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The first time Mordred looks upon the Dolma, he doesn't know who ‘she' is.
Young he may be, but Mordred has travelled far and across many places. He's met many sorcerers, witches and one high priestess; here he winces at the thought of Morgana, but in all his travels, he has never heard of this one.
Mordred can't quite pin down why he's suspicious of this woman, this so-called ancient sorceress of the Cauldron of Arianrhod. Arthur is speaking to him though, so he tries to focus.
"Does she look familiar to you?"
Mordred glances at the Dolma again, frowning. Now that the king says it, there is something...
"What say you? Why do you mutter?" she queries. Her voice while light, carries this alluring echo of power. Mordred almost wants to shake his head to clear his mind. She's familiar, yes, but the power her magic gives off... It reminds him of another of the Old Religion.
Mordred's head snaps up immediately, panic flooding his mind. Emrys! Where's the warlock? He scans the surroundings with a sense of desperation building within. Surely his lord is not so weak to fall to a sorceress. He doubts she's in fact as ancient as she claims to be or, as powerful as the one prophesied to unite Albion.
Without preamble, he turns to Arthur.
"My lord, where is Merlin?"
His king doesn't fail to disappoint; the change in his confused expression to being alarmed and angered is instantaneous.
Arthur draws his sword with a hiss that promises harm.
"What have you done with my servant?"
But the sorceress doesn't even bat an eyelid. Her mouth forms a small 'oh', as if suddenly realizing that yes, the manservant is missing, but her eyes very clearly show that she knows exactly where Emrys is. Mordred grits his teeth at this deceit, his magic itching to break out. How dare this woman stands here and mocks them? It's downright impossible for Emrys to have fallen for her tricks. It must have been for Arthur again. No doubt the sorceress has bargained something with him; maybe threatened not to help heal the queen if Emrys doesn't adhere to her wishes or something.
Mordred doesn't even realise that he has taken a step forward until the Dolma fixates her gaze on him. There's a warning there, he sees it, and despite the fact that they are nothing more than strangers, Mordred feels inclined to submit to her.
But Arthur's need is more urgent at hand. He knows this is what Emrys will want him to focus on. So, Mordred shuts away the small voice in his head that demands to see Emrys now.
And then the Dolma performs the magic spell to heal Guinevere.
The scales fall from his eyes the moment the golden wave sweeps through the entire area. Mordred inhales sharply, and he looks toward the Dolma.
Now he understands what's been going on. Emrys' magic itself is so pure and bright that he nearly finds himself on his knees. He's not surprised to see the queen healed. Arthur is, however, in awe. Not of the magic, of course, but of his queen as he beholds her true self once more.
Yet, Mordred only has eyes for his lord. How Emrys manages to transform himself into... that, he has no idea, but it's clever indeed, for Arthur will never suspect it's Merlin, not in a million years. With so many magical miracles around him, Mordred wonders why the king never finds it odd that magic is so willing to aid him. He wonders if the king will ever discover the real identity of his manservant.
The sorceress' lips curl into a grin, clearly very satisfied with her work.
Mordred makes sure to keep his horse just a little behind Emrys’, nothing too obvious to attract Arthur’s attention, but still. He can afford to pay a little respect, can’t he?
Emrys doesn’t acknowledge him though, his gaze only fixated ahead, on the two monarchs. The knight can’t hold his words back anymore.
“Arthur's a lucky man,” he starts.
"Yes."
Trying not to feel like a kicked puppy, he continues, undeterred.
“Not just to have Gwen. To have you.”
“He'd find someone else to do his chores soon enough,” his lord replies indifferently, still staring ahead.
“It was hardly a chore. That was your magic back there, wasn't it?” There he has said it. Acknowledge me, Emrys, he wants to say, I saw you. I recognized your power when the other mortals were blind to it.
But his lord doesn’t respond. He tries to continue the conversation a bit more, but soon it peters off into silence again. This time, when Arthur orders him to ride a bit closer, he obliges. Still even then, he looks back to peek at the warlock. His lord does not return it.
In the day, without Arthur next to him, Emrys looks cold. Cold and powerful and all the more so otherworldly. A shiver runs up Mordred’s arms, goosebumps covering his skin. There’s no doubting who Merlin is. He only hopes his lord will look more favourably upon him soon.
When evening comes, two monarchs, a druid knight and Magic himself ride quietly through the gates of Camelot.