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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.
The morning doesn’t make things any better. The sky is heavy with clouds, the wind chill with the promise of rain. Alhough nothing had approached her in the night, thanks to her fire, Summer knows that’s not likely to last long, and she’s neither armed nor provisioned. She picks a direction where the light seems a little brighter, and starts walking, stopping only when she crosses a stream, to drink, or when she needs to relieve herself.
She finds a few things she knows are good to eat, but it’s barely enough to still the grumbling in her belly. It’s not actually very long before she’s stumbling along in a daze, unfocused on anything except her growing misery.
It had grown colder, the lively colours around him being traded for snow and misery, but he didn’t let that stop him at all. Here he was, back at square one and it all felt like a dream; however, he knew it was a dream he would never wake up with.
Mordred dismounted gracefully as they stopped to set up camp, fixing his head scarf before he went about setting up a fire.
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.