Work Text:
The rush of pride and power that had washed over Mordred upon the granting of his temporary kingship was beyond the words that he’d had to describe the event. To be trusted by and appreciated as a second born was true luck, what with Gawain’s incredible talents and reputation with their shared uncle. He was thrilled, honored, and eager to participate in the duties of his borrowed position. But that had all been before the nightmares had started.
He recounted them now, in the back of his mind as the black palfrey’s hooves beat into the hard mud and stone of the rough trail he traveled. The dreams had all started on a night like this, clouds heavy with rain and thunder masking the heavy breaths of his horse. The dreams always began the same, out in the thick woods that masked the surface of his uncle’s land. He’d find himself all alone save for a hunting dog, and his favored sword at his hip. He’d be moving through the trees quietly, dog scouting ahead just out of sight and a startling silence falling over the woods. This would disquiet him, but the first real sign of concern would be the distressed cry of the hound. His head would whip toward the sound to find the dog gutted on the ground, and a giant boar standing over it, tusks gleaming and red. At this point in the dream, he’d begin to shake, trembling hands moving from the pommel of the sword to the grip, as if that would somehow protect him from the impending evisceration.
He shook himself back to focus as a small hut came into view, the light of a fireplace coming through the windows. He’d finally reached his destination. With a brief motion he’d slowed the horse and was quick to land on the front lawn. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he worked up to the front door. His fist came up to knock sharply, but before his knuckles could make contact with the wood the door was swung open. Standing in front of him now was a short and broad woman, her hair a bright red mess of a braid, eyes circled with what Mordred assumed to be charcoal.
“Son of Morgause.” It was a fact, not a question. Mordred felt a shudder as the wild woman’s words passed through him, solid as an archer’s arrow. Before he could properly respond, she had moved aside, doorway widening further in a silent invitation to enter. Mordred gave a small bow, ducking under the threshold and into the warm hovel. “Sit.” She uttered while moving towards a worktable at the side of the room. Without further prompting, he did so, sitting gingerly in the sturdy wooden seat decorated modestly with soft furs. Across from him was another chair, packed high with richly colored sashes and blankets, clearly the witches chair. Between the two seats was a low table, symbols of a pagan variety carved into its surface. He grimaced subtly and held his tongue.
Quietly, he cleared his throat, and spoke up, “I have come here—” “I am well aware of your reason for appearance.” She interrupted him. Her voice was scratchy, but not unpleasant to the ears. He swallowed thickly. He heard the sound of a mortar and pestle being put to work, the subject being ground was worked into a paste.
“If you know why I came could you be of aid—”
She shushed him this time, and with equal parts fear and annoyance, he stayed quiet. His teeth ground against themselves as he listened to the witch work at her table. After some long minutes, the hunched wild woman finally ceased her work, turning back towards Mordred and moving to take her seat across from him. In her hands was a bowl, containing a fruit sauce of some kind.
“You may now speak.” She assured him.
He nodded to her, “May I ask, is this some elixir or salve that was needed before we could truly speak?” he asked curiously, pointing to the bowl.
“It is my dessert. The night is dark, and supper long passed, I crave sweetness.” She said, lifting a spoon from the bowl to her mouth, expression blank.
Mordred’s nostrils flared. “…I have had a dream that keeps returning. I wish to know of your interpretation, if I should truly worry, or prepare myself.”
She nodded, a silent invitation to continue.
“In the dream, I find myself in the forests of my uncle’s land, alone with but a hound and a fine blade. The silence is deafening but is soon broken when the hound is attacked by a boar. When I draw my blade to defend myself, the beast charges me. I go to attack, and sink my sword into front of its shoulder, but not before its pinned me to a tree with its tusks sunk into my stomach.” He finished with a cold shudder and looked up.
She nodded to him and halted, slowly setting her bowl onto the table, and sitting back. She let her eyes slot shut and murmured, “You wish to know if you must prepare or worry, yes?”
He responded with a grunt of affirmation, and she hummed. The humming continued on, and the witch’s sound changed in pitch, up and down to some absent tune as her brow began to furrow. She made a pained half whimper and her breath hitched, then suddenly, her head flung back, eyes shooting wide to stare at the ceiling as words poured from her mouth.
“A great battle is to come! Kin shall spill the blood of kin and the Boar King shall fall! A great legged serpent shall erupt from the woodwork and take the throne without hesitation! The graceful and virtuous swan shall find itself beguiled by the legged serpent’s ways! Armor shall be broken! The castle walls shall crumble, and the kingdom shall see new leadership! The world will be changed in ways misunderstood! And all shall commence from here, and now!”
Her body untensed and she gasped for air as the prophetic episode finally spared her. Tears pouring down her cheeks left black trails as they picked up charcoal in their paths. The witch pushed up on shaky legs and headed towards a small water basin near her worktable.
Mordred stared on with wide eyes of his own, attempting to process the prophecy given to him by Morgana. He blinked rapidly and considered it with growing curiosity. The boar king was to fall, how interesting. The endless possibilities that stood before him only spurred Mordred on, and he let a grin move to his lips. Swiftly, he stood back up, inhaling deeply and speaking out.
“Thank you kindly for your words, witch. I shall see myself out now!” He chimed and headed towards the door.
“Leave the payment on the table.” She directed hoarsely as water splashed into the basin below her.
Mordred doubled back, setting 2 bezants and a small pot of salt down loud enough for the witch to hear, before finally exiting the hut. His palfrey whinnied in response to his return, and after untying the lead from the decrepit fence post he was quick to mount. The storm had blown over during his brief visit, and the moon was peaking out from behind the clouds. As he goaded the horse into motion, he began to think. Much ought to be considered if the Boar King truly was to fall. He’d have to lay out an entire plan for efficiency. One thing was for certain in the mind, however.
The very first step, was to beguile the graceful swan.