crooked bank of a river

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.

Sometimes, it's just easier to play with girls.

Or, at the very least, with the particular girls he's come to know. They're strong, not silly, absolutely persons to contend with in tree-climbing and racing over rocks and arguing about the things children argue about. They smile at him. They touch his hand and his arm and his cheek and they laugh with him. They never throw rocks or words at him. He never wants to hit them. He always leaves them with a bit of a smile on his lips.

He adores them. He spends his life thankful for them. He does his best to steal away when he knows they'll be free, playing away from their nurses, making the world calm and wonderful.

Today is no exception.

The difference, today, is that he's been playing with boys all morning. He's got a cut on his lip and a bruise around his eye, is stepping only slightly more gingerly than usual as he scrambles down the rocks toward the shore. He's entirely unconscious of trying to avoid the girl closest to his own age.

He doesn't know why he dislikes the idea of Cywyllog seeing him sporting bruises. He doesn't want to think about it.