1x06 – The Meaning You Give It (Part 1)
The harsh scuffle of his leather shoes against the unfeeling stone was too noticeable. He was unused to hearing anything but the slightest whisper of grass beneath him and, though his wary child feet made less noise than could be heard by the bustling city, to him it was deafening. Treacherously so, as each small step sounded like an executioner's drum in his ears.
A hand drew him close, the protective presence of an adult giving a measure of reassurance to the boy. Together they made their way to their destination as silent and unnoticeable as they could. Just a father travelling through Camelot with his son, or so they would say if stopped. They bore no ill will, had no dark intentions, and would be gone swifter than an arrow from a string. And through the boy's mind, one thought rang as he looked around in fear.
Get in. Get the supplies. Get out.
The supplier had a shifty look about him, as they always did. No one who wasn't shifty themselves would sell to such out-of-place and suspicious looking people as the boy and his guardian. Still, as the man pulled out the goods they'd come to purchase, the boy had an ominous feeling. The man was twitchy, his movements jerky, and his eyes flickered around more than they should. The feelings he emitted - hidden from all save the hyperconscious child prodigy before him employing his talents to their very limit - offered little reassurance.
Fear. So thick and tangible in the very air that it could be cut through with a knife.
Greed. A force that drove this man to break even the most harshly punished law in the name of a few coins, and a force which could turn against them for just as little.
Anticipation. Something could come any second now, might be already lying in wait.
Guilt.
The boy felt his heart jolt and beat faster, hammering frantically in his chest. Guilt? Why guilt?
"I'm sorry."
In the awful half-second of processing time, the boy scarcely could think through his mounting terror. But even without thinking he already knew. Even before his master's terse warning, his instilled response had already taken hold before his mind caught up.
« Run. »
Without looking where he was going, the boy obeyed, trusting the man holding his hand to know where to go and what to do. They wove down streets, upsetting tables in a desperate bid for time. Their pursuers were barely hindered. Men in gleaming silver armour and cloaks as red as blood closed in on them in all directions. Steel bit into the boy's shoulder, tearing muscle and drawing blood. Only years of training allowed the boy to block the urge to scream aloud, instead pushing all his pain out through his magic.
Faintly, in the distance, he thought he felt someone stir in response.
He was being carried now, but the men kept on coming. His master put him down on his feet, looking desperately into his eyes and half-ordering, half-pleading, "Run."
Pushing him towards the gate, he ordered again. "Run, run!"
The boy obeyed, glancing back at the last minute as the gate came slamming down behind him, trapping him in the citadel of the man who wanted him dead. On one side of the door stood he, and on the other stood the man who had been more than a father to him, alone and about to be surrounded by guards. A half-second later the gate slammed shut, blocking the boy from seeing what happened on the other side. Offering a desperate prayer to the White Goddess for his master's safety, the boy ran without knowing where to, only that he needed to get away from the gate before the guards got it open.
Pavement passed underfoot as he ran further and further inwards in the stronghold of his greatest enemy, knowing he was only further trapping himself but unable to turn back without being caught. He wove through the streets until he came to a courtyard. His stomach sank to his toes; he was just outside of Uther Pendragon's castle itself.
The shout of guards echoed in the distance and he started running in the opposite direction, but there was guards shouting from there as well. He backed into the wall, and slunk beside a wagon which didn't hide him nearly well enough.
Terrified and not knowing what else to do, he cried out for help, praying that he had not just imagined someone heard his earlier scream. He didn't know why someone with magic would be in Camelot unless they were in a situation like his, but in response he felt a turmoil of emotions - curiosity, alarm, wariness, concern, sympathy. Barely allowing himself to hope, the boy cried out again, with as much force as he could muster in his weakened state.
He felt it the moment the older boy walked out the door. The amount of pure power radiating off the tall dark haired youth on the steps was astounding, to the point where the young druid wondered how he could have gotten so close to him without sensing it. The older warlock's eyes scanned the courtyard and the young druid called again,
« Please, you have to help me. »
The older boy's eyes found him, and confusion was written upon his face. The child begged again, « Help me. »
The boy glanced off to the side, where the guards were frighteningly close. The druid explained, « They're searching for me. »
The older warlock looked at him in slight apprehension, « Why are they after you? »
Desperately, he pleaded again, not having the time or energy to explain further, « They're going to kill me. »
The turmoil of emotions in the older boy hardened into a single one: resolve.
Moving off the staircase and towards an entrance way cloaked in shadow, the older warlock beckoned. « This way. Run. Run! »
Glancing at the guard, the young druid lurched to his feet and did just that, focusing on the stone pavement in front of him and his goal rather than anything happening around him. He tried not to think that he was running towards the heart of the mad king's domain, that he was out in the open where all could see him, that he could hear guards yelling out his position and running after him, that he was injured and even running this short distance was making his heart beat too fast... his blood flowing too quickly in his veins and out the puncture in his skin...
The time it took him to reach the shadowed entrance way stretched for a heart-stopping eternity. The older boy tugged him down corridors and staircases without a word. The moment that pale hand closed over his, though, the young druid felt reassured despite everything.
The older warlock was nothing like any mage the young druid had ever encountered. The magic flowing through their mental link and tingling beneath his skin was wild, not untamed as happened in uninstructed sorcerers but rather untameable as a force of nature. The term sorcerer ill fit the thin warlock whose hand he held, and even the more prestigious word warlock paled. Creature of magic was the most accurate term the young boy knew of for his rescuer, but even that felt slightly off.
The druid didn't know whether the direction they were headed in was towards or away from the heart of his enemy's domain. The hand holding his was so warm it hurt, like the searing kiss of the sun. If the older boy let go, would he see that his skin was red and pealing? But even if it was, he didn't want to let go. Like when the sun warmth caressed him, he couldn't stop himself from seeking it out, even when his head told him he would pay the price later.
The older boy pulled them through a door, clutching the druid child to his chest as he latched it against their pursuers. Two more swirls of emotion were behind them, and an indignant female voice called out something. He thought he should know what she was saying, but it was as though she was speaking underwater.
They turned to face her, and the boy was instantly struck by the smothered magic burning defiantly in her under all its trappings. He met her beautiful pale eyes, and a warm plethora of caring emotions was directed to him. She couldn't mind-speak - her magic was too trapped for that - but somehow, in a way he never had before with anyone else, they just connected. For a moment he was her, and she was him. He saw himself through her eyes, and felt her fear as deeply as his own.
There was the dull sound of talking behind him, and the woman broke eye contact, turning away. He stumbled, the world spinning around him. A pair of arms grabbed him, leaning him against a larger body.
The world was fading; he was detaching from it. He felt he was being enveloped in magic itself. Like whispers of a campfire in mid-winter, strains of lays and prophetic poems sang around him, humming in the magic he was sinking into. Within the songs, one name sounded out, over and over.
Emrys.
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He was smaller than he'd been in years, huddled inwards while overhead giants argued his fate.
"We cannot turn away a child, especially in these times."
"I want nothing to do with him! Don't you know who he is, what he'll –"
"Abandoning a magical orphan would be as sure a death sentence as if we turned him in to Uther ourselves."
"But he's –"
"The druids help all those in need."
The giants faded in the shadows, and in their place sprung up faceless miniatures.
"Look it's him."
"You can't play with us. My mother says so."
The smaller shadowy shapes consolidated into a giant one, leaving only one which remained small. The giant kneeled down to be on eye level with the smaller shadow, placing its hands on the other's shoulders. "Oh my sweet, why would you do something like that?"
"It wasn't me! Mordred did it!
"Of course he did." The taller figure hugged the smaller. Then it turned to him, its voice venomous. "You! Stay away from my children."
A ring of towering shadowy judges materialized around him, cutting him off from the parent and child.
"Did you hear?"
"Is it truly any surprise?"
"Why we took him in I'll never…"
One shadow broke off from the rest of the group, putting a hand on his shoulders in a show of support. It argued earnestly on his behalf, alone in the face of much opposition. The others were reluctant to accept what it was saying.
"Is it really... wise to teach magic to that one?"
"The druids help all those in need."
"But surely there are exceptions, considering… well, you know."
"The druids help all those in need."
"But in this case…"
"The druids help all those in need."
"Please, just take a sip. For me? Please?"
"The druids help all those in need."
"Morgana, I don't think he's awake."
"His eyes are open."
"The druids help all those in need."
"But he's not responding. I don't think he can hear us."
"The druids help all those in need."
"Well then what should I do? If I…"
"The druids help all those in need."
"- will choke but…"
"The druids help all those in need."
" - liquids to replenish…"
"The druids help all those in need."
"-get Merlin, Gwen. I'll..."
"The druids help all those in need."
"And hurry!"
"The druids help all those in need."
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Dream and reality bled together like oil pouring into a dish of water. They swirled and – though they tried to mix – they never truly managed it. Slowly, one rose and the other sank, and the two separated of their own accord.
Mordred's return to full consciousness was so gradual he couldn't tell what was dream and what was reality. He felt he'd been woken several times to drink, and that a woman had been tending to him, but he could not summon a clear memory of what had happened.
It was light outside – had so little time passed, or was it the next day already? Disoriented, he looked about the room he was staying in, for the first time lucid enough to note just how lavish it was. There were two people in there with him: Emrys and the witch whom he'd felt a connection with. Tension radiated off them like a smothering blanket on an already blazing day.
They stood staring out an open window, and Mordred realised not all of the tension came from them. His hand rose to the pendant hanging off his chest. The touch of the bespelled wood steadied his own magic. His senses improved tenfold; he was now assaulted by a crashing wave of emotions. He couldn't untangle them; they were rolled tightly like a string tied in writhing knots. He dropped the pendant, unable to handle the sensory assault.
He needn't have bothered with magic to discover what was happening, for the sound of drums echoed from below. It felt like his heart had been plunged into ice. He knew that sound. He heard it in his nightmares.
"People of Camelot," began a voice that Mordred didn't recognize. The speaker wasn't yelling, but the voice carried with an accustomed ease that bordered on arrogance. "The man before you is guilty of using enchantments and magic. Under our law, sentence for this crime is death."
The ice spread to his lungs. Drawing breath in was like being stabbed with a thousand needles. The tyrant king's words washed over him like rain over an already overfilled cup. He couldn't take anything more in, though later on he would be able to recall the gist of what was said. At that moment, though, his mind was filled by just one thought.
Below, he heard a familiar, dear voice call out, "You've let your fear of magic turn to hate. I pity you."
Pure dread filled him; the final nail was hammered in the coffin, laying to rest false hopes. « Master? »
There was no response.
The woman, who'd come over to him, drew him close. She was tense and her breathing was off. Even her warmth and gesture of comfort could not sooth this away.
He picked through the jumble of the crowd outside, finding the distinct tug of his master's magic. He called once again, more focused this time, « Master Cerdan? »
Cerdan's emotions stirred; he'd heard. Immediately, a shield came up between the two of them. Mordred could no longer sense his master.
He called again, sounding frantic even within his own head.
The drums were reaching a climax. After the loudest note of all, they fell silent. There was a whooshing noise as a heavy thin object fell, and then a single grotesque hack.
He shut his eyes as his world shattered and screamed in denial.
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In his hands was a smooth piece of stained rowan, strung onto a well-worn throng of thin leather. In its center were inlaid grains of yew, forming rings. The larger rings lay in the Four Great Directions, and the smaller in the Four Lesser. His first lessons had revolved around comprehending the power invoked by the wood types and symbols within. Cerdan had been very patient in his explanations, presenting them so that a child as young as Mordred could understand yet never talking down to him.
An old memory rose out of the murky recesses of Mordred's mind.
"Here. This will help you focus your powers. In time you'll learn to work magic through your own strength, but for your first lessons we'll concentrate on having you learn to harness the power within this amulet."
He hesitated to take it. "Are you really going to be teaching me, then? The others told me…"
"The Ollam and Council of Elders have given their approval." Cerdan interrupted, his tone brooking no arguments. "The opinions of anyone else are irrelevant."
Mordred took the necklace, placing it around his neck slowly, half expecting to be stopped. Cerdan smiled in encouragement. "You're my apprentice now, so if anyone gives you trouble, refer them back to me, got it?"
"Yes, master."
Mordred turned over the amulet in his hands, more memories rising. He'd worn it every day since his apprenticeship began, though now for reasons more sentimental than practical. He'd grown out of strict dependence on its amplifying powers at a nigh unheard of age, causing a flurry of tense whispers that would stop whenever the adults saw he'd noticed. But they couldn't always notice him before he'd heard more than they wanted him to.
"Mordred?" Cerdan asked. "What are you doing out here?"
The children of the camp often went wandering through the forest, gathering food or else just playing around. Mordred, who had few friends, was well-known for disappearing off on his own for hours at a time. Still, it was getting dark now; Cerdan must have been worried when he didn't come home for supper.
"Is it true?" he was fixated on the low hanging tree branch he was sitting on. His finger traced the grooves in the bark, and he followed the progress of bugs scurrying in the cracks. On his lap was the necklace he'd been given years before. This was the first time he'd taken it off, aside from bathing and sleeping.
He determinedly did not look at Cerdan.
Cerdan was apparently determined not to understand Mordred's meaning, even though he had to have seen this moment coming. "Is what true?"
"What they're saying about me. About what I'm destined to do."
There was a long pause. A squirrel grabbed an acorn from a branch overheard. A fly flew into an old cobweb and struggled to break free. An ant wandered onto Mordred's arm. He flicked it off.
When Cerdan responded, Mordred could tell from his voice that he was troubled. "What did they tell you?"
"Enough to understand why they hate me; I'm the destroyer of all we long for."
"Don't think of yourself like that!" Cerdan put a hand on Mordred's shoulder, his grip a bit too tight.
"Why not? I am Mordred - meant to be the Doom of Albion, after all." The fly's futile efforts were slowing now, as it exhausted itself.
"Being Mordred means what you make it mean."
"You can't escape destiny." At the edge of the web, an eight-legged shadow crept forwards.
The bough shook; Cerdan had settled down beside him. He physically turned Mordred away from the spider's web, forcing him to look at him. "You're right; you cannot escape your destiny. For as long as you live, it will be there, waiting. In the end, no matter what twists and turns and detours you may take, the destination you must arrive at will remain. You will never be able to escape this."
"But Mordred," he searched deep into his eyes, through to his soul. Sincere conviction was in each word. "You can choose which route you take to arrive there. Whether you choose a road that is long or short, hard or easy, paved with good or ill deeds – that is up to you."
Cool, smooth wood was pressed into his hands, his fingers closing around it automatically. "And no seer can ever take that away from you."
"Excuse me, sorry," a female voice said. Mordred let the amulet fall back to his chest and looked up.
Guinevere, the maid of the lady who was sheltering him, held out a bowl of soup. She looked prepared to spoonfeed him, but Mordred took the bowl from her, in no mood to be parented. His hands wobbled when he brought the spoon up to his mouth. Guinevere hovered anxiously while he ate, obviously not confidant that Mordred wouldn't accidentally scald himself.
The food had no taste to him. It felt heavy on his tongue, and he had to force it down his throat by telling himself he needed to regain his strength. Cerdan sacrificed himself so that Mordred could get away. He couldn't let that be for nothing.
A knock came at the door. Mordred scrambled as far back as he could and Guinevere drew the curtains shut. "Who is it?"
"It's me, Merlin," came the muffled reply. Guinevere's silhouette against the curtains sagged, relief pouring out from her. The sound of brisk footsteps echoed across the room. A door was unlatched, and soon afterwards hastily relatched.
"You're late. Where have you been?"
"Sorry, Arthur's been in a bad mood lately. He's giving me ludicrous amounts of chores, even by his standards. I got away as soon as I could. Luckily Tyr agreed to cover the most time-consuming one for me, or I'd be stuck in the stables for the next couple of hours."
Two sets of footsteps approached where he was hiding. "Where's Morgana?"
"Having dinner with the king. She couldn't get out of it. I'm keeping watch for her, until she gets back."
The curtains drew back, and Emrys stepped through. He had a large bag slung over one shoulder, which he was rummaging in. He knelt on the floor beside Mordred, pulling a bottle of white-green paste and a brush out of his bag with a satisfied noise.
"There we go, I've got it." He commented to himself. He unstoppered the bottle, addressing Mordred. "Now, I know this stings, but just bear with it. We can't afford to let you get an infection."
Emrys unwound the bandage binding Mordred's wound, handing it over to Guinevere, who added it to a small basket of cloths that was hidden nearby. Mordred steeled himself against flinching – this was the fourth time Emrys had redressed his wound, and he knew by now what to expect. Emrys kept a careful eye on Guinevere, dabbing at the wound half-heartedly with the paste. After she'd walked off with the laundry, though, he muttered, "Ic hæle þina þrowunga."
The paste glowed momentarily, and Mordred could feel the tingle of healing magic settling into his wound through it. Emrys caught Mordred's eye and winked, then resumed dabbing at the wound. By the time Guinevere returned with the wet laundry, Emrys was rewinding new bandages around it. Gwen started hanging the strips of cloth up to dry, and Mordred knew if he wanted to speak he'd have to do it soon, or lose his chance.
Working up his nerve, he said simply, « Thank you, Emrys. »
Emrys' hands paused in their binding. Recognition and puzzlement radiated from him. « Emrys? Why do you call me that? »
Mordred felt something rekindle deep inside him, something that felt like the beginnings of hope. Did Emrys not know? « Among my people, that is your name. »
« You mean Myrddin Emrys? » Emrys asked, apparently having fitted whatever was puzzling him into his own answer, which he wanted affirmed.
« No, just Emrys. » Mordred replied, not sure where the extra name came from. « To us, you have always been known by one name. »
« But why? » Emrys was internally wrestling with something, as Mordred had apparently destroyed whatever answer he'd cobbled together. « What does it mean? How do you know me? »
Mordred was positive now; Emrys didn't know his destiny. Which meant he didn't know Mordred's. Enlightenment was like a blaze that threw everything into sharp relief, including the unwelcome. This was why Emrys was being kind to him, why he was helping him despite their paths being destined to collide; he didn't know they were meant to be foes.
Whispers of adults echoed from his past, a myriad of pursed lips and averted eyes that tracked his every movement despite being determined not to see him. Emrys continued looking at him directly at him, nothing but a wounded boy reflecting in his compassionate eyes. Panicked resolution pumped through Mordred's veins; Emrys must not discover the truth, or he would turn against him. Mordred must not let him find out who they were destined to become.
Emrys must have been desperate for answers, though, for he forgot to keep their conversation from unmagical ears. "Speak to me."
"I don't know if he can," Guinevere said, distracting Emrys. He turned away to look at her, and Mordred blessed her unknowing help. "He hasn't said anything so far – don't druids have their own language? I'm not sure he speaks Common."
"He does," Emrys responded automatically.
"Really? How do you know?"
Emrys looked blank for a moment; obviously, he could not tell her of their magical conversations. Then he started speaking very quickly as if to make up for the delay. "That's - Yesterday, the other druid spoke Common. We all heard him."
"But he came to buy supplies," Guinevere pointed out. "He needed to know Common to make the deal - there's no guarantee that other druids speak it."
"They do."
Guinevere gave Emrys an inquisitive look at this blanket assertion, a slight furrow of her brows in the face of Emrys' confidence. "How would you know?"
Emrys took a long while to respond. His emotions churned like rapids over rocks in some internal conflict – over what, Mordred didn't know. He turned away from Guinevere, who had finished hanging up the laundry and was now crouched beside them, looking more bemused the longer Emrys made her wait.
Emrys finished tying up the bandage on Mordred's arm, fussing with the knot more than he had the other times. Then his gaze wandered, settling on Mordred's tattoo. He stared at it, his chaotic thoughts settling. He closed his eyes, and spoke.
"Because before I came to Camelot, I knew a druidess."
Guinevere's eyes widened. Mordred felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Through a buzz of panic, odd words of ancient prophecies jumped out at him. All druids knew them; which had the woman shared? How much did she tell Emrys?
"She didn't talk much; she was very shy," Emrys continued on blithely, and Mordred could breathe again.
Emrys opened his eyes and looked to Guinevere, pleading with her. "But kind. Very selfless - she helped me out a lot."
Emrys sounded more like he was insisting on the mystery woman's good qualities than describing them. He was close enough that Mordred could hear the absence of his breathing as he waited for his friend's reaction – as if the fear pouring off him through their unsevered mental link wasn't clue enough.
Guinevere responded just a bit too slow. "She sounds wonderful."
"She was. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be here now." Emrys breathed deeply, but then seemed to choke on his words. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply once, twice, and then opened them again, posture going rigid with determination. "She protected me many times – with magic."
No one spoke. No one moved. They were waiting – all three of them – for somebody else to react first. The moment dragged on, the silence deafening, as Emrys and Guinevere were frozen looking each other in the eye while Mordred looked on.
Guinevere was the first to react. She looked away, her eyes darting around the room until they fixated on the half-eaten bowl of soup set down to Mordred's right. He could see the excuse occur to her, and sure enough she lunged forwards for the bowl, turning away quickly.
"This must be stone-cold by now, I'll just go heat it up, shall I?" she ducked through the curtains, her silhouette moving to the fireplace in a half-jog that was trying to look like a walk.
Emrys jerked his gaze from her retreating silhouette, returning back to the already finished bandage. Disappointment hung around him like a smothering cloud. "Oh – er, yeah, that sounds like a great idea." He started cramming supplies back into his satchel. "No one likes cold food, right? Yeah… and the boy needs to eat. I mean, lukewarm food won't tempt him enough to regain his strength."
He punctuated his babbling with a pained laugh, his face contorted in more of a grimace than a smile. He closed his satchel and slung it over his shoulders as he rose so fast he nearly tripped over his own legs. He stepped through the curtains and his footsteps echoed quickly across the floor tiles. He called a hasty goodbye, and then there was the sound of the door opening to signal his abrupt departure.
Once the door latched quietly behind him, Mordred realised for the time being he'd avoided having to explain the druids' knowledge of Emrys.
A few minutes later, Guinevere returned with his bowl of soup, handing it over with a tight smile. "You might have to blow on it a bit."
Mordred heeded her advice. His spoon wasn't wobbling now; most likely due to Emrys' slow-acting healing spell. The soup still tasted like nothing to him, but all the delicacies of the world would taste like ash until he was free of Uther's abode.
While he ate, Guinevere fiddled with her skirts and picked at a loose thread in her sleeve, studiously avoiding his gaze. The confusion rolling off of her in waves, rising and falling and rising again, was dizzying. He couldn't help but pity her; her worldview had been turned on its head multiple times these last few days, and to varying extents it was because of him.
Guinevere was so lost to her thoughts that she didn't notice when he'd finished eating. Mordred waited for a moment, wondering if he should say something to get her attention. He really should; it was the most logical thing to do, and she looked like she would welcome a distraction.
He braced himself to speak to her. He was going to do it. He could do it. He preferred using mind-speech simply because only those with magic could use it; there was no chance of Uther's men overhearing something incriminating. He could use normal speech perfectly well, though he did so rarely, and only with others in the camp.
He hadn't spoken to a non-magical person in years.
Vague, blurred memories from when he was scarcely more than a toddler rose in his mind. He was holding the hand of someone he trusted. A high voice wavering with age and some emotion he'd been too young to recognise was telling him to be a good boy and wait for her, and to say nothing strange while she was gone. The withered, bony hand pulled away, and she disappeared into the distance. He was sitting, under the baking hot sun, watching the shadows grow. Darkness descended, with only the pale light of the stars to see by. He shivered despite the lingering heat, hunching inwards where he sat, waiting still. Eventually sleep had overtaken him, and when the rising sun woke him, she still hadn't returned.
Mordred deflated and swallowed, losing his nerve. Silently, he held out the emptied bowl to the maid. She startled as it entered her line of vision, and looked up. Mordred smiled, trying to convey gratitude with just a look. He must have done a half-decent job, because she softened slightly and the crescendo of her turmoil fell to a murmur.
He shut his eyes and rested, clutching his pendant, while Guinevere cleaned across the room from him, leaving the curtain open so they could see each other. The silence between them wasn't uneasy which – considering all the havoc Mordred's mere presence here meant for both their lives – was the best he could expect.
The door opened, but before Mordred's heart had time for more than half a stutter, a now-familiar voice was calling out in annoyance, "Uther really is unbelievable; even Arthur sees this situation for how ludicrous it all is!"
The curtains drew back, and the lady's face softened. "You're awake. How are you feeling?" She leaned over, placing the back of her hand against his forehead. He could tell he didn't have a fever by the relief on her features. He smiled back at her, feeling the same connection well up between them as on their first meeting.
Lady Morgana, as she was called, had scarcely left his side. He'd doze off with her beside him, and awakened to her still there. When he'd woken earlier to find her gone, he'd panicked, thinking something had happened to her because of him. He'd tried to stand, to go looking for her, and it was only when Guinevere had hurried over to assure him Morgana had only left for dinner that he'd calmed down.
The warmth of her hand against his head was like being close to Cerdan, but different in a way he couldn't express. Morgana's hand travelled upwards to stroke soothing circles against his scalp, the slow rhythm hypnotic in its repetitions. He closed his eyes, suddenly tired as though the exhaustion stalking him had noticed his guard was down and pounced. Normally he found close physical contact perturbing, but with Morgana it just felt natural, comforting even. Perhaps this was what having a mother felt like.
Morgana and her maid chatted, about people and things that he didn't care about. Their simmering emotions beneath spoke that their lightheartedness was a show; they were trying to act like nothing was wrong to sooth him into forgetting his problems. He leaned back, letting Morgana's comforting warmth and the light sound of high voices lull him off to sleep.
In the following days, Mordred felt his strength ebb back into him again. His three guardians seemed to be arranging the escape plans when he was asleep, for he often heard snippets of conversations about tunnels and finding druids before they'd realised he'd woken. He learned the basics of their plan by feigning sleep around the time he knew Emrys would be coming by to change his bandages. Sure enough, once all three were together and he was confirmed to be unconscious, they started speaking.
"Did you find the entrance to those caves Gaius mentioned?"
"Yeah, though Arthur is now under the impression that I have the directional sense of a blind boar. He caught me wandering around the lower levels of the castle, and I had to tell him I got lost."
"Do they really lead out to the woods?"
"They do. I checked, and there's been no cave-ins."
"Fantastic. All right, I'll take the boy tonight. Gwen, get the supplies ready. Merlin, be waiting for us in the caves to show us the way out."
"Yeah, about that... I've been thinking - I could take the boy back to his people."
One of the women sighed. "We've discussed this, Merlin. I'm the king's ward; if I get caught, he's more likely to spare me."
"But we don't know where the druids are - for all we know, it might take days to find them! If you go missing for too long, the king will notice. If I go missing for too long, Arthur will probably just blame laziness and send me to the stocks for skiving."
"I don't think he's that unobservant."
"Arthur wouldn't notice weird behaviour if it smacked him across the face."
"How would you know?"
"... er, well... he did believe me about getting lost; honestly, who gets lost in a place they've lived and worked in for seven months?"
"Still, it's an awful big risk. I could cover for Morgana for a bit, but there's no one to cover for you."
"Gaius won't report that I'm missing, and Arthur won't think anything's strange for quite some time."
And so they argued, back and forth, while Mordred lay still with his eyes shut and listened in to plans they obviously felt he was too young to have to worry about. As Emrys' logic began to sway the two women, worry took root in Mordred's chest, slowly constricting. If Emrys took him back to his people, then the others would surely make him aware of more than was good for Mordred. Yet Mordred could not protest their plans with no explanation; they were risking their lives to help him and wouldn't entertain what seemed like a child's whims over sensible reasons for who was filling what role in ferreting him out of the city.
They decided, in the end, that Guinevere would get everything ready, Morgana would take him to a place called the Caves of Uhelgoad (after Emrys showed her the entrance to them), and Emrys would then take him through the passageways to the forests surrounding Camelot and search for the druids. Mordred didn't let himself think about the last step of the plan; he'd drive himself insane overthinking it. There was nothing for it; he'd just have to find an opportunity to shake Emrys off before they reached the other druids.
Once the adults had settled all the details, Emrys came to "wake" Mordred, removing his bandages to show a scabbed over and half-healed wound. If either of the women thought the wound was healing extraordinarily quickly, nothing in their words or emotional states indicated it.
That night, he and Morgana slipped silently through the halls of the castle, dodging guard patrols and descending stair after stair. His pulse hammered in his ears with each step he took and he held tight to Morgana's hand the whole while, pressing close against her. They at last came to a door of metal bars that looked disturbingly like the door to a dungeon. Voices echoed from above and two silhouettes of helmeted men with pole-arms stretched around the bend. Hurriedly, Morgana wretched the door open, ushering Mordred in first. They raced down the darkened stairway, eager to put distance between themselves and the approaching guards.
In their haste, they forgot to close the door.
/**
To be continued…
Yay, Mordred! Also… yay, Kilgharrah not being there to screw up everything!
As I was brainstorming how to write Mordred it really hit me: Mordred was raised by people who practically worship Merlin as the Druidic messiah and have foreknowledge about the future. And so then I started to wonder…
Mordred being an empath comes from his disconcerting staring. That kid definitely knows more than he should.
**/