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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 doesn’t know how many days she’s been lost at this point. She’s continuously hungry, and what little sleep she can get is restless, raked by false starts and hideous nightmares. A tiny part of her still hopes that someone
(mordred)
will find her, will be looking for her, but every new nightmare reminds her of how they parted, the bitter words. She is more alone than she has ever been, and it feels like madness circles her in hungry spirals.
She had sometimes wished that her magic would vanish, that she would wake up one day and be alone in her mind — now she wishes, with what thought is not occupied with putting one foot before the other, or with food, the opposite. Someone. Anyone.
When a human presence finally impinges on her mind, faint and thready, she’s dazedly sure it’s a dream. And when the rope trap closes around her ankle and hauls her upsidedown into the trees, she’s utterly sure it’s a nightmare.
There was a commotion for a few seconds and Mordred turned his attention from the fire, setting the stones down beside him as he got up and followed Ragnor and another man away from the camp. No doubt they were checking traps for some form of food.
A sense of regret welled up in him as the trap came into view; there was something hanging inside but what he couldn’t tell from this far away. “Go check the other traps,” Ragnor orders and Mordred does as he is told, disappearing into the tree line, making light work of the rest of the traps, heading back shortly after.
Summer doesn’t struggle against the pressure of unconsciousness. When they come to cut her down, she’s still unconscious, limp and unresistant, though even then the pain of her limbs being moved brings a whimper from her. Ragnar brushes the tangle of hair from her face and frowns.
“A woman? What good is this?”
One of the others rubs the torn fabric of her skirts in his fingers. “Noblewoman, belike. This’s fine stuff. Might get a ransom for ‘er.”
“Like this?”
“Camp could use a woman, I reckon,” someone else points out, and Ragnar smiles slowly.