Mordred knocked on the door to his brother’s study, the white skin of his knuckles impacting with the rich warmth of the oak wood. The sound echoed through the corridor in which he stood, rolling off the walls of the empty space. The castle lacked some of the bustle it hosted on other days of the week, Arthur reserved one day in which he did not make himself available to the public in the main hall, but took care of paper work in his own study instead. A stack of documents floated near to Mordred’s left ear. He had been placed in charge of inventory in the armoury and had finally finished calculating and cataloguing. The pirate capture of the island had been fortuitous, in so far as it had finally given Dred a way into the castle, and, into his brother’s company. The King’s familiar voice called out at last, telling him to enter, and Mordred nudged the door ajar with a flick of his finger, the handle turning, and the hinges creaking to admit him. Arthur glanced up from his seat behind the desk and Mordred offered him a smile which boasted of both warmth and understanding. His mask had become so perfect that it had almost entirely fused to the truth of him. It was impossible to separate the actor from his work. They were part of the same being, turned on and off at the flick of a switch, but only when he wanted it to, and he rarely did.
The stack of pages followed him, and set themselves down neatly upon the desk by the king’s left hand. Arthur turned to them with a mild expression, his grey eyes lingering upon them for a moment before flicking back to his brother, surveying him expectantly.
“We have more than enough of everything,” Mordred explained, taking the opportunity to brush a strand of hair away from the bone of his cheek, “from the last time account was made however, we’re down about twenty swords, fifteen shields, and I assume the lance shortage is courtesy of my nephew. Shall I order more?” The younger man, watched the King just as closely as he himself was watched, though he hid his better, concealing it behind a wall of affability. Arthur had increasingly accommodated him, teaching him when asked and entrusting him with tasks. There was even, more recently, the beginning of affection stirring in the grey eyes which Mordred had found encouraging. Trust however, was still out of reach. He had begun to wonder if the King allowed himself the luxury of truly trusting anybody, and Dred was well-read enough to know that his own name was something of a boundary to ever being entirely considered for his own sake. The process was slow, but he was patient.
“Ten new swords should suffice,” Arthur said slowly, reaching for his quill in order to scribble down some figures on a piece of parchment, “five shields, and five lances for Tristan.” Mordred nodded and held out his hand to receive the hastily scrawled note. The king smiled,
“Thank you Dred.” The boy nodded and allowed his shoulders to rise and fall in a dismissive shrug,
“you should get some rest, brother,” he pressed, his concern so well-placed and subtle that even the most astute would have had no reason to doubt it.
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The skies darkened quickly as the storm brewed. It seemed as if the black clouds pressed themselves against the window panes as they opened up to deliver the rain. It beat mercilessly against the glass and Mordred drew to a halt, his hands gripping the thick ledge as he peered out into the yard below. His keen gaze found Angmar quickly, the great black dragon had his tail coiled around one of the posts that supported the covered walkway that ran adjacent to the stable block. The familiar had taken shelter when the storm had rolled in, waiting patiently for his master to open the door and admit him into the room below Mordred’s chambers. There was a trap door in the floor of the boy’s room that he could open so that Angmar could raise his head and keep vigil over his faerie, as protective as ever. Mordred’s lip began to curl, he felt the muscle brace themselves but forced them back with a single pointed thought, finding a fond smile instead.
The corridor was dark, the wind had extinguished the torches making it very difficult to see. Mordred summoned a ball of light, it danced in the air just in front of him, illuminating the surrounding area in a warm amber glow. He withdrew his hands from the stone and turned slowly westwards once more. His black boots struck against the stone floor as he and the ball of light proceeded on their way back towards the armoury. Mordred heard the sound of her approaching footfalls long before he saw her, and a little exploratory telepathy showed him her face. A sweet face, lips that whispered and eyes that sang. He would have paused and waited for her to find him, but he had a better idea. Mordred quickened his pace, arriving at the corner that joined her corridor to his at the exact moment that she rounded it. They collided.
“I am so sorry!” Mordred told her, his tone of voice portraying the sentiment with feeling. He rested a hand upon the dampness of her arm in an apologetic gesture, before withdrawing it quickly, almost as if burned, as if, in a moment of self awareness he had worried that she would misinterpret it as something sinister. His vivid blue eyes found the floor, lingering there a moment before he permitted them to dare and look her in the eye again. He looked more the prince than he would have done if she had met him outside of the castle. His shirt, a little open at the collar to reveal a little of the milk-white skin beneath, was a shade of blue to match his eyes. The hems decorated lavishly with embroidery of golden thread. His hair, too short to be long, but long enough that it could not have been described as short either, brushed against his temples, his ears, lending a softness to the handsome lines of his skull. The smile he offered her was inviting, improved each of his features tenfold, but was tinged with an endearing timidity. He had mastered the subtleties as adolescence had progressed. “You’re soaking,” Mordred told her, his eyebrows closing in on one another in an expression of concern, “you got caught in the storm?”
She was young, she appeared to be of an age where she had just begun to test the waters of maturity, the litheness of the body revealed by the damp of her clothes told him that much. There was something exquisite about her, like a painting, a flower caught in a hail storm. Hers was not the savage beauty of Nephthys, it was something else, something pure, and the darkness in his strained to touch it, reaching out with greedy fingers. Mordred, with his usual mental dexterity, restrained it, controlled it, and planned his game quickly, taking the measure of her. Slowly, he held out his hand to her. It was a courtly gesture, a Lord offering his hand to a lady to leader her into a dance, but muted somewhat by his feigned air of slightly awkward youth. “I can take you to find a fire, if you wish,” Mordred offered, “I can probably arrange dry clothes and a bowl of something hot before we exchanged pleasantries. I would hate for you to catch a chill on my watch.”
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