Archive of Our Own

The air in the mines is stifling. Mordred's heart is racing, his mind a welter of doubts and fears—no regrets, not yet, but the lingering panic of having made an irrevocable choice: his dagger in Morgana's back; Arthur at his side.

Arthur is barely conscious. Mordred struggles under his weight, but does not want to appear weak. Cannot be. He has burned so many bridges now; Camelot may be the only hope left for him.

"Arthur!"

Mordred is brought up short as a great tower of a man appears ahead of them, bare-chested and grimy, but practically shining with relief. He is sturdy from head to toe, strapped in thick, sculpted muscle, but with a sweet face. Smooth cheeks. Full lips. Hair shorn close to his skull. He is so much to take in, a brawny farm boy fantasy come to life. He is the kind of man Mordred has been drawn to since his yearnings first began—the kind of man he has since learned to fear, to not admire too openly.

Before Mordred can look away, however, the man is rushing in, stooping to gather Arthur's weight onto his own shoulder. He does it with ease, as if Arthur weighed no more than a newborn lamb. He glances at Mordred then, expression warm and open, and gives him a small nod before continuing on down the passage.

Mordred blinks, then hastens after them. The air in the mines is no less stifling, but his panic is gone. His heart is still racing, but for a very different reason.

"Arthur!"

For a moment Percival thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. It is Arthur, but not the same Arthur who'd surprised him earlier; this version is broken and bloodied, head lolling to the side. And at his side, just barely holding him upright, is…not Merlin. The stranger has similar colouring, but he is more compact. His cheeks are round where Merlin's are gaunt, his hair longer, his eyes wide with shock.

Percival rushes to their aid, stooping to collect Arthur, easing his arm from around the stranger's shoulders onto his own. He draws a sharp breath as Percival does so, mouth open. Sheer relief, no doubt; Arthur is not a large man, but he's plenty sturdy and, at the moment, practically a deadweight.

Percival glances at the stranger, intending to reassure him that it is all right, he's got this, but up close he sees that he is mistaken. The stranger is not relieved, but seemingly in anguish. The stranger is beautiful, and now he's staring at Percival in something like awe.

The words dry up in Percival's throat. He can only nod in acknowledgement before snugging Arthur firmly against him and forging ahead. He feels the stranger's eyes on his back as they make their escape. Or maybe he just hopes he does. These mines do funny things to a man's mind.

Mordred hopes for Arthur's mercy—gratitude even—and a final end to the life debt between them. He hopes he has proved himself to Merlin and taken the first steps towards forging a bond of true kinship. He hopes he'll be allowed to stay in Camelot, to find some place in Arthur's court, however humble.

"Arise, Sir Mordred, Knight of Camelot."

Mordred has many hopes, but never once has he dared imagine being knighted. Celebrated. Welcomed like a brother by those in Arthur's inner circle. He, a Druid, once hunted through these very halls, now a sworn knight of Camelot!

But he forgets, the woman who wears the crown at Arthur's side was once Morgana's maid. She beams at him, greets him with a kiss on the cheek once he has risen. She murmurs something as she withdraws, but Mordred cannot make it out. He is too distracted by the clamour and press of cheering knights at his back; by the large, steadying hand on his left shoulder.

He allows himself to lean into it, to glance back—and up—into Percival's face for a moment with nothing hidden, all elation and desire, before shutting it down. They are brothers-in-arms now. Nothing more may come of it, surely. Unless…

Things are different here. Gwen is proof of that, as is Merlin. Arthur seems to attract those with more love and courage in their hearts than most.

Mordred bows his head once more and submits to the jostling and back-slapping, the ribbing and well-wishes. Throughout the following celebrations he keeps a placid smile on his face. He listens more than he talks and drinks even less, though he raises his goblet every time there is a toast.

He tries to keep track of Percival without making it too obvious, and notes with a pang of bitterness that he is not the only one. The man draws as many admiring glances as Gwaine. Though, unlike Gwaine, he seems largely oblivious, uninterested.

Perhaps Percival already has a woman to whom he is loyal. Perhaps he is chaste. Perhaps his size is such that he has never dared anything beyond his own hand, and Mordred might be the first to worship him so, show him all the pleasures of a partner who does not mind a little discomfort for the sake of—

Mordred starts with a gasp. He hasn't been careful enough, clearly. Percival is looking right at him, eyes searching despite his merry expression. One of the servants is refilling his goblet. Once the boy is finished, Percival lifts it and, before taking a swallow, presses his lips to the rim, then tilts it in Mordred's direction.

Cheeks burning, Mordred turns his attention to his plate, spearing up a chunk of roast turnip. He must look a fool, but he cannot stop grinning. He has a home now, a bed to call his own. Dare he hope that he has also found someone who, in time, might be willing to share it?

Percival is known as a man of few words. It is not that he is unthinking, or unfeeling, but he likes to mull things over before speaking. Often, by the time he has sorted his thoughts, someone has already voiced them—or near enough—the conversation has moved on, or he realises that what he really wants to say might be unwelcome.

And the less he speaks, the less people seem to expect him to. He is never excluded, but at the round table no one presses him beyond simple gestures of acknowledgment: a nod, a shrug, a scowl. On the training ground, he lets his actions speak for him. He is good at projecting a companionable—or menacing—air as required, all the while observing and listening, trying to learn the trick to wielding words as easily as he does a sword.

At the feast, Percival smiles at his fellow knights. He laughs at their tales. He eats and drinks and keeps an eye out for trouble—as ten-to-one Arthur will call on him to break it up—but mostly he studies the newest of their number.

He sees Mordred soaking it all in, pink-cheeked and wide-eyed. Camelot's colours suit him, though he appears even younger like this, fresh-scrubbed, adorned in polished maille and a new cloak. He has a hearty appetite but is mostly only pretending to drink, and Percival wonders if there is a story there—some Druid custom or tale of woe—or if Mordred is simply being cautious, still wary of his place amongst them. He will have to learn to trust them.

Percival notes how Mordred watches him, more than any of the others—even Arthur, whom he clearly champions and is keen to impress—and wonders if there is a story there, too. He thinks he would quite like listening, should Mordred ever offer to tell it, especially if it is anywhere near as thrilling as the way he'd looked at Percival at his knighting ceremony.

Their eyes meet across the hall, and once more Percival is struck by Mordred's beauty. He does not know if he's been caught out or vice versa, but it spurs him to boldness. If he is mistaken, he can always blame the wine, the occasion, and they can work any lingering awkwardness out on the training field.

But if he is not, if there might be a chance to touch such beauty—to taste it, savour it with lips and tongue and hands—or even just to be near him for a time, to share a blanket and bodily warmth with such a sweet, admiring companion…

Percival takes up his newly-filled goblet and, with Mordred still watching him, kisses the rim and raises it in a silent toast. For this, at least, he needs no words. But he knows now what he will say, if given the chance.

We thought her mad, the witch Morgana—and here he might dare cupping one rosy cheek, brushing his thumb against the corner of that sweet, smiling mouth—but it seems there was treasure to be found in the mines of Ismere after all.