You have truly unleashed a monster, because here is YET ANOTHER Mordred snippet, this time for possibly Mordred's own book?? CW for past incest & child abuse.
***
Mordred ruins things. It is his nature; it has been so since before he was born, as Mother often reminded him. “It was two weeks till my wedding,” she said, holding her white satin wedding slipper, growing more discolored with each year. “Only it became apparent that I was in the family way, and Reginald knew of course it wasn’t his.” A shrill giggle. “And he didn’t believe me when I told him who the father was. How could I say such a thing? And so I’m trapped here forever. With him.”
But he is very rarely there. He is away at house parties, or fox-hunting, or in London, returning only rarely to the country house where his sister lives immured with her son. And so to Mordred his uncle (for he always called him Uncle) was a strange and distant figure – until just after Mordred turned twelve, when he became suddenly, terribly close.
Mordred told Mother. She believed him, and in a jealous rage she beat him with her wedding slipper until he couldn’t stand.
Then she took him to London, for it was about this time that the Blitz was getting bad, and the children were being evacuated to the country. She made up a name, and got him on a train, and sent him away, and he never heard from any of them again.
He likes to imagine she wanted at least a little to protect him.
***
The train took him to Guinevere. Everyone else called her Gwen, and out loud Mordred called her nothing at all, for he can’t bear to call her Aunt Gwen or Mrs. Pendragon.
In his head she is Guinevere, the name as strange and lovely as her pale freckled face, her red hair, her gentle hand on his forehead that night he was lost in the hills, and they brought him home soaked through. Guinevere. He says it to himself with hot flushes in his heart, the loveliest name for the loveliest girl in the world.
There is a Mr. Pendragon, of course—Uncle Art, as they try to convince Mordred to call him. Mr. Pendragon is away fighting, mostly, and Mordred mostly pretends he doesn’t exist, except sometimes he gets leave and comes home and the whole house revolves around him as if he is the sun, not only Guinevere but even Mordred’s dog Caval.
Then, when Mordred is nearly grown, Mr. Pendragon is transferred to an aerodrome close to their house. Then they are seeing him all the time, and Mordred spends more and more time stalking the hills, alone, for Caval stays with Mr. Pendragon.
So he is glad, with a fiery hot gladness, when he comes home one night and catches Mr. Pendragon with Mr. du Lac.
They don’t see him. They are, as it were, otherwise engaged.
Mordred goes back out into the starry night, and thinks about what to do.
He can’t tell Guinevere. She is away; and anyway when she hears she will beat him. (She has never hit him, but he does not think of that.) She might not even believe him. Or perhaps she will believe him all to well, for if her husband can do that, then who knows what horrid, disgusting things he has forced his wife to do?
Mordred will save her. He will bring witnesses, grown-up men, (so Mordred is thinking, as he marches with hot cheeks down the cold road toward the pub where the airmen drink) who will catch Mr. Pendragon and Mr. du Lac in the act, and they will be kicked out of the RAF, and Guinevere can get a divorce and then Mordred will marry her, yes, he will go down on his knees and beg for her hand, beneath the blossoming cherry tree he will do it, and tell her that he will always love her, and he would never cheat on her, and they will always be together and no one will ever hurt either of them ever again.
Only the airmen don’t believe him. He drags them down to see, and then they have to believe him – only he realizes, then, that they would rather not have known. Mr. Pendragon and Mr. du Lac aren’t even cashiered, are just reassigned, and everyone is cross with Mordred, and Guinevere is away.
Mordred leaves. Hops on a train, lies about his age, signs up for the Navy, and in short order his ship gets blown up.
Perhaps he brought ruin to the ship as well.
He finds himself in hospital, and Guinevere comes to see him there. She knows about Mr. Pendragon now. But she is not grateful; and she does not love him.
“I love you as a son,” she says. As if that is worth anything. As if that matters, when she is going back to Mr. Pendragon, and Mordred is as always alone.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2022-12-10 12:26 pm (UTC)***
Mordred ruins things. It is his nature; it has been so since before he was born, as Mother often reminded him. “It was two weeks till my wedding,” she said, holding her white satin wedding slipper, growing more discolored with each year. “Only it became apparent that I was in the family way, and Reginald knew of course it wasn’t his.” A shrill giggle. “And he didn’t believe me when I told him who the father was. How could I say such a thing? And so I’m trapped here forever. With him.”
But he is very rarely there. He is away at house parties, or fox-hunting, or in London, returning only rarely to the country house where his sister lives immured with her son. And so to Mordred his uncle (for he always called him Uncle) was a strange and distant figure – until just after Mordred turned twelve, when he became suddenly, terribly close.
Mordred told Mother. She believed him, and in a jealous rage she beat him with her wedding slipper until he couldn’t stand.
Then she took him to London, for it was about this time that the Blitz was getting bad, and the children were being evacuated to the country. She made up a name, and got him on a train, and sent him away, and he never heard from any of them again.
He likes to imagine she wanted at least a little to protect him.
***
The train took him to Guinevere. Everyone else called her Gwen, and out loud Mordred called her nothing at all, for he can’t bear to call her Aunt Gwen or Mrs. Pendragon.
In his head she is Guinevere, the name as strange and lovely as her pale freckled face, her red hair, her gentle hand on his forehead that night he was lost in the hills, and they brought him home soaked through. Guinevere. He says it to himself with hot flushes in his heart, the loveliest name for the loveliest girl in the world.
There is a Mr. Pendragon, of course—Uncle Art, as they try to convince Mordred to call him. Mr. Pendragon is away fighting, mostly, and Mordred mostly pretends he doesn’t exist, except sometimes he gets leave and comes home and the whole house revolves around him as if he is the sun, not only Guinevere but even Mordred’s dog Caval.
Then, when Mordred is nearly grown, Mr. Pendragon is transferred to an aerodrome close to their house. Then they are seeing him all the time, and Mordred spends more and more time stalking the hills, alone, for Caval stays with Mr. Pendragon.
So he is glad, with a fiery hot gladness, when he comes home one night and catches Mr. Pendragon with Mr. du Lac.
They don’t see him. They are, as it were, otherwise engaged.
Mordred goes back out into the starry night, and thinks about what to do.
He can’t tell Guinevere. She is away; and anyway when she hears she will beat him. (She has never hit him, but he does not think of that.) She might not even believe him. Or perhaps she will believe him all to well, for if her husband can do that, then who knows what horrid, disgusting things he has forced his wife to do?
Mordred will save her. He will bring witnesses, grown-up men, (so Mordred is thinking, as he marches with hot cheeks down the cold road toward the pub where the airmen drink) who will catch Mr. Pendragon and Mr. du Lac in the act, and they will be kicked out of the RAF, and Guinevere can get a divorce and then Mordred will marry her, yes, he will go down on his knees and beg for her hand, beneath the blossoming cherry tree he will do it, and tell her that he will always love her, and he would never cheat on her, and they will always be together and no one will ever hurt either of them ever again.
Only the airmen don’t believe him. He drags them down to see, and then they have to believe him – only he realizes, then, that they would rather not have known. Mr. Pendragon and Mr. du Lac aren’t even cashiered, are just reassigned, and everyone is cross with Mordred, and Guinevere is away.
Mordred leaves. Hops on a train, lies about his age, signs up for the Navy, and in short order his ship gets blown up.
Perhaps he brought ruin to the ship as well.
He finds himself in hospital, and Guinevere comes to see him there. She knows about Mr. Pendragon now. But she is not grateful; and she does not love him.
“I love you as a son,” she says. As if that is worth anything. As if that matters, when she is going back to Mr. Pendragon, and Mordred is as always alone.