Disclaimer: I do not own Fate/stay night

AN: This is my first fanfic, and my first attempt at creative writing in a long time. Criticism is welcome, flames will be ignored.

She swung, their armor as parchment before her blade. Her own wounds were aplenty. She could feel the bruises, gashes, and broken ribs. Her blood hot against her flesh. There was no pain.

A whisper on the wind.

There! Mordred, upon the hill her horse had been slain. The one responsible for this senseless slaughter. She approached the hill cautiously, cutting down any fool enough to impede her. Mordred must die for there to be any hope of salvaging Briton from this civil war. With their leader, her supposed son, dead, the rebels' moral would break and they could be routed.

A voice, hardly there, offering power.

She brought her blade down. The sound of metal clashing resounded as Mordred blocked with his own. His faceless helm seemed to glare at her over their blades as they pushed apart. She lunged, swinging low, hoping to hinder his movement. The traitor leapt, evading the strike, and raised his sword over his head. He brought it down as he landed, bringing his considerable strength to bear. She almost didn't stop it. As it was, she caught it with her hilt, one-handed, and was disarmed. Excalibur clattered to the ground.

"At what price?" she inquired.

She dove for her fallen horse. There! She grasped her spear. Rhongomyniad spun through the air to parry Mordred's next blow. She slashed at his head. A glancing blow, though it dislodged his helm. He stumbled back, unbalanced. Crouching, she thrust forward, rending armor, and piercing his stomach. Surely a fatal blow. A dull thud sounded behind her. Stepping back, she pulled her spear from him. His helm had fallen from his head.

Service, the voice whispered.

She froze, jaw clenched. The face, wracked with pain, was her own, though younger. There were subtle differences, the cheek bones higher, blood soaked chin slightly broader. But those eyes... They were hers.

"For the power to end this war... So be it"

Hate suffused him. Not his own, though that was there. A near physical aura of rage filled the air about him. she recognised her half-sister's magic, felt the curse take hold of - there was no denying it - her son.

A flash of red.

Pain.

She was on all fours, the world returning to focus. She was cold... So cold. Blood covered the ground under her. Coughing, more spilled from her mouth. Shifting, she lifted herself from her hands. Before her lay Mordred, dead in a pool of blood, eyes gazing lifelessly towards her. Looking down, she takes in her new injury. It is a miracle she still lives. Her armor is torn open, from her shoulder to her waist, all down her left side.

"My king!"

She turns her head tiredly, barely keeping herself up as she does. Sir Bedivere comes up the hill, Excalibur's blade grasped gently in his hand, the reins of his injured horse in the other. Beyond him, wherever she looks, all she sees is death. No others move, even Bedivere looks to be a corpse, wounded and pale as he is. She does not respond to his queries. What is the point? All is lost. Her son, dead by her hand. Her army, slaughtered by betrayal. She does not struggle as her last loyal knight lifts her upon his horse.

She ignores the world about her, the realization that Briton's army has taken a crippling blow sinks in. Her failure is complete. Her nation is now vulnerable to incursion. With her death - and she knows she is dieing - the simple threat of Her will be gone.

She opens her eyes. When had they closed? She is sitting, leaning against something? Looking up is more strenuous than it should be. Leaves? A tree then.

"My king."

She looks down. There is Bedivere, her sword in his grasp. The battle returns to her then. She tries to speak, but is overtaken by a coughing fit. Blood spatters and spills out of her lips. A river of it rolls down her chin and drips on her breastplate. She is dieing, she remembers. Her sword... It cannot be allowed to fall into another's hands. Those few who might be worthy of it do not have the power to keep it. It must be returned.

"Sir-" she coughs again, and carefully swallows. "Sir - Bedivere," she manages to rasp. So weak, so tired. But she must continue. "Sir Bedivere," another cough. "Take my s-sword to the lake," she pauses to swallow again. "Take it, an-and cast it into-" she breaths deeply, and coughs more blood. "Into the la-lake. Then return t-to m-me."

"... Very well, my king."

She should never have drawn that sword. She should never have become king. Despite giving all of herself to her duty, everything has fallen apart. If only another had drawn that blade... But such fantasies will do her little good. She closed her eyes.

"My king, I have returned."

Bedivere. Ah, the battle. Yes. She had ordered him to... Return her sword... To the lake. Yes."What d-did you see?" She watches him carefully in the haze her vision has become. Bedivere was always honest, and tended to... Fidget when he sought to lie.

And fidget he did, shifting from foot to foot. "My king?"

She did her best to glare. "Do n-not lie to m-me, n-not in th-this. Do. As. I. Ask."

He went, and she returned to her contemplations. She... had killed her own son. Kinslayer. Only now did this truly settle in her mind. He was likely a product of Morgan's machinations... But he had been clearly of her blood. The guilt pressed in around her. How her half-sister had managed it, she did not know. Merlin was likely to blame. Her irritation faded quickly, drowned by her sorrow. Despair was all she knew.

"My king, I have returned."

She looked up and rasped, "And what did you see?"

"The water rose up and claimed it, my king."

She closed her eyes in a pained grimace. "Again you betray me, B-Bedivere. Go. P-perform your f-final service to m-me."

And again he left.

She had made a deal. Where was the power she was promised! How dare that... The rage sputtered and died as it was born. whatever she had bargained with, it had given her precisely what she'd asked for. The war was over. It was her folly that it had ended this way. She had hesitated, in that crucial moment that had allowed Morgan's curse to Strike. She knew not what her half-sister sought to gain. In her hubris she has likely doomed the kingdom. The nation she claimed to want would fall with its armies crippled from this battle.

"My king, I have returned."

The act of opening her eyes has become a struggle. She breathes by will alone now. She gazes upon him. "And what did you see?" her words barely a whisper.

His blurred form is still. "A hand, my king, blue as the lake itself. It reached up from the depths and caught the sword, then returned from whence it came." His voice was strained, laden with grief.

"Thank you, Sir B-Bedivere," she rasps.

And she closes her eyes.

Eternity. Upon your death.