xregicide-deactivated20140812:
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.
It’s exhaustion, it’s shock, it’s frustration … whatever it is, she starts to cry, hating herself for it. He will believe she’s trying to manipulate him with it, and that hurts, and makes her cry harder. She buries her face in her hands — those terrible hands with fresh blood on them — to try to muffle it, to try to hide from those blue eyes that see too much.
Mordred huffs, not knowing what to do with the entire situation. “Summer, please, don’t cry- it has got nothing to do with you, please.”
“If it’s nothing to do with me,” she sobs, unable to help herself, “then /why/ can’t you tell me? Why do you insist on sending me away? Why, why did you leave your home, the place you belonged, to come here, to live in, in, in anger and shadows and — ” As usual, she cannot find the words. “I don’t understand! Were we not happy?”