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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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[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

If she looks almost like a ghost, then Mordred shouldn't look strange. His black leather armour, long hair tied back and lips stained red from the blood that killed him...

Well, he is a ghost.

He's also skipping stones.

[white_flowers]

The splash of stone on water earns a sharp glance. She does not yet speak, but stops to watch him.

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

He pauses, catching sight of her, and then finishes his toss.

[white_flowers]

Skip - skip - skip - splash.

"Quite a trick, that." The light soft voice sounds amused, at least. "Hello, cariad."

The emphasis on the last word is very clear, nearly crackling.

"And what is it that has you out and about, then?"

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

"Just thinking, love."

He picks up on her tone, and frowns in concern.

"Are you alright?"

[white_flowers]

"Oh, thinking." It is not often that the slicing edge of winter's wind shows in her tone when she is speaking with Mordred, but Blodwen continues, "A fine place this is, for that sort of thing."

Especially when there is little else to be done.

"And goodness, why would I not be all right?"

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

"Because I have a sixth sense, and the air around you is crackling with cold and anger."

His soft voice is mild, golden eyes searching.

[white_flowers]

"Very clever you are, cariad," she tells him. "Clever and observant both, bright-eyed robin prince." Almost brittle, as if there is something underlying her words that wants to be rage and hurt both, and is more dangerous for that.

"Does it matter, then?"

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

"Yes."

[white_flowers]

A sharp, brittle silence, and she cocks her head, looking at him.

In the frostbitten quiet, the sound of a tree shattering due to cold can be heard from deeper in the forest.

"Why?"

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

Simply,

"Because you're the only normal mother I've ever known."

[white_flowers]

Silence again, for several tense moments, and then she laughs, soft and almost bitter, just for a second.

"A delight it is, that you would remember. That it should matter still." A beat.

"Cariad."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

"Why wouldn't it? I'm nineteen and ten months for the rest of eternity - I wouldn't forget you. And of course it matters."

[white_flowers]

"To you, it matters. And to me, of course."

"Others would not see it so, dear, have no doubt of it."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

"Screw 'em."

[white_flowers]

"Oh and you do not mean that, surely," she says, and there is dark chill certainty there.

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

Mordred pauses, and then shrugs.

"Most people? Yes, I do mean it. For some, at least one...no, I don't. Doesn't mean that I will take his side, though."

[white_flowers]

Blodwen sighs, and some of the outward chill seems to fade.

"And here it is that I am being snappish with you who have done not a thing to hurt me, not you, my prince."

"I am sorry."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

"It's alright."

Pause.

"Who has hurt you?"

[white_flowers]

"Silly it is, really," she tells him, and the light soft voice is weary. "I had thought that I had lost all that I possibly could, you see."

"But wrong I was, more wrong than I imagined -- or wanted to imagine."

A beat, poised and waiting, and then the next words fall clearly, soft and yet somehow sharp.

"It is your brother, cariad, who is not content to let me simply bide, I fear."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

Mordred just looks at her, for a long, long time. He knows what she is, has an inkling what she is capable of.

This is why he says, very simply,

"...Jesus fucking Christ."

[white_flowers]

"Mmm," she replies. It is neutral enough, for all that it is winter-cool.

"Very eloquent, my robin."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

Sourly,

"It's fitting. What's he done now?"

[white_flowers]

"He has turned my John against me, is what he has done."

Soft, and every word is utterly cold.

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

A remembered sensation, one both once felt and sensed

(chokingdyingcan't breathe...)

and Mordred clenches his fists. Witch's son, sixth sense, sense of the future

(I knew I'd be killed)

and it's cold.

"Do you know why, lady?" Careful words, hiding fear and anger and a strange protectiveness of both Rider and shephard-prince.

[white_flowers]

Her smile is not warm, not now-- it is slicing and ice-sharp, and the mockery in the wintry tone is for herself as well as him, perhaps.

"Why, it is simply that he is not as accepting of me as you are, cariad."

"And my John did not remember, when here he found himself, do you see? The Old Ones it must have been, who took from him his memory, and left him thinking I was dead long years. He was happy to see me here, never doubt it."

There is something complex seething there, and the grief in the light voice is as real as the icy fury when she continues,

"And Bran, my white raven he was, would not have it so, oh no. He would not leave it so."

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

Mordred closes his eyes.

"I'll talk to him about it, lady," a prince's voice promising a dressing-down. "Never fear about that."

A quick breath, and then he runs his fingers through his hair.

"Too late to ask you not to...retaliate?"

[white_flowers]

"I have not touched him." Each word in the musical voice is very precise and clear. Yet, the tension promises, but she watches Mordred now, and carefully.

She says nothing of others who might not be protected by such regard, however.

"But what is it that I can do now, cariad, but be what is left to me here? For it is certain that any other choices I might have had are being taken, and I will not remain powerless."

The soft, deadly promise may mean more to this golden-eyed prince than anyone else, for it is certain that she has not told another here anything of her ancient history.

[maydaybrat.livejournal.com]

Softly,

"No. And I would not ask you to. I just..." A pause, and when he continues he sounds both old and young, lost and angry,

"I don't want to be caught between the two of you. It would..." He laughs, full of ice and death and the old blood that drowned him.

"Kill me."

[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.