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![[info]](http://www.greatestjournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) what_a_hellion
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The spirits of the earth cried out, the ground was no longer able to consume the blood that spilled from the armies fighting in Camlann. Mordred’s own blood ran down his lips and his knuckles, which were crushed from Arthur’s mighty sword. Both of their armor was looking ragged and the men’s bodies were broken but their spirits were more alive than they had ever been. This was the chance for Mordred to finally know peace. To no longer be a bastard child of a great king but to be a great king himself. Their swords song of their glorious battle as they clashed with each and steel sparks danced in the air. Soon this battle would be over, Mordred could feel it in his bones. The two of them had been engaged in battle for a good twenty to thirty minutes now and all around them were scattered corpses of their comrades.
“Father, if you have any honor to you, you will lay down now and give me what is rightfully mine!”
Mordred spat the word ‘father’ out like it was venom. Arthur laughed at the boys foolishness and took a few steps backwards. Their eyes met and they both knew that this was the moment of truth; the moment of destiny. Suddenly the rest of the world went black and color started to fade from their own forms. With a yell of rage, Mordred charged forward, a glowing sword in hand. Dark magic danced around his sword in the shape of green flames and glowed brightly. His feet were lifted off of the ground and his sword was held behind his head. He was prepared to strike his father down and cut him in half but his father was too quick for him. Arthur struck out at Mordred and his blade pieced both steel and flesh. Mordred fell into the blade and his eyes widened as the sword pressed into his heart. With the last ounce of strength he had in his body, he brought his sword down, and it cut through Arthur’s shoulder, which caused him to roar in pain. His fingers lost their grip on his sword and it fell to the ground. Mordred’s dark eyes peered up at the sky which was filled with sinister gray clouds. Moments later, Mordred fell onto the ground and watched as his life leaked out his body and spilled over his armor.
This couldn’t be his end. He couldn’t die like this. He was suppose to be the victor! Mordred wanted to scream and cry out in outrage but he couldn’t find his voice. Instead he found darkness and a coldness that seemed so familiar to him. No..no..no, he wouldn’t accept this. He wouldn’t go back to the darkness.
Suddenly the halls of the Castle of Camlann were filled with a scream and Mordred sat upright in his bed. Sweat rolled down his body and his face was twisted in a look of anguish. His eyes looked around the room frantically and at first he was frightened, unsure of where he was. But within a few moments he recognized the furniture and walls as belonging to his chamber.
He was alive..he was alive..and he was king.
Tags:
guinevere, mordred
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Guinevere walked quietly down the dark stone corridors of the castle, as if a ghost. Her pale skin was whiter than ever, her face set, and her eyes expressionless. Titania's letter was clutched like a vice between her hands, her knuckles white from fear and cold. She was too terrified to go for help, too miserable even to shed a tear. Galahad could not help her if Mordred was soon to wake. They needed time, and that they would not have if the king were awake from his slumber.
The king. Guinevere shivered with anger. That title was not for Mordred, the conniving and merciless bastard prince. No. That title was for Arthur alone, Arthur who had rightfully claimed the throne of Camelot with Guinevere as his queen. He would forever be king, as she would forever be queen...and yet Mordred was hellbent on claiming such a title for himself. And he would have it, if he awoke; Morgana had made sure of that. And she had, too, made it official that Guinevere would be his bride out of spite.
It killed her. It positively killed her inside to know that she would be given over in marriage to the awful man who called himself king of Camlann. She would be locked away, Guinevere was sure, more than she already was, a trapped bird in a cage of stone. Nobody to protect her. Nobody who gave a damn for her rights or her comfort. Nobody. Nobody at all.
As she passed the chambers that had been, and, officially, still were, Mordred's, Guinevere heard a terrifying scream, one that chilled her to the very core of her being and sent shivers down her spine. Quivering, she folded the letter and hid it in the bodice of her dress, then moving in the direction of the cry.
The door to the chambers was ajar, as it had been for many months, and Guinevere pressed her hand to it, cold white skin against warm heavy wood. As the door shifted open, Guinevere saw first the hangings around the bed, their dustiness apparent from lack of daily care, and the tapestries hanging from the walls, dull in the darkness of the room. The windows were all shrouded, though slivers of light peeped through from the doorway and cracks between window hangings. A long beam of white light was cast across the large bed, on which lay the sleeping Mordred.
But he was not asleep. His eyes were wide and he was sitting upright, looking about. Guinevere was frozen where she was, unsure if he had heard her and if she would be able to back away unnoticed. But her feet would not move, and her breathing was scarce and labored.
He was awake.
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Guinevere watched in a state of confused terror as Mordred examined himself and leapt from the bed. Despite her utter hatred for him, she could not help but feel the least bit sorry for him; Guinevere could not imagine waking from a magical slumber, not knowing what was going on or for what reasons it had occurred. As it was, she was confused by Mordred's sleep, and it wasn't even an actual tax on her.
Swallowing, Guinevere's gaze followed Mordred's exploration of the room, from his admiration of the world outside his windows to the crown that was so unfortunately his. She could see the relief on his face when he realized that such an object was still in his possession, that none had taken it from him as he had nearly forced it from Arthur. Guinevere bit her lip nervously as Mordred leaned against the wall, knowing that if he were to look up he would see her prominently in his line of sight.
He looked up at her. Guinevere's heart plummeted into her stomach, a great heavy lurch that left her breathless and quivering. She could not even utter a cry of protest as Mordred advanced on her and took her roughly by the shoulders.
Looking up into his face, his cold eyes, his hard features, Guinevere carefully stuttered, "N-n-nearly a y-year."
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Guinevere carefully examined Mordred's reactions to her words. She knew that he had not been in Camelot for long enough to worry over the queen's reputation for wit and opinion, qualities that she was often chastised for by Arthur's advisors. It was punishable for a woman to be outspoken, to openly speak negatively to a man, least of all a man who held more power than she. But Guinevere had defied such a precedent on more than one occasion. She only supposed that Mordred hadn't been privy to such information, whether out of ignorance or simply lack of communication.
He looked uncomfortable, Guinevere could see, as he comprehended what she had said to him. Clearly, Mordred had never before been contradicted in such a way, least of all by a woman. Guinevere let out a small, raspy, pained breath as Mordred slammed her against the wall beside the door, the cold hard stone doing nothing to cushion her back. Her hands were frozen at her sides, useless to help her.
Guinevere almost winced as Mordred spoke of their impending marriage, but her eyes burned with a new angry fire when he said ill of Arthur. "You are not my king," Guinevere murmured icily, "and you never will be." She tried to brush off his harsh insults to her and to Arthur, but they stung her.
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Guinevere knew that she was an awful diversion; sooner or later, Mordred would grow tired of her arguing and go to find Morgana, and then all hell would surely break loose. She was well aware that Morgana was bound to have plans for her nephew's continued rise to power at whatever expense. Already a bargaining chip was Guinevere's loyalty to Arthur. Humbled by the forced betrothal to Mordred, Guinevere was sure that Morgana had every intention of using Guinevere's continued love for her husband against her, and with Mordred once again awake, such a process could only be expedited.
She sucked in her breath as Mordred pinned her solidly against the wall. Though every particle of her being begged for her to shove him off, hurt him, make him discontinue touching her, her will compelled her to not back down to him, not be intimidated. Mordred's smirk made Guinevere's insides squirm, and she gritted her teeth.
"He was a far better king than you could ever even dream of being," Guinevere said coldly, her voice raspy and harsh. "King of Camlann you may be, but I will never be queen to any soul but Arthur." She pursed her lips, before asserting passionately, "I am forever Queen of Camelot, and you are nothing but a slimy, cheating, miserable wretch who dares call himself a king."
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Her eyes alight with anger, Guinevere again watched Mordred for a reaction to what she had said. It was even more apparent now that her assertiveness threw him off, but she did not care. Anything that made him uncomfortable only further displayed her dismissiveness of him. The way he spat assertions back at her reminded her forcibly of Arthur, though his arguments were often philosophical and clever, not selfish and cold.
She closed her eyes momentarily when Mordred held her more firmly against the wall with his body, as if willing away the situation entirely. As Mordred spoke, Guinevere felt her eyes burning, and she could not stop herself from shedding tears. So badly did she want to lash out at him, physically and verbally, smite him where he stood for all of his claims and falsities and empty, selfish promises to her. Guinevere did not doubt that he might hurt others in his anger, but Mordred's speech to her was far from any amount of real truth.
Guinevere let out a little gasp of anguish at the end of his speech to her, now crying openly out of both dread and pure misery. But before she could collect herself and send more harsh words at Mordred, she found that he had out of nowhere pressed his lips to hers in a bruising, forceful kiss. His grip on her was strong, and she could move nowhere. Instinctively trying to move away from him, Guinevere curled her body inward against the wall, pressing her hand against it to brace herself. But it was no use; it only futhered his advance.
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The hard stone of the wall pressed roughly against Guinevere's back as Mordred kissed her, and she sensed quickly that he was only growing more frenzied and angry. She tried to block the feeling of him, almost knowing that it would do no good. In years she had not been so close to a man besides Arthur; the last time she had ever done so was with Lancelot. And that was purely by choice. Mordred's advances were anything but.
She fell unceremoniously onto the floor as Mordred shoved her away, her dark hair falling like a curtain over her face as her body hit the cold ground. Guinevere touched her face and lips as Mordred walked away across the room, and she felt the wetness of her cheeks and the bruised skin of her mouth before hastily pulling her hand away as if burned by them. The way he had tossed her aside shamed her, his actions towards her making her alike to a common whore used for nothing but immediate satisfaction and then thrown away.
At his words, she rose to her feet, a little unbalanced on her legs, as if they would not carry her weight. With one last glance at him by the window, so selfish and cold and alone, Guinevere backed from the room before turning and running down the corridor to her chambers. She went directly for the balcony and threw open the doors leading to it, bursting out into the freezing cold and throwing herself against the balustrade, hunched over the icy stone. Her body shook as she wept against her arms, her hair blowing in the breeze, her tears hot against her face and the wind bitterly cold around her.
Arthur, come back to me. Please. Camelot needs you. Camlann needs you. I need you.
[END]
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