TM #179: GWTW quote
Clarissant's garden is walled on three sides, sheltering her herbs and flowers from the sea winds. The sun enters at a slant. Mordred sits on the stone step, with his back against the door and a cup full of one of Clar's teas beside him. It's a particularly horrible brew, both cloying and bitter. He watches her move among the ragged rows, and waits for the sun to warm the cold inside him.
Presently he says, "When can I leave?"
"Leave." His sister looks at him over the tall stalks, expressionless.
"I can't stay here forever."
"You're not going anywhere unless you drink your tea." She runs her fingers through stiff leaves. "Get your strength up."
He picks up the cup. "The stuff's vile."
"Need all your blood back."
Mordred grimaces. Drinks. Winces. "I asked a question," he says.
Sometimes Clar seems lost in the waking world, vague and confused as any village witch, full of gnomic sayings that may be wisdom or may be lunacy. Sometimes, like a child or an animal, she seems to live by rules that make sense only to her. Not now. Now she looks at him with eyes as clear and distant as stars.
"Where would you go?"
Where would he go? He can't return to Camelot, even if he wanted to. Nor anywhere that was Arthur's. He leans back, looking up at the wide pale sky of his childhood.
"I can't stay here," he says again.
"Nowhere."
Her flat tone nettles him. "The hell there's not. I'll find somewhere to go. God knows I still have a score to settle in Brittany."
Clarissant drops her basket. "No."
"Don't tell me--"
"I said no. You don't."
Mordred holds her stare for a minute, but then he looks away. It's the truth she gives him. The hate in him, the murderous grief, has faded. Even to realize it feels like a betrayal of his brothers -- all of them, the four corners of the world, dead. Even, finally, Gawain.
God, no, he can't stay here. If he has no right to set foot again in his father's kingdom, what right does he have to be here, in what was Gawain's?
"You don't," she says again.
"No." He closes his eyes. "No, I won't do that. But let me go. I can't live here, I can't bear it. And I have to see..."
Silence, except for the wind. In the distance a bird cries.
"I doubt," he says after a minute or two, "if my lady wants any more of me. But the boys--"
"No."
"Damn it, sister--"
"Damn you, I said no, you don't listen! You don't see!" She snatches up the basket, her thin shoulders hunched forward under her shawl, glaring at him through a snarl of wind-tossed hair. "You can't. Can't go back. There's nothing left for you. You're dead."
The chill in his bones grows worse. "God, Clar."
"You made sure of it."
"And you made sure it didn't stick!"
Her eyes are not stars any longer. They're like nothing he's seen, except perhaps Gawain's in the moment before a killing rage. Like his own, maybe, in the weeks before the end. "Yes. You're my brother. My only brother, damn you. You're dead, and your widow will suffer and your sons will mourn, and that's the choice you made. Why should it be easy for you?"
The cold and the sickness rise in his throat, choking him into silence as Clarissant pushes past him in a whirl of skirts, opens and shuts the door, is gone. In a moment they'll burst out of him, and he will weep, or laugh, or scream, and never stop. Instead he picks up the cup and drinks, and the taste of the tea is the taste of death.
Mordred
Arthurian legend
632 words
Presently he says, "When can I leave?"
"Leave." His sister looks at him over the tall stalks, expressionless.
"I can't stay here forever."
"You're not going anywhere unless you drink your tea." She runs her fingers through stiff leaves. "Get your strength up."
He picks up the cup. "The stuff's vile."
"Need all your blood back."
Mordred grimaces. Drinks. Winces. "I asked a question," he says.
Sometimes Clar seems lost in the waking world, vague and confused as any village witch, full of gnomic sayings that may be wisdom or may be lunacy. Sometimes, like a child or an animal, she seems to live by rules that make sense only to her. Not now. Now she looks at him with eyes as clear and distant as stars.
"Where would you go?"
Where would he go? He can't return to Camelot, even if he wanted to. Nor anywhere that was Arthur's. He leans back, looking up at the wide pale sky of his childhood.
"I can't stay here," he says again.
"Nowhere."
Her flat tone nettles him. "The hell there's not. I'll find somewhere to go. God knows I still have a score to settle in Brittany."
Clarissant drops her basket. "No."
"Don't tell me--"
"I said no. You don't."
Mordred holds her stare for a minute, but then he looks away. It's the truth she gives him. The hate in him, the murderous grief, has faded. Even to realize it feels like a betrayal of his brothers -- all of them, the four corners of the world, dead. Even, finally, Gawain.
God, no, he can't stay here. If he has no right to set foot again in his father's kingdom, what right does he have to be here, in what was Gawain's?
"You don't," she says again.
"No." He closes his eyes. "No, I won't do that. But let me go. I can't live here, I can't bear it. And I have to see..."
Silence, except for the wind. In the distance a bird cries.
"I doubt," he says after a minute or two, "if my lady wants any more of me. But the boys--"
"No."
"Damn it, sister--"
"Damn you, I said no, you don't listen! You don't see!" She snatches up the basket, her thin shoulders hunched forward under her shawl, glaring at him through a snarl of wind-tossed hair. "You can't. Can't go back. There's nothing left for you. You're dead."
The chill in his bones grows worse. "God, Clar."
"You made sure of it."
"And you made sure it didn't stick!"
Her eyes are not stars any longer. They're like nothing he's seen, except perhaps Gawain's in the moment before a killing rage. Like his own, maybe, in the weeks before the end. "Yes. You're my brother. My only brother, damn you. You're dead, and your widow will suffer and your sons will mourn, and that's the choice you made. Why should it be easy for you?"
The cold and the sickness rise in his throat, choking him into silence as Clarissant pushes past him in a whirl of skirts, opens and shuts the door, is gone. In a moment they'll burst out of him, and he will weep, or laugh, or scream, and never stop. Instead he picks up the cup and drinks, and the taste of the tea is the taste of death.
Mordred
Arthurian legend
632 words