Mordred (traitorously) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-05-03 19:55:00 |
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Current mood: | contemplative |
[closed/complete]
Characters: Gwynevere (vivatregina) and Mordred (traitorously)
Date/Time: April 28th, morning
Location: A diner just outside the city
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, sexual insinuations
Summary: Gwyn and Mordred work on their odd friendship
After three days, Gwynevere had learned to deal. The Arthurians were locked by family in various closets - Lancelot, Elaine, and Galahad in one; Morgan, Morgause, and Arthur in another. Heaven knows how she managed locking Agravaine and Gawain in the same room, and Isolde and Iseult were happy to be with Tristan in the spare bathroom. Merlin and Nimue were forced into the walk-in pantry; if Gwynevere heard telltale sounds of violence, she pretended not to notice. Fortunately, Death, Heimdall, and Hemera tended to come and go. She'd no more room to stash Hector and Mordred, though she found with a little diplomacy, Hector would gladly take the couch, and Mordred was amenable to having a few pillows and Sophie between them in bed.
Knowing she'd be meeting the real Mordred had made it weird when she woke up with the false one reaching for her, but she shoved down her unpleasant feelings and set to feeding everyone. The excursion left her fifteen minutes late for he appointment with the actual Mordred. There were telltale shadows under her eyes when she slipped into their usual place at the diner, her hands immediately going for her temples.
~*~
For Mordred, while things weren't nearly as hectic as what Gwynevere was dealing with, the bloom had definitely fallen off the rose that his current home life strove to be. Being a respected king was not nearly as fulfilling as he assumed it might be, especially not when he knew that it wasn't real. While it would have been nice if it was, it didn't take a genius such as himself to recognize when they were all being fucked with again. His already erratic mental state had taken quite a beating from all of this, making him more short-tempered and irritable than usual, but that wouldn't stop him from keeping the 'date' of sorts that he'd made with the real Gwynevere despite his having a version of her ready and willing to let him do whatever he liked with her waiting just inside his condo.
Somehow, regardless of how thrilling it was at first to have Gwynevere in his bed catering to his every whim, he had discovered quite quickly that he preferred the real thing to the almost puppet-like facsimile that claimed to be his queen. Oh, she was certainly just as beautiful and pleasant, but she lacked the fieriness and fighting spirit that made the real Gwynevere all the more appealing. Already on his second cup of coffee when she arrived, he raised an eyebrow at her appearance and gestured for the waitress. "I'm assuming coffee is in order, love?"
~*~
"Yes, please." Her voice had a raspy edge to it, doubtless the result of hours spent cajoling people into their proper places. After a few quick instructions to the waitress, Gwynevere returned her gaze to Mordred.
"I don't think I'm in fit condition to ride today," she said apologetically. She was nervous enough with maneuvering, trying to remember clutches and gears. With the added stress of recent events, she wasn't too hopeful about her ability to avoid slamming into the nearest wall. "And I'm sorry for being tardy." There was a small frown, a bit of a pout, before she added. "There are... people commandeering my living space."
~*~
"Ah yes, I think I understand," Mordred murmured, picking up his menu to glance over it while Gwynevere gave the waitress her coffee specifications. "I'll have my usual," he informed the waitress before she walked off.
"No need to apologize, I'd rather you not get into an accident. If you like, after we eat, I can just take you for a ride." The offer was made because going on long rides helped clear his mind, and while he was unsure if it would have the same effect on her he felt it was worth a shot. "Is it safe to say all is not right on your homefront, then?"
~*~
"That sounds lovely, thank you." Gwynevere liked when Mordred took control of the motorcycle, letting them cleanly dart through New York traffic. It was nice not to have to worry about all the silly technicalities. And it was nice to have somebody else take the reins, for once, in at least some aspect of her life. Even if just a quick ride through the city.
Her mind quickly shifted from a pleasant ride to the chaos that was currently her apartment. "I haven't had time to log on to the community, so I'm not certain if it's just me, but there are..." Pod people? "duplicates in my apartment." She winced. It sounded so simple when phrased that way. "Duplicates of other reincarnates.
~*~
"You're quite welcome, darling," Mordred realized belatedly that perhaps calling her things like darling or love was a bit weird, but time spent with his Gwynevere had made him grow fonder of the real one whether he liked it or not. And he didn't. Not because he didn't like Gwynevere; he had never had any issue with her beyond her taste in men and shit timing; but more because she was a wrench in the cogs of his life yet again. This was a pattern.
Sipping from his coffee as he noticed the waitress approaching again, he nodded slightly. "It's not just you, I've seen all manner of interesting reports." A quick smirk was shot at the waitress as she put down plates, conversation paused until she left. "I've got a similar situation. Anyone interesting? 'Like me? he wondered.
~*~
Gwynevere took her coffee from the waitress with a gracious smile before replying. "Everyone's there," she deadpanned. "From our 'pantheon', at least." She scowled. "It's been awful. Trying to get everyone in line, fed, and comfortable."
But, scowl fast fading, she could not help the small laugh that bubbled out of her lips. Irritated as she was, the situation was amusing. "I slept beside you last night," she said offhandedly. "You and Sophie.
~*~
Mordred raised an eyebrow at her description of the situation happening at her place. "That sounds like it must be a horror show," he murmured, debating how much he should tell her. "I've been finding it hard to keep everyone at my place in line as well."
Still, there were certain perks to the situation, and her laugh and comment showed she was enjoying a few as well. "Is that so...?" He took a sip of his coffee. "You were in my bed last night as well. No Sophie, but no clothing either."
~*~
Gwynevere had been taking a sip of her coffee as Mordred informed her of his and pseudo-her's intimate living arrangement. Fortunately, she managed to hold it down instead of spewing it out. But she ended up taking more than she'd intended, so the scaldingly hot liquid went down her throat way too quickly.
She turned away, covering her mouth and trying to compose herself. Not that she had any idea what she was supposed to say once she had. If there was a polite way of responding, it was certainly hellbent on escaping her.
~*~
Mordred could tell that Gwynevere hadn't expected his remark and was at a loss over how to respond to it. He mentally chalked one up in the win column for himself. A true gentleman would let the subject rest for now, but for all his chivalrousness he couldn't pass up the opportunity to see the former queen squirm just a little.
He smirked proudly, leaning in close enough to whisper his next statement. "I muse admit, darling, you're turning out to be far more fun than I originally assumed you might be. And that little trick you can do with your tongue...?" he let the statement hang in the air before continuing. "Well, I will miss it when this is all done with."
~*~
"Mordred!" His name came out as a tiny squeak instead of the outraged admonishment it was intended to be. Gwynevere wasn't really angry, but her embarrassment was made plain by the color rising on her cheeks. 'Whore' she was branded, but in all honesty Gwynevere knew nothing about men outside of the two. And certainly not in this life.
She bit her lip, looking at everything but Mordred. For a moment, she contemplated asking him exactly what she could do with her tongue. Which made her all the more jittery.
~*~
Hearing her squeak indignantly only made his smirk grow to the point where anyone glancing over at them might get the mistaken impression they were something more than friends. Not that Mordred would have minded if strangers assumed they were dating, but he could tell Gwynevere embarrassed easily and despite how amusing he found it wouldn't want her to blush herself to death.
"I apologize, I thought we were sharing stories of our current situations. From now on I'll leave you -- and that talented tongue -- at home." The words, though delivered in a blandly neutral tone, were rife with suggestion.
~*~
"Apology accepted," she said thoughtlessly, automatically. Her body acknowledged the words as the easiest way out of embarrassment much more quickly than her mind did, it would seem.
"It doesn't bother you that it's not real?" Or perhaps she'd given her body too much credit, hasty as it was to betray her with mortifying questions. Gwynevere managed to keep her face straight and composure respectable, though immediately she regretted the words that slipped out of her mouth.
~*~
"You know, you're allowed to be offended by my behaviour, I won't hold it against you," he pointed out, a smile coming to his face at how quickly she rushed to smooth things over. He would have let her suffer a bit.
"I know it's not real, but I see no reason not to take advantage, it's not like we'll ever experience these things otherwise." Mordred was a pragmatist, and the joys he found in this life since returning from Zurvan were few and far between. Why shouldn't he use this to his benefit while he could?
~*~
"There wouldn't be a point." Gwynevere realized even the more liberal types wouldn't fault her for indignation, but she'd had an entire lifetime of throwing tantrums and getting angry. She was too exhausted (also true on a very physical level) to bother with needless fury.
She tried not to think of what that meant. "You're an adventurous soul." Laughter, shaky and slightly forced, but laughter. Gwynevere tried to imagine taking up one of the men at home on their propositions - the directions weren't looking pretty. "And I'm getting old. Turning 25 come the sixth."
~*~
"When has giving in to your base emotions ever needed a point?" Mordred enjoyed going off the rails a bit for that very reason - it was pointless, and it felt incredible. A good tantrum every now and then broke up the tedium of the day to day hullabaloo.
If lurid images weren't filling her head at the moment then he would be surprised. "I prefer opportunistic," he demurred, aware of how that might sound. Mordred was nothing if not blunt in his desires. "Does that bother you, getting older?" It bothered him, though he would never admit it.
~*~
Gwynevere was fairly tempted to point out that, on her part, senseless and emotional indulgence had ended in countless deaths and a fallen kingdom. But misery was as misplaced as anger on that morning, so she let the topic fall with a wry little smile.
"Or incorrigible." Far easier to deflect than to imagine - she would have to face him again in her bed tonight, after all, and she didn't think she could handle both his presence and those images with an ounce of grace or bravado. Further playing on her embarrassment or increasingly bawdy thoughts would only be giving undue weight to Mordred's passing statements, anyway. "I haven't given it much thought, honestly. I ought to make a fuss about it, I suppose, but I've aged and died before." She shrugged. "It's nothing new."
~*~
Mordred would have found a way to counter whatever logic Gwynevere put forth, but that was just his way. While he, much like the rest of the world, felt some blame regarding Camelot's downfall was on her shoulders he also accepted that burden was partially his as well. There was a lot that could have been done differently.
"I have always loved that word, so I'll take it." The grin on his face could be considered smarmy, but he was aiming for smug. Same thing really, just one was a bit creepier, and much as the idea of making Gwynevere's cheeks blush in that soft way they did so prettily had a certain appeal he was in no mood to go chasing after her if his teasing drove her off. "As have I, though I've never shied away from death." He wasn't afraid of it. "I should have died shortly after I was born, therefore I can't blame the reaper for wanting me by his side."
~*~
Gwynevere was not sure how she felt about the infanticide. On principle, she detested such a heinous ordinance. But she recognised Merlin's reasons for having been a proponent - had he been successful, Arthur would not have died. At the same time, had Gwynevere been a good, faithful wife, the pieces would not have fallen into place as they did. She had no right to condemn or praise anyone for the actions they'd taken to ensure the longevity of Arthur's reign.
"It was one of Arthur's more evil decisions." A carefully neutral statement - the murder of babes was inherently evil, no matter the intentions. She had no idea what to say, knowing that paltry words would not begin to scrape the surface of how horrible the events Mordred had suffered. "I'm sorry."
~*~
Mordred had very definite opinions on the infanticide, having been the only survivor of the attempt. He lived with the guilt of knowing that every day, and the burning need to see Merlin pay for all the lives he ended prematurely. People liked to say 'if only' but Mordred never held truck with playing the 'what if?' game. He only knew the life he lived, and couldn't bring himself to consider the possibilities of what life might have been like otherwise. If only Arthur had acknowledged him, would he still be the same Mordred? Why was that even a question?
"I doubt he struggles with it as often as he should." He had never given Mordred the impression that he had trouble sleeping, or that he regretted anything. "Don't be sorry, love. It's all in the past. Nothing can be done for it now, so why not make the most of our lives, eh?"
~*~
"He..." She could not help thinking of his current tug-of-war between Polyxena and Lancelot, and an irrational surge of anger gripped her. "Is very resolute about his decisions."
She shrugged, though a tiny smile was on her face. "I've defined my life around the past." Though maybe it was time that changed. If Arthur and Lancelot hardly even recalled her existence, what was there to fight for? Save, of course, the others she had wronged. She was grateful for Elaine's recent kindness, as well as Morgan's civility. Perhaps in her continued efforts to make amends with Mordred, she could do so with the rest of the Orkneys.
~*~
"If that's how you want to think of it, sure," Mordred demurred, his tone ripe with bitterness. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, my queen," he snarked, knowing by her own admission she hadn't been sleeping well at all.
He leaned back in his chair, face expressionless except for the barely suppressed rage burning in his eyes. "We're all defined by our pasts, no matter how progressive we claim we are. I tried for a few lifetimes to deny who I was, and all that got me was a slower death sentence." Even now, he could feel death breathing down his neck. "You shouldn't let it define you, you should instead let it help you become something more. Embrace it."
~*~
Gwynevere wanted to insist that it had been a necessity because Arthur had married her. And was instantly ashamed. This was not about her - this was about a cruel decision Arthur had made about his son. She turned away, chastised by Mordred's words. What did she know of his pain? Her father had sold her, but not to an executioner. Mordred's father had condemned him to death at the word of a man without scruples. Another apology would have been offered, but how trite it would be.
Yet, at the same time, how could she betray Arthur? The man whom she had already hurt beyond measure, when all he had offered her was faithfulness and warmth. "Gwynevere is a horrible person to embrace," she deflected, pursing her lips in guilt and frustration. "But I try to be more. It is not difficult to be more than she was."
~*~
Mordred, under usual circumstances, probably would have spat out a scathing put-down about 'poor sweet Gwynevere' that highlighted just how little he cared about her so-called problems, all of which she brought on herself, but his impending birthday had him shaken up and feeling slightly more empathetic than he normally would, so instead of taking the opportunity to insult the former queen Mordred just allowed his expression to twist into a sardonic smirk. They really did have more in common than they both realized.
"Try being Mordred, for even one hour. I doubt even you could unravel the mess that I deal with on a daily basis." There; a comment that still provided commentary on the differences between their former circumstances while being not nearly as cruel as he could have been. "It's quite something, isn't it, how people view us without knowing the whole story? Who'd have ever thought the traitor and the whore," he sneered, a trace of sarcasm in his voice indicating he didn't honestly think that badly of her, at least not anymore. "could become... friendly. Certainly not this black sheep."
~*~
If asked, Gwynevere would not know whose suffering she deemed more grievous - hers or Mordred's. But the point was moot - both met fates resulting from the situations that had shaped them and the decisions they'd made in response. They were what they were - like the queen and knight on the chessboard, doomed to be defined in one dimension, as if they had never felt nor breathed like their contemporaries had.
"The story always goes to the victor or the martyr," she commented, her hands circling around the mug in front of her. "Had World War II gone another way, Hitler would be a hero and the Jews vermin." So they were the Jews in their story. She had to resist a bitter laugh, raising her mug in a mock toast.
"To the traitor and the whore."
~*~
Deep down, Mordred would argue that the issue of who suffered more was no contest - Gwynevere had started out with a clean slayer while even his birth was mired in darkness and scandal. She had been given a shot at having a flaw-free life, while he'd never had that luxury. In many ways, his dying would have been best for everyone, but things never work out that serendipitously in real life.
"Ah yes, history being written by the winners is the one thing many don't seem to understand until it happens to them." It was tragic, really, how wrong writers got their lives and psyches. He picked up his mug, holding it aloft as he echoed her sentiment before taking a sip of the lukewarm drink.
"Long may they suffer."