There was sunlight streaming through the windows when Mordred woke up, but he ignored that in favor of snuggling up to the warm body laying next to his. Eyes still closed, he let one arm rest against the protruding stomach of his obviously pregnant bedmate, a soft growl of appreciation coming from deep in his throat as he nuzzled his nose against neck of the woman, the muskiness of her scent filling his nostrils.
The feeling of contentment that overtook him was short-lived, as Mordred's eyes flew open. He couldn't remember inviting a woman back to his house, let alone a pregnant one, and was gearing himself up to get out of bed and give Castor and Pollux a good talking to about pulling these kinds of pranks on him in his still-fragile mental state. However, when he sat up intent on pulling on pants, he caught sight of who, exactly, shared his bed. Gwynevere. His breath caught in his throat -- he hadn't realized she was back in the city, and she certainly didn't look pregnant last he saw her. Carefully sliding away from her, doing his best not to disturb her slumber, he noticed a glint of gold on his finger and paused. Was he married to her?
He was starting to think this was some sick joke, but he needed her awake to confirm it.
Alongside the sudden movements of her bed partner (whom she had assumed was her dog), Gwynevere could not ignore the insistent prods at her belly. Rather, from within her belly. That was strange - had she eaten something? Lazily, her hands drifted down to her stomach. Her round, protuberant stomach.
Her eyes shot open as she rose suddenly. Without thinking and certainly without regard for reality, Gwynevere was filled with simple yet overwhelming joy. She was a mother, finally. After all this time, a mother. How many times had she spent such similar mornings despairing over her failure to produce an heir? And now... She had to be dreaming - there was no other explanation. When she woke up, she would be back to her lonely existence, all the way back in cold Surrey. No, not yet. She would hold onto this dream, which felt so real and so solid. Enough so that she knew she would be in tears the moment it was over.
Realising the warmth beside her must have been her dream husband instead of Eli, Gwynevere turned with a smile on her face. Mordred. She hadn't been expecting that of her subconscious, but what room did she have to complain? "Good morning."
Amusingly enough, although he was obviously unsettled by this turn of events, Mordred found Gwynevere's reaction endearing. Here she was, waking up to discover them in bed together as though this was perfectly natural, and that she was pregnant, and her reaction was to smile and bid him good morning? Perhaps it hadn't sunk in yet.
His lips curved into a gentle, indulgent smile, one that felt oddly right to him. Much as he'd never admit it Mordred was happy; he'd always wanted a normal life with a wife and children, and her joy was infectious. Without thinking of the potential consequences of his actions, he reached out and took Gwynevere's hand, bringing her fingers up to his lips so he could kiss them before speaking. If she was intent on acting like this was normal then he could do the same. If she was his wife -- and soon-to-be mother of his child -- then he would treat her how he would any other treasured item. "Yes, good morning. How are you feeling?"
There was a tenderness to his tone as he let her hand go, Mordred's fingers itching to feel their child moving again but not wanting to bother Gwynevere. "You seem well, despite the strange circumstances. If my supposition is correct, we're married, and that's my child you're carrying."
"I'm feeling... sore." Her feet were killing her. And she very, very badly wanted cheese. But these weren't thoughts one had within a dream, were they? Bit by bit, doubt began to wash over her conviction that none of this was actually happening.
His own voiced uncertainty was the opening of the flood gates. Strange circumstances and supposition... They were both banking on speculation, and that scared her. Still, Gwynevere managed to contain herself before blurting out something ridiculous (such as so this isn't really a dream?). Yet even with the realization that this was not merely a product of her sleeping mind, it had not fully sunken in that the child was as good as dead. Her joy suffocated any discomfort she might have felt in a sounder state of mind, and some time would have to pass before horror replaced it.
With wonder in her eyes, she returned her hands to her belly. That she was married to Mordred flew over her head entirely - "We have a child," she breathed, taking Mordred's hand and placing it over her stomach. "We have a child, and last night I was in England." She pursed her lips. "Khaos, do you think?"
"How can I help?" The fact that his response was almost immediate, delivered with no hesitation and a sincere desire to help on his part came as a shock, but the words were already out of his mouth and he didn't regret them.
The change that came over her was noted, making Mordred feel terrible for having taken away from what was obvious an important discovery for her. He had no idea how important the idea of having a child to call her own was to his former queen and stepmother, but seeing the subtle falling of her face had him clenching his fist. The hatred he felt towards Khaos for fucking with him -- with them -- multiplied tenfold. How dare she give them their dreams only to yank them away?
Tentatively moving closer, he gasped when she placed his hand on her stomach, his voice coming out in a breathless hush. "We do... I hope it's a girl." He didn't want to get his hopes up, knowing this wouldn't last, but it was hard not to. "Yes, most likely Khaos." He couldn't stop staring at where his child was growing. "I'll kill her for this, when she takes it away from us."
"I'm all right," she dismissed. Sore feet were natural, weren't they? And soon enough breakfast would be served - or would she have to serve it? She scanned the room, taking in the designs that were unquestionably Roman.
Her attempt to place them was interrupted by his words. "A girl..." She laughed. Gwynevere had hoped for a boy so long, certain that she would hate herself were she to carry a daughter. But now that she actually was pregnant, she didn't care. This was her child, and she would protect it at all costs. Except there was nothing she could do to save it.
Gwynevere was not normally so visibly emotional, but the hormones of pregnancy registered even in the false world Khaos had obviously constructed. "She would only laugh at our pain." She and Mordred weren't strangers to that. History itself stood as mockery to them. "We need to figure out where we are and what she's planned for us."
"I could rub your feet, if you like," he offered, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "I've heard some pregnant women like that." One hand came up to scratch the back of his head as he looked around as well, wondering if they were alone.
He smirked slightly at her laugh, shrugging. "A boy could potentially be like I was, and I wouldn't wish a child like me on anyone." Mordred had heard stories about himself as a child and knew that tactical streak and Machiavellian mentality had been there from a young age. Perhaps, if they would truly be around to raise and nurture their offspring, he'd want a son more, but he knew they wouldn't be so lucky.
Mordred could see that Gwynevere was more upset than she was letting on, and let his free hand rest on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "She thrives on it, and we both know that. However, we can't let her destroy us." Strange sentiments coming from a man who so recently tried to take his own life. "Then get dressed, we'll figure this out together." He stood, holding out his hand. "I promise I'll keep you and our child safe."
Had they truly had years of marriage between them, she might have taken him up on the offer. As it was, yesterday they had been friends, and only recently at that. So she breathed a quick 'thank you' before brushing his cheek with her lips, a quiet assurance that she would manage her body's demands on her own.
"She should have your coloring," she mused, drawing back. "All those contrasts would be beautiful." Gwynevere would teach a girl all the things she knew, instilling all the strength she herself had never had. All the strength a man like Mordred would have.
Gingerly, she placed her hand in his. His promise warmed her, made her feel as if this would not be so bad, as if it would not end with the two of them shattered beyond repair, despite his words. "Thank you, Mordred."