This is fact: Mordred vanishes from Cywyllog’s room, and appears in the greenhouse. That sounds so civilised, doesn’t it? Just a simple case of scientific teleportation, a murder site calling to murdered ghost ( Read more... )

1) Once Mordred gives someone his loyalty, they have it for life (or death). Rain, hail, or shine, if they are his best friend or someone he is now at odds with, ultimately it doesn’t matter. He gave them his loyalty, and won’t take it back. Case in point; Lilly. Yes, they fought. Yes, they are still at odds with each other. However, if she got in ( Read more... )

If you woke up and I was in bed with you, what would be your first thought?

He'd gotten used to the idea of having a not'wife - it was only a bit more fucked up then having Bran for a brother, after all. In the hazy space of thought, he'd acknowledged that Cywyllog and that other Mordred had sons, but it had all hurt far too deeply for him to contemplate ( Read more... )

It is a cold night - not as cold as it can get, nor as cold as it will, but it is still fairly cold for autumn. Wintry cold, where a person’s breath may turn to fog and their fingers white ( Read more... )

Grief is a funny thing ( Read more... )

The air was cooling, as it always did before winter. Before winter...Mordred shook his head as he walked down to the horse paddack ( Read more... )

Well, shit.
Been there before but not like this
It’s night, forever night and Mordred’s sitting under a tree. Back against the rough trunk, gazing at the lake with eyes that are just a little too wide, and breathing with a beat that’s a little too fast, a little too panicked. He looks dead in the light - too pale, far too pale.
Seen it before but ( Read more... )

The room is cold, as if no one is there. Room of the dead, room of a ghost sitting at the desk and carving.

Carving wood, if anyone is curious.

Cold room, dark room, bed isn't made and Mordred hasn't slept.

At least there aren't any grandfather clocks to count down the hours.

Mordred can’t stop shaking. He’s sitting on the bed, hugging his knees to his chest and staring blankly at nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing’s broken. No mirrors or glass covered in a dead boy’s blood to show the depth of his self-disgust, no bones or skin broken on a fair knight’s body to show the depth of his master’s (lover’s) hatred and anger ( Read more... )