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[white_flowers]

She looks almost like a ghost, moving through the snow at the edge of the lake, far from prying eyes. White on white, and each step crackles with ice as she passes.

The environment does not bother her, nor does the chill of frost and ice. It is no colder than the anger she bears with her, no more deadly than her rage.

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[white_flowers]

"My prince." Soft and worried and concerned now, and the Rider is buried within Blodwen -- within the warm motherly woman Mordred had known in life as Anghared, as she takes a step closer on the crisp white snow, holding out both hands to him.

"It is you now that I would not lose, robin, do you not realize it?"

Sweet and yearning and with warmth and love seeming clear. Underneath everything is the Rider, for she is the Rider, yet -- but still this does not feel false to any test.

Emotion has ever been both truth and the greatest danger, with her.

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

And Mordred has never, ever, been one to turn away offered love. Not with his past, not with his loyalty that his father could have had...

But Arthur never reached out. Bran did. Anghared-Blodwen-White Rider does.

So he steps forward, and hugs her, like any son would his mother.

[white_flowers]

It is cold here, outside amid the snow and ice.

But her embrace is not cold, nor is her smile, as she hugs him back and that tightly.

"My robin prince." The light soft voice is gentle, so gentle, and kind. "So very dear you are to me, cariad."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

Quietly,

"I know." He hugs her for a moment, and then steps back. "Come with me into the bar? I probably should attempt to get back into the habit of...not looking so dead."

[white_flowers]

A moment's hesitation, but a moment only, and Blodwen smiles at him.

"All right, cariad."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

He smiles back and, together, they walk into the bar.