Door 23: Candle

The candle wasn't the right kind.

It was a fine one, no doubt, made of honey-coloured beeswax, a decorative pattern edged into it. The chandler had made it especially for Yule. The same sort had been burning at the King's table at the feast earlier. Mordred knew this because he had sat there, in a place of honour with the royal family, right between the Queen and Sir Elyan.

He had been so proud to be invited to sit with the King, who seemed to have taken a special liking to him. The pleasant warmth in his chest over being singled out like that hadn't lasted, however.

One scathing look from Emrys had been enough to ruin it.

He had been serving the King and his family, as usual, smiling warmly at the Queen and joking with Sir Elyan as he brought them their wine and food. He had teased the King, too, warning him not to indulge too much, lest his clothes needed to be let out at the seams, grinning when that had earned him a half-hearted clip about the ear.

Whenever he had poured Mordred a drink, however, or served him more vegetables, Emrys had glared at him with an intensity that had sent shivers down his spine.

Mordred had yet to uncover what exactly had earned him Emrys's contempt, but it unsettled him to no end. Enough, in fact, that he had left the feast early, just a half-hour ago, and gone to hide in his chambers.

With a small sigh, Mordred turned his focus back on the candle, lighting it at the hearth before walking across the room to place it on the little altar he had built at the window. It smelled nice and aromatic, though nothing like the tallow candles the druids burnt on solstice to appease the gods, asking for daylight to return in the new year. They mixed herbs into them, Mordred knew, dying the suet red, green or blue and creating a deep, earthy scent. Perhaps he should have scoured the market in the lower town for some incense, though he still tended to avoid the place, too many memories lingering between the stalls.

Not for the first time since his arrival at Camelot, Mordred was seized by a sudden wave of acheful longing. What he wouldn't give to sit amongst his own people now, pray and sing with them like he had as a child, just one druid amongst many.

He knew nostalgia was blurring his recollection, knew that he had always been an outsider at those festivities, too, orphaned early and further uprooted by Cerdan's death, but there, at least, he had understood the customs.

At Camelot, Uther had purged the Old Religion so thoroughly that Mordred had recognised none of the songs, dances and games at the Yule feast. It had embarrassed him at first, not knowing what to say or do, but the King had found his ignorance and confusion amusing, readily leaning in to explain one thing or the other with an indulgent smile.

Mordred would have enjoyed the attention had he not been so painfully aware of Emrys watching them, disapproval written all over his face.

As it was, Mordred had fled the hall, citing nausea and a headache, though all he had felt was rattled.

Perhaps prayer would help settle his mind.

Focusing his eyes on the candle, Mordred knelt at the makeshift altar. It took him a moment to remember the ancient words. Soon, though, they were spilling easily from his lips, infused with just a spark of magic.

He went through the rites with increasing ease, bowing and humming at the right places, then stilled, meditating for a while, sinking into the quiet. At last, as was custom, he added his personal prayer, finding himself asking the Triple Goddess for guidance.

Enlighten me, he begged, closing his eyes. Reveal to me what I have done to draw Emrys's hatred. Guide me, so that I may make amends, and regain your son's favour. Please.

A loud knock at the door startled him from his reverence.

Hurriedly, he got up from his knees, only to find that his visitor had already entered without waiting for a response.

It was Emrys.

Mordred had been too distracted by his prayer to sense his arrival, though his aura was hard to miss, pulsing in the space between them like a heartbeat.

"Sir Mordred," he said cooly, his eyes narrowing as they flickered towards the altar at the window. It looked like he disapproved of it. Perhaps he had spotted the false candle and thought it a disrespect to the gods.

His stomach squeezing, Mordred took a step to the side, trying to hide his crude attempts at worship. "What do you need?" he said.

Emrys took another step into the chamber, his eyes returning to Mordred. "The King," he said, making no secret of his displeasure, "wishes to know how you are faring. He was quite concerned about your health."

His tone drove heat into Mordred's cheeks and his eyes dropped to the floor, incapable of holding Emrys's gaze. "I'm fine," he replied. "Please thank His Majesty for his consideration, and relay my apologies for having left the feast so early."

Emrys didn't acknowledge his words with so much as a hum. He had taken another step inside Mordred's chambers and was now closing the door behind him. "What were you doing, before I knocked?" he demanded as soon as it had clicked shut, his voice growing harder, confrontational.

Mordred's head came up at that, his pulse quickening in an instant. "Oh," he stammered. "Nothing, only—"

"I sense magic," Emrys cut him off, craning his neck to look past Mordred.

"I was only praying," Mordred rushed to explain, taking an instinctive step back when Emrys suddenly moved forward, irrationally afraid he was about to be attacked.

But Emrys brushed right past him, approaching the altar. He came to an abrupt halt at the window, where he raised his hand and murmured something. His aura flared, magic vibrating in the air, strong enough to make goosebumps travel up Mordred's arms.

The candle flickered, then went out.

It was the only outward effect of Emrys's spell and yet, it left Mordred with weak legs. He had yet to get used to witnessing Emrys perform magic. There was something about it that tugged at a place deep inside of Mordred; something sacred that made him want to avert his eyes, bow his head; fall to his knees, even.

"Praying," Emrys said at last, turning. He still looked suspicious, but it seemed whatever he had been looking for at the altar, he had not found it.

"For solstice," Mordred elaborated. There was a lump in his throat, thickening his voice.

Emrys glanced back at the altar. "The Old Religion is forbidden in Camelot," he said. "If they catch you, you're dead."

"The King would not kill a druid for praying," Mordred replied, bristling despite the intimidation he was feeling. King Arthur, he knew that for certain, was a good and just man, and he would defend him to anyone who dared to slander him, even Emrys himself.

Mordred's words, however, seemed to find Emrys's approval for a change. "No," he agreed, his whole demeanour softening. "He would not." He was still looking at the altar, reaching out now to adjust one of the figurines, seeing a flaw there Mordred must have overlooked.

"Do you ever pray?" Mordred found himself asking.

Emrys turned away from the window. "No," he said. "Why would I?"

Why indeed, Mordred thought, his cheeks heating again. Why would Emrys need to pray? He was magic itself, just shy of a god himself. If he needed a miracle performed, he could do it himself.

"What were you praying for?"

Mordred was startled by the question, far too intimate an enquiry. "Guidance," he said anyway, because it was Emrys asking. "Forgiveness."

"Forgiveness," Emrys repeated slowly, his voice growing sharper. Accusing, almost. "Why?"

"None of us are without fault," Mordred replied bravely. "We all make mistakes."

Emrys's mouth twisted into a strange smile. "True," he agreed.

Without another word, he turned to leave, making for the door.

The question, then, slipped from Mordred's mouth without conscious thought, "Will I ever find your forgiveness, Emrys?"

Emrys stilled with his hand on the door handle. After a long moment, he looked back at Mordred. "Forgiveness for what?"

Mordred curled his fingers into the sides of his tunic, seeking hold. "For whatever it was that I did," he said, "that made you hate me."

Emrys's face did something complicated Mordred had no hope to fathom out until at last, it settled into another strange smile. A sad one, almost. "I don't hate you, Mordred," he replied.

Mordred let out a harsh noise at the lie. "Do you think I cannot sense your contempt? Do you think I cannot see your disapproval, whenever I so much as look at the King?" More quietly, he added, "Do you think I forgot what happened in the forest all those years ago?"

Abruptly, Emrys looked away, his whole body growing tense. For a moment, it appeared like he was about to bolt, one hand still on the door handle, his shoulders drawn in a way that spoke of imminent flight.

Instead, he shocked Mordred by replying, "I'm ashamed of what I did that day."

Mordred's heart skipped a beat. "So you admit it," he said. "That day, you wanted—you…" He couldn't say it.

Emrys closed his eyes. When he turned towards Mordred, his face was pained. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding like he meant it.

Mordred stared at him for a long moment, his insides twisting and untwisting at Emrys's admission. "I forgive you," he said at last.

Emrys's face grew incredulous. "You forgive me?"

"I forgive you," Mordred affirmed. "As I hope you can forgive me, for whatever it was I did that day that made you—"

"It was nothing you did," Emrys cut him off.

"Then why?" Mordred demanded, with a boldness he did not know he possessed.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, permeated only by the eerie pulse of Emrys's magic, prickling hotly against Mordred's skin. Emrys seemed to be struggling with himself, his face grown taut.

"Tell me," Mordred pleaded at last, unable to bear it any longer. "Please, I beg you." When there was no response, he tried again, "Merlin, please."

He did not know if it was the name that made the difference, or simply that he had worn Emrys down, but he could see him crumble, right before his eyes, his whole body sagging with defeat.

"It was," Emrys spoke, with a heaviness about it that made Mordred's skin crawl, "because of something you are going to do."

Mordred frowned, grasping for meaning. "I—" He shook his head. "I don't understand."

Emrys looked him over, though Mordred found he was no longer unnerved by his gaze. He met it, head-on, willing him to explain.

"Sit down," Emrys said at last, with a weary wave of the hand. "We need to talk."

On the altar, the candle flickered back to life.