#thetablercund

With a groan that became a sigh, Mordred flopped down in the grass by the Stour. The sun was warm on his drying skin, and he felt, for the first time all day, able to breathe easily. It helped that the linen bandages he used to bind his chest were discarded in a pile a foot away, along with the rest of his clothing. There were certain places he could be alone, safe, without worrying that anyone might discover him: by the river was his favorite, particularly in the summer when the heat made it uncomfortable to wear the layers of clothing that kept him safe from the suspicions of others.

There was a handful of people he trusted with knowledge of this secret place, but only one of them ever joined him there. The only one he ever wanted there. Mordred grinned broadly at Galahad, leant forward toward the river, and splashed him with a cackle.

        He knew this day would come. How could it not when the boy stood as a dark reflection of himself? The Lord knew Arthur did not blame Mordred. How could he when it was Morgause who had committed the sin. And yet simply looking in Mordred’s eyes made Arthur fear. How would he react when Morgause decided the time had come to tell him? And Arthur knew he should be the first, the one to admit the sin and claim his son. But the very thought had him shaking. And then Mordred rode through the gates, and with one look father and son knew themselves to be on equal footing. It was not Mordred that came to see him, though but his brother.

         The court knew. Morgause had made sure of that even as she died. Her final revenge on Uther Pendragon. The eyes of the court followed him with disgust and mistrust. He was a knight, a companion of this fellowship, and he had never felt more alone. And yet, he was still not in the least surprised at the figure that set beside him on the steps of the church.

@thetablercund | game of thrones prompts ( accepting )

“Being sixteen and terrified out of my wits that my father is going to immediately order my execution the moment he meets me? Not hardly.” He shrugged, his tone nonchalant and even slightly amused, but it was the truth. Perhaps it was a little morbid, but if he couldn’t speak frankly to Gawain, there was no one in the world with whom he could be truly honest. He directed his horse’s head slightly to the right to keep it from wandering off the path. He hadn’t wanted to join Gawain on this trip back up north, but he couldn’t really deny his brother much.

@thetablercund | game of thrones prompts ( accepting )

“Oh, believe me, Sir Kay. It was a very near thing.” 

Mordred lifted an eyebrow, his lips curling up into a smirk. He enjoyed the banter he and Kay volleyed between them; although they shared no blood, the bond of sarcasm and a similar sense of humor was strong enough to make such a thing irrelevant. Mordred recalled when he had first arrived in Camelot, now a decade ago, Kay had frightened him beyond all sense. He feared that he would make a poor impression on the seneschal, and by extension a poor impression on Arthur. He held no such fears now.