Chapter 3: Silence
The dark clouds over Camelot had not shifted over the course of the previous night, nor had the rain deigned to fall as it ought to. Mordred blamed this on Emrys' deeply troubled mood, but didn't dare voice the thought, aloud or otherwise. He couldn't help but wonder what had caused the older man's opinion of him finally to change; it wasn't anything he was willing to test. Mordred shrugged off the distraction, turning away from the secretly powerful manservant at the edge of the training field and back into the drills that he was meant to be doing.
"All right," Arthur said, stepping up behind his left shoulder. "That's enough for now."
Mordred obediently ended his practice and turned to face the King.
"I don't believe I've ever tested your skills at hand-to-hand combat," Arthur considered.
"I would prefer not to, Sire," Mordred admitted cryptically. The last thing he needed was to jog Sir Elyan or Sir Leon's memory about their meeting years ago. Not to mention the decidedly Druidic aspect to his technique that some of the older Knights might notice.
Arthur chuckled. "You're a knight now, Sir Mordred. Such things tend to come with the job." He gave the teen a pat on the back in encouragement.
"I would rather not fight you at all, Sire. Practicing with training weapons is one thing, but I fear that raising my hand against you..."
"Afraid to punch the King?" Arthur teased, but turned to call Sir Percival over in the next breath, regardless.
"I don't think that I…" Mordred trailed off doubtfully as the other knight approached.
"Relax. You'll be fine. Percy's a gentle giant. He's great with kids," Arthur reassured before walking over to stand at the edge with Merlin and observe them. Mordred noticed Sir Gwaine and Sir Elyan pausing to watch them, too, from their end of the field. Terrific.
"Whenever you're ready," Arthur prompted, mostly to his nervous-looking nephew. The young Druid sent an uncertain glance Emrys' way.
"Don't look at me," Merlin responded mentally, with just a hint of amusement.
Mordred turned his attention back to Sir Percival and gave a clipped nod, vanishing the nonconstructive apprehension. This was going to happen no matter what he thought of it. He might as well play along.
After an extended pause while the two knights summed each other up, Percival seemed to notice that Mordred wasn't willing to strike first and aimed a warning punch to the smaller man's side. Mordred dodged it without effort and began to circle to the right, countering with a swift jab of his bundled fingers to the giant's lower ribs.
Percival flinched slightly at the momentary sting of Mordred's strike and shot him a cautioning look. Then he tried and failed to land another punch, instead earning another painful jab to a pressure point on his arm that caused his hand to tingle ominously. His expression sharpened into a wary, lingering stare. Percival had figured out the function behind the Druid's counterattack and was quick to avoid the boy's reach from that point on. Still, Mordred already had forced him to rely on his non-dominant arm. A fact which amused the young Druid in spite of his friend's obvious disapproval. He'd learned to fight the way he did for a good reason, and no passing judgment was going to change that.
Percival stopped holding back and began to move with surprising speed for a man of his size, finally landing a couple of punches to Mordred's chest. Mordred easily dodged the next attack but he was winded. He barely managed to avoid his opponent's attempt to scoop him off his feet, catching Percival's wrist and kneeing him in the stomach. Percival reflexively shoved him away. Mordred made sure to stumble a lot while maintaining his balance (He flashes a flat look, and breathes out "Enough of this.") Percy caught his forearm, moving to yank the novice forward into a pin. However, Mordred followed the momentum to swing under his opponent's arm as if it were a tree branch, using his bent knee and shoulder as footholds, and hopping over Percival to twist his arm behind his back. Mordred scowled, at his own behavior. He'd been trying not to look too competent, and it had taken a magician's precision to avoid breaking Percy's wrist with the maneuver. Impatience had gotten the better of him.
Sir Percival dropped to his knees with a pained grunt. Mordred was just about to suggest that he should yield, but had to release his hold in order to jump Percy's attempt to kick his feet out from under him. He blocked the first punch, but he really seemed to have aggravated his muscled friend because the next open-handed strike to Mordred's chin knocked him onto his back. That's that problem solved, Mordred reflected internally. The blow hurt enough that he didn't even consider the possibility of resisting Percy's pin.
"Ow…" he remarked aloud.
"Sorry. Have I struck you too hard?" Percival inquired, looking a tad repentant about Mordred's dazed countenance. Mordred took a moment to recover his wits while the blond helped him to his feet.
"I can't feel my face," he concluded, moving his jaw experimentally.
"I'm sorry," This time Percival sounded legitimately repentant. The King strolled over to join them.
"Very impressive," Arthur approved.
Percival shifted his numb right arm uncomfortably, prompting a questioning look from the royal that only deepened when Merlin circled round to compress a pressure point on the blond knight's shoulder.
"Better?" The young physician verified, and shook his head at Mordred who plastered on a face of angelic innocence in response.
"Yeah. Thanks, Merlin," Percival confirmed, arching his brows at the silent exchange.
Arthur shook off his unspoken question and continued, "I don't think I've seen anything quite like that before, Sir Mordred. Certainly not that last maneuver you used."
"I have," a gruff, older man's voice muttered from somewhere behind Mordred. The Druid's shoulders tensed. He did not turn around even when the man added a less intelligible remark about "Tree climbers in the Purge."
"What was that?" Arthur questioned, glancing over his nephew's shoulder.
"Hmm?" Mordred bluffed.
"Well, it looks like we're off to a good start," Percival interjected, preventing any further chance of pursuing the damning statement. "Sir Mordred's approach is a bit hesitant, but practice will sort that out in no time."
The novice in question smiled appreciatively in response, both to the approval and to the protection that Percy had just allowed him. Mordred had been certain since Arthur first walked up to him that he was going to be exposed as a Druid, or ex-thief, or both. His relief was short-lived however as an inhuman presence drew the Clairvoyant's attention away from the conversation at hand. The fae was lingering somewhere close by. Behind Mordred the warm glow of Emrys' magic pulsed and fanned out delicately around them, brushing whisper-soft over Mordred's aura as the Guardian sought out the threat. For once the older Mage's presence was comforting enough that he simply forgot about the danger, letting his mind return to the more mundane reality of practice without a second thought.
Sir Gwaine and Sir Patrick were heading back into the village after a short ride through the woods when they saw a column of black smoke beginning to rise in earnest from one of the cozy, pleasant huts up ahead. Patrick hopped off his horse and ran ahead to join the crowd of locals already fighting to counteract the spreading flames. Gwaine started to follow suit, but stopped upon recognizing the wanted criminal strolling casually away.
"Walker!" he accused, turning to face the slyly grinning murderer.
"I appear to have kicked an ant hill."
"You're under arrest!" By the time the words were out of Sir Gwaine's mouth, the cackling criminal was already making his escape through the crowded street. "Damn." The Knight did his best to make chase, but the disappearing mercenary had once again vanished.
"He's making wonderful progress - wouldn't you say Merlin?" Arthur stated proudly as they made their way back inside, headed for the royal chambers, not really giving him an opening to reply before he continued to gush, "that last maneuver he used...I've never seen anything like it."
"You've said," Merlin responded quietly, trudging up the steps behind him. Arthur turned to shoot him an appraising look.
"And what do you think of Sir Mordred? You don't see the same potential I suppose..."
"I didn't say that," Merlin said carefully.
"No, but you've got that look, like someone's trodden on your tail," Arthur quipped, fighting the urge to roll his eyes when Merlin actually glanced behind himself. "So what is it?"
"Honestly? I think you're pushing him too hard."
Arthur's face scrunched up incredulously. "What?"
"You haven't even begun to tell Mordred what's really going on, but you're already grooming him for a seat on the throne of Camelot."
"It's where he belongs," Arthur countered almost as if on reflex.
"You're the one who asked my opinion, Arthur. Why are we stopping? Arthur?"
Merlin frowned up at his best friend's back. He was perched at the top of the stairs, turning to the large ceiling-high window on his left.
"Is that smoke?"
Merlin followed the King's line of sight. "That's a lot of smoke." He looked the black column over thoughtfully with magically-enhanced vision. "Looks like a house fire- Wait, Arthur!" He chased his impulsive friend back down the stairs, almost losing sight of him around the next corner. "Where are you going?"
Sir Percival and Sir Mordred paused together beside a stand selling various seasonal fruits. The younger man picked out a juicy-looking plum. Percival grabbed one too, along with a mixed bag of colorful berries, waving the teen off when he went to pay.
"I've got this. Go on ahead," he directed. "They like you better anyway."
"Thank you," Mordred said with a knowing smile. Nuala had taken to playfully teasing the mild-mannered knight as much as she could get away with. Considering Percy's obliging tendencies, it was a lot. The blond made a shooing motion with his hands, almost completely hiding his apprehension about facing the old bat yet again.
They'd come to check whether the thief who'd broken into the Goldsmith's home a few weeks back matched Walker's description. Mordred jogged up to the now-familiar and welcoming front step of the Goldsmith's house. He visited so often these days that both Nuala and her son found it unnecessary for him to knock anymore. Yet the Druid's upbringing had ingrained in him the importance of respecting the Elders, and he simply could not stop now. Especially after that visit of the night before last.
Mordred stopped with his hand already poised to knock. The door was cracked and scratched up as if it had been bashed in by a formidable force. The once vividly-painted surface was blistered and coated in ash, the top of the frame scattered with cobwebs.
"This is the place, isn't it?" Percy verified, sounding understandably confused. Mordred spared a fleeting glance over his shoulder before nudging the aged portal open. The door drifted inward with a drawn out creak that matched the dilapidated appearance of the building's interior. Everything was just as it had been the last time that Mordred had visited mere days ago ... except for the fact that it was all spontaneously breaking down.
"This is it," he confirmed, stepping cautiously into the surreal ruin. Sir Percival caught his shoulder, stopping him at the beginning of the hallway.
"Mordred," he cautioned, drawing his sword. "There's sorcery at work here."
"I'm not so certain of that," the Clairvoyant replied. Despite the bustling crowd in the marketplace outside, there were no sounds of life to be heard apart from their own voices. Mordred could feel an impression in the air left by an inhuman presence.
"What would you call it then?" Percy challenged.
Mordred walked over and pushed a fading wall hanging away from the panel that had once held the bronze Quaternary Knot. The protective emblem was predictably absent, replaced by a dark sigil made of linked Ogham symbols burnt into the wood.
"A fox hunt," Mordred sarcastically referenced Camelot's old wartime vernacular without bothering to mask his bitterness. This was an echo of one of the more nightmare-inducing stories passed on to him as a child.
"Why do I get the feeling that I'm going to wish you meant the kind with actual foxes?" Percival wondered aloud. Mordred strode stiffly past him out of the building. "Wait. That's your language, isn't it?" He called after his retreating companion.
Mordred nodded once the other man had caught up to him, keeping his tense gaze on the busy market straight head of them.
"What does it say?"
"Run or die."
"You're certain that's what it was?" Arthur verified, not wanting to accept the reality of such persecution still lingering in the heart of his kingdom. They were debriefing in the throne room along with Sir Patrick, and Sir Gwaine who'd just dealt with a very suspicious house fire in the lower town.
"Without a doubt, Sire," Mordred confirmed calmly, ignoring Gwen's sympathetic expression, and Emrys' piercing stare.
"So what exactly do you mean by 'fox hunt?" Sir Patrick asked.
"At the height of the Great Purge, some of the more enterprising Lords took to hiring mercenaries and trackers to hunt down and kill Druids living within the boundaries of their lands," Arthur explained. "Symbols such as the one Sir Mordred found were left behind in abandoned camps to warn other Druids away from the disputed territory. "
"I didn't know the Goldsmith was a Druid," Patrick thought aloud.
"Me neither," Sir Gwaine concurred absently, looking at Sir Percival who just shrugged. "Does it matter? I mean I'm fairly sure that we know that Walker is the one doing the hunting."
"Well yes, if they were being targeted for it. How did Walker know who they were?" Gwen considered.
Mordred finally met Emrys' gaze with glistening eyes, his lightening quick thought process dancing over his features.
"That house fire. Was it that short little brown one with the lopsided top?"
Gwaine squinted curiously at the boy. "Yeah." He followed Mordred's gaze to Merlin and back, noticing their silent communion.
"Five doors down from the shoemaker," Mordred stated. That was where he'd acquired the now stolen statuette.
"Sir Mordred?" Arthur questioned.
"It's me."
"It's you?"
"Yes," Mordred said tensely, turning to face the King. "He must have followed me. That family is not of druid blood, but the father sells Druid heirlooms under the table. I bought a carving from him not long before my quarters were broken into."
"You never mentioned it," Arthur responded sternly.
"No, Sire. I should have," Mordred cast his eyes uncomfortably over Sir Gwaine and Sir Patrick before he continued. "But I did not want to draw attention to my origin. "
3 Days Later
They mostly kept Mordred blindfolded after the visit from Lord Rhidian. Mordred couldn't be certain how long it had been, but he was still surrounded by the familiar Gestalt consciousness of Camelot's core populace, a fact which both soothed and worried him. They were still too close to people whose lives Mordred valued particularly highly. He couldn't allow Gwen or Arthur - not to mention Emrys- to come under threat by these foes again.
Two sell-swords, one of whom he remembered from his meeting with a certain power-hungry Lord, came to interrogate him. The unfamiliar one was chosen based on his embellished skills as an interrogator. Why thank you, Gentlemen, Mordred thought to himself after gently searching through their minds every time they touched him. Now I know precisely what you're up to. Arthur and the knights were already doing all that they could to free him from their guest's 'wrongful imprisonment'.
"He hasn't spoken in more than a day, Mate. It just ain't goin' ta happen, " the more familiar of the two remarked in an accent that reminded Mordred of Sir Gwaine. "Come on. It's been a while an' I'm hungry."
Mordred's captors had claimed to have taken him as punishment for a long list of crimes that he had committed before his induction into Camelot's court. ("To be entirely honest- which I feel I can be with you after all that we've been through together- I did commit a few of those crimes, and by a few I mean several. I am not going to try to moralize my behavior by saying that I had no choice, nor that I only did what I had to do to survive." Mordred's interrogator lands a punch to the side of his head. Mordred spits out a little blood and shakes it off, amending, "That may have been a factor. I also enjoyed myself." Another punch and the blindfold loosens and comes off.)
Mordred let out a descending whistle to underscore the fabric's fall, followed by a haggard cough. In truth only a fraction of today's torture session had really occurred outside of these men's heads. The young Clairvoyant felt entitled to be at least a little smug about that.
The more familiar thug had turned his back before the cloth had hit the ground but the torturer was unfazed, responding, "I'll bust that smart mouth of yours," with a rather idiotic rendition of a threatening grin.
"Yes. You are bound to do so before I say anything of interest to you," Mordred broke his silence with a conversational tone gracing his rough voice. He captured the dark, beady eyes of his failed tormentor with his own unfaltering gaze. "Go on then, break me. You want to try to crack my skull, but you can't and we both know it. You'll break your own hand before you break me."
The next strike overturned Mordred's chair, accompanied by a loud crack and a grunt of pain from the torturer.
"Told you," Mordred slurred from his place on the floor, before digressing in a quieter voice. "Fuck, I can't see. You punched my sight away and I can't see… I've gone blind!"
The uninjured thug bent down and tried to fake him out by poking a knife blade dangerously close to Mordred's staring eyes. No reaction.
"Uh oh. I think 'e really is!" He straightened and Mordred heard him walk towards the still pacing Thug. "You're the one who's breaking this to our Lord."
"He'll kill-"
"You; the hostage-blinding twat. I can't believe you broke your hand!" The thug's laugh was interrupted by a loud slap.
Mordred rolled his sightless eyes, feeling that both these men were beneath him.
It didn't take long at all for his stunt to pay off with the creaking of his prison door opening to allow in a familiar bundle of warm magic and ever-present anxiety.
"You've lost your vision, Sir Mordred?" Merlin asked with obvious concern, moving to sit in front of the blind teen. Mordred straightened from his reclining seat against the wall and tucked his legs under him so they could face each other fully.
"No, but I cannot see a thing," he quipped in a raspy voice that caused Merlin to wonder how long it'd been since his last sip of water.
"Don't joke. This could be very serious," Merlin chastened, cupping Mordred's jaw between his palms so that he could examine Mordred's head wound.
"Relax, Emrys. I've done it to myself; the effect should wear off in a few hours' time. I needed an excuse to speak with you in person."
"Don't do things like that, Mordred!" Merlin replied a tad too loudly. "You scared me!"
"Thank you. I wasn't sure whether or not you'd still care."
"Of course I care!" Emrys replied, at a more controlled volume. "Gwen is beside herself with worry, Arthur is furious..."
"Ah, that's why you were scared."
Merlin cleaned the gash on Mordred's hairline with more aggression than was strictly called for.
"Ow! Don't press so hard! I'm blind and helpless!"
"You are a manipulative brat." There was a beat of oddly comfortable silence between them. "So, what do you need to talk about?"
A/N: Okay so, this one is still way shorter than I would prefer, but hey, at least we've got our boys working together for once. That's probably worth something, right? With any luck I'll be able to get the next one flowing a lot faster and give it a proper length. Not sure why this was a hard one... Anyway, thanks for reading, Special thanks to Agana of the Night for the encouraging review last chapter. As always, hearing from my dear readers really does help me out.