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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.
“Mordred.”
The guards have taken her sword, only one of them surprised that she had it at all. She hadn’t fought them, though she’d refused to answer anything they said to her, mouth clamped shut. If she was going to come to him, now, it would be with her pride.
So her back is straight, even as they hold her on her knees. She barely glances at the woman behind Mordred — Morgana. There’s a seething well of bitterness, hatred, and heartache there, and it’s echoed in Mordred.
“This is what you were trying to prevent,” she says, softly. “Isn’t it.”
His heart dropped, and the lump in his throat expanded. Mordred pursed his lips, looking over her for a moment before he looked back to Morgana. For a long time the druid didn’t give her an answer, he merely stood there shocked. “Yes.”
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?”