001] outline of a man against the night [holo]
He doesn't sleep much, these days. Most nights he spends in drafting letters, some of which are necessary, some of which will never be sent; or in reading them, going over accounts and complaints until his eyes swim; or in pacing -- like a tethered dog, he can only go so far in any direction, but it keeps him from thinking. Sometimes he finds himself in the silent courtyard and doesn't remember how he got there.
(Once, and once only, Guenever asked him if there was anything she could do; and Mordred's control snapped for the first time in weeks. "You've done enough, lady."
She turned and left him without speaking. They have not spoken since.)
He blinks in the silvery light, resigned, and shuts his eyes. It takes a moment or two for his tired brain to process: not enough of a moon tonight for that flood of silver; no breeze, no ordinary background noise. His eyes open again, clearer.
"Christ in glory." That much is quiet, almost detached. Then, in a stronger voice: "Aunt? If this is your doing, I can't say I find it very clever."
(Once, and once only, Guenever asked him if there was anything she could do; and Mordred's control snapped for the first time in weeks. "You've done enough, lady."
She turned and left him without speaking. They have not spoken since.)
He blinks in the silvery light, resigned, and shuts his eyes. It takes a moment or two for his tired brain to process: not enough of a moon tonight for that flood of silver; no breeze, no ordinary background noise. His eyes open again, clearer.
"Christ in glory." That much is quiet, almost detached. Then, in a stronger voice: "Aunt? If this is your doing, I can't say I find it very clever."