said that one of the best ways to further hone your skills is to teach it to another. Maybe with this…”

“Maybe?” Lily prompted, shocked by the sudden enthusiasm.

“Maybe I could one day surpass her…” Mordred said, so quiet Lily could barely hear. She looked up, “Now, I think I can get you started immediately. I don’t have access to the Shadow Lands, but there’s probably some servants I can use to gauge where you are…” As she spoke, she pulled a white bodysuit from seemingly nowhere with a magic Lily hadn’t realized she had, handing it off to the young Saber.

“Oh, already?” Lily said, “I’ll go change! This will be exciting!” she said, before running off.

“And if we’re going to be Mistress and Apprentice, there’s going to need to be some rules…” Mordred continued as Lily ran off, her spear gleaming as she prepared to write some runes when her new pupil returned...