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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.
Summer is trusted. Merlin, Gaius, Guinevere, they’ve all vouched for her — if they had known where Mordred was, they had never seemed to suspect her of knowing, had never held their relationship against her. So it’s shockingly easy to slip out of the camp, trusting that newly-discovered bond, and run in the dark.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing, why she’s doing it. She just has to see him. Once more, if that’s what it means. This deep into destiny, she doesn’t truly believe she can break the cycle, but she’d still rather hitch her destiny to his, to the Mordred she fell in love with, than ride at Guinevere’s side.
A single bobbing flame lights her way, low by her feet, until she finds Morgana’s camp.
He pulled some chicken from his plate, tearing at the food, completely uninterested in the food before him. “You seem anxious, Mordred,” Morgana says, lifting the goblet to her lips but all Mordred does is glance up at her for a mere moment, not wanting to answer her. “A little bit,” is all he can respond with when it becomes evident that she won’t take anything but an answer.
Morgana had gone to say something but the door to the tent was pulled back and in walked a guard. “My lady, you need to see something,” he exclaims and the two of them jump to their feet, heading outside. By the fire a group of guards had gathered and Mordred knocks them out of the way, his gaze falling on a woman, held to her knees. “Summer.”
“Mordred.”
The guards have taken her sword, only one of them surprised that she had it at all. She hadn’t fought them, though she’d refused to answer anything they said to her, mouth clamped shut. If she was going to come to him, now, it would be with her pride.
So her back is straight, even as they hold her on her knees. She barely glances at the woman behind Mordred — Morgana. There’s a seething well of bitterness, hatred, and heartache there, and it’s echoed in Mordred.
“This is what you were trying to prevent,” she says, softly. “Isn’t it.”