Merlin crushed the hawthorn he had collected earlier that day in his pestle and mortar and looked around the unusually busy kitchen. Nimueh was sitting squashed into a corner with a confused half smile on her face. Merlin supposed she liked the company. Morgan looked upset as she watched her son out of the corner of her eye. Mordred was sitting beside Guinevere and Kay and they were all speaking in low voices and glancing out of the window in the direction where the castle of Camelot sat. "About this fight," Morgan began but Mordred looked up, his eyes surprisingly angry. "Mother, please," he said in a voice of forced calm although the angr never quite left his eyes; "I don't want to discuss it anymore. You know why I'm going. Please, can't we just leave it?" Only at the end of the last sentence did he meet her gaze, his eyes pleading. Morgan looked down into her lap, her expression confused. "Fight...?" Kay asked, shooting Mordred an incredulous look. There were still bruises on his face and arms and his leg had barely healed. He looked tired after fighting with his mother and Kay didn't think he would be capable of properly fighting with anyone else. "In Camlann," Mordred said after a moment. Guinevere looked worried. Morgan looked away. "Camlann...?" Kay asked his friend slowly, trying to work out why that name rang warning bells in his head. "We're fighting against Arthur, yes," Mordred answered Kay's confused gaze. "Oh..." he said, "Um... do you need any help?" Mordred looked impressed. Nimueh looked worried. Merlin sighed. "That would be appreciated," Mordred said reluctantly, "But... are you sure you want to fight against Arthur? What about his side? You wouldn't want to fight against the other knights, would you? Weren't any of them your friends?" "No," Kay said slowly, "Gregory stopped being my friend when he attacked you the other night. No. I don't care about any of them anymore." "Well," Mordred said after a moment's thought, "Thank you." "When do we leave?" Kay asked as excitement began to colour his tone. "In just over a week and a half," Mordred said and his eyes widened slightly as he realised how short a time that really was. He knew there was every chance that he would die in that battle and it slowly dawned on him that he might never make his eighteenth birthday. He rose stiffly to his feet and walked out into the hall, muttering something about being alone. He walked quickly into his room and pushed the door shut behind him. He leant against it for a moment, trying to keep his panic hidden. He hated showing weakness but the date had really taken him by surprise. He wasn't sure he was ready to go up against Arthur. He reached beneath his bed and brought out a crumpled bundle of blankets which he set down gently on his bed. He carefully pulled them apart and there, nestled in the dark red fabric, was a gleaming sword. The blade was clean and sharp; it looked new although this wasn't actually the case. Mordred had just taken excellent care of it. It had once belonged to Merlin who had passed it on to him. He took the hilt carefully in his hand and swung it, marvelling at its perfect balance and how light it was. It was a great sword. He made sure there was no damage to it and then, very carefully, he wrapped it up and then gently set it down under his bed again. He lay back down on his bed but he couldn't evade thoughts of the coming fight for very long at all. They tinged all of his thoughts and he could feel them pressing down on his chest heavily, making it difficult to breathe. He was sure something was going to go wrong and, as he thought more and more, he was sure he was going to lose. He remained in this frame of mind for some time until, about two hours later; there was a low knock on his door. He jumped, startled, as the door creaked open and Guinevere looked cautiously through the gap. "What are you thinking about?" she asked timidly and he reached over and pulled the door open wider. "Not sure," Mordred muttered which was a lie and Guinevere seemed to realise this because she walked forwards hesitantly and dropped down on the bed beside him. "I didn't like not seeing you," Guinevere said quietly as she took Mordred's head gently in her lap; "I was worried about you." She watched his face carefully and her forehead creased with worry as she took in his expression. "Mordred, please. What's wrong?" she asked as she brushed his hair gently away from his face and then paused as her hand encountered something unexpected. A tear? Guinevere stared before she came to her senses and looked away. For as long as she had known Mordred, she had never once seen him cry. "I... I was w-wondering what you would d-do. If... if things go w-wrong," he stammered, "At this b-battle." "I'd miss you," Guinevere said, her voice sounding strangely choked as a lump rose in her throat; "That's why you have to be careful." "I'm..." Mordred looked down as though he was admitting a terrible shame; "I'm scared, Guinevere." "Oh," she said softly, "Well... that's only to be expected, surely?" "I've never felt like this before," he admitted, "Not in the same way. It was different with the knights and Arthur. I... I don't know what to do." "What you need," Guinevere suddenly said, "Is something to take your mind off of it." It took Mordred a short time to realise what she was getting at and an even shorter time to feel exactly the same way. He sat upright and she took his hands in her own. "I want you, Mordred," she said with conviction, "Right now." His eyes widened slightly. He had always made it very clear that he would never rush her into anything but, looking at the determination in her eyes now; she seemed to have made up her mind. "Guinevere?" he gasped incoherently, "I... are you... really?" "Yes, Mordred," she nodded, "I'm ready." "Oh..." he said as a pleased smile curved his lips; "I... good. I meant... me too. I... I meant -" "I know what you meant," she said softly. She gently cupped his face in her hands and his arms wrapped hesitantly around her waist as she brought his face gently to her own and kissed him. "I love you," he breathed into her neck. "Love you too," she sighed, contented, as his hand stroked her cheek. "Always," he breathed as they fell back towards the bed.