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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.
She looks from Mordred to Morgana, and back again. This isn’t her war. Camelot is not her land, not her home; she’s no loyalty to Arthur or Guinevere — though she knows nothing that would be of any use to Morgana, either. Perhaps they hadn’t trusted her, after all.
“Perhaps you can’t defeat fate after all,” she says, into the stillness. “I live, and Camelot totters on the brink. If you had let me die, would this be happening?”
Morgana steps forward then, seizing Summer by the chin. “What’s this?” she snaps. “Mordred, what is she saying?”
Mordred’s lips form into a thin line, the flames of the fire casting shadows that dance across his face, brightening and darkening his icy blue eyes at any given moment. “Nothing, my lady, nothing of use anyway,” he tells her; at this Morgana takes her hand from Summer, turning to face him. “Do not lie to me, Mordred,” she hisses, her eyes crazed as she looked up at him.
He took a breath, exhaling through clenched teeth. “It is something that is not open for discussion out in the open,” Mordred tells her firmly, not flinching as most would have when faced by her.
“Fine,” she says, “bring her to the tent with us.”
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.