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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.
Just as Mordred, Summer stills utterly at Morgana’s ultimatum. She closes her eyes, overcome with unexpected relief at his soft word. She expected to sense a clash of loyalties — but there’s nothing. Only Morgana’s madness, and a chill, spreading throughout Mordred, until something shatters, but it’s not his love that gives.
She barely hears the words he speaks, begging Morgana for her life. She only comes back to herself when the witch speaks again, sliding out of Mordred’s heart, awareness of the physical world crashing back in. “Yes,” she says, and has to clear her throat. “Yes. I do.”
Morgana’s face changes again, numerous emotions displayed and for a moment there is pure madness on her features but she hides it again. She swallowed, annoyance settling on her face but most of all in her eyes and for a long time she remains silent, anger radiating from her as the world appeared to still. “The things I do for you, Mordred,” she says almost bitterly as she looks over the young druid.
”Fine, but if anything goes wrong it will not only be your head but it will be hers, do you understand?” Morgana questions and Mordred nods. “Go, you have work to do. I shall look after your friend.”
Summer shudders at the venom hidden in those words. Something is deeply, hideously /wrong/ in Morgana, something that twists at her gut if she looks into it too long. A contagious, corroding madness.
Mordred leaves, and Morgana lifts a finger, dismissing the guards as well. Summer doesn’t move when the two of them are alone, trying to both watch Morgana and not fall into that seething well of madness in her eyes. It’s like watching a deadly snake, waiting for it to bite.
“So,” the high priestess purrs, smiling. It’s meant to be friendly, but to someone like Summer, who can see beneath the surface, it’s grotesque, a mockery. “Magic. And yet you came from Arthur’s camp. You are quite a puzzle.” She takes a seat, studying the redhead. “How is it Mordred knows of it, and Arthur does not?”