Tag Archives: rp: impossible

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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.

“Don’t leave me, anwyl, cariad,” Summer whispers shakily. She lays Mordred out in the little thicket, setting the fingers of one hand to the wound and cauterizing it. Her hands tremble as she lifts away his breastplate, pushes the chainmail aside. “If you leave me, I will go myself barefoot and unarmed to the very gates of Annwn and bring you back, do you hear, so do you stay now, with me.”

HIs skin is terribly cold now, breathing shallow and heartbeat so faint. Recklessly she warms the air, and sets fingers to the wound again. There’s something inimical there, something that sucks away his spirit from between her clinging fingers, and she sets herself against it. The magic that has burnt in her blood since she saw him fall surges, sliding in golden strands and bright threads through and around.

Fire cleanses.

“Stay with me,” she chants, raggedly, “do not go where I cannot follow. Rwy’n dy garu di, peidiwch â gadael i mi.”

Fire purifies.

Crying, Summer bends over him, her hair falling to shield their faces, and kisses him.

No one can survive a blow from a blade forged in a dragon’s breath. 

                                            No king.
                                            No queen.
                                            No knight.
                                            No magic holder.

No one. He wondered if Summer knew that, he wondered if she would understand why he couldn’t come back, why he couldn’t find the strength to breathe or open his eyes. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to, it because fate wouldn’t allow him to. She had been right, Morgana had used him, just as Arthur had, just as everyone had and he paid the price for his naivete.

He’s still slipping through her fingers, though. Each heartbeat comes after a longer period of time, and the magic is ebbing with it. She’s closed the wound, burned away everything and anything else, but she can’t burn away the touch of Excalibur.

Kissing him one more time, Summer lays her head down on his unmoving body and just cries, for a long, long time.

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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 can’t say what Morgana did to her — her magic has always been so very limited, despite its seeming power. Whatever it is, she can’t shut out anyone’s emotions now, can’t call that one magic that’s always been hers, and the sorceress has brought her to share the vantage point above the battle.

True to Morgana’s word, she is forced to watch, chained and powerless and broken open, as the soldiers and knights of Camelot die all across the field, and the Saxons die with them. Long minutes now she’s been in a daze, helpless in the face of so much death. 

Morgana guards Mordred, and Summer is unwillingly grateful, both for the guardianship and for that it means the mad sorceress is not standing over her. He seems to move as a dark angel across the killing field, untouched and untouchable, his sword stabbing bright and rising bloody. She sees him confront Arthur, whose hair still somehow shines golden amongst the blood and dirt.

She sees them pause, and the swords flash, and both bodies fall. The pain of both wounds does something to her; magic pours into her veins like some kind of burning cordial. From a great distance, it seems, Summer looks at the men guarding her, and they fall, flaming, burning, dead. She rises to her feet, and the chains crumble from her limbs. A hot wind stirs around her body, swirling her hair in mad waves about her.

Somehow, she is at Mordred’s side. Merlin is there, too, with Arthur, though his form is strangely altered, and as he takes the fallen King’s body he whispers, “What are you?”

“Yr wyf tân,” Summer says, in a voice unlike her own. She takes Mordred from that terrible place, by main force of will keeping the life in him. She doesn’t know where Morgana is; she doesn’t care. All the threats, all the prophecy, none of it matters.

        His footing goes before anything else and he stumbles backwards, collapsing to the ground as he feels the magic from Arthur’s sword wash over his body, stealing the life from him as his blade was doing to the king. For a moment he struggles for breath before the final one left him and his eyes shut.

        A warmth washed over him before everything went cold and his blood froze in his veins. 

“Don’t leave me, anwyl, cariad,” Summer whispers shakily. She lays Mordred out in the little thicket, setting the fingers of one hand to the wound and cauterizing it. Her hands tremble as she lifts away his breastplate, pushes the chainmail aside. “If you leave me, I will go myself barefoot and unarmed to the very gates of Annwn and bring you back, do you hear, so do you stay now, with me.”

HIs skin is terribly cold now, breathing shallow and heartbeat so faint. Recklessly she warms the air, and sets fingers to the wound again. There’s something inimical there, something that sucks away his spirit from between her clinging fingers, and she sets herself against it. The magic that has burnt in her blood since she saw him fall surges, sliding in golden strands and bright threads through and around.

Fire cleanses.

“Stay with me,” she chants, raggedly, “do not go where I cannot follow. Rwy’n dy garu di, peidiwch â gadael i mi.”

Fire purifies.

Crying, Summer bends over him, her hair falling to shield their faces, and kisses him.

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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.

Morgana sits for a long moment, contemplating the tent flap dreamily. When she moves again, her hand goes to the box with the Nathair in it, but then she seems to think better of it. “I’m not finished with you, Summer,” she murmurs. “Not yet.”

Nevertheless, the guards chain Summer back up, hands and feet. “I want you to watch them die,” Morgana whispers, and the empath shudders again.

There was the clang of metal that sounded around him, blood staining the air and the dirt. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead as the field around him began to clear until there was far more bodies laying than there had been standing. That was when the boy had caught the king, resting on his knee before him. Mordred tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. 

It was as if Arthur had almost sensed him and instinctively turned, bringing his sword up to be met with his former knight. For a moment the boy hesitated and Arthur got to his feet. The look on Arthur’s face was one of sorrow; Mordred, for a second time, hesitated before anger washed over him, and he jammed his sword into Arthur. The king stumbled backwards in disbelief. “You gave me no choice,” he tells him, looking over him. He hadn’t been expecting the next move, when Arthur brought his sword up, the blade piercing his armour. Mordred gasped, gripping the elder man’s armour before a smile tugged at his lips, pain ripping through him.

Summer can’t say what Morgana did to her — her magic has always been so very limited, despite its seeming power. Whatever it is, she can’t shut out anyone’s emotions now, can’t call that one magic that’s always been hers, and the sorceress has brought her to share the vantage point above the battle.

True to Morgana’s word, she is forced to watch, chained and powerless and broken open, as the soldiers and knights of Camelot die all across the field, and the Saxons die with them. Long minutes now she’s been in a daze, helpless in the face of so much death. 

Morgana guards Mordred, and Summer is unwillingly grateful, both for the guardianship and for that it means the mad sorceress is not standing over her. He seems to move as a dark angel across the killing field, untouched and untouchable, his sword stabbing bright and rising bloody. She sees him confront Arthur, whose hair still somehow shines golden amongst the blood and dirt.

She sees them pause, and the swords flash, and both bodies fall. The pain of both wounds does something to her; magic pours into her veins like some kind of burning cordial. From a great distance, it seems, Summer looks at the men guarding her, and they fall, flaming, burning, dead. She rises to her feet, and the chains crumble from her limbs. A hot wind stirs around her body, swirling her hair in mad waves about her.

Somehow, she is at Mordred’s side. Merlin is there, too, with Arthur, though his form is strangely altered, and as he takes the fallen King’s body he whispers, “What are you?”

“Yr wyf tân,” Summer says, in a voice unlike her own. She takes Mordred from that terrible place, by main force of will keeping the life in him. She doesn’t know where Morgana is; she doesn’t care. All the threats, all the prophecy, none of it matters.

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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.

“I will handle that. You will lead the main army on the field. Be sure you seek out Arthur; it is not his men we need to remove but the head of the dragon itself.” Morgana looks up at him, eyes burning with hate. “Do not fail me in this.”

        He nodded, “I won’t fail you, or Kara,” he tells her, pursing his lips together gently. With one last glance at Summer Mordred disappeared from the tent, beginning to rouse the men.

Morgana sits for a long moment, contemplating the tent flap dreamily. When she moves again, her hand goes to the box with the Nathair in it, but then she seems to think better of it. “I’m not finished with you, Summer,” she murmurs. “Not yet.”

Nevertheless, the guards chain Summer back up, hands and feet. “I want you to watch them die,” Morgana whispers, and the empath shudders again.

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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 struggles to her knees, trying anyhow to crawl to Mordred, and casually Morgana fists a hand in her bright hair and jerks her down. Her throat is so scraped she can’t even make a sound at the tug, just falls back with her mouth gaping.

‘Mordred,’ her lips shape, soundlessly.

Morgana’s gaze flicks back to the map. “I want to use this path to come in on Arthur from the flank.”

        Mordred rises to his feet, hesitating before he turns his attention to the maps, his chest burning with pain. “If his camp resides there it would indeed be useful, we can cut down some of their army before the battle even begins,” he tells her simply, dragging his finger over the map. “Rumour has it Arthur is getting Gwaine and Percival to lead a score around here — we can cut them off.”

“I will handle that. You will lead the main army on the field. Be sure you seek out Arthur; it is not his men we need to remove but the head of the dragon itself.” Morgana looks up at him, eyes burning with hate. “Do not fail me in this.”

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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.

When Mordred gets there, Morgana is calmly seated at the table, cutting bits off an apple and eating them. At her feet, Summer lies in a heap, eyes swollen with crying and throat raw from screaming. The Nathair is coiled in its box, close by Morgana’s hand, and a map is spread on the table.

“I trust you slept well, Mordred.” It’s as if the events of hours ago had never happened. “Come, warm yourself. We must plan the assault.”

       He stops, his face contorting in anger and pain as he notices Summer in a heap on the floor. For a moment, the entire world ceases to exist before his gaze flicks to Morgana. “What did you do to her?” he hisses, moving towards her but he is sent flying across the space of the tent with a single flick of her wrist. Mordred chokes, the air from his lungs being removed in a swift motion as he curls up on his side, struggling to breathe. “Once you’re done with your ignorance, Mordred, you may sit.”

Summer struggles to her knees, trying anyhow to crawl to Mordred, and casually Morgana fists a hand in her bright hair and jerks her down. Her throat is so scraped she can’t even make a sound at the tug, just falls back with her mouth gaping.

‘Mordred,’ her lips shape, soundlessly.

Morgana’s gaze flicks back to the map. “I want to use this path to come in on Arthur from the flank.”

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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 guards bring Summer once more to Morgana’s tent, where the sorceress picks up a woven box and lovingly caresses the top of it. “Do you know what this is?”

Summer shakes her head, almost convulsively. Morgana’s madness feels like a shadow, sucking her in; she’s never been so frightened before.

“I was going to accept your offer to join me,” she tells Summer, who shudders. “But I see now that you will never be loyal.” She opens the box, and slowly a snake rises out of it, tongue flickering. “This is a Nathair.”

Hardly aware of what she’s doing, consumed with terror now, Summer tries to step back, but the guards pull her up short. Morgana smiles, and lifts the snake out of the box. She whispers a spell to it, and holds her hand to Summer.

Summer screams.

        Mordred drifts off to the sound of a scream, curled up on the floor by his bed, the place where he had fallen and dare not move from. The temperature had dropped at some point, he’d felt a wave of cold air wash over his skin and by the time he had awoken his pale skin was a shade of purple. 

       He remains on the ground for some time before the flap to his tent is pulled back and in walks a guard. “The lady Morgana requests your presence.” 

When Mordred gets there, Morgana is calmly seated at the table, cutting bits off an apple and eating them. At her feet, Summer lies in a heap, eyes swollen with crying and throat raw from screaming. The Nathair is coiled in its box, close by Morgana’s hand, and a map is spread on the table.

“I trust you slept well, Mordred.” It’s as if the events of hours ago had never happened. “Come, warm yourself. We must plan the assault.”

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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.

“So, my proudest warrior continues to betray me. Is this the honour you promised me, helping my prisoner escape?” Morgana’s voice comes to them before they can see her, and then she steps from around a nearby tent. “I kept her alive at /your/ behest, Mordred.” Morgana flicks a hand, eyes flaring gold, and Summer flies backward, though a flare of fire erupts from her hands as she crashes down.

Summer can’t move for a long moment, and Morgana advances on Mordred. “Do you forget what Arthur did to Kara? And yet so willingly you send your love into his arms, pretending it’s for her safety.” The madwoman produces a knife and strokes his cheek with the flat of it. “The woman stays, Mordred. I thought to give you one last night together, as a reward for bringing her to me, but you’ve thrown that away.” Abruptly she withdraws the knife, smiling sweetly. “Go, and sleep, Mordred. Tomorrow we go to war.”

Morgana lifts her chin, and several guards appear, taking Summer by the arms and hauling her up. She sways, and spreads her fingers, and Morgana rounds on her, tutting. “The tiniest spark, and I will kill him where he stands,” the high priestess hisses. It’s a bluff, but there’s so much madness, so much chaos in Morgana’s emotions Summer dares not take the chance.

       He watches her, the flames from the nearby fire dancing across the blade as it runs down his cheek. For a brief moment he had wished she actually had plunged it into his chest, it would have, in his opinion, been less painful. “I have not forgotten,” he hisses, pain exploding over him as Kara’s name reached his ears and he felt his breath hitch. 

       There had been a time where Kara had meant more to him than his own life, but she had left him. Even after all these years she still meant just as much to him now as she did then. But so did Summer. Mordred swallows, glancing away from her, “as you wish.”
        Mordred doesn’t so much as glance up at Summer as he heads back into his tent, removing his vambrace carefully before his anger spills over and he throws it, the metal connecting to the mirror over the other side of the room. It angered him, how could he have been so stupid? This was exactly what Morgana wanted, another reason to keep him with her.

                           Kara.

                                                              Summer.

         That’s all they were to her. Reasons. Not people, they were another reason to hold onto his already crumbling heart. He should have just stayed in Camelot and sent Summer away. Perhaps Kara wouldn’t be dead and they both wouldn’t be here. “I’m so sorry.”

The guards bring Summer once more to Morgana’s tent, where the sorceress picks up a woven box and lovingly caresses the top of it. “Do you know what this is?”

Summer shakes her head, almost convulsively. Morgana’s madness feels like a shadow, sucking her in; she’s never been so frightened before.

“I was going to accept your offer to join me,” she tells Summer, who shudders. “But I see now that you will never be loyal.” She opens the box, and slowly a snake rises out of it, tongue flickering. “This is a Nathair.”

Hardly aware of what she’s doing, consumed with terror now, Summer tries to step back, but the guards pull her up short. Morgana smiles, and lifts the snake out of the box. She whispers a spell to it, and holds her hand to Summer.

Summer screams.

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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’s voice cracks as she snaps, “Mordred. There are two armies out there, and I have barely slept. I will not make it a mile, and I will not leave. By this time, the King will know I have gone, and they are not going to take me back in. Please, be sensible.”

        The ex-knight raises a brow in disbelief. “Me? Be sensible?” he scoffs. “I am not the one running head on at my death, Summer,” he hisses. In truth, that was a lie, he knew there was a large chance he could very well end up among the countless faces and names of the fallen. “I have not slept in the last four days, I’m barely functioning and you are certainly not helping my case, please, go, go anywhere but to Morgana — I am begging you.”

“So, my proudest warrior continues to betray me. Is this the honour you promised me, helping my prisoner escape?” Morgana’s voice comes to them before they can see her, and then she steps from around a nearby tent. “I kept her alive at /your/ behest, Mordred.” Morgana flicks a hand, eyes flaring gold, and Summer flies backward, though a flare of fire erupts from her hands as she crashes down.

Summer can’t move for a long moment, and Morgana advances on Mordred. “Do you forget what Arthur did to Kara? And yet so willingly you send your love into his arms, pretending it’s for her safety.” The madwoman produces a knife and strokes his cheek with the flat of it. “The woman stays, Mordred. I thought to give you one last night together, as a reward for bringing her to me, but you’ve thrown that away.” Abruptly she withdraws the knife, smiling sweetly. “Go, and sleep, Mordred. Tomorrow we go to war.”

Morgana lifts her chin, and several guards appear, taking Summer by the arms and hauling her up. She sways, and spreads her fingers, and Morgana rounds on her, tutting. “The tiniest spark, and I will kill him where he stands,” the high priestess hisses. It’s a bluff, but there’s so much madness, so much chaos in Morgana’s emotions Summer dares not take the chance.

It takes a while to track him down; Camelot is not a small place, even just the castle. Finally Summer finds him in the armory, putting away his weapons after practise. “Mordred.” There’s only one door, so she stands in it, trying to look a little intimidating. It’s hard to be angry at him, though; her voice comes out more worried. “Mordred. What are you hiding from me?”

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.

“There’s nowhere left for me to go.” She turns away. “She doesn’t trust you, Mordred, and she is going to use me against you. I can stop that happening, but not if I leave.”

      “She can’t use you against me if you leave,” he tells her sternly. ”Please, go to Merlin, or Gwaine, or find the druids, please, anywhere but here.”

Summer’s voice cracks as she snaps, “Mordred. There are two armies out there, and I have barely slept. I will not make it a mile, and I will not leave. By this time, the King will know I have gone, and they are not going to take me back in. Please, be sensible.”