Gone
Author: weepingwillow9
Title: Gone
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Mordred/Galahad
Character/s: Mordred, Galahad(OC)
Summary: Mordred gets back to the tower and he's gone
Warnings: None
Word Count: 774
Prompt: Come Wake Me Up
Author's Notes: Part one in the deluge of angst, hope you enjoy! Good to be back to writing, much as I love drawing
Mordred gets back to the tower and he’s gone. The bed’s still warm, the sheets still rumpled; not like Galahad. Not at all. His breakfast is gone; no crusts or crumbs, like the whole thing’s been lifted. His chest stands next to the window, thrown open, most of his possessions still there. But a few things are missing; small things, portable things.
At first Mordred thinks that Galahad’s been taken. He stares out of the room, and he paces, and he panics. But who would steal him? No one knows where he is - the whole world thinks he’s dead. And there’s the absence of the food and the things from the chest; a bracelet his mother used to wear, the first dagger his father gave him. Only Galahad would think to take them.
Mordred lies on the bed and buries his head in the sheets and breathes him in. And he misses him.
After the battle, there had only been confusion. And Galahad had lain there in a pool of blood, and the world had thought him dead, or near enough. Mordred had checked and, through the tears, found the life in him. Though his magic was depleted he’d healed the hurts, just enough for him to survive a journey. Then he’d spoken the words of power that took them far from that gods forsaken place, and passed out. He divided the next few days between Camelot and Galahad, until his rule was established and a tower was cleared.
It was forbidden for anyone to set foot in that tower. Structural damage, Mordred had told them. No one had asked why magic could not fix it. They all knew he was hiding something. And they all feared him too much to ask.
All he’d wanted to do was to keep Galahad safe. To hide him away where no one could touch him, no one could hurt him ever again. Galahad was his, perfect and beautiful and fragile, without magic, and no one, not even Mordred, was worthy to touch him. But Mordred had never paid much heed to rules, and he had touched him, had held him, and hadn’t listened to his pleas.
He’d been fed, clothed, kept entertained. He’d been loved. More, perhaps, than he ever knew. And Mordred couldn’t understand why he’d ever left. After all, all he’d ever done was shield him from the world. The tower walls had been his armour, and Mordred had been the only one allowed inside.
Mordred draws back from the sheets. He casts a spell, so Galahad’s smell won’t ever be ever to fade. He won’t forget, can’t let himself.
As an afterthought, he tears a piece for the hunting dogs. They must find him. They have to, because Mordred can’t be without him, can’t cope, can’t survive without him.
They don’t find him.
Mordred spends hours on end wrapped in Galahad’s green sheets. He sleeps with them curled around him. He panics when the maid folds them up in the cupboard for him, because he can’t lose this link, can’t, can’t, can’t-
He finds himself relying on the sheets, more than any child with a comfort blanket. He talks to them, like he would to Galahad. He holds them to him.
Mordred orders the sheets to be burnt.
The structural damage in the tower is miraculously fixed. Mordred allocates it as guest chambers he will never again have to enter.
He never quite forgets about Galahad. He’s always there, a niggling presence in his mind, and Mordred always ignores its advice, just to spite him. When everything’s over, he thinks that if he’d done as Galahad would, things would have ended differently. He can’t bring himself to regret anything.
Until the night when a man, just a little younger than King Mordred, blue eyes filled with understanding beyond his years, enters the gatehouse and asks for an audience. The guards laugh, but he sits there, still, until the town starts to talk about him, suspicion and rumours flying. It reaches the King’s attention at last, so he goes to investigate.
As soon as the man takes down his hood Mordred turns to the guards.
“Leave us.”
It’s in the guardhouse that Galahad falls into Mordred’s arms again and tells him that I missed you, couldn’t live without you, Mordred, Mordred.
And it’s there that Mordred strips him of his cloak and fucks him against the cold stone wall, and buries his head in the base of his neck and breathes, and tells him never, ever to leave again. And it’s as close to an I love you as Galahad is ever going to get.
Title: Gone
Rating: R
Pairing/s: Mordred/Galahad
Character/s: Mordred, Galahad(OC)
Summary: Mordred gets back to the tower and he's gone
Warnings: None
Word Count: 774
Prompt: Come Wake Me Up
Author's Notes: Part one in the deluge of angst, hope you enjoy! Good to be back to writing, much as I love drawing
Mordred gets back to the tower and he’s gone. The bed’s still warm, the sheets still rumpled; not like Galahad. Not at all. His breakfast is gone; no crusts or crumbs, like the whole thing’s been lifted. His chest stands next to the window, thrown open, most of his possessions still there. But a few things are missing; small things, portable things.
At first Mordred thinks that Galahad’s been taken. He stares out of the room, and he paces, and he panics. But who would steal him? No one knows where he is - the whole world thinks he’s dead. And there’s the absence of the food and the things from the chest; a bracelet his mother used to wear, the first dagger his father gave him. Only Galahad would think to take them.
Mordred lies on the bed and buries his head in the sheets and breathes him in. And he misses him.
After the battle, there had only been confusion. And Galahad had lain there in a pool of blood, and the world had thought him dead, or near enough. Mordred had checked and, through the tears, found the life in him. Though his magic was depleted he’d healed the hurts, just enough for him to survive a journey. Then he’d spoken the words of power that took them far from that gods forsaken place, and passed out. He divided the next few days between Camelot and Galahad, until his rule was established and a tower was cleared.
It was forbidden for anyone to set foot in that tower. Structural damage, Mordred had told them. No one had asked why magic could not fix it. They all knew he was hiding something. And they all feared him too much to ask.
All he’d wanted to do was to keep Galahad safe. To hide him away where no one could touch him, no one could hurt him ever again. Galahad was his, perfect and beautiful and fragile, without magic, and no one, not even Mordred, was worthy to touch him. But Mordred had never paid much heed to rules, and he had touched him, had held him, and hadn’t listened to his pleas.
He’d been fed, clothed, kept entertained. He’d been loved. More, perhaps, than he ever knew. And Mordred couldn’t understand why he’d ever left. After all, all he’d ever done was shield him from the world. The tower walls had been his armour, and Mordred had been the only one allowed inside.
Mordred draws back from the sheets. He casts a spell, so Galahad’s smell won’t ever be ever to fade. He won’t forget, can’t let himself.
As an afterthought, he tears a piece for the hunting dogs. They must find him. They have to, because Mordred can’t be without him, can’t cope, can’t survive without him.
They don’t find him.
Mordred spends hours on end wrapped in Galahad’s green sheets. He sleeps with them curled around him. He panics when the maid folds them up in the cupboard for him, because he can’t lose this link, can’t, can’t, can’t-
He finds himself relying on the sheets, more than any child with a comfort blanket. He talks to them, like he would to Galahad. He holds them to him.
Mordred orders the sheets to be burnt.
The structural damage in the tower is miraculously fixed. Mordred allocates it as guest chambers he will never again have to enter.
He never quite forgets about Galahad. He’s always there, a niggling presence in his mind, and Mordred always ignores its advice, just to spite him. When everything’s over, he thinks that if he’d done as Galahad would, things would have ended differently. He can’t bring himself to regret anything.
Until the night when a man, just a little younger than King Mordred, blue eyes filled with understanding beyond his years, enters the gatehouse and asks for an audience. The guards laugh, but he sits there, still, until the town starts to talk about him, suspicion and rumours flying. It reaches the King’s attention at last, so he goes to investigate.
As soon as the man takes down his hood Mordred turns to the guards.
“Leave us.”
It’s in the guardhouse that Galahad falls into Mordred’s arms again and tells him that I missed you, couldn’t live without you, Mordred, Mordred.
And it’s there that Mordred strips him of his cloak and fucks him against the cold stone wall, and buries his head in the base of his neck and breathes, and tells him never, ever to leave again. And it’s as close to an I love you as Galahad is ever going to get.