“I — I didn’t! He — I just wanted to know — he worries, I know he worries, I only wanted to help.” Summer wraps her arms around herself, shivering. “I didn’t know I would get lost, I didn’t — how could I know? He wouldn’t talk to me, I — ” She has to swallow hard against the wail rising in her throat.
“D-do you think, if I had never loved him — would he live then?”
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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.
Just as Mordred, Summer stills utterly at Morgana’s ultimatum. She closes her eyes, overcome with unexpected relief at his soft word. She expected to sense a clash of loyalties — but there’s nothing. Only Morgana’s madness, and a chill, spreading throughout Mordred, until something shatters, but it’s not his love that gives.
She barely hears the words he speaks, begging Morgana for her life. She only comes back to herself when the witch speaks again, sliding out of Mordred’s heart, awareness of the physical world crashing back in. “Yes,” she says, and has to clear her throat. “Yes. I do.”
Morgana’s face changes again, numerous emotions displayed and for a moment there is pure madness on her features but she hides it again. She swallowed, annoyance settling on her face but most of all in her eyes and for a long time she remains silent, anger radiating from her as the world appeared to still. “The things I do for you, Mordred,” she says almost bitterly as she looks over the young druid.
”Fine, but if anything goes wrong it will not only be your head but it will be hers, do you understand?” Morgana questions and Mordred nods. “Go, you have work to do. I shall look after your friend.”
Summer shudders at the venom hidden in those words. Something is deeply, hideously /wrong/ in Morgana, something that twists at her gut if she looks into it too long. A contagious, corroding madness.
Mordred leaves, and Morgana lifts a finger, dismissing the guards as well. Summer doesn’t move when the two of them are alone, trying to both watch Morgana and not fall into that seething well of madness in her eyes. It’s like watching a deadly snake, waiting for it to bite.
“So,” the high priestess purrs, smiling. It’s meant to be friendly, but to someone like Summer, who can see beneath the surface, it’s grotesque, a mockery. “Magic. And yet you came from Arthur’s camp. You are quite a puzzle.” She takes a seat, studying the redhead. “How is it Mordred knows of it, and Arthur does not?”
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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.
Now more than ever Summer yearns for telepathy; some way to speak to Mordred without being overheard, or to know what he’d said. Had she been a fool to come here? There had been no thought in it, only the need to change their last knowledge of one another.
“They don’t know I’m here,” she says. “If I am being used, it’s without my knowledge, without my consent. I know nothing of you, my lady, but I would not betray Mordred.” Her eyes flicker away, from Morgana to Mordred to the floor, and she adds, “I didn’t know where you had gone until tonight. I knew /nothing/, and you shoved me away. I tried to do what you wanted, I went to them, but how could you expect me to watch them, knowing once I too had had that and it was gone?” The words spill out like a dam bursting.
“Such loyalty,” Morgana mocks. “You expect me to believe you are here for love?”
“Believe what you like, my lady,” Summer flares back. “Rwy’n /dal i/ dy garu di, cariad, Medraut, ni all unrhyw tynged newid hynny.”
The witch lifts her hands as if to strike, then drops them, a cruel and mad smile curling her lips. “How sweet. Mordred, kill her.”
”Rwy’n ceisio, ac yr wyf yn methu, nid oes unrhyw beth mwy y gallaf ei wneud am y peth,” he tells her solemnly, avoiding her gaze as he spoke. He felt that if he looked at her he would melt or fall to pieces. At Morgana’s words his gaze flies up to meet her own and he freezes, his heart in his throat, his blood frozen, ringing in his ears.
”No.”
”What did you say?” Morgana asks, turning towards him, anger settled in her eyes, spanning out to contort her face. The druid pulled himself up, looking down at her, his face expressionless. “I said no, I refuse to kill her,” he tells her and a small smirk dances around her lips. That’s when he realized that everything she had done to him earlier was indeed not repentance enough, no, nothing would ever be enough. “Let her go, Morgana, she means no harm, please, I beg of you,” Mordred pleads, his voice cracking.
“Summer is not who you want, it is Arthur, and in days you will have him, in days he will be dead. There has been too much bloodshed, especially of our kin, Morgana, you of all people know that.” At his words a flicker of recognition crosses Morgana’s face. “Kin?” she questions. “She has magic?”
Just as Mordred, Summer stills utterly at Morgana’s ultimatum. She closes her eyes, overcome with unexpected relief at his soft word. She expected to sense a clash of loyalties — but there’s nothing. Only Morgana’s madness, and a chill, spreading throughout Mordred, until something shatters, but it’s not his love that gives.
She barely hears the words he speaks, begging Morgana for her life. She only comes back to herself when the witch speaks again, sliding out of Mordred’s heart, awareness of the physical world crashing back in. “Yes,” she says, and has to clear her throat. “Yes. I do.”
wE NEED A THREE WA Y RP
wHAt
she’s broken enough already
what are you saying
she has to watch them kill each other
you just want the feels
… take it up with ryan
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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 guards jerk Summer to her feet, though she’s not fighting them. Deliberately they mishandle her, trying anyhow to get a reaction. She refuses to grant them what they want. They shove her into a tent, grand and opulent for a field camp, and back down to her knees in front of Morgana.
“Talk,” the high priestess orders. It’s not clear to whom she’s speaking.
For a moment, Mordred remains silent, trying to sort out everything that had just happened in his head but he could find no logical order for anything anymore. Nothing made sense. “What do you want to know?” Mordred asks calmly, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against the table. The priestess turned back towards Mordred, taking a few steps between them and for a moment or perhaps a minute, maybe longer they engaged in a private conversation. “I see,” Morgana says after a moment. “But that still doesn’t explain why she is here,” she muses, turning from him in a huff.
”She could be a spy, Arthur using her to get to you because he knows you’re here — ” the witch continues to ramble on, turning every which way, spilling out theories that logically all would have made perfect sense. “Morgana,” Mordred warns, his accent overruling his speech for a moment. “Calm yourself, you’re jumping to conclusions, this is not a time for stories or idle thinkings, this is a time for facts and you’re not going to get them thinking up stories.”
Now more than ever Summer yearns for telepathy; some way to speak to Mordred without being overheard, or to know what he’d said. Had she been a fool to come here? There had been no thought in it, only the need to change their last knowledge of one another.
“They don’t know I’m here,” she says. “If I am being used, it’s without my knowledge, without my consent. I know nothing of you, my lady, but I would not betray Mordred.” Her eyes flicker away, from Morgana to Mordred to the floor, and she adds, “I didn’t know where you had gone until tonight. I knew /nothing/, and you shoved me away. I tried to do what you wanted, I went to them, but how could you expect me to watch them, knowing once I too had had that and it was gone?” The words spill out like a dam bursting.
“Such loyalty,” Morgana mocks. “You expect me to believe you are here for love?”
“Believe what you like, my lady,” Summer flares back. “Rwy’n /dal i/ dy garu di, cariad, Medraut, ni all unrhyw tynged newid hynny.”
The witch lifts her hands as if to strike, then drops them, a cruel and mad smile curling her lips. “How sweet. Modred, kill her.”
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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 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?”
Mordred’s lips form into a thin line, the flames of the fire casting shadows that dance across his face, brightening and darkening his icy blue eyes at any given moment. “Nothing, my lady, nothing of use anyway,” he tells her; at this Morgana takes her hand from Summer, turning to face him. “Do not lie to me, Mordred,” she hisses, her eyes crazed as she looked up at him.
He took a breath, exhaling through clenched teeth. “It is something that is not open for discussion out in the open,” Mordred tells her firmly, not flinching as most would have when faced by her.
“Fine,” she says, “bring her to the tent with us.”
The guards jerk Summer to her feet, though she’s not fighting them. Deliberately they mishandle her, trying anyhow to get a reaction. She refuses to grant them what they want. They shove her into a tent, grand and opulent for a field camp, and back down to her knees in front of Morgana.
“Talk,” the high priestess orders. It’s not clear to whom she’s speaking.
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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?”
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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.
Summer is trusted. Merlin, Gaius, Guinevere, they’ve all vouched for her — if they had known where Mordred was, they had never seemed to suspect her of knowing, had never held their relationship against her. So it’s shockingly easy to slip out of the camp, trusting that newly-discovered bond, and run in the dark.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing, why she’s doing it. She just has to see him. Once more, if that’s what it means. This deep into destiny, she doesn’t truly believe she can break the cycle, but she’d still rather hitch her destiny to his, to the Mordred she fell in love with, than ride at Guinevere’s side.
A single bobbing flame lights her way, low by her feet, until she finds Morgana’s camp.
He pulled some chicken from his plate, tearing at the food, completely uninterested in the food before him. “You seem anxious, Mordred,” Morgana says, lifting the goblet to her lips but all Mordred does is glance up at her for a mere moment, not wanting to answer her. “A little bit,” is all he can respond with when it becomes evident that she won’t take anything but an answer.
Morgana had gone to say something but the door to the tent was pulled back and in walked a guard. “My lady, you need to see something,” he exclaims and the two of them jump to their feet, heading outside. By the fire a group of guards had gathered and Mordred knocks them out of the way, his gaze falling on a woman, held to her knees. “Summer.”
“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.”
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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.
They’ve given Summer armour, suited for a woman, because she begged, and a blade, short and light. She wields it with two hands anyway, disdaining a shield. The camp is quiet, Arthur and Guinevere gathered with the knights around one fire. She doesn’t know where Merlin is, or Gaius; she’s truly alone for the first time in a week.
And there’s a brush at the edge of her mind, at the edge of her magic, that is painfully familiar, a tugging at a bond she hadn’t known was there.
Mordred.
He’s out there, in the dark, somewhere close by. Is that what Guinevere had been concealing? Is that why she’s here? To be used against him? Morgana leads this army they’re to face, she knows; Morgana wishes to bring magic back to Camelot, to restore the old religion. Is Mordred with her?
Everything he’d said, in that last, fateful meeting, spills back into her mind. ‘It was either you or Camelot,’ he shouts, in memory.
And now Arthur is here, at Camlann, to protect Camelot. Everything Mordred had said suddenly makes terrible sense. And hideously, she realises, fate had used her as a pawn to push him along, to drive him away from Camelot.
He lets himself into the tent, Morgana seating herself at the oak table in the middle of the tent. “And what news do you bring me Mordred?” she questions, holding out a goblet to him which he takes gladly, downing most of it before he answers her question. “Camelot…Arthur, they’re about a day or so away, but that is at best, we came across them, they didn’t see us.”
Mordred takes a seat, continuing to sip from his goblet tentatively. “An army of perhaps ten thousand,” he adds and she nods. “Go rest, I will wake you later and we shall plan.”
Summer is trusted. Merlin, Gaius, Guinevere, they’ve all vouched for her — if they had known where Mordred was, they had never seemed to suspect her of knowing, had never held their relationship against her. So it’s shockingly easy to slip out of the camp, trusting that newly-discovered bond, and run in the dark.
She doesn’t know what she’s doing, why she’s doing it. She just has to see him. Once more, if that’s what it means. This deep into destiny, she doesn’t truly believe she can break the cycle, but she’d still rather hitch her destiny to his, to the Mordred she fell in love with, than ride at Guinevere’s side.
A single bobbing flame lights her way, low by her feet, until she finds Morgana’s camp.
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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.
Summer had never found out the names of, or even any more information about, the druids who had rescued her. They had guided her to Camelot’s outskirts and left her there, melting back into the forest.
She’d not intended to seek out Sir Leon, or Merlin, but that choice was taken away from her too — Merlin came to her door the next day, taking her up to the castle. Heartbroken, she simply went along, and it only took Gaius and Merlin a few questions to have most of the story out of her. The shock of finding out that Mordred had been right, that other folk in Camelot knew of them, were glad of them even, almost penetrated the numbness.
So she found herself on a horse at Guinevere’s side, following the army to a place called Camlann. What she was supposed to do there, she didn’t know — only that something was being kept from her. She couldn’t make herself care.
“Get moving!” Mordred hissed as they scouted out slowly. “We don’t have much time before they get here.” He crept along, lightly placing his feet against the foliage below, light enough so it didn’t make a noise and just enough so that he didn’t fall. He didn’t know how long they had, a day or two at best before they were to meet the army of Camelot.
Mordred’s hand curled around his blade as he moved through the trees back towards where their own army had made camp, with news for Morgana.
They’ve given Summer armour, suited for a woman, because she begged, and a blade, short and light. She wields it with two hands anyway, disdaining a shield. The camp is quiet, Arthur and Guinevere gathered with the knights around one fire. She doesn’t know where Merlin is, or Gaius; she’s truly alone for the first time in a week.
And there’s a brush at the edge of her mind, at the edge of her magic, that is painfully familiar, a tugging at a bond she hadn’t known was there.
Mordred.
He’s out there, in the dark, somewhere close by. Is that what Guinevere had been concealing? Is that why she’s here? To be used against him? Morgana leads this army they’re to face, she knows; Morgana wishes to bring magic back to Camelot, to restore the old religion. Is Mordred with her?
Everything he’d said, in that last, fateful meeting, spills back into her mind. ‘It was either you or Camelot,’ he shouts, in memory.
And now Arthur is here, at Camlann, to protect Camelot. Everything Mordred had said suddenly makes terrible sense. And hideously, she realises, fate had used her as a pawn to push him along, to drive him away from Camelot.
