Fic: Midsummer
Title: Midsummer
Author: pax_morgana
Fandom: Arthurian
Characters/Pairing: Mordred, Arthur; no pairing.
Rating: PG-13 for Mordred-related things.
Words: 1,124
Disclaimer: Words are mine. Characters are for everyone.
Summary: Mordred searches. Arthur discovers.
Notes/Warnings: This particular little...thingy is set in the canon of my novel-WIP (working title The King's Raven), although it's not actually canon to the novel itself. (Yes, I AU my own writing. Sad, innit?) It was originally posted (in first-draft form) on my old, abandoned LJ, mordred_tkr . This is the second-draft version. Still not entirely polished. Workin' on that.
Midsummer
You no longer celebrate Midsummer. At least, not in the way it was meant to be celebrated, with the dancing fires and animal lusts. This celebration of all that is young and alive and living has been lost to you forever, overshadowed by that tame, cowering banquet of another name. It is only because I am your knight that I sit through this most contemptible of parodies, fasting in protest of your betrayal. Somewhere far behind the hills, I know the fires are burning, and I long so to be a part of them, but here I remain. For your sake, I remain, you pitiable wretch. I can scarcely bear to look upon you or any other in this hall, and so I fix my gaze upon an unassuming corner, pointedly ignoring all conversation.
"-nan? Branan? Are you ill, my boy?" you ask me, completely oblivious to my thoughts. I smother the bark of laughter that threatens to boil forth; you cannot fathom how ill I truly am: nauseated at having to while away precious Midsummer in this false Christian hall. I do not speak it, however, but nor do I waste the presented opportunity.
"...Ill, yes. I have been feeling a touch faint this evening, my lord."
"Perhaps you should forgo the remainder of the festivities. You've not eaten a bite, and now you're staring at nothing. Shall I summon a boy to escort you to one of the guest chambers?"
"I appreciate the offer, sire, but I'm sure I am capable of finding my own way." You look startled at this, but you do not remark, instead nodding and gesturing your permission for me to leave. I bow and bid you goodnight before I make my way out of the Great Hall. The corridors are magnificent as any other time I have visited Caer Camel, but I do not stop to look. I am moving with purpose, and not toward the guest chambers.
Only one groom is attending the stables, and the look I give him prevents any questions as I saddle my mare - the urgency of this stifling my fear of the great beast - and ride out toward the hills. No longer can I stand knowing that, just past them, the flames of the true Midsummer feasts burn with passion. I ride Rhiannon nearly to exhaustion so that I can be a part of it all the sooner. I can hear the laughter, the singing, and my heart aches, my body flares, and my mind wakens to memories of Midsummers past. It is close. Just past the woods, I wager. I leave Rhiannon to drink by the stream, and begin my trek through the trees, though the presence of hooves and footsteps other than my own gives me pause. I wheel about and see you standing there, leading your stallion. Following me.
"My lord."
"Mordred." My brows raise and my mind falters. You know. You always knew. My fists clench of their own volition at my sides, and my jaw tightens. It is no use denying it now - your tone tells all. With a barely-perceptible growl, I amend my earlier greeting.
"My lord father."
"I knew you would come out here," you say lightly, either not noticing the hostility in my tone or else ignoring it, "I could see it in your eyes at the feast. You're just like your mother, lacking the good grace to at least pretend to be Christian."
"I've never met my mother. I would not know how like her I am."
"Is that so? I suppose it makes sense. She did shut herself away after...after your birth."
"After you attempted to have me killed, you mean." This throws you off. I enjoy a small, silent victory at seeing your eyelids fly open, the discomfiture tighten your sun-god's face, but I cannot smile. I hate you for this, and no matter how gracious or warm you are, I have always hated you for it. I briefly wonder how you will skirt the subject, for I know you too inherently innocent and sensitive to broach it with me here. But you surprise me.
"Yes. After I cast you and all of those innocent children out to sea, Morgaine left Camelot, and I have not seen her since." My lips curl in derision in noting that you deliberately did not group me with the innocent ones. You know that I noticed, but you make no apology. And why should you? I am not innocent to you - born from your so-called sin as I was, I cannot be good. It is my own fault that my parents are brother and sister. I am an unrepentant demon.
"I'm sure it was a great tragedy to see her go," I return, sarcasm dripping heavy and thick from each syllable. The hate is raw in me, and I will not hide it. You deserve each drop. Your blue eyes light, with my words, with an ire I have never seen from the likes of you.
"Are you so wise, Mordred? Do you know my feelings so thoroughly that you can pass judgment? What do you even know of my relationship with my sister?" Even though you keep it down to a level just above a whisper, your voice seems to boom. I have to make a conscious effort not to allow myself to feel chastised, but it ultimately fails. You are too good at playing the noble King. You make me feel every bit the villain I was born to be, and my aunt's hate bubbles forth all the hotter for it.
"You cannot have loved her much for the crimes you committed against her," comes my hissing reply. Yours is in the form of your fist against my jaw, and it sends me reeling. A thick, warm bitterness bursts behind my teeth; your features, so bright and open, are contorted with an anger that I silently pride myself on having shaped for you. You are not so perfect after all, Very King. I smile at you, all arrogance and triumph, even as my own blood creeps down my chin. I hold your eyes, the bluest I've ever seen, and I am able to read your feelings there, for once. It is an agonisingly long time before you turn from me at last, and I know that I have won this battle. When next you see me, you will play at having forgotten this night, but you and I both know that it will remain smudged on your memory for as long as I remain smudged on your reputation. In one last effort of brazenness, I call after you, "Good night, Father."
You offer no farewell.
Author: pax_morgana
Fandom: Arthurian
Characters/Pairing: Mordred, Arthur; no pairing.
Rating: PG-13 for Mordred-related things.
Words: 1,124
Disclaimer: Words are mine. Characters are for everyone.
Summary: Mordred searches. Arthur discovers.
Notes/Warnings: This particular little...thingy is set in the canon of my novel-WIP (working title The King's Raven), although it's not actually canon to the novel itself. (Yes, I AU my own writing. Sad, innit?) It was originally posted (in first-draft form) on my old, abandoned LJ, mordred_tkr . This is the second-draft version. Still not entirely polished. Workin' on that.
Midsummer
You no longer celebrate Midsummer. At least, not in the way it was meant to be celebrated, with the dancing fires and animal lusts. This celebration of all that is young and alive and living has been lost to you forever, overshadowed by that tame, cowering banquet of another name. It is only because I am your knight that I sit through this most contemptible of parodies, fasting in protest of your betrayal. Somewhere far behind the hills, I know the fires are burning, and I long so to be a part of them, but here I remain. For your sake, I remain, you pitiable wretch. I can scarcely bear to look upon you or any other in this hall, and so I fix my gaze upon an unassuming corner, pointedly ignoring all conversation.
"-nan? Branan? Are you ill, my boy?" you ask me, completely oblivious to my thoughts. I smother the bark of laughter that threatens to boil forth; you cannot fathom how ill I truly am: nauseated at having to while away precious Midsummer in this false Christian hall. I do not speak it, however, but nor do I waste the presented opportunity.
"...Ill, yes. I have been feeling a touch faint this evening, my lord."
"Perhaps you should forgo the remainder of the festivities. You've not eaten a bite, and now you're staring at nothing. Shall I summon a boy to escort you to one of the guest chambers?"
"I appreciate the offer, sire, but I'm sure I am capable of finding my own way." You look startled at this, but you do not remark, instead nodding and gesturing your permission for me to leave. I bow and bid you goodnight before I make my way out of the Great Hall. The corridors are magnificent as any other time I have visited Caer Camel, but I do not stop to look. I am moving with purpose, and not toward the guest chambers.
Only one groom is attending the stables, and the look I give him prevents any questions as I saddle my mare - the urgency of this stifling my fear of the great beast - and ride out toward the hills. No longer can I stand knowing that, just past them, the flames of the true Midsummer feasts burn with passion. I ride Rhiannon nearly to exhaustion so that I can be a part of it all the sooner. I can hear the laughter, the singing, and my heart aches, my body flares, and my mind wakens to memories of Midsummers past. It is close. Just past the woods, I wager. I leave Rhiannon to drink by the stream, and begin my trek through the trees, though the presence of hooves and footsteps other than my own gives me pause. I wheel about and see you standing there, leading your stallion. Following me.
"My lord."
"Mordred." My brows raise and my mind falters. You know. You always knew. My fists clench of their own volition at my sides, and my jaw tightens. It is no use denying it now - your tone tells all. With a barely-perceptible growl, I amend my earlier greeting.
"My lord father."
"I knew you would come out here," you say lightly, either not noticing the hostility in my tone or else ignoring it, "I could see it in your eyes at the feast. You're just like your mother, lacking the good grace to at least pretend to be Christian."
"I've never met my mother. I would not know how like her I am."
"Is that so? I suppose it makes sense. She did shut herself away after...after your birth."
"After you attempted to have me killed, you mean." This throws you off. I enjoy a small, silent victory at seeing your eyelids fly open, the discomfiture tighten your sun-god's face, but I cannot smile. I hate you for this, and no matter how gracious or warm you are, I have always hated you for it. I briefly wonder how you will skirt the subject, for I know you too inherently innocent and sensitive to broach it with me here. But you surprise me.
"Yes. After I cast you and all of those innocent children out to sea, Morgaine left Camelot, and I have not seen her since." My lips curl in derision in noting that you deliberately did not group me with the innocent ones. You know that I noticed, but you make no apology. And why should you? I am not innocent to you - born from your so-called sin as I was, I cannot be good. It is my own fault that my parents are brother and sister. I am an unrepentant demon.
"I'm sure it was a great tragedy to see her go," I return, sarcasm dripping heavy and thick from each syllable. The hate is raw in me, and I will not hide it. You deserve each drop. Your blue eyes light, with my words, with an ire I have never seen from the likes of you.
"Are you so wise, Mordred? Do you know my feelings so thoroughly that you can pass judgment? What do you even know of my relationship with my sister?" Even though you keep it down to a level just above a whisper, your voice seems to boom. I have to make a conscious effort not to allow myself to feel chastised, but it ultimately fails. You are too good at playing the noble King. You make me feel every bit the villain I was born to be, and my aunt's hate bubbles forth all the hotter for it.
"You cannot have loved her much for the crimes you committed against her," comes my hissing reply. Yours is in the form of your fist against my jaw, and it sends me reeling. A thick, warm bitterness bursts behind my teeth; your features, so bright and open, are contorted with an anger that I silently pride myself on having shaped for you. You are not so perfect after all, Very King. I smile at you, all arrogance and triumph, even as my own blood creeps down my chin. I hold your eyes, the bluest I've ever seen, and I am able to read your feelings there, for once. It is an agonisingly long time before you turn from me at last, and I know that I have won this battle. When next you see me, you will play at having forgotten this night, but you and I both know that it will remain smudged on your memory for as long as I remain smudged on your reputation. In one last effort of brazenness, I call after you, "Good night, Father."
You offer no farewell.