(Untitled)

[garcon_dor]

Galahad pauses outside the door to their room, unsure of whether he should go in or seek alternate accommodation for the evening. This is hardly a new experience; he wouldn't care to count the times he has walked through the cold halls of the palace to Mordred's room, face or arms or torso still aching from whatever frustration or insecurity the

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[maydaybrat]

There were, it seemed, some advantages to being a ghost, and the abilty to open doors without being there was one. It was useless.

Most of the time.

The door swung open, silently, to a room where only one of the bed-lamps were on. And Mordred, of course, sitting on the bed with his arms hugging his legs, owl-gold eyes wide and unblinking.

He had been crying, but this isn't noticable in the light and from the distance.

[garcon_dor]

Galahad hovers on the doorstep, his hand running up and down the frame of the door, working out the best way to approach this.

"May I come in, my lord?"

[maydaybrat]

There is a long period of silence, and when Mordred speaks his beautiful voice is hoarse from crying.

"What did she say?"

It's not a 'yes', but it's not a 'no' either. It's a 'stay there'.

[garcon_dor]

"She asked. About us. About why I..."

He's not going to say it, because from his lips it will be a death sentence of one kind or another. This is going to be difficult.