TM #147: Write about a memory of summer.
Midsummer night was no night at all, just a long twilight. Lying so far north, we saw days when the sun hardly slept, and the sky glowed even at midnight; but it shone nearly bright as day when the bonfires were lit. My oldest brother was born at midsummer, child of sunlight and flame: vital as one, dangerous as the other, and beautiful as both.
The youngers tired early, and had to be taken home to bed. We stayed, Gawain and I and Agravain, out on the hillside watching the fire fountain skyward, and the sparks lighting on the heather. Ran about, took dares, pestered the girls and generally made fools of ourselves -- being none of us above fifteen, and naturally talented that way.
"Ah well, never mind, another year when you've grown a bit, then we'll see."
Laughter. And Gawain, with his good-natured grin: "I won't be here next year, though. We'll be gone south -- Mordred and me."
"Well, God keep you."
Later still, very late, under a sky too bright for stars, we lay in a tumble on the warm ground. Agravain was still sulking -- hated it that we went together, leaving him behind. He took it out in insults, all the ones I'd heard before and a few variations, till I would have hit him on any other night -- being fifteen. But I was worn out with excitement, and the firelight still flickered above us, and I knew what he was afraid of.
Gawain, selfless soul, was bristling in my defense. "Will you shut up?"
He wouldn't. "You just--"
So I pushed him over, taking him by surprise. "Idiot. We'll be waiting for you, you know."
"For me to put a foot wrong," he complained. "You always think you know better than me."
But he looked more hopeful, then.
Mordred
Arthurian legend
310 words