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It’s how out of place his father looks sitting in the stable hay that fills Mordred with the confidence to close the space between them. “I know you could heal me. Touch me, take whatever you need,” Mordred whispers and he swears Arthur trembles.
“I told Merlin I couldn’t do this,” Arthur says with none of a king’s authority. “I told him you’d be beautiful.”
Mordred keeps his eyes firmly on the soft pink of his father’s lips, “If you called me your son, I would be healed.”
“If I call you my son, I won’t be able to stop.”