Unlike Gawain or Sagramore, he doesn't habitually carry the sword anymore. When he does, it alters him subtly; not only his physical balance but his whole self. With it in hand, he looks graver, wholly adult and not a little archaic ( Read more... )

Mordred came looking for Owain, who was last heard from visiting his mother in her isolated castle; but Owain had gone by the time he arrived, and turning back that day was neither practical nor polite. So he has, grudgingly, accepted Morgan's hospitality, which doesn't mean he plans to sleep tonight ( Read more... )

Mordred is sitting on the doorstep in the late afternoon sun, peeling last year's potatoes and occasionally cursing when his fingers slip. Fortunately he's almost done, having sustained only glancing injury.

The Orkneys' garden has been rearranged a bit, to make room for the frame of the new extension. In its partial shade, Mordred is working in between the vegetable rows. The hedgehogs take care of most of the pests, but weeding is universal.

The roses are blooming, Arthur's roses, and Mordred is standing at the edge of the path that skirts the lake, looking at them. His hand hovers, not quite touching the jagged edge of a leaf, as if he's afraid it will hurt him, or perhaps the reverse.

Lakeside again, flinging rocks into the shallows with a violence that belies his impassive expression. It has not been a good week.

She's standing on the bank of the lake, in rough men's clothes too big for her tiny frame (the shirt, left open at the neck, is positively dangerous), with her hands plunged in her hair. It's glossy black and heavy, it's nearly to her waist, it's disturbing, and she has no idea what to do with it.

Trees in Orkney are few and far between, which is reason enough for his unease in the woods; but there's more to it. There's a dark space in his mind that's fringed with leaves, rustling like laughter. It draws him like the edge of a cliff ( Read more... )

Normally when he's in a mood to throw rocks, Mordred goes up to the lake, but he's a little wary of doing that just now. So he's out by the fringe of the woods, instead, throwing them at a particular tree from some distance off.

For once, the cottage is nearly deserted. Gawain's gone to see one of their more distant neighbors, Gaheris is off about his own business, and Clarissant vanished early in the morning with instructions not to wait up. Which leaves Mordred, restless in the gathering twilight, with the fire built up and no one to make tea for but himself and ( Read more... )