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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.
The guards jerk Summer to her feet, though she’s not fighting them. Deliberately they mishandle her, trying anyhow to get a reaction. She refuses to grant them what they want. They shove her into a tent, grand and opulent for a field camp, and back down to her knees in front of Morgana.
“Talk,” the high priestess orders. It’s not clear to whom she’s speaking.
For a moment, Mordred remains silent, trying to sort out everything that had just happened in his head but he could find no logical order for anything anymore. Nothing made sense. “What do you want to know?” Mordred asks calmly, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against the table. The priestess turned back towards Mordred, taking a few steps between them and for a moment or perhaps a minute, maybe longer they engaged in a private conversation. “I see,” Morgana says after a moment. “But that still doesn’t explain why she is here,” she muses, turning from him in a huff.
”She could be a spy, Arthur using her to get to you because he knows you’re here — ” the witch continues to ramble on, turning every which way, spilling out theories that logically all would have made perfect sense. “Morgana,” Mordred warns, his accent overruling his speech for a moment. “Calm yourself, you’re jumping to conclusions, this is not a time for stories or idle thinkings, this is a time for facts and you’re not going to get them thinking up stories.”
Now more than ever Summer yearns for telepathy; some way to speak to Mordred without being overheard, or to know what he’d said. Had she been a fool to come here? There had been no thought in it, only the need to change their last knowledge of one another.
“They don’t know I’m here,” she says. “If I am being used, it’s without my knowledge, without my consent. I know nothing of you, my lady, but I would not betray Mordred.” Her eyes flicker away, from Morgana to Mordred to the floor, and she adds, “I didn’t know where you had gone until tonight. I knew /nothing/, and you shoved me away. I tried to do what you wanted, I went to them, but how could you expect me to watch them, knowing once I too had had that and it was gone?” The words spill out like a dam bursting.
“Such loyalty,” Morgana mocks. “You expect me to believe you are here for love?”
“Believe what you like, my lady,” Summer flares back. “Rwy’n /dal i/ dy garu di, cariad, Medraut, ni all unrhyw tynged newid hynny.”
The witch lifts her hands as if to strike, then drops them, a cruel and mad smile curling her lips. “How sweet. Modred, kill her.”