Entry tags:
and now you're here | teenhood | for cywyllog
He isn't invincible, but he does seem to live rather close to the edge of it.
Taking Cywyllog as his wife hadn't been without a price, of course, although it's a price Mordred is more than willing to pay. It's more than just being allowed to have her stay close, after all, more than being given freedom to sit alone with her and to clasp her close against himself. The 'price' of swearing his allegiance to the King is, in its own right, a blessing--something to do, something to be, some way to use himself and the violent energy the boiled out of him so often. To fight for the King's standard is to not just earn his keep as a son-in-law; it's to make real use of himself in the world.
He isn't invincible, but that hasn't stopped Cadwallon from using him as such. His fate, after all, lies in the future with Arthur. Setting the young knight at the head of the charge doesn't always end with victory, but it tends to bring home the young man himself, if not also a conquered or defended territory.
It's a relief to be out of the court, to be in the fresh air. To taste blood in his mouth even when he rides home again to his wife on the heels of triumph. Perhaps his eyes glow unnaturally with the fight. Perhaps he never notices his own injuries--a rather ugly gash to his arm, this time--until he's being forced to resume being a husband instead of a soldier.
He isn't invincible, but he flashes his teeth with the smile of a man who can't die when he brings home news of victory on the battlefront, kneels to his King and seeks out Cywyllog.
Taking Cywyllog as his wife hadn't been without a price, of course, although it's a price Mordred is more than willing to pay. It's more than just being allowed to have her stay close, after all, more than being given freedom to sit alone with her and to clasp her close against himself. The 'price' of swearing his allegiance to the King is, in its own right, a blessing--something to do, something to be, some way to use himself and the violent energy the boiled out of him so often. To fight for the King's standard is to not just earn his keep as a son-in-law; it's to make real use of himself in the world.
He isn't invincible, but that hasn't stopped Cadwallon from using him as such. His fate, after all, lies in the future with Arthur. Setting the young knight at the head of the charge doesn't always end with victory, but it tends to bring home the young man himself, if not also a conquered or defended territory.
It's a relief to be out of the court, to be in the fresh air. To taste blood in his mouth even when he rides home again to his wife on the heels of triumph. Perhaps his eyes glow unnaturally with the fight. Perhaps he never notices his own injuries--a rather ugly gash to his arm, this time--until he's being forced to resume being a husband instead of a soldier.
He isn't invincible, but he flashes his teeth with the smile of a man who can't die when he brings home news of victory on the battlefront, kneels to his King and seeks out Cywyllog.
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Those are the kind of thoughts that go through her head as she paces in their quarters, waiting for Mordred to return.
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"Cariad? Are you here?"
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She rushes to him, throwing her arms around his neck and barely giving him a chance to enter the room proper. "I missed you. You were gone so long. Are you all right?"
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"Some bruises and scratches." And a few gashes which make ugly scars, but she shouldn't worry about that. "Was I really gone so long?"
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"Days. Weeks." Maybe. She might be exaggerating, but it feels like years when he's gone. "Have you eaten? Are you hurt?"
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But there's something patient in his smile as he nuzzles closer. No one else is allowed to hold onto him like this. No one else deserves his softer smiles.
"I haven't, and barely. You always make such a fuss over the smallest cut."
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"Cuts deserve to be fussed over. 'Tis my duty as your wife." Which is still fun to say. "You need to eat. Shall I send for something to be brought up? Some stew and bread?"
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The words prompt, still a bit clunky and hesitant, a lifting of his head so he can press a fumbled sort of kiss to her cheek.
"So long as we can stay here. I'd rather not deal with being presentable until tomorrow, if it can be avoided."
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"Are you awfully tired?"
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"Not yet. I expect it will come before long." The exhilaration would wear off eventually, after all, and then only the exhaustion would remain.
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"Do you need anything else?"
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He'll need to change out of his bloodied armour, need to clean the smoke and gore from his hair. But first, he clearly needs to catch her hands, pull them to his lips.
"I'm home. Look happy, won't you?"
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"Then you can resume wishing it tomorrow." One hand reaches for hers to squeeze. "I'm not leaving again on any sort of orders tonight."
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"I wish he would stop doing this to you."
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Such a small price to pay for being able to keep her here.
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And there it is. Her worst fear spoken, even if she knew this was part of their agreement. She'll never like it.
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It hurts a little even as it escapes his throat.
"That day is surely a long time coming."
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"...I know my father is-- quite fond of my fate, but-- are you certain it isn't too much to ask of you?"
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"If I am allowed to be with you for even but a few years, it will have been worth it."
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And she does sound certain. He does believe it with her curled in warm against his side.
"I'll do what I can to make them happy years, at least."