(no subject)
The archaeologists keep on digging. Go away, come back next season, dig and go away; Mordred leans against a tree and watches them, hands deep in his pockets. It is May, currently, but the year he doesn’t know. Not anymore, that he lost some time ago. Maybe 2005, 2007, 2012; he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care.
Time is a little like that, when you are dead.
But the point is that they keep on digging down and down and when they found their first skeleton, Mordred had stiffened. Years ago, he thinks. Or maybe just one. They found one body, and then two, and then three and four and five. Take the bones out of the ground, label and photograph and cluck over cause of fucking death. Now they are back for another season, digging hard and picking the ground apart in the quest for knowledge.
By his tree, Mordred just watches with clenched fists.
His dead. His fault that they are here, Saxons and Brits and Romans, fighting either for him or against him, it doesn’t matter anymore. His fellow dead, his charges from then until whenever, to watch over in psychosis and lucidity so that they, at least, can get some rest.
And these archaeologists…
They have no right. They have no fucking right to be here. No right to dig up his friends and enemies, none. No right to disturb them from their dreams and graves, no right to ship them off to some university to be labelled and shoved in a draw. The thought of being packed into a basement, of being shut and locked in draw makes him choke with claustrophobia; the idea of his bones being pulled and cleaned and sliced for carbon fucking dating makes him feel ill. One would think that he wouldn’t mind a change of scenery and, God, yes, he hates being here, but in his more psychotic moments the lanky ghost can already feel the mud-cold fingers pulling his bones from the ground.
Mordred is an old ghost, ancient as these things are measured, but this is the time of Spring and Life and he can’t do anything without a little power. Sometimes they can glimpse him, more often it’s just a chill and a smell of ice and blood and that isn’t enough. He needs someone to see him, talk to him, believe in him so that he ground himself long enough in their reality to do some damage.
So, he waits; serpent in the grass, wolf in the forest, dragon deep in his cave, ghost in his grave and the almost lyrical pattern to his thoughts is enough to make him laugh once he notices (two weeks later, but who is counting?)
“What are you doing?”
The voice makes him stumble from the tree. He catches himself, hand against the bark, and looks up. There is a young woman standing there. Girl, really, at least by the way this age raises them. She’s muddy and dirty like the rest of the archaeologists and their helpers, smudges across her freckled cheeks and he thinks she looks beautiful.
Of course, she’s looking at him, not through, and he’s aware enough of himself at the moment to acknowledge that that might have something to do with it.
“Just watchin’.”
She shivers at his voice, but doesn’t really notice. Just the wind, he can see her think. It makes him smile. And whatever else it is, his smile is warm and boyish and he concentrates on keeping the blood away. She smiles back, slightly.
“It can’t be very interesting.”
“You’d be surprised. Been at it long?”
“Since last year. My dad’s the one in charge, so I get to tag along.”
“You think it’s fun, digging up dead people?”
She gives him an uncertain look.
“Well, not fun, exactly. It’s more…interesting.”
“Interesting.”
“Well, it’s not as if we always find people, you know. It’s more coins and bits of pottery.”
“But you still find them.”
“Sure. I mean, yeah, we do.”
“And you don’t think it’s wrong?”
“What?”
“Digging them up.”
“No, of course not. We can learn lots of things about their culture and way of life, and…well, they’re not forgotten when we find them. This person lived and died, and now we know.”
She can’t be more then eighteen. Plump and healthy, bright-eyed with her dark blonde hair turned a burnished gold in the soft light. Mordred feels old just looking at her; old and jealous and the quiet arrogance in her words just make him smile. Every word she says binds him another little bit more.
“You ever thought, miss,” he says at last, voice lilting dangerously, “that maybe it would be better to just let the poor folk be?”
The girl shakes her head.
“No. We can learn from them, and they’ve been dead for so long…doesn’t make sense just to let them go to pieces in the ground for the sake of…”
“Of what?”
“Superstition.”
“What, don’t you believe in ghosts?” Now his voice is taunting, mocking. He’s laughing at her, and from the sudden flush in her cheeks she knows it.
“Of course not.”
“You should. They believe in you.”
She looks at him for a long moment, and swallows. He doesn’t know what she sees, but he can guess; skin too pale, eyes too dull, voice too cold and a smile far too unpleasant. In the distance, a man starts to call her name.
Bethan, Bethan, Beeeeethaaaan
“Look, I got to get back, okay? Okay-” The girl turns to go, but Mordred catches her arm. His fingers are cold against her warm skin, and it’s that more then anything else that makes her head jerk up. He can hear her heartbeat suddenly racing, hear her breath come quick and shaky, and for a moment something akin to regret makes his hand loosen. Feeling the momentary weakness, Bethan tries to pull away from him.
He lets her, stepping back with his left hand in the air. She makes it two paces away before he speaks.
“Bethan. Look, Bethan, I’m sorry if I scared you…”
She’s been raised polite, perhaps too much so, and a lifetime of habit makes her stop and start to turn around again, opening her mouth to say something. Something, anything to the unsettling young man in the black leather jacket, but whatever she was going to say is lost.
Her mouth opens. Her eyes widen. Slowly, she looks down at the sword running through her body. She raises a hand, but before Mordred can see if she’ll hold it out in treaty or just touch the blade in shock her knees begin to buckle. Smoothly, he pulls the sword out and watches her topple to the ground.
In the distance, the man’s call becomes a scream.
Bethan!
Mordred isn’t listening. He goes down on one knee, bloody sword still in his right hand even as he reaches out with his left. She’s trying to breathe, but by the time they get to her it’ll be too late. Her eyes, wide and the prettiest shade of hazel he’s ever seen, stare at him in confusion and panic.
“Shush, shush,” Mordred says softly, brushing his fingers against her cheek. “It’s okay, pretty girl. You’ll just go to sleep. Most people do. Hush now, just sleep. There’s a good girl, there’s a good girl….” His voice is soft and soothing, a father’s voice to calm a fretful baby and it’s the least that he can do. As the life fades from her face, turning it from pretty to heartbreaking, his fingers slide down to her lips and the blood still dripping from her mouth (it’ll stop in a moment). Her blood is still warm and his fingers come back smeared in it.
Not much, but enough.
Slowly, he brings his fingers to his mouth. The blood is hot against his tongue, scalding with life and death and oh.
Oh God, oh God, oh God it feels good.
(there is a man screaming over and over but now he’s sobbing bethan bethan beth-girl get up please sweetheart get up they try and pull him away and he clings to his daughter’s body ring the police someone oh god what happened sirens and crying and stretchers and a news-crew getting glares from those not in shock she’s dead how how how how and no one ever notices the young man in the black leather armour watching from the tree)
And it’s not much, but it’s enough. It’s enough to ground him, tie him to the earth and this reality long enough to make sure the living get the warning. Back off. Go somewhere else. Move away and leave the dead warriors in peace.
And if they don’t, well.
Maybe there is something useful to this whole sacrificing life to the dead deal after all.
Time is a little like that, when you are dead.
But the point is that they keep on digging down and down and when they found their first skeleton, Mordred had stiffened. Years ago, he thinks. Or maybe just one. They found one body, and then two, and then three and four and five. Take the bones out of the ground, label and photograph and cluck over cause of fucking death. Now they are back for another season, digging hard and picking the ground apart in the quest for knowledge.
By his tree, Mordred just watches with clenched fists.
His dead. His fault that they are here, Saxons and Brits and Romans, fighting either for him or against him, it doesn’t matter anymore. His fellow dead, his charges from then until whenever, to watch over in psychosis and lucidity so that they, at least, can get some rest.
And these archaeologists…
They have no right. They have no fucking right to be here. No right to dig up his friends and enemies, none. No right to disturb them from their dreams and graves, no right to ship them off to some university to be labelled and shoved in a draw. The thought of being packed into a basement, of being shut and locked in draw makes him choke with claustrophobia; the idea of his bones being pulled and cleaned and sliced for carbon fucking dating makes him feel ill. One would think that he wouldn’t mind a change of scenery and, God, yes, he hates being here, but in his more psychotic moments the lanky ghost can already feel the mud-cold fingers pulling his bones from the ground.
Mordred is an old ghost, ancient as these things are measured, but this is the time of Spring and Life and he can’t do anything without a little power. Sometimes they can glimpse him, more often it’s just a chill and a smell of ice and blood and that isn’t enough. He needs someone to see him, talk to him, believe in him so that he ground himself long enough in their reality to do some damage.
So, he waits; serpent in the grass, wolf in the forest, dragon deep in his cave, ghost in his grave and the almost lyrical pattern to his thoughts is enough to make him laugh once he notices (two weeks later, but who is counting?)
“What are you doing?”
The voice makes him stumble from the tree. He catches himself, hand against the bark, and looks up. There is a young woman standing there. Girl, really, at least by the way this age raises them. She’s muddy and dirty like the rest of the archaeologists and their helpers, smudges across her freckled cheeks and he thinks she looks beautiful.
Of course, she’s looking at him, not through, and he’s aware enough of himself at the moment to acknowledge that that might have something to do with it.
“Just watchin’.”
She shivers at his voice, but doesn’t really notice. Just the wind, he can see her think. It makes him smile. And whatever else it is, his smile is warm and boyish and he concentrates on keeping the blood away. She smiles back, slightly.
“It can’t be very interesting.”
“You’d be surprised. Been at it long?”
“Since last year. My dad’s the one in charge, so I get to tag along.”
“You think it’s fun, digging up dead people?”
She gives him an uncertain look.
“Well, not fun, exactly. It’s more…interesting.”
“Interesting.”
“Well, it’s not as if we always find people, you know. It’s more coins and bits of pottery.”
“But you still find them.”
“Sure. I mean, yeah, we do.”
“And you don’t think it’s wrong?”
“What?”
“Digging them up.”
“No, of course not. We can learn lots of things about their culture and way of life, and…well, they’re not forgotten when we find them. This person lived and died, and now we know.”
She can’t be more then eighteen. Plump and healthy, bright-eyed with her dark blonde hair turned a burnished gold in the soft light. Mordred feels old just looking at her; old and jealous and the quiet arrogance in her words just make him smile. Every word she says binds him another little bit more.
“You ever thought, miss,” he says at last, voice lilting dangerously, “that maybe it would be better to just let the poor folk be?”
The girl shakes her head.
“No. We can learn from them, and they’ve been dead for so long…doesn’t make sense just to let them go to pieces in the ground for the sake of…”
“Of what?”
“Superstition.”
“What, don’t you believe in ghosts?” Now his voice is taunting, mocking. He’s laughing at her, and from the sudden flush in her cheeks she knows it.
“Of course not.”
“You should. They believe in you.”
She looks at him for a long moment, and swallows. He doesn’t know what she sees, but he can guess; skin too pale, eyes too dull, voice too cold and a smile far too unpleasant. In the distance, a man starts to call her name.
Bethan, Bethan, Beeeeethaaaan
“Look, I got to get back, okay? Okay-” The girl turns to go, but Mordred catches her arm. His fingers are cold against her warm skin, and it’s that more then anything else that makes her head jerk up. He can hear her heartbeat suddenly racing, hear her breath come quick and shaky, and for a moment something akin to regret makes his hand loosen. Feeling the momentary weakness, Bethan tries to pull away from him.
He lets her, stepping back with his left hand in the air. She makes it two paces away before he speaks.
“Bethan. Look, Bethan, I’m sorry if I scared you…”
She’s been raised polite, perhaps too much so, and a lifetime of habit makes her stop and start to turn around again, opening her mouth to say something. Something, anything to the unsettling young man in the black leather jacket, but whatever she was going to say is lost.
Her mouth opens. Her eyes widen. Slowly, she looks down at the sword running through her body. She raises a hand, but before Mordred can see if she’ll hold it out in treaty or just touch the blade in shock her knees begin to buckle. Smoothly, he pulls the sword out and watches her topple to the ground.
In the distance, the man’s call becomes a scream.
Bethan!
Mordred isn’t listening. He goes down on one knee, bloody sword still in his right hand even as he reaches out with his left. She’s trying to breathe, but by the time they get to her it’ll be too late. Her eyes, wide and the prettiest shade of hazel he’s ever seen, stare at him in confusion and panic.
“Shush, shush,” Mordred says softly, brushing his fingers against her cheek. “It’s okay, pretty girl. You’ll just go to sleep. Most people do. Hush now, just sleep. There’s a good girl, there’s a good girl….” His voice is soft and soothing, a father’s voice to calm a fretful baby and it’s the least that he can do. As the life fades from her face, turning it from pretty to heartbreaking, his fingers slide down to her lips and the blood still dripping from her mouth (it’ll stop in a moment). Her blood is still warm and his fingers come back smeared in it.
Not much, but enough.
Slowly, he brings his fingers to his mouth. The blood is hot against his tongue, scalding with life and death and oh.
Oh God, oh God, oh God it feels good.
(there is a man screaming over and over but now he’s sobbing bethan bethan beth-girl get up please sweetheart get up they try and pull him away and he clings to his daughter’s body ring the police someone oh god what happened sirens and crying and stretchers and a news-crew getting glares from those not in shock she’s dead how how how how and no one ever notices the young man in the black leather armour watching from the tree)
And it’s not much, but it’s enough. It’s enough to ground him, tie him to the earth and this reality long enough to make sure the living get the warning. Back off. Go somewhere else. Move away and leave the dead warriors in peace.
And if they don’t, well.
Maybe there is something useful to this whole sacrificing life to the dead deal after all.