Mordred and Morgana go to the theatre

Your thirteenth birthday came and went, marking a year since your life has been turned upside down. On the surface, nothing much changed; you had the same guests and none made any reference to the fateful event the year prior. Junia and her fathers visited, like they've always done, but no longer did Morgana and her talk and laugh into the night - you are the only reason they are ever in each other’s company now.

Your mother still smiles at you with that same tenderness she’s always bestowed upon you; yet there are times when looking at her soft, loving expression makes your heart ache.

You still have your squire training with Accolon, your magic lessons with Morgana; you take lunch and dinner in her chambers with both of them, chatting about your days while feigning that you don’t see the dark clouds that always hang on the horizon, threatening to rush in at any moment. There are times you can keep them at bay, times when you don’t even notice them.

And then come the days when they swoop upon you with a vengeance. There’s been many such a day before and after your thirteenth birthday.

Nothing changed, yet everything’s different.

Perhaps your parties have never been as grand as Gareth’s; you’ve never had as many guests as him, but neither have you had to suffer sycophants. You’ve always been surrounded by people you love, and the days up to your birthday have always been spent in a buzz of excited anticipation. This year, however, it’s all been shrouded in a film of melancholy that clings over everything like grime that you can’t scrub away.

And so, after a few too many silent days, Morgana has decided to do something. She organized an outing, one mild afternoon day at the end of summer. She booked tickets for one of your favorite plays - written and performed by dragons, in their own language, a play you’ve read and seen enough time to have learned by heart. She also arranges for you to go out in advance, to walk around town and see what catches your fancy. It’s the way she always used to cheer you up, when life in Lothia got too tiring. But now it’s her who put this weight on your shoulders in the first place. It’s a fact you try not to think about as you dress up nicely for the theatre and go out to meet your mother.

You set out together on foot, trailed after by Sera as your guard. They’ve promised to keep at a distance, to let you have this afternoon with Morgana; they know too the cause of your sadness, and hope just as much as your mother that it’ll be alleviated.

“Where would you like to go first, dear?” your mother asks as you walk down the cobblestone path, the castle growing smaller behind you. “The bakery, or perhaps the bookshop?”

The bookshop is first on your way, so that’s where you head. It’s the same cozy little shop you’ve been going to since you first found it years ago, tucked on a side alley. The owner has a tomcat that likes to snooze on top of piles of books and empty shelf spots, and who yowls at you till you pet or pick them up. Sometimes, your mother is convinced you only go there for the cat; though she’s never made any complaints, especially not when he curls up on her lap while you browse the tightly crammed cases.

There’s no one but you when you arrive, and the owner welcomes you both with a cup of steaming tea. Their father was Tintalian, and they’re among some of the few people to receive you with warmth. 

You browse through the shelves, talking in hushed voices. The rustle of pages and the smell of paper comfort you. In this tiny corner, cut off from the world, it’s easy to forget yourself, and soon enough it feels just like old times.

“Look here -” your mother holds up a brown leather-bound book “- it sounds like something you might enjoy.” 

You take it and thumb through it - it’s a collection of folk tales gathered from all over The Continent - and it does sound like something you’d enjoy. What looks like a familiar title flashes before your eyes, and you quickly flip back to it. The Serpent in the Flowers is the tale of how your ancestor met the fae with whom they’d come to have the first child of Le Fay magical blood; it’s a story that’s been told time and time again, but this particular rendition is your mother’s favorite. She used to read it  to you at bedtime, to lull you to sleep; it’d soothe you on nights when thunder cracked above the island and the waves crashed against the cliffs; it’d calm you down when you rode along in your carriage through the Lothian countryside, returning late at night from a noble’s party. Back then, being at your mother’s side meant only safety, security and comfort. Back then, there was no space for doubt in your heart, that you could ever do anything that’d make her love you less. That’d make you think she never loved you as much as she claimed she did. A time when there was no room between you, carved out by everything she hid from you.

When you look up, you catch the flash of concern that passes her face before she can dress it up. “What do you think?” she asks.

The words bubbling on the tip of your tongue taste bitter, so you swallow them and smile instead. You hate to see her upset as much as she hates to see you that way. “I think it’ll take it.”

Next up, you stop by the bakery to order some of your favorite treats, then amble about the streets, taking the opportunity to recount the play’s story to your mother. She needs the explanation, given that she won’t be able to understand more than a few words the actors speak in the draconic language.

“We could have gone to a different play,” you say. “One you might understand as well.”

“Why,” your mother smoothly replies, breaking off a piece of pastry to pop in her mouth. “I’ve heard you talk so often of this tale, I think I might just know it by heart too now. Besides, the dragon language, while completely arcane to me, is quite melodic.”

“Uh-huh,” you hum, “I thought you once said it sounds strident and harsh, like incoherent hissing and growling that twists your tongue into a knot.”

“Only because that’s what it sounds like coming off my lips.”

At the theatre, Morgana got you front row seats. You arrive early, as the crowd is still gathering, and try to pick familiar faces among the audience. Once the show starts, it’s easy to let yourself be carried away into the story you know so well by now. There’s the comfort of the familiar, and the excitement of a new performance, the actors breathing life anew in the characters. Even your mother seems utterly engrossed halfway through, though you doubt she can make out much of what is being told. The tricks of shadow and light the dragons employ to enhance the staging keeps her preoccupied enough.

It’s in those quiet  moments where the light dims and the dialogue lulls that the sadness creeps back up on you - it’s always there, at the back of your head, ready to leap.

And leap it does, as you’re streaming out of the theatre with the crowd, surrounded by its merry chatter, walking under a bleeding sunset sky. How many evenings have you spent like this at your mother’s side, step light and mind replaying all the moments of the play that stuck with you? But now it’s not the show that stays on your mind - not their lines that loop in your thoughts, relentless and incessant.

There’s a tightness in your chest, but you try to breathe past it, keep the smile on your face.

“It was a beautiful performance,” Morgana says.

“Did you understand anything?”

“Barely, but it seemed quite intense.”

You get the sense she waits for you to say more, but all you can summon is the energy for a small smile.

You're out of the bustling town streets by the time your mother breaks the silence. “I hope you enjoyed today.”

You wanted to give a full-chested, genuine yes. You had bursts of joyful laughter; you had moments of tranquility. You enjoyed this afternoon out with your mother as you did so many before, and yet you cannot shake off the melancholy that’s dogged you all summer - no, all year.

And it’s all her fault, and yet it’s still her you run off to for comfort.

You could have simply smiled and said yes, like you’ve done times before to avoid concerning her, or evade another argument that just leaves you tired and has no victor. You could have hummed and gotten away with a mere quick worried glance from her, but instead you halted in the middle of the cobblestone road and said: “I’m not fine.”

Morgana stops and turns to you, hand already on your shoulder, gentle. “Is it from the sweets-”

“No,” you say, the answer you’re sure she expected.

Her face twists in pain. “Darling…”

“I want to be fine, I want everything to be fine, to be like it used to, but I can’t.” Words gush out uncontrolled now. You stumble over them, the tightness in your chest so taut now you can barely draw in air. “I want to trust you, but there’s so much you kept from me, and I don’t know if there’s anything left you haven’t said, or if in the future you’ll ever again keep me in the dark, and I-”

Both her hands are on your shoulders, then on your cheeks, cupping your face, thumb caressing your skin, wiping away - wiping away a stray tear, you realize with a start.

“Mordred-”

Before she can say anything, you’re bleeding out words again. “And I know you’ve suffered a lot, and I love you so much, but I’m scared that I can’t be what you expect of me - that I don’t want to be that, and I don’t want to disappoint you but I simply can’t.” Your voice breaks on the last word, splintered by a sob.

Your mother wraps her arms around you, presses you to your chest as if afraid that any looser a hold will have her forever lose you.

“Mordred,” she whispers into your hair, lips moving fast, “I love you, I love you more than anything, and you could never disappoint me. “

“But-”

“You are so much more to be than one desperate decision I made years ago. A decision I made out of survival. You are my child, and nothing will ever change that. Do you understand?”

You understand. And as you cling to your mother on the empty road, soothed by her tight hold on you and by the constant stream of mellow reassurances muttered into your hair, you want to believe it, too.

Nothing changed, yet everything’s different.