Chapter Text
When Mordred was a child, he was taught by the Elders to be vigilant even in sleep. For even though the druids preferred the peaceful life, they cannot escape the grueling fingers of chaos. For when men were created, they were spun with the threads of silence and noise, of day and night, of light and darkness, of order and chaos. And so when he dreamt, he dreamt prepared. He knew when to still his hand and when to clench them to wakefulness.
Druids were creatures of magic, and when they drift into dreamful slumber, their souls could be touched by the Higher Beings – either a caress or a warning.
But Mordred himself dreamt like every other ordinary child did. Mundane fantasies warped by the mind, distant memories almost forgotten, vague faces fading in and out. And if he envied the other druid children for waking one morning with bleary eyes, a vision of earthly gifts and a future of gold and red, he soon forgot the feeling when old Caradawc sat him with honey and bread; and heard of the woes of a lad touched by the gods once and the terror that ever clouded his eyes every time he would go to bed from then on.
He did not have a conduit dream until he was touched by Emrys.
He was barely thirteen winters old; too young to entwine with the presence of pure unguarded magic, but old enough to place a barrier between his magic and Emrys’. And indeed if he hadn’t, he would have unintentionally burst forth the tendrils of his own, which could be dangerous to himself and to others present. He was wounded gravely, but was saved by Emrys himself and the Lady Morgana.
And then when he thought his very existence inside the citadel walls (whose king treated unkindly any vessel of magic) would be revealed, the king’s son proved his nobility and escorted him back to the druids.
The night of his return, he slipped into a timeless field where he was only a watcher. He dreamed of a red day – a day of spilt blood and anguished hearts. In that dream he saw black beady eyes staring straight at his, daring him to close his eyes as crows wheeled above his head. A weight pulled him down, as if his body was laden with a bag of thousand rocks, and his movements were so slowed it felt as if he was walking straight through inky red fog.
He heard a caw as a black bird flew past his left ear, and he was startled into his knees. He tried to get up but found that he couldn’t, and that was when he felt it: a mighty golden power that surrounded him like air – but this time the magic seemed angry, and instead of blanketing him with its warmth and purity, it closed against his throat, forbidding him from breathing.
As he looked up he saw the field scattered with corpses – victims of war who fought until their last breaths. And from the red fog that rose from the very ground he saw through hazy eyes blood-soaked robes. And the man who wore them wielded a tall staff, and his face was revealed to him in its youth, but the eyes were replaced by icy golden orbs. Tall above him stood Emrys – young yet ancient at the same time, and when he watched closely the movements his body made, he found that they were very, very tired.
He tried to raise his arm to grasp at the man, at the ground – grasp at anything – for in that moment he felt like sinking straight through the soil. But his arms remained atop his knees. And Mordred felt very, very scared. But he couldn’t do anything but look for he was only a watcher in his own dream. And he was unprepared despite his preparations.
“Did your hatred overcome your love?” said Emrys. Thunder rolled overhead, then Mordred woke up gasping.
When Mordred met Emrys again, he was not the same person. He still held purity of magic, but he was no longer innocent. He felt powerful and gentle, but looked uncertain and heavy-hearted. Mordred felt fear, which swiftly turned to spite. Emrys had tried to kill him.
“I shall never forgive this, Emrys, and I shall never forget.”
And he never did forget.
The next time they met, Mordred was already tried by the ways of the world. He was experienced. Hardened by the cruelty of life. Emrys still looked as beautiful and twice as strong. But Mordred did not miss the look of fear in his eyes that replaced that of recognition. And he was saddened that after all the years, the time of peace between them has not yet come to pass.
“You fear me, Emrys, don’t you?”
But he need not answer for his eyes gave away what Mordred wished to know. And truly, it saddened him.
Mordred found a home in Camelot. In truth, he never intended to receive such honour that was given to him by King Arthur, for he stopped hoping for the big, nice things in life. He settled for anticipating the simplest means of survival; for hope grows, and hope eventually turns to aching. But he was rewarded, anyway. When the king offered him knighthood, he did not give one moment’s hesitation though Emrys seemed horrified at the premise. But this was the change he was waiting for, and possibly the only chance for change he will get. So Emrys would have to deal with it. Although, not so secretly, he hoped to gain his friendship by the end of the day.
Mordred was used to being shunned out, got used to rejection, and side-eyed stares. But even now that everyone seems to love him (for truly, the knights and the king himself liked his youthful presence in the castle), his heart ached for the trust of one man.
At every call and mention of ‘Merlin!’ his attention is stolen, and though he tried to be subtle about it, everyone knew of his enigmatic idolatry. If Mordred will be asked – not that anyone will, gods spare them the shame – it is no more enigmatic than it is stupid. He was wildly aware that Merlin will bite at him should he tread too close, and he didn’t know why. If he would just tell me.
The reason why – he figured out the night before Imbolc.
He went to bed in high spirits, having successfully returned from a jousting round with Sir Elyan and some other knights. His first jousting experience. As much as it was sating, he was bone-tired from sitting atop a saddle all day, sauntering around and hitting each other with sticks until after the sun went down.
That night he dreamt once again of the red day, and in his panic, he tried to get out of it. But to no avail. The same dream, but this time, untouched by a Higher Being and laced with ungodly distortions only a human mind can come upon.
The sun was covered in smoke, and a fog hung over the blood-soaked field. The stench of death wafted through the still air, choking him, choking, choking, choking. But just as he was going to pass out a crow cawed loudly as it flew past his right ear, bringing him to his knees.
Mordred’s heart raced against his chest, which burned from the lack of air. His tongue thickened, and his throat felt parched, and his eyes stung as it was forced open by staring, beady eyes. The crow across from him bent its head around slowly, and the others followed in sync. As beaks opened to let out a chorus of caws, thunder boomed in its place.
And suddenly it was raining, soaking the ground with thick ropes of red, passing through Mordred’s gritted teeth, burning his nostrils with the stench of metal.
“You fear me, Mordred, don’t you?” said Emrys. When Mordred turned to look him in the eyes, they were glowing with magic, and he felt his own responding, his eyes glowing a dimmer hue. But his own magic burned him; it felt foreign and filthy and he wanted it to stop, but he had no control.
“Please! Merlin, it burns!” Mordred sobbed pitifully.
At first, there seemed to be no change to Merlin’s face. But then the edges of his lips twitched, and then ever so slowly, slowly, slowly, he smiled. But he need not answer for his eyes gave away what Merlin wished to know.
“Please, please, please,” cried Mordred as he felt golden light flow down his cheeks, feeling strangely like the thick ropes of rain around him.
Merlin, with an indifferent pout, raised long fingers to point behind Mordred’s head, and Mordred’s head snapped back without his will. “DID YOUR HATRED OVERCOME YOUR LOVE?”
Merlin’s voice sounded like a hundred boulders scraping downhill, metal burning against metal, Unnamed Things grinding and wiping and screeching all at once. And when the light behind Mordred’s eyes faded, he saw an army of undead crows coming for him, to claw them out.
When Mordred awoke, it was only two candlemarks past midnight. He stayed hugging his knees against his chest until it was light enough to go out.