“Oh, did I keep you waiting?” Her tone was poisonously sweet, the smile a slash of red lips across pale skin. She could hardly remember a time before she was trapped in Avalon, before being tricked through the veil into a place so completely antithetical to her being it was painful. She had adapted, been forced to adapt — broken, some would say.
Her madness was like a raging thunderstorm.
With a purposeful stride, Summer stepped over to Mordred and lifted the goblet out of his hands, sipping from the same place. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” If sarcasm could cut, his face would be bleeding.
Mordred turned his attention back to the goblet, the red liquid, yet again, taking his fancy over the woman that walked into the room but her presence became a problem when she removed the goblet from his grasp. “I do not care where you have been,” he tells her, snatching the goblet back, “and nor do I care what you are doing. You kept them waiting, not me.”
The man pushes himself up from the table, walking towards the window, his attention cast down to the land below, watching the way the moon reflected on the bodies of the dead. “It is their minds that need your amusement, not me.”
“If it’s amusing they want, I’ll build them a nightmare,” she hissed. “Is that what you want, Mordred? A nightmare to distract you from the nightmare that is Avalon? Or do you still believe you will escape somehow?”