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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.
“I’m a murderer.”
Summer should care that he fled Camelot; should be grateful he found her — or she found him; should reach to ease his self-loathing. It’s what she is.
Except what she is is lost under pain and self-hatred of her own. “This,” she gestures limply around the bandit camp, “is what I deserve. Leave me here. Go back.”
Mordred got to his feet. “No one, no matter how bad a person they believe they are, deserves to be left here, to be left like this,” he tells her, gesturing around to the camp. “I’m a murderer too,” he says, allowing his hand to fall to his side, “you did it out of protection, that does not make you a murderer.”
Looking up at him, still somehow so strong and beautiful, Summer says, “If no one deserves this place, why are you here?”