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Entry tags:
FIC:
TITLE: Robin
FANDOM: Arthurian mythology/Milliways Bar/Dark is Rising
RATING: G
WORDS: 971
NOTES: This came about as backstory for the version of Mordred I played in the RPG Milliways Bar, and has deliberate mirroring of characters from the Dark is Rising - specifically, the relationship between Mordred and the White Rider/Mrs Rowlands/Anghared.
DISCLAIMER: Anghared-as-the-White-Rider is not mine, but belongs to Susan Cooper. Although the Arthurian legends are public domain, this version of Mordred is mine.
Robin
If truth be told, the black-haired boy entrusted into his aunt’s care is afraid of her crowded hall. In his future, this boy will grow to love them, being as they were filled with people and wine and politics. But this is in the future, years from now, and these things that he will someday crave now merely serve to make him flee.
Unobtrusively, of course, because even as a child he has his pride.
When it is discovered that he is gone, his aunt is angry. She has her lovely crowded hall searched top to bottom, side to side, stable to throne-room. She even searches herself, for she has been queen here for years, long enough for her older sons to become warriors; she knows what harm could befall an unwary child in these northern isles. And in her heart of hearts, this queen is a little afraid of her young witch-sister, the boy’s mother, so she searches all the harder.
At last, one of her serving women approaches her and says, I might know where the boy is, my lady.
Where, Anna-Morguese asks with her voice perhaps a little sharper then intended.
If I am right, the serving woman says, we will be back before dark.
--
The gentle serving woman finds him, of course. She knows children, and has watched this strange, lonely little boy. He is different from his cousins; the boys the serving woman knows so well and helped raise. They had mostly been boisterous, always quarrelling and making noise; even the middle two, who everyone thinks so quiet. However, she can see a little of his cousin Agravain in the boy, and this makes her worried, for the sullen second prince has grown bitter and arrogant; she does not wish that on the little boy currently watching the birds on the lake.
Making just enough noise so that he knows that she is there, she walks up to him. He doesn’t look up at her, though it is an effort not to. Calmly, in her sweet, musical voice, she says, they are worried about you.
Silence.
She responds in kind, taking a seat near him on the grassy hill. She doesn’t watch him, just looks across at the birds going about their business.
I saw seven ravens before, the boy says at last.
Seven for a secret never to be told, she replies. His fingers flex where they are resting on his arm, and he glances at her.
I don’t want to go back.
You would like to stay out here, with the birds? Her voice is low and sweet, one of the most musical voices he’s ever heard, and he feels a little bit of guilt at that thought. Surely Mother has the prettiest voice…but then he thinks, Mother has left me, and his anger returns.
I like birds; they are better then people.
Is that your secret?
He hesitates, and shakes his head. I can’t tell you, he says.
It is your choice, cariad.
He doesn’t answer, just rests his chin back on his folded arms. I have a game, you know, the black-haired boy says, glancing at her again.
Would you like to tell me? Perhaps I could play too.
You know how birds have meanings? I give them to people. Like…like Mother. She is a Magpie. His words are said in a rush, and his fingers clench again. The gentle serving woman thinks, Magpie; occult, new realms, wily and willful. She thinks this perfect for the boy’s fey, wandering mother.
Do other people have birds? Gawain?
The boy nods eagerly. He’s a Hawk, and the boy’s own golden eyes glow with something that can only be described as hero-worship.
She smiles at that, for she is still fond of her Gwalchmai, her Hawk of May. Hawk; life force, fulfilment, spring and autumn. Do I have a bird yet, she asks him curiously.
His pale cheeks turn red, and he looks away. When he speaks, he can only mumble, Duck.
The lady-in-waiting laughs, but gently. Ah, cariad, she says with a smile and dancing eyes. He stares fixedly at the lake, cheeks still flushed. Her smile softens, and her eyes are kind.
Do you know what you are, she asks him. He shakes his head, looking back at her, wary as a half-tame wolf-pup. No, not a wolf. This boy is a bird; all large eyes and slender limbs ready to take flight. Later, his claws will grow, but then he will become a cat, who hunts the pretty birds with silent paws and a purr. But this is in the future, so the serving woman with the gentle face just looks at him and says, You are a Robin, dear prince.
Robin; new growth, territorial.
The boy looks at her; he is dark and light, not colourful at all, and all he can think of is the Robin’s red neck. But before he can ask why, she stands.
We have to go back, cariad, she says gently.
I don’t want to go back, he whispers and shakes his head. But, if nothing else, his mother has raised him to be polite when he remembers, so he reaches up and takes her outstretched hand.
There we go, cariad, we’ll be at the hall before nightfall.
My name is Mordred, the little boy says, confused, and he takes his hand away. He looks at her for a moment, and then asks in a rush, You do know what Duck means, don’t you?
She laughs again, Of course I do, cariad, I think it is perfect. He grins at her, pleased, and the lady Anghared smiles back. She takes his small hand in hers and leads him away into the growing dark.
Duck; graceful and comforting, protective, maternal.
Yes, she thinks it is perfect.
FANDOM: Arthurian mythology/Milliways Bar/Dark is Rising
RATING: G
WORDS: 971
NOTES: This came about as backstory for the version of Mordred I played in the RPG Milliways Bar, and has deliberate mirroring of characters from the Dark is Rising - specifically, the relationship between Mordred and the White Rider/Mrs Rowlands/Anghared.
DISCLAIMER: Anghared-as-the-White-Rider is not mine, but belongs to Susan Cooper. Although the Arthurian legends are public domain, this version of Mordred is mine.
If truth be told, the black-haired boy entrusted into his aunt’s care is afraid of her crowded hall. In his future, this boy will grow to love them, being as they were filled with people and wine and politics. But this is in the future, years from now, and these things that he will someday crave now merely serve to make him flee.
Unobtrusively, of course, because even as a child he has his pride.
When it is discovered that he is gone, his aunt is angry. She has her lovely crowded hall searched top to bottom, side to side, stable to throne-room. She even searches herself, for she has been queen here for years, long enough for her older sons to become warriors; she knows what harm could befall an unwary child in these northern isles. And in her heart of hearts, this queen is a little afraid of her young witch-sister, the boy’s mother, so she searches all the harder.
At last, one of her serving women approaches her and says, I might know where the boy is, my lady.
Where, Anna-Morguese asks with her voice perhaps a little sharper then intended.
If I am right, the serving woman says, we will be back before dark.
--
The gentle serving woman finds him, of course. She knows children, and has watched this strange, lonely little boy. He is different from his cousins; the boys the serving woman knows so well and helped raise. They had mostly been boisterous, always quarrelling and making noise; even the middle two, who everyone thinks so quiet. However, she can see a little of his cousin Agravain in the boy, and this makes her worried, for the sullen second prince has grown bitter and arrogant; she does not wish that on the little boy currently watching the birds on the lake.
Making just enough noise so that he knows that she is there, she walks up to him. He doesn’t look up at her, though it is an effort not to. Calmly, in her sweet, musical voice, she says, they are worried about you.
Silence.
She responds in kind, taking a seat near him on the grassy hill. She doesn’t watch him, just looks across at the birds going about their business.
I saw seven ravens before, the boy says at last.
Seven for a secret never to be told, she replies. His fingers flex where they are resting on his arm, and he glances at her.
I don’t want to go back.
You would like to stay out here, with the birds? Her voice is low and sweet, one of the most musical voices he’s ever heard, and he feels a little bit of guilt at that thought. Surely Mother has the prettiest voice…but then he thinks, Mother has left me, and his anger returns.
I like birds; they are better then people.
Is that your secret?
He hesitates, and shakes his head. I can’t tell you, he says.
It is your choice, cariad.
He doesn’t answer, just rests his chin back on his folded arms. I have a game, you know, the black-haired boy says, glancing at her again.
Would you like to tell me? Perhaps I could play too.
You know how birds have meanings? I give them to people. Like…like Mother. She is a Magpie. His words are said in a rush, and his fingers clench again. The gentle serving woman thinks, Magpie; occult, new realms, wily and willful. She thinks this perfect for the boy’s fey, wandering mother.
Do other people have birds? Gawain?
The boy nods eagerly. He’s a Hawk, and the boy’s own golden eyes glow with something that can only be described as hero-worship.
She smiles at that, for she is still fond of her Gwalchmai, her Hawk of May. Hawk; life force, fulfilment, spring and autumn. Do I have a bird yet, she asks him curiously.
His pale cheeks turn red, and he looks away. When he speaks, he can only mumble, Duck.
The lady-in-waiting laughs, but gently. Ah, cariad, she says with a smile and dancing eyes. He stares fixedly at the lake, cheeks still flushed. Her smile softens, and her eyes are kind.
Do you know what you are, she asks him. He shakes his head, looking back at her, wary as a half-tame wolf-pup. No, not a wolf. This boy is a bird; all large eyes and slender limbs ready to take flight. Later, his claws will grow, but then he will become a cat, who hunts the pretty birds with silent paws and a purr. But this is in the future, so the serving woman with the gentle face just looks at him and says, You are a Robin, dear prince.
Robin; new growth, territorial.
The boy looks at her; he is dark and light, not colourful at all, and all he can think of is the Robin’s red neck. But before he can ask why, she stands.
We have to go back, cariad, she says gently.
I don’t want to go back, he whispers and shakes his head. But, if nothing else, his mother has raised him to be polite when he remembers, so he reaches up and takes her outstretched hand.
There we go, cariad, we’ll be at the hall before nightfall.
My name is Mordred, the little boy says, confused, and he takes his hand away. He looks at her for a moment, and then asks in a rush, You do know what Duck means, don’t you?
She laughs again, Of course I do, cariad, I think it is perfect. He grins at her, pleased, and the lady Anghared smiles back. She takes his small hand in hers and leads him away into the growing dark.
Duck; graceful and comforting, protective, maternal.
Yes, she thinks it is perfect.