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.

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 watches him down the corridor, bewildered and hurt. This isn’t like the first time they fought — she trusts his heart now, and believes he trusts hers. So why won’t he tell her? What is he protecting her from?

It’s horrible. She swipes at the tears on her face, more rolling down every time she blinks. Out. She has to get out, from the castle, from Camelot entire. She has to not think about it, though it’s already too late; the fear has already begun.

She forces composure, holds her head high. Turning the other direction, she makes her way out of the castle, out of the town, blindly walking through the forest with no thought of where she’s going.

        Mordred had left under the cover of darkness, his footsteps echoing along the cobblestone, the hood of his cloak shielding his face. He couldn’t stay here anymore; the task was far too impossible and everywhere he looked all he could see was her.

      When he had come upon the camp he hadn’t known but the only thing that alerted him to the fact he was in the right place was the sword’s tip pressing into the skin on his back. “Back so soon Sir Mordred?”

Summer had walked out of Camelot without thought, intent only on running away from the pain. At home, in Dover, it would have been fine; she knew those forests like the beat of her own heart, and there was no chance of getting lost. In the forests of Camelot, it was a whole different thing.

It’s been hours, and she’s never been so lost in her life. She’s far out of reach of anyone she could touch with her magic, and on foot she could be almost anywhere by now. Hopelessly, she sits down with her back to a tree and just cries for a while, lost and alone and afraid. When her tears run dry, leaving her raw, the night has mostly closed in, and the air is chill.

She gives up the idea of finding her way back to Camelot, making a tiny fire with her magic and curling up next it.

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 flinches back, wholly involuntarily, and for the first time fears him a little. “Please,” she pleads back, in return. “Only tell me, don’t lie to me.” Tears stand in her eyes. “Why do you insist on lying to me?”

        ‘Please’

                                                 ’Don’t make this harder than it already is.’

        He could see the fear in her eyes and receded slightly, taking a step back. “Because it’s for your own good and has got nothing to do with you, Summer,” Mordred tells her, “now get out of my way, please.” His voice breaks involuntarily in the last sentence and he does his best to hide the strain. ‘This is the only way.’

His words snap something inside her, overwhelming her sense of his emotions. “For my own good?” she spits, anger redoubling. “/For my own good/? What do you know of my good? Do you think — do you think I cannot protect myself? I’m not, not strong enough, not — damn you, Mordred. I am not fragile, I am not some helpless maiden.” The tears which slide down her face are born now of fury, and she sucks in a harsh breath.

“Fine. When you believe that you can trust me with honesty, come and find me.”

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.

“How many times must I remind you? You /cannot/ lie to me, I will always know.” She fists her hands against her hips. Eyes flashing, she announces, “We’re not leaving this room until you tell me.”