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.

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.”

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 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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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?”

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 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.”

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.

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.

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 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.

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:

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.

        Mordred stood by the window, looking down into the small citadel with his arms folded over his chest, his black armour glinting in the candle light. “We are to leave soon,” he hears a voice from behind him and he glances up, the face of a serving girl reflecting in the glass and he nods. “The Lady Morgana told me to tell you sir,” she says timidly and he half turns towards her. “Thank you, you may go.”

        It hadn’t been all that hard, finding Morgana, it was actually quite simple but it did not mean that he did not pay repentance for what he had done earlier to her. Mordred moved from the window, looking over the map that lay spread out on the table, his gaze finding one word in particular. Camlann. It would be there that they made their stand. He could remember it, as if it had only happened moments ago when word had been sent to him of Kara, his childhood friend and how Arthur had killed her. The pain was still there, and it would never go away.

     Their journey had been a long and tiring one, and sleep had eluded him most nights. His priority keeping Morgana safe and their men in check. He didn’t want to think about what would await him at Camlann and he didn’t care; all he knew was that Arthur would pay, and pay dearly. 

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.

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.

“Your sword is too heavy for me, my lord. And you will need it.” She summons all her courage, everything she has left, but cannot find a smile for him. Instead she squares her shoulders and takes a step, and another step. Away from him.

Away.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. She was already lost before they captured her, and for all she knows they’re in Caerleon by now, or Mercia. Ismere. It doesn’t matter. Just one foot in front of the other.

        Reluctantly he drew the sword back, placing it carefully at his hip. “Camelot is that way,” he tells her, pointing to East of where he stood. Truth was he didn’t need it, he had magic, he could use that. But then again she had magic and she could use it too. “Be careful.”

Summer can feel Mordred, feel the other men, receding behind her. The little part of her mind that isn’t numb wonders how he will manage to extricate himself from the bandits — Ragnor is still there, and now he knows that Mordred knows her — things could go very badly.

But she’s so tired. As before, she doesn’t know how long she walks; it’s just one foot in front of the other, until darkness overtakes her. She curls up in a ball in between the roots of a tree and shivers herself to sleep.

Firelight in her eyes wakes her. Robed figures stand in a semi-circle around her, a few torches illuminating their figures, and the first faint light of dawn behind them. Fear starts in her eyes, but her magic tells her, safe. Someone’s hands are about her shoulders, helping her uncurl. They don’t speak, but another offers her a waterskin, presses a chunk of bread into her hand.

A cloak is wrapped around her body, and the figures guide her to a cave, not far away, where there is warmth, and blankets, and a cup of hot soup. She drowses for a while, physical needs soothed, until someone — a woman, hood back — sits down next her.

“You are well, now?”

Summer looks at her hands, all the emotion welling back up. It’s like ripping the cap off a deep well. But she screws herself up, and lies. “I am well.”

The woman’s hand closes over hers, the edge of her sleeve riding back to show a triskelion mark. “It is hard to be caught in the mill of another’s fate. Be at peace. We will take you to Camelot.”

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.

It takes Summer a minute to find the energy to get back up. She takes a step and halts, one hand on a tree trunk. “Yes, my lord. Merlin. Or Leon.”

        Mordred drew his sword, handing the hilt to her as his fingers curled around the blade, the metal cutting into his hand slightly but he ignored it. “Take this, for your safety, I must take my leave.”

“Your sword is too heavy for me, my lord. And you will need it.” She summons all her courage, everything she has left, but cannot find a smile for him. Instead she squares her shoulders and takes a step, and another step. Away from him.

Away.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. She was already lost before they captured her, and for all she knows they’re in Caerleon by now, or Mercia. Ismere. It doesn’t matter. Just one foot in front of the other.