sirmordred-thedruid:

iamthefirechild:

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.

She looks down to the way he is still gripping her wrist, and swallows hard. It’s been a while since she killed using her powers, and the thunder in her mind tells her she had been wide open to the death. Abruptly she goes to her knees, retching.

        He releases his hold, taking a step back and he looks around. “All of you, disappear, now,” Mordred orders and the men disappear, leaving the two of them alone. He crouches down. “Summer, breathe, calm down.”

They had meant to rape her. She remembers that, now. She’s eaten so little in the past few days there’s nothing in her stomach to come up. Mordred had been stopping them, sword drawn. He’s not garbed in knightly splendour now, but in dark layers that somehow suit him better than the shining silver and red of Camelot. Burying her hands in her hair to hold it away from her face, she gags again, and looks up at Mordred. The rush of blood makes her dizzy and cold. “Why are you here? You left … I left. I’ve been lost.” Her eyes fall on the pile of ashes again. There should be blood on her hands. “Just … leave me here to die.”

sirmordred-thedruid:

iamthefirechild:

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.

Summer turns wide, blank eyes on Mordred. “They burn. You … do not. Why do you not burn?” The flame in her hands flickers, then dies, along with the color of her eyes. “Mordred?” Her tone is almost childish, bewildered. She looks around, and tenses when she sees the heap of ashes, and the bandit leader.

“What did I do?”

        Mordred glances back to where Ragnor’s second had once stood, now replaced by nothing more than a pile of ashes. “You killed him,” he says simply, as if the fact is nothing. ‘You need to get out of here, it isn’t safe.’ Mordred didn’t know whether or not she possessed telepathy, but it was worth a shot.

She looks down to the way he is still gripping her wrist, and swallows hard. It’s been a while since she killed using her powers, and the thunder in her mind tells her she had been wide open to the death. Abruptly she goes to her knees, retching.

sirmordred-thedruid:

iamthefirechild:

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.

She struggles to her feet, hands held wide, eyes still fixed on Ragnor. Fire dances in the palms of each hand, irises brilliant gold. She shows no awareness of Mordred at all, in fact. One step toward Ragnor, and another, and she breathes, “You burn.”

The druid shoots upright, lunging forward, grabbing her wrist. “Summer, stop it,” he tells her, his tone firm as he gets in front of her. “Summer, listen to me, please. He isn’t worth it, it’s not worth a life.”

Summer turns wide, blank eyes on Mordred. “They burn. You … do not. Why do you not burn?” The flame in her hands flickers, then dies, along with the color of her eyes. “Mordred?” Her tone is almost childish, bewildered. She looks around, and tenses when she sees the heap of ashes, the bandit leader.

“What did I do?”

sirmordred-thedruid:

iamthefirechild:

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.

“Naw, boss, le’s keep ‘er a while. C’uld use a woman.” The ensuing laughter is coarse, several of the men winking and nudging each other. One of them stoops to pull at her body, twitching her skirts upward, and flashes a smirk at Mordred. “‘e c’uld have ‘er first, loosen ‘im up.”

“Loosen ‘er up too,” someone else cackles. The handling rouses Summer, and her eyes blink slowly open.

And then the man touching her is on fire.

       ”Enough!” Mordred shouts as the man bursts into flames and he draws his sword, aiming it at Ragnor’s throat. “Another move like that and I shall run you through,” he hisses and Ragnor chuckles, glancing from the blade to the young man who wielded it. “Your knightly honour still intact, Mordred?” he asks and in retaliation he presses the blade in further, scarring the skin. “Let her go,” he hisses, his face darkening, “now.”

Summer is lost, in a different way now. Her mind is overwhelmed by the proximity of the bandits surrounding her, by the threat of them. Her eyes burn as the man who had been touching her screams and writhes in the heart of her fire, gaze fixed to him. Mordred’s voice tugs at her awareness, but not enough to bring her out of the engrossment.

Her whole awareness is danger. When the first man is ashes on the ground, his shrieks still echoing, she lifts her burning gaze to the pair linked by sword, vision unrecognising.

sirmordred-thedruid:

iamthefirechild:

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.

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.

       When Mordred returned he held two rabbits in his right hand, tied together by the ears, the man gripping them tightly. A frown found his features as Ragnor and his friend, the name of the man he had not yet learned, leaning over something.

        Mordred walked forward, stopping a few feet from them, whatever they were observing hidden from his view. “What’s that?” Mordred questions and Ragnor turns to him, “take a look.”

They’ve left her in a jumbled heap of limbs on the ground, rope still about her ankle. Her face is smudged with dirt and tears, and where she was slender before, she’s nearer skin and bones now. Her breathing is slow and shallow, eyes flickering under the lids as she nears consciousness.

sirmordred-thedruid:

iamthefirechild:

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.

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.

sirmordred-thedruid:

iamthefirechild:

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.

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.