It made sense, he supposed, that a culture that dwelled beneath the warming glow of two suns should place such a focus on light. As the suns arced through the sky, the way the brightness hit the glass would change, so that the images almost had a life of their own as the day rolled on. It was interesting, but it was not especially useful on its own. He noticed the emblems of a number of the deities, which suggested at polytheism, but with nothing to corroborate with, the theory was unsound, and besides, it was unlikely that he would see the world again once he and Mallos had left it. It was not his world, there was only so much that needed to be learned from it. He hung back a little as Mallos continued his interactions with Etya, turning slowly with his face tilted upwards, as if to marvel at his surroundings. As the two old acquaintances separated, he appeared to be reluctant to remove himself from the hall, but he turned on his heel and followed his father around the corridor. They passed a few paces in silence before Mordred managed to catch Mallos’ eye, a smile in place in the corner of his mouth. “She seemed nice,” his commented mildly, lifting an eyebrow, “have you ever...” he raised the other to join it as his smile widened a fraction, “...you know...” He delivered a look that finished the sentence for him, before suppressing a joking grin with apparent difficulty.
He sobered up instantly when they came to a stop outside the closed door, the expression of worry creeping its way back onto his face. His shoulders too regained their stiffness, as if, in the moments before he had been distracting himself from what lay ahead, and suddenly, confronted with the door, all his worries had come flooding back. Mordred appeared to gird himself, raising his chin a little so that he looked a little prouder, a little more determined, and then glanced sideways at Mallos out of the corner of his eye. “How many stories would that be?” he asked, drily before biting down on his lip again and taking a steadying breath. The boy nodded once, a little stiffly, and reached out for the door handle, “wish me luck,” he said.
The hinges did not creek. He was used to the sound. So many of the doors in Arthur’s castle groaned in protest when they opened that the action and the noise had become entangled in his mind. He teased them apart as he closed the door behind him, before turning back into the room, his blue eyes snapping straight to the man sitting at the desk. He did not look up. In fact, he did not give any indication that he had noticed that anything about his circumstances had changed. Mordred, at first, said nothing, he simply looked. From the aging hair, to the slightly hooked nose, angled downwards towards the paper, he drank in and stored each detail. He took note of the creases around the eyes and the mouth, the angle of the curve of the brow. When he returned home he was determined that it was a face he would be able to draw.
Any of the normal greetings that he might have employed seemed unsuitable. He had no desire and no motivation (whether personal or feigned) to use a prefix of respect, and any form of hello seemed equally distasteful. “Gwythr,” he said instead, the name slipping from his tongue to hover in the air between them. Even without his divinity there was a strength to him, a sharp kind of cunning unmistakable to anyone with eyes. He wondered how much the original had been told about his purpose in coming. He assumed everything. People did not tend to leave Gods in the dark, even disgraced ones. “You know why I’m here, I suppose?” he managed in an evening voice, looking like a boy trying to be strong and brave, his voice catching a little in the back of his throat.
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