#mordrcd

       WORDS FAIL HER,  they oft do. they want nothing to do with her mouth at opportune moments, they leave her staring at the past her son! in the face. should it have been fate, it was certainly cruel  —  oh, so cruel!  —  for when she asked for a second chance to do it all over again, it grants her a portion of her wish most early, at haste!

       she sees her splitting image  —  the eyes and hair that Mordred inherited from her, the build that was honed from numerous battles, the contorted expression of near anger being painted across and all over her countenance to the point where it could not be mistaking it; this is her son, whom she had slain by her own hands at Camlann. there was indeed the initial declaration of pride over the thing that Arturia had dismissed callously back in days long past; the true heir to Arthur Pendragon has returned, back to her liege’s and father’s side.

       traitor, they called Mordred, but Arturia herself had not. to hear of the resemblance that Auron bore her as mockery gives her an opportunity out; a way to assuage the situation so as to never repeat the same mistakes again, now that she was given the chance.

       “ IT SMELLS GOOD FROM HERE, MORDRED. “

       and was not that the very first praise that she had delivered to her son in her entire life, training notwithstanding? it is Mordred’s culinary skills that draws her into the kitchen, her kind invitation prompting the King to sit down to be served. and yet, there is the nagging feeling of wishing to contribute to the cooking, something that she can do to also satisfy Mordred’s palate as much as Mordred tried to satisfy hers.

       but she had been blind, deaf and mute for so long; the sudden longings to display fatherly affection tangle and jumble up within her heart of hearts, thus she settles to take things one at a time simply for her own sake. she takes a fork, places more strips of bacon on her son’s plate and smiles; a growing knight needs her sustenance.

       “ go on, eat more; I am pondering as to what to make for us as we speak. “

“Is that so? Well, you must really be confident in your liver. The last person who tried to outdrink me was Isabela... And she won but that’s mostly because I’m certain that woman had more alcohol than blood in her body.” Hawke couldn’t help but reminisce of his old companions. He recalled that night in the Hanged Man where Isabela and he had a drinking contest, everyone he knew was there with the exception of Carver. Either way, it had been a close match but eventually, the Rivaini pirate won as Hawke had passed out in the table after downing his last drink. 

Next thing he knows is the horrible hangover and the knowledge that Isabela had taken his coin pouch in order to go shopping... That woman always did love teasing Hawke about how she’d go on a shopping spree if she could. And she did and Hawke’s pouch was a few sovereigns lighter by the time it was returned to him. Either way, the Champion sat straight and nodded. 

     Dark lashes flutter o’er bright eyes as surprise flits across a delicate expression. Confusion is surpassed only by disbelief at this stranger’s audacity. A thin digit rises to kiss the bow of that caressed pillow of flesh as she explains herself -- and oh, how he wishes that she hadn’t. Deep scarlet flushes the pale apples of his cheeks, swiftly swallowed up by indignant rage.. though, his attempt at an intimidating fury is tainted by his obvious chagrin.