[ There are flashes before the memory settles. Glimpses of a coronation, a crown placed upon a helmeted head, followed by weeks of celebration and feasting. Later, of a false king on a stolen throne, eternally clad in armour, giving orders to their court. Then, finally, to a prison in all but name, a broken woman left to ruminate over her sins alone, until an unwelcome intrusion breaks the silence. Though the halls of Camelot shine just as bright for their new king, the same can't be said for its former queen.
"A proposal, Guinevere." Gloved fingers reach out to cup a pale, trembling chin, and Mordred seems more amused than offended when Guinevere immediately jerks away from her touch. "Unlike Arthur, I am nothing if not merciful. Even a traitorous harlot has a place at my side. Become my queen, and be free of this persecution."
Refusing to be cowed by the obvious threat, Guinevere offers only a defiant glare in response.
"What is this nonsense you speak of?"
Mordred pauses, as if she might strike the other woman down for her impudence. Then, laughing, she removes her helmet.
"As much nonsense as your games of playing husband and wife."
Seeing her husband's face staring back at her, Guinevere's expression freezes halfway between fear and despair, hatred morphing into realization, then horror — all while Mordred openly gloats over her stunned reaction, arms cast wide as if waiting for applause from an invisible audience.
"That's right," she says, her contemptuous sneer making a mockery of the king's serene features. "My father broke your marriage long before you ever did. So, which will it be, Guinevere? Whatever shred of dignity you still possess," this punctuated by another laugh, "or your life? You have until sundown to decide."
With a final mocking bow, Mordred redons her helmet and takes her leave, closing the door behind her. Only then does Guinevere allow herself to sink slowly to the floor, quietly sobbing into her hands as Mordred leans against the wall and listens with satisfaction. ]
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"A proposal, Guinevere." Gloved fingers reach out to cup a pale, trembling chin, and Mordred seems more amused than offended when Guinevere immediately jerks away from her touch. "Unlike Arthur, I am nothing if not merciful. Even a traitorous harlot has a place at my side. Become my queen, and be free of this persecution."
Refusing to be cowed by the obvious threat, Guinevere offers only a defiant glare in response.
"What is this nonsense you speak of?"
Mordred pauses, as if she might strike the other woman down for her impudence. Then, laughing, she removes her helmet.
"As much nonsense as your games of playing husband and wife."
Seeing her husband's face staring back at her, Guinevere's expression freezes halfway between fear and despair, hatred morphing into realization, then horror — all while Mordred openly gloats over her stunned reaction, arms cast wide as if waiting for applause from an invisible audience.
"That's right," she says, her contemptuous sneer making a mockery of the king's serene features. "My father broke your marriage long before you ever did. So, which will it be, Guinevere? Whatever shred of dignity you still possess," this punctuated by another laugh, "or your life? You have until sundown to decide."
With a final mocking bow, Mordred redons her helmet and takes her leave, closing the door behind her. Only then does Guinevere allow herself to sink slowly to the floor, quietly sobbing into her hands as Mordred leans against the wall and listens with satisfaction. ]