It took a while for Mordred’s eyes to adjust to the light of the new world, the sudden assault of alien colours forcing him to squint against the glare. Fortunately, the sun, or suns as he learnt as he looked about himself, were not especially bright or hot. A mercy, considering the paleness of his skin. Once he had had time to adapt, the young baron looked about himself, greedily drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of the strange planet, aided by a memory that was almost perfectly photographic. He would not forget the pink sky and its twin suns for as long as he lived. Crouching down, he curious inspected the plants beneath their feet, fascinated by the hue and the texture. He wished he had brought a pencil...he wished there were time to spare. The trees alone would have kept his attention for days. At Mallos’ nudge however, Mordred straightened up, hoisting his bag more securely onto his shoulder, he followed the Spaniard through the rubbery undergrowth.
The palace, bright white against its ruddy backdrop seemed almost to glow, as if the material from which it was built was white-hot. It was, Mordred decided, sticking close behind his guide, a little garish. Gold and coloured glass interrupted the gleaming outer walls, but instead of being impressive as had obviously been intended, Mordred found himself missing the solid grey stone of his Shaman home, and the leaded pains of clear glass. Again he found himself wishing for more time. He yearned for the opportunity to converse with the people to whom the castle belonged, to understand the culture that had decided that it was what a palace should be. Was it part of a peaceful nation? Did it belong to a King, a Lord or an elected official? Were the elite of the world soldiers or merchants or craftsmen? Was there nuance soaked into the colours of the stained glass, and in the angled curve of the gates? A million questions of the kind raced through his head, reaching for understanding that could be learned, used, and twisted to advantage, whilst his cherubic face spoke of little but wide-eyed boyish wonder.
He followed Mallos’ lead over the surface of the pink ice, gingerly at first, expecting to find it slippery. The pollen however seemed to do its job, and carried him safely to the other side, each successful step he took increasing the confidence of the next. The appearance of the native...woman? he supposed by her voice and stance, caused his eyes to widen further, as if taken by surprise. Inwardly, he felt an itch, an urge. How did she work? How did the pieces hang together? Did she have a heart like a fairy or was she more similar to the plants she resembled? To onlookers, Mordred appeared to remember himself, and recollect his poise. “My Lady,” he addressed the nymph, with an elegant bow, his expression warm and open and his blue eyes bright. He smiled at her, as he hung back, allowing Etya and Mallos to exchange words, shooting a look of amusement in his father’s direction.
Mordred did not seem to object to being referred to as a ‘sprout.’ It seemed polite enough, not like a derogatory ‘boy’ that older soldiers liked to throw in the faces of younger men. For their benefit he frowned in concern when it was suggested that he and Mallos separate, his lips thinning as he bit down on them from the inside. He knew that the Spaniard was watching him. In truth, he had never intended to meet Gwythr in his father’s company, but it would be foolishness to dismiss him to eagerly. Mordred hesitated, opening his mouth as if to speak, before biting it back and resorting to silence again. He looked down at the ground anxiously, before looking up at the white palace again as if it held all the answers. Forcing his shoulders square, his jaw set in determination, he finally made eye contact with Mallos again. “I can do this...” he said, though the way the words were spoken made the phrase sound more like a question, large eyes requesting veiled reassurances. Another hesitation, and an embarrassed smile later he managed, “would you walk with me to the door?”
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