Chapter 10 #2
But her challenge sang in his ears like a war drum, and it made him feel alive.
A rare thing for an unnatural creature. He told himself that his death was assured, marked clearly in the annals of history that had yet to pass.
He was a walking corpse. Gritting his jaw, Mordred tried to convince himself that he had accepted his purpose, his Fate.
That it did not matter to him if the Time of Men came to pass and the Fey diminished into greener lands he would never see, or if the Age of Fey continued for another millennia despite the attempts of mortals.
Either way, Mordred would die on the battlefield that marked the transition.
But still that caged darkness within him keened in search of a different Thread, just one, where another future might come to pass.
Nyneve’s weak half-truth felt terribly close to freedom.
Being seen by her, even if not fully, made him feel like flesh and blood, not bones already rotting on a battlefield.
“Yes,” Mordred murmured from the back of his throat. “Yes, Lady Nyneve. You see me for what I am.”
“And pray tell, Sir Mordred,” she breathed, her expression blank. “What do you see in me?”
Clever, dangerous thing, this Lady Nyneve Or’Afon.
“You are no convent girl,” he replied. “You belong to one of the western clans. A Druid’s apprentice, I would assume. You work the magic that left this court with Merlin some ten years ago. The precise kind of magic that Camelot’s king would say slows our progress into a more enlightened age.”
She smiled at him then, pleased as a cat with a mouse between its jaws. Moonlight limned the edges of her hair, auburn turned to silver, making her look less like a Druid maiden and more like a vengeful goddess.
“Then let us strike a bargain, since you are so comfortable with such things,” she replied, her voice rich with suggestion. “You will not speak of my magic to anyone in Camelot’s court nor any souls adjacent to it, and I will not speak of your borrowed power nor questionable loyalties in turn.”
Mordred sat back, reaching with his free hand to wrap a few strands of her silken hair around his finger. “Oh, love,” he murmured, letting his eyes return to hers as he gleefully unveiled what she had failed to see. “I fear that would be impossible. You see, you are in my debt.”
He watched with boundless satisfaction as her eyes widened.
Pinned beneath him, Nyneve could not keep the horrible realization from her face as, he presumed, she understood that those two simple words at the edge of Galen’s cottage—“thank you”—had doomed her.
No, she did not think him Fey, or at least she claimed as much.
But at this moment, she could make no reasonable guesses as to the breadth of his “borrowed” magic.
A mortal bargaining for power from the Fey certainly had the ability to enforce a bargain in turn. Accept the magic, live by its rules.
“But you amuse me,” he admitted. “I only seek to keep you from speaking of my bargain, nothing more.” Mordred paused, tracing the line of her jaw.
He would not touch her anywhere she could not pull away.
And yet she did not, remaining utterly still as his fingertips ghosted her skin.
“I do not wish for our games to end so soon.” The words came out hoarse and unexpected.
A color as lush as petals spread across her cheekbones. She strained against his hold on her wrists, arching into him. “Nor, Sir Mordred, do I,” Nyneve replied in a low, rough whisper.
Suddenly he could feel every stitch in his garments, the weight of his sword belt, the cool evening breeze on his skin. He took in a long breath before he dared to speak again.
“Then,” he replied, drawing out the word, his gaze drifting to the locks of her hair curled around his fingers, “there is a traditional way to seal such a bargain.” His eyes returned to hers, one brow arched expectantly.
To his surprise and amusement, she snorted at him, her gaze darting to her curl in his hand.
“You will have no hair-cutting of mine,” Nyneve replied.
Her eyes met his, flashing in the moonlight.
“I have no interest in tying myself to whatever Fey beast you made your own bargain with. There are older ways, Sir Mordred. Surely you know them, even as a mere mortal man begging for faerie scraps.”
“If you insist,” he replied, arching a brow. “I thought you would surely find such a method repulsive. After all, you never answered me during our dance. Do you find me beautiful, Lady Nyneve?”
Her breathing went short and harsh, breasts pressing into his chest. All the world held still for a moment, but then her expression shifted into a glare. “Let me up,” Nyneve snapped, “and we’ll seal our bloody bargain.”