Title: Her Honour
Summary: Short vignette; Mordred defends Morgana’s honour, Morgana is amused that he thinks he has to.
Notes:This could be taken as either a missing scene or an AU from 5x02. However, I may be on the verge of writing a little series of these (HALP), in which case it will be the start of an AU since in my version Mordred will come to the conclusion that snuggling Morgana may be a better way to stop her than
stabbing her is.
“She’s a beauty though, isn’t she? They say she was the jewel of Uther’s court ten years ago.”
“Her? Well – if you don’t mind getting your dick frozen off in the attempt.”
Mordred has had about enough. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
The guards glance up, unintimidated.
“Aw, want her for yourself, do you?”
“I’d watch it, my boy – they say she sucks the souls of her lovers out through their cocks.”
This comment comes from a mouth which is promptly slack with horror as its owner is hoisted ten feet off the ground by an invisible hand currently clenched around his windpipe. Mordred snatches him into the air, tosses him, catches him at the throat, holds and squeezes. He is stronger than he was as a boy, not because of any greater magical ability but because of the tighter control he has on his rage – the ways in which he has learned to channel it. He shakes the man, like a dog with a rat by the scruff of its neck, and just for a moment allows himself to enjoy it.
“Mordred!” Morgana, small in her cloak, hard shoulders squared against the cold, hurries into the hall where they’ve been lingering.
Mordred drops the man, watches as he and his friend bolt from the room.
“If you frighten off all of my associates we shan’t get anything done, you know.”
“He insulted you,” he tells Morgana, “he insulted your honour.”
Morgana’s stare is momentarily blank, and then her lips quirk. “My honour?”
She holds his gaze until he feels his cheeks grow hot beneath it.
“They shouldn’t speak of you that way. I won’t hear of it, not from anyone.”
Morgana pauses for a moment, as if considering this, then crosses the space between them to cup his jaw with one hand. She has to stand on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. “You’re a sweet boy.”
She turns to depart and Mordred stands still, feeling oddly impotent. She reaches the door before he gathers the nerve to shout after her.
“I’m not, you know.”
She glances back, brows raised.
“A boy. I’ve killed men and loved women. I am a man, Morgana.” And I would love you, he adds, mentally, if you would let me.
She purses her lips at him, and he realises that her expression verges on pitying. “You are eighteen years old, now?”
“Nineteen.” That sounds better, but really, he’s not sure. He cannot remember when his birthday is – there was so rarely an opportunity to celebrate it.
“Sweet boy,” she repeats, gently, then departs.
Mordred waits until he is certain that she’s out of earshot then bunches his fists and hisses, frustrated and embarrassed. Of course he seems like little more than a sapling to her – ten years difference between them would matter little (he certainly doesn’t feel like much less than middle aged), if only she hadn’t known him as a boy. But then she wouldn’t have known him at all, so how can he resent that? And he doesn’t, not really – he is still fond of those memories of her, of her warmth, of her compassion, even if those qualities have long since been sapped from her. He is glad he had those thoughts to cling to during the darkest of his years growing up, the promise that there are some kind people in the world.
But he would like a little more than memories of her caress now, and what might have been a boy’s idol fancy is now a gnawing, insistent yearning, increasingly difficult to ignore. Perhaps now because it’s plain she needs him as much as he ever needed her – needs someone, anyone, to take her up and hold and sooth her.
She won’t have him, though. She won’t have anyone: she’s hardened up, like so many others (like himself, in a way) and he can’t afford to be romantic enough to believe that there is anything he can do to change that.