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The heavy oak door swung with a sigh as Arturia opened it only as far as she needed to slip through.
The rushes were soft underneath her bare feet as she eased the door shut behind her. Pale streams of moonlight gathered in pools around the lavish bedroom, weaving shadows around the velvet curtains of the canopy bed and the face of the young girl who slept in it.
Soft blue illuminated Mordred's boyish features and the freckles that danced across her nose. Her hair was loose and spilled across the pillow as she snored softly.
Sleep had relaxed her features and softened the rigid lines of her body. By daylight her brow furrowed and her eyes glazed with anger whenever she saw her father, but here in the small hours of the morning she looked almost peaceful.
Arturia wasn't sure how long she stood by the bed, just watching. She started observing the little things, like how Mordred slept sprawled out on her stomach, her birdlike shoulder blades rising and falling with each breath. Her fingers twitched slightly, as if she were dreaming of action on the battlefield. That would be like her to dream such a thing, wouldn't it?
The monarch suddenly felt the urge to run her fingers through the soft blonde locks. Her hand was already halfway outstretched when she halted; she had no idea whether Mordred was a light sleeper or not, and could only imagine the storm should the girl wake up to see her there. Everything was tense enough as it was, the members of the Round Table were walking on eggshells and the camaraderie they'd all once shared was coming apart at the seams.
Mordred thought she hated her, and Arturia supposed it was better that way. Funny how that worked sometimes, when people assuming the worst was actually for the better. Or it would be funny, if it hurt less.
The king didn't hate her son, not at all. The younger blonde was difficult, she admitted. She was crass, had an ego big enough to fill half of Camelot, and seemed to have a life goal of being as obstinate as possible.
But she was also brilliant, and bold, and despite her youth was becoming a worthy knight in her own rite. She laughed loudly and often, her bright green eyes were unclouded and showed nothing but her genuine feelings. She had a fire inside her that blazed bright, and she carried herself with a natural regality that mirrored Artoria's a little too closely for comfort. Anyone who met her could see that there was greatness in her, true greatness.
The king felt it like a dark oil in the pit of her stomach as she tiptoed back out of the chamber and ever so softly pulled the door shut.
"Seen enough for tonight?" came a voice from behind her. Arturia started and whirled around to face a familiar white-haired wizard. Had he been standing outside Mordred's room just waiting for her?
Merlin smirked. “She's a lot like you, you know.”
Artoria, king of knights, Dux Bellorum, was at a loss for words. Merlin had a way of doing that to people.
“No she isn't.” she protested lamely. She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she couldn't keep up her noble bearings around the man who'd more or less raised her.
“She's of your own blood.”
Artoria's shoulders fell by a hair's breadth, but quickly stiffened again as she pushed away the thought. “She's a bastard, you know what would happen if I publicly recognized her.”
Merlin grew more serious. “You know you can't avoid her forever.”
Artoria swallowed whatever protest rose in her throat. She knew he was right, she just couldn't face it yet.
The young king turned and started down the long hallway, away from him, away from Mordred. It was all she could do.