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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 had slept a little, propped against the pole. For a while, every time there was a sound she jumped, but eventually exhaustion overwhelmed her. Now she forces her eyes open, tossing her head to get the hair out of her eyes.
“She left me here.” Summer’s voice is a little rough, still struggling out of sleep. “I think it’s her idea of a joke. Or just encouraging me to think about my choice.”
Swiftly, Mordred placed the tray and the pitcher down on the table, walking forward until he stopped before her. After a moment he lifted his hand over the lock. “Abanne átí,” he whispers, his eyes flashing gold as the lock fell undone. “There, eat,” he orders, moving away as he undid the clasp to his cloak, placing it over the chair.
She takes a minute to work the kinks out of her shoulders, rubbing at her wrists. She’s not sure how to react to Mordred right now, dark and stern, and puts the table between them. She does eat, though, neatly picking her way through the food. After a few minutes, Summer puts down the bone, turning shadowed eyes on Mordred.
“She wants me to help her,” she says. “I don’t — what she wants, it’s a good thing, but there’s something terrible inside her, Mordred. This isn’t the right way.”