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Mordred stopped, placing his vambrace down on the bench, his heart sinking. For a moment he concentrates completely on his armour, how could he answer such a question? Telling her would mean her life and the lives of those whom called Camelot home. An impossible predicament.
The young knight turns to face her, his fingers brushing lightly against the metal of his armour. “I’m not hiding anything” he tells her simply.
“Naw, boss, le’s keep ‘er a while. C’uld use a woman.” The ensuing laughter is coarse, several of the men winking and nudging each other. One of them stoops to pull at her body, twitching her skirts upward, and flashes a smirk at Mordred. “‘e c’uld have ‘er first, loosen ‘im up.”
“Loosen ‘er up too,” someone else cackles. The handling rouses Summer, and her eyes blink slowly open.
And then the man touching her is on fire.
”Enough!” Mordred shouts as the man bursts into flames and he draws his sword, aiming it at Ragnor’s throat. “Another move like that and I shall run you through,” he hisses and Ragnor chuckles, glancing from the blade to the young man who wielded it. “Your knightly honour still intact, Mordred?” he asks and in retaliation he presses the blade in further, scarring the skin. “Let her go,” he hisses, his face darkening, “now.”
Summer is lost, in a different way now. Her mind is overwhelmed by the proximity of the bandits surrounding her, by the threat of them. Her eyes burn as the man who had been touching her screams and writhes in the heart of her fire, gaze fixed to him. Mordred’s voice tugs at her awareness, but not enough to bring her out of the engrossment.
Her whole awareness is danger. When the first man is ashes on the ground, his shrieks still echoing, she lifts her burning gaze to the pair linked by sword, vision unrecognising.