"I swear I didn't put those things down a minute ago, and now can I find them?"
"On the bench," Gawain says patiently.
He sits down to put them on, his hands shaking. "Christ."
"You're tying yourself in knots, brother. Take a deep breath."
Mordred laughs shakily and drops his face into his hands. "I've lost my damn mind."
"Nonsense," determinedly cheerful. "You're doing splendidly."
"The hell." He rakes both hands through his black hair, and looks up wildly. "I can't do this, I can't go through with this, Christ Jesu--!"
Gawain takes a firm grip on his shoulder. "Breathe, I said. It's your wedding, not your execution."
"More's the pity."
"Mordred..."
"God, I can't even look after myself, what am I going to do with a wife?"
Gawain laughs at that. "Oh, you'd be surprised."
A deep breath, then. "I can't believe I agreed to this."
"She's a good woman," gently.
"I know! I know that. What do you think I'm worried about?"
Mordred
Arthurian legend
164 words