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"Would you walk with me, Mordred?" asks Arthur.
Mordred shuffles his letters. He's at his desk more often than his bed, Arthur would hazard. Whenever he comes to visit Mordred's room, he finds him just like this: the curtains drawn, candles lit, and stacks of paper all around. It's a wonder he hasn't sent the castle up in flames yet. "Where would you lead me?"
It gives Arthur a pause; he's never thought to consider the destinations of his strolls, and finds that he just ends up in places, eventually. Usually, the falconry. The chorus of flapping wings usually chases the dusty thoughts from his head and leaves the good ones intact for him to consider. But Mordred doesn't like the smell there, if he remembers right, and he imagines every product of Mordred's intellect is jewel-bright to begin with. Going there wouldn't do him any good.
"Perhaps we could set our aim towards the garden," says Arthur.
Mordred frowns at him, but blows gently on his latest page before tapping his fingers on the letters. The ink is dry. "I've been working since sunrise," says Mordred, standing. "And the garden is on the way to the kitchens. I suppose I could accompany you." He says it as though he's offering to help a baby climb a set of stairs.
"You're very kind."
They don't talk as they pass through the halls; whenever a servant stops to bow at Arthur and Arthur nods back, Mordred nods, too. It makes Arthur's throat tight with something, but he can't name what.
If Arthur tries very hard, he can still see the boy who stepped off of a boat years ago, his hair cut strangely, his body wrapped up in Gawain's ill-fitting hand-me-downs. When Arthur had asked for a name, there had only been an instant of silence before he'd gotten the reply, "Mordred, son of Morgause." Arthur had been told that he was expecting a daughter of Morgause, but they had been wrong about Mordred. They had all been wrong about Mordred, time and time again.
It terrified him and inspired him, that a boy so young could have an eye so resolute. He was here to be a knight, he said. Or, no; his exact words had been, "I will be a knight." And Arthur found himself knighting Sir Mordred not so long after. Mordred had willed himself into being, summoning and twisting his fate into its final shape.
And he stands before Arthur: a young man dressed in rich dark clothing, his hair falling over his bright eyes, his face filled with myth and history and vision.
"What were you working at?" asks Arthur, when they feel the open air on their faces. It's nearly spring, even though the sky is still grey and serious.
Mordred smiles. "Many things," he says. Sometimes he leaves a pause after his answers: a place where a name should go, like "uncle" or "your highness" or "father" or "my liege." He never fills that space, though. What would Mordred call him?
As a rule, he doesn't like to press when people are evasive, particularly his knights, particularly his kin. "I can only imagine," he says, wondering if even that is true. "You're surely the most industrious man in the world."
"Surely," Mordred repeats, without a trace of irony, or flattery, or pride.
The stairs down to the gardens make Arthur's knees ache a little, but the sight is worth it. It was Guinevere who suggested that they grow hardy plants to last the seasons: dogwood, butcher's broom, woolly willow, common gorse. The garden of Camelot is not the most fragrant or delicate, but it's green and stubborn, and it cheers Arthur to brush the snow off of still-green leaves. Only the hedges are brown and spider-branched, clinging onto life.
"Perhaps you should tell me why you summoned me," says Mordred. "Things do not vanish simply because they go unspoken. If anything, they gain power in the silence."
Arthur feels himself smile a little. "Are you giving me advice?"
"Making an observation," Mordred replies, just as quickly. "I expect you'll ignore it. Or otherwise forget it."
"I will endeavor to prove you wrong on both counts," he says. And, to that point, he asks, "Do you like it here?"
Mordred glances at him. "How do you mean? In England?"
"I feel that's too broad a question," Arthur replies. "In Camelot, let's say. Do you like it?"
Mordred's lips part, but he says nothing. He peers into Arthur's face, and for a moment, Arthur fears that his indecisiveness has bled into Mordred's mind. But his bearing isn't one of a man confused: it's one of a man conflicted. Arthur has seen that look on the faces of men he has posed difficult challenges to. Perhaps it's been on his own face, too. He and Mordred watch each other try to reach a conclusion.
"Why are you asking me that?" says Mordred, his jaw tight.
Arthur wishes he could ask why Mordred asks. "It would put me at ease to know what you think."
"And if my answer is that I don't like it?"
"I would be- disheartened," says Arthur. "And I would ask you if something could be changed to make you happier here."
"Huh." Mordred takes a step back, his fingers brushing against some ancient cluster of leaves planted by Merlin. He plucks a leaf from a stem and turns it over and over in his fingers. "And if you disliked my answers?" he continues. "What then?"
"That would depend," says Arthur, clasping his hands behind his back. It's a habit he'd developed as a young man to make himself seem collected. Later he'd realized that it only left his heart open to attack, but he'd never been able to shake it. "What would you suggest?"
"You're dodging the question," Mordred smiles. "But we can continue on like this, if you wish. Say I told you that I don't like the informality of your court."
He almost protests, but then reasons that formality is a matter of opinion. "Perhaps Camelot lacks the ritual of other courts," he says. "It is a fledgling fort, as it were. I would ask for your input. I would try to judge what changes could be made."
Mordred's mouth twists in that way that makes Arthur's heart ache, because he can never tell if it's out of anger or amusement, and he feels like he should know the difference without asking. "How- compliant," he says. "What if my troubles were greater? What if I told you that I don't like some of your royal decisions?"
Arthur swallows. "It would depend on-"
"No, it wouldn't," Mordred snaps. "Or, in any case, it shouldn't. If I spoke of treason, would your response be dependent upon the weather? The stars? Your appetite?"
"It would be dependent upon your intent," Arthur replies, and the last word rings up into the eaves, coming back down to them long after it's gone.
Mordred stands up straight and folds his arms. He smiles. "I see." Arthur struggles to find a way to elaborate, but Mordred's tongue is far quicker than Arthur's mind. "What an interesting conversation that would be. It's really a shame we didn't have it."
"Yes," says Arthur. "It is."