For all his complaining of the cold, it seems to make Mordred surprisingly cheerful. He moves easily, swinging up the steps of the Mansion porch and kicking the snow off his boots. The cold has stung color to his cheeks for a change; and he's got a packet in one hand, of one of Ragnelle's herb teas, for the kitchen.

Mordred is surprisingly fond of the heat, for a boy from halfway to the Arctic, but today is a bit much even for him. He's sprawled flat on the grass, under a tree a little ways off from the Mansion. His shirt is discarded nearby, and the scars show pale on his flushed skin; not as many as they should be by rights ( Read more... )

Mordred has made his way up to the Mansion again for his usual errands, stopping by the kitchen to drop off baskets as a favor to Percy, and passing on through the main room toward the stairs. He's looking a little sleepless again.

With less than a week to departure, Mordred makes the short trek up to the Mansion to say his goodbyes -- the theory being that, once he's done that, circumstances won't have the unmitigated gall to delay him yet again.

He's chiefly seeking his wife and his friend, but anyone else with an interest is welcome to waylay him.

continued

Mordred settles Sagramore against the pillow, and sinks down on the edge of the bed. He's still bloody, speckled with bits of dead grass. "God."

The afternoon's encounter has -- not exactly done him good, but he is, at least, back to his base level of taut self-control. A little more sour about the mouth, a little more skittish about the eyes, but not panicked.