04.10.08
Another Conversation.
The King’s Champion leaned against a wall, surveying his counterpart. “You never really struck me as someone interested in private gatherings, Lancelot.”
Lancelot grinned. “That depends on whether or not I am the one in charge of the guest list, Gawain. At a large party, it is easy to avoid people. Not so in a more intimate setting.”
Gawain smiled wryly. “True. I am surprised, though, at some of the people present.”
“You are referring to Mordred.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no grand secret behind it, Gawain. I remember how overwhelming it was when I was new at court. How much worse must it be for him? Better for him to grow accustomed to us a little at a time.”
“I thank you for your consideration, Sir Lancelot.”
Gawain and Lancelot turned to look at the young knight. “You have good ears,” Lancelot remarked.
Mordred gave a small half-smile. “I am only more used to using them than others, perhaps.”
“Speaking of getting used to things,” Gawain interjected, “how are you adjusting to Camelot?”
“The vastness of many of the rooms here has been hard to adjust to, but it is easier to identify people than I feared. There are so many different accents here!” Mordred shook his head in wonder.
“I found that overwhelming, myself,” Lancelot said. “I had learned the language of this land at home, as a part of my studies, but to be thrown into the midst of this court, trying to speak it to its native speakers for the first time, and having to interpret so many different accents…”
The three knights fell into a comfortable silence. Gawain was the one who finally broke it.
“How are … other things?” he asked Mordred softly.
Mordred sighed. “Better than I can expect, really.”
“You will, of course, allow us to help you should any problems arise,” Lancelot said.
Mordred straightened, turning in Lancelot’s direction. “Thank you.”
Mordred’s No-Good, Very-Bad Day.
The clank of riveted metal joints caused Mordred to duck, but not fast enough. A gauntleted hand closed over his throat; a moment later, Mordred found himself pinned to a nearby wall. His assailant plucked his sword and dagger from his belt, then held a sword of his own to Mordred’s side. Mordred’s hands scrabbled uselessly at his attacker’s armored arms; a low snicker from the man finally identified him.
Amhar.
A surge of desperate energy roared through Mordred’s veins. His half-brother meant to kill him; of that, there was no doubt. Mordred was equally certain that Amhar intended it to be a long, slow death.
Mordred struck at the arm grasping his throat with all his strength. Something snapped in his hand, but Amhar’s grip loosened. Recovering quickly, Amhar swung his sword.
It struck Mordred’s side with a resounding clang, and stopped. Amhar readied himself for another swing, but Mordred had already opened his mouth and exhaled a soporific fog. Amhar dropped to his knees, struggling to keep his eyes open as his half-brother knelt next to him.
“You can’t be trusted with this,” Mordred rasped, pulling Amhar’s sword out of his grip. “Go to sleep.”
Amhar obeyed.
***
Gawain watched Amhar turn down a side street, a nasty suspicion forming in his mind. He started off after him.
“And then I was- Hey, Gawain, what’s wrong?” Kai trotted after his friend.
“Amhar. He-”
The clash of metal on metal spurred both men into a run. They turned the corner in time to watch Amhar collapse.
“What?” Gawain breathed.
Kai started to laugh. “Merlin owes me a drink. I told him Mordred was a true Pendragon.”
Gawain eyed his friend. “Meaning?”
Kai waved at the kneeling figure. “Arthur never uses his powers much anymore, but anyone who wants to claim the name Pendragon has to show two abilities – the ability to use his breath as a weapon, and the ability to use his own skin as armor, as Merlin’s godawful books put it.”
Mordred stood and walked over to them, holding Amhar’s sword. As he drew closer, Gawain could just see a scaly pattern as it faded into Mordred’s skin.
“Hello. Have either of you seen my weapons?” the Pendragon asked.
