#*plot interlude

          The landscape grows colder and colder, but the howling wind is nothing compared to the howling in Mordred’s body, the rage of having been pushed aside, the pain of knowing he is second in <can calah>’s thoughts.

     -- He doesn’t know when he started calling the mage ‘can calah’. The name-phrase sits comfortably in his mind as if it had always been there, the only name the shaman man has or needs. The name <lady rose> calls him makes no sense to him; has no vibrance, no truth.

But <can calah> is absorbed, entire, by <lady rose>. There is no room between them for him. He stalks them to the crumbling village, snapping his teeth at the dim sound of stirring dragons in the distance, keening quietly and clawing at his throat when he feels the hum of the portal in the College, the portal that some dragon-blooded little saviour had brought there with no ken of its power. He stalks them to the crumbling village, where they pause and consider.

In-doors, Mordred understands, and his spirit quickens. Clarity bleeds in. Yes. In-doors. Take me, <can calah>. Leave me and I will... I...

<can calah> turns to look at him. It is like the tug of a leash. Mordred emerges from hiding, shivering violently with cold his body feels but his mind disregards, and creeps towards his guardian.

“I have RULES for you.” He says it with such arcane emphasis that there is no other way to interpret it. “You will follow them. If you do not, I will cast you from me. If you then persist, I will kill you.”

He doesn’t want to believe <can calah>. <can calah> doesn’t want to kill him. But he looks into <can calah>’s eyes, and recoils from the resolve he sees there. <lady rose> is strength. Mordred knows that now.

     “You will not touch Sparrow unless given leave.      You will not touch anything unless given leave.      You will remain within my sight and reach.”

Mordred moans, reaches out to beat at him with hands that can barely form fists in their nearly-frostbitten state. <can calah> grabs onto him, keeps him still, pegging him in place with a hard glare.

“Attend me, wretched child. I will give you food, I will give you shelter, and I... will do my best to give you the rest. As long as my RULES are followed. What say thee, son of Los?”

The tears of frustration and helpless fury freeze on his lashes. “Mordred hears you very well,” he rasps, even as he tries to wrench out of <can calah>’s grip.

“You are cold,” <can calah> says, and his voice is different now, and Mordred stops struggling. This voice does something different to him, quiets him, and he latches onto it and drinks deeply, swooning. “Come in out of the cold, son of Roland. I will give thee rest.”