a reflection of your sins;

Arthur had to admit that he wouldn’t be wise to stay in this place for too much longer. He didn’t know that if anyone would come out of the woodwork and try and to attack both of them. “That is a wise decision to head back and station men around here.”

He was quiet as they continued their walk, he could see the orphans and beggar-children all running off and no one coming toward him or Mordred. He should come back in his plain clothes, and give money to the people. He wondered how bad things have truly gotten for his people.

As he began to leave the lower towns, he kept his head looking straight ahead, but a deep sadness ran through him. “We need to send money to the people here. No one told me it had gotten so bad. When I was younger I was able to be around the people and actually help out. I need to do that again.”

With a respectful nod of thanks for the compliment, Mordred scanned the area for anything suspicious. He came up with nothing, but knew better than to let down his guard; things were not always what they seemed. He was more aware of that than anyone. Even so, he caught a glimpse of Arthur's expression as they rounded a corner, of the despair so plainly written on his features. Indeed, his ignorance was not intentional.

"What these people need is work, sire, not charity. Give them employment, a purpose, so that they need not beg on the streets for handouts." Mordred had thought quite a bit about such things, having come down to the lower towns on occasions where he needed to escape the noise and brightness of court and plunge himself into the cold water of reality. Perhaps it wasn't his place to advise the King on how to handle the poverty in his own kingdom, but Mordred had never been one to hold his tongue when he felt that something needed to be said.

By and by, they left the lower towns and gradually returned to the city's center. The difference was jarring, and Mordred suddenly found himself very weary. He wondered silently if Arthur felt the same way.

          Considering her nature and location, it could be said that Morgan           herself was a self-styled Witch of the West of the medieval period.           Determined, vindictive, cruel, cunning and with a singular goal in           mind — for the time being. As Mordred spoke and the sorceress           listened, watching him like some kind of hawk, it would seem that           perhaps a secondary objective would begin to form.                     "I highly doubt the King is that clever — he is young, and naive.                     His head has been filled with idyllic values from that troublesome                     sorcerer and fantasies of glory.”           How they could consider him a good king was beyond her. While           she herself had no desire to rule, nor could she even if it was, Morgan           was certain that she would be able to do so far better than her           half-brother. Yet for now, her attention was for Guinevere alone:                               "The Queen is unable to conceive?…"                     A positively wicked smile formed at the news — while Morgan                     had attempted her own ritual to strip the meddling Queen of                     her fertility, there had been little sign that it had actually worked.                     Though whether or not it was simply nature or magic didn’t                     matter because the point remained that she was not entirely                     fit to complete her duties as Queen.                               "Though do tell me darling, what other rumors are                                         there about our fair Queen?”                                 Gwaine was of no concern to her, for now.

The moment the words leave his lips, Mordred senses he's made a mistake. Guinevere had never treated him poorly or done anything in particular to earn his hatred. In fact, he'd only spoken to her a handful of times in all the years he's been in Camelot. But he knows that look on his aunt's face, knows that he'd be a damned fool to defy her wishes now.

               "Some of the men have been whispering -- I suppose they've heard from their lovers -- that the Queen has been spending quite a bit of time in the company of Sir Lancelot. I've not seen it for myself, so as with all the rest, it's merely rumour."

This was not entirely true: Mordred had come upon them once, speaking softly to one another in what might have looked like a clandestine manner. He'd turned and run, desperate that he forget having seen it at all. He knows how dearly Arthur loves his wife, sees it in the way he looks at her and speaks of her: far more gently than Lot had ever been with Mother. It seems to him a crime to spoil his happiness with what could be nothing at all.

          “Not nearly as fascinating as you.                     Though remember there is a difference between dreams                     and visions. Dreams are a reflection of your most innermost                     thoughts and desires. Visions are messages, received from                     something else entirely.”

                  "Such a flatterer.                    I can't say I can see why, but your opinions are your own.                    And yes, of course I know that;                    my mother and aunt were both gifted with the Sight.                    but visions frequently ride the backs of dreams, do they not?                    Unless, of course, they're the waking sort.                    Dear God, but I hate those.                    In any case, Man Made of Sand, why this sudden interest in me?"

          “No, stay — ‘tis already done.” Thin lips pressing together as Morgan exhaled, the sorceress turned to a cauldron she had hung in the hearth, igniting it with a wave and then tossing the poppet she had been toying with into the pan above the flame. She would resume the infliction of her ire later, for now her unfortunate victim could stew in their own juices. The Lady of Ennerdale Forest, skirts gathered in hand, swept across from the hearth and to a chair, pausing to take a pitcher and pour herself wine before taking the goblet and seating herself.                     "You’ve neglected to write to me Mordred.                               You were not sent to Camelot to be a knight,                               in full capacity, you were sent there to be my eyes                               and ears in a court I no longer hold a place in.                                         So tell me, why it is you fail to keep me informed?”

                          "...Yes, Aunt."

Mordred remains by the door, standing with perfect posture, his arms folded behind his back; he dares not slouch in front of Morgan. Any of his fellow Companions might mock him for being so fearful of a mere woman, but to them he would say that, until they met her themselves, they did not understand fear at all, nor women. Mordred watches her cautiously, as if she were a wildcat and he its hapless prey. As she chastises him, it's all he can do not to behave like frighted rabbit.

        "There has been nothing of note to report. Arthur suspects nothing of who I am, or if he does, he's a far better actor than you or I ever gave him credit for. He treats me as any other knight at court, no better or worse...

       "So far as I know, the Queen still has yet to conceive, and of course there are rumours, but they vary wildly and none seem to have any merit at all. Arthur is dithering about naming Gawain his rightful heir, but I believe it's less about trust and more about his unwillingness to retract Gawain's right to succession should Guinevere happen to conceive after all."

          “Perhaps I wanted to clarify if you did.                     Some memories don’t fade as quickly as others.                               I’m a man made of sand after all. People                               don’t have the time to remember dreams.                                         Remember that, Mordred.”

            "'A man made of sand'. How very fascinating.              As it is, dreams and I...have a rather special relationship,              I suppose you could say.              If it's important enough, I don't forget it."

pendragonsmirror liked for a starter — they got Morgan le Fay

                    “Mordred.”           As always, the sorceress is none to happy for           being disturbed in the middle of practicing her           craft. If she was to employ it as a useful tool           towards her circumventing Merlin’s own sorcery           then she would require all the power and practice           she could gather — stolen or otherwise.                               "What have I told you about interrupting me?"

         "Do forgive me, Aunt Morgan. I was told that you had requested my presence."

Mordred purses his lips, displeased at having incurred his aunt's displeasure: never a simple fix, that. It had been several years since he had seen her, but he remembered well the punishments she would cook up for him as a boy whenever he interrupted or failed to complete a task she'd set him to. The mere thought nearly made him shudder. He did love Morgan, for she was family, but for all that he loved her, Mordred feared her just as much.

                             "Shall I return at a later time?"

open — edan, the sandman

          “You don’t remember me, do you?                     Nobody remembers me — I’m eternally ephemeral.”

              "Then what, may I ask, was the point in you asking?"

Crossing his arms, Arthur kept his eyes open for anything that could happen. While he tried to pride himself by keeping all of the towns on equal footing, he knew that was an impossible dream, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t at least try his best. He knew Mordred was a good companion to have beside him since he wasn’t prone to fight and speak calmly with the people, which was always good to have a level head.

“Threats of violence, thefts and one threat of burning down homes.”

"Sounds to me like your typical band of marauders. If that is what we're dealing with, it may take more than just you and I to clear them out. With respect, my king, perhaps it would be wisest to station some men throughout the town rather than going on what may be nothing more than a wild goose chase."

Mordred kept a hand to his sword-hilt, just in case they ran into any trouble. He felt the eyes of the townspeople on him, and a small contingent of orphans and beggar-children had taken to scurrying along in their wake. None of them dared to come near, but he knew that if he were to return in plain clothes, unarmed, they would swarm him to beg for money or food.

Mordred wondered silently how ignorant Arthur was of this fact; if, in spite of his benevolent wish for happiness and equality, he was at all aware that there would always be people living in squalor and misery. He was sure that Arthur didn't turn a blind eye on purpose, but it wouldn't surprise him if his advisors kept him from seeing.

    “People are friendlier during the holidays. And not just because they are guilty but because some people actually just want to be nice and pleasant.”

"My dear brother, you are ridiculously naïve. The only reason the holidays cause people to be friendlier than usual is because of guilt, or else they would be friendly all year long. People who truly want to be kind don't need the excuse of a holiday to do it."

He would admit that he missed the times of his youth where he would get away with forcing everyone who walked with him to walk beside him. Now as king, he could still do that, but his back must always be protected. He knew it was the right way for things to be, but he couldn’t help but miss the simpler days as well.

“Apparently there’s been a string of threats which has caused many of the townspeople to be on edge.

As they drew closer and closer to the less-reputable parts of the city, Mordred kept his eyes and ears open. He knew that the people here were more opportunistic than in the city's center, and they would take greater risks for lesser gain. Despite being a knight, Mordred had little love for confrontation, and would avoid a fight whenever possible; he didn't care that others might call him a coward.

"Threats? Of what sort?"

     ”At least one of you is always cross with me for some reason or another. I’ve gotten used to it.” It wasn’t the best situation, but at  least it meant he was doing some- thing right. They wouldn’t always be angry with him if he wasn’t looking after them in some way or another. 

"Of course, because you feel the need to constantly mother-hen the rest of us -- even me, and I'm nearly a year older than you. It was all well and good when we were children, but now you've got to factor in pride and honour." Mordred paused, looked down into his mostly-empty cup, and gave a wry smirk.

"Well, for them, at least. I haven't much use for either."

*covers up real feelings with aggressive sarcasm*

If Arthur had noticed that anything was bothering Mordred, he didn’t say anything toward it. He had hoped the visit with the people would be of a help to his young knight and continue to learn and grow as a kingdom.

“Yes, let head toward the town.”

Relieved to have something with which to occupy his thoughts, Mordred followed the king, respectfully walking a step behind though he knew Arthur expected no such thing from his aptly-named Companions. Even so, he and any other knight knew better than to leave the king's back unguarded -- especially in the lower town.

"Do you know what is the nature of these brawls, sir?"

A mix for the five Orkney brothers - listen

Omg new songs! (and Mumford and sons <3)

Arthur gently lifted his hand as he gave Mordred’s shoulder a pat. He always saw such a deep sadness in the young knight that Arthur felt required to find ways to make him smile.

Startled by the sudden touch, Mordred looked up. For a cold moment, he feared that Arthur knew -- who he was, what he was meant to do -- and the dread that pooled in his stomach nearly made him flinch. Fortunately, he managed to keep his composure.

"Shall we then, sire?"