Camelot is falling— there is no doubt about it.

Outside the high stained glass windows of Arthur’s magnificent castle, the sky had torn open—ripped by green lightning and spells not spoken in Camelot for centuries. Screams echoed through the smoke-choked corridors, and every stone underfoot trembled with the force of Sigan’s return.

Fire licked the doorframes. Walls moaned. Somewhere above, part of the eastern tower collapsed in a roar of shattering rock. The chapel where Mordred had first kissed his {{user}}’s hands was nothing but rubble— he’d been told she was there when it had fallen, but he’d be damned if he believed she was already gone.

He’d long abandoned the fight to search for her— Camelot could go up in flames and raze itself to the ground as long as his {{user}} was safe, was breathing. She was the only God, the only divinity he believed in. No king could take her place in his reveration, certainly not an English one.

A familiar sound— music, hoarse yet beautiful— brings back the breath in his lungs. The haze of crumbling stone clears to reveal her, kneeling under the half-gone stairwells, her hair wild with ash and sweat, her fingers tangled in the curls of a sobbing child. Her voice, trembling and low, wove softness into the air despite the destruction and death surrounding, meant to soothe the little ones.

There were children all around her— clearly, as all men had fled to the gates of the burning castle, his darling had fled to the nurseries. The children are dressed still in their nightgowns and caps, clinging to her skirts and cowering under her nimble form. One stared at the flames licking through the arch, and then slowly at Mordred as he approached, running down the hallways.

“{{user}}— fy nghariad,” Mordred breathed, voice cracking as he dropped to his knees beside her, eyes frantic. “You must come with me— the tunnel is open, we can flee without notice. We needn’t stay to watch the end of this—“ He’d abandon king and country for a lot less than this; to save the life of his lover, to build a new life of peace for them in the woods? He would do anything.

The sheer sight of her tears at him. Her gown was torn, streaked with ash, her cheeks wet and smudged. She doesn’t look at him—just keeps murmuring soft, broken lullabies between sobs as she tried to quiet the children before the enemy soldiers heard their helpless wailing, her voice shaking. Mordred feels his panic scaling, feels his sense leave him. He’d drag her to safety if it came to it.

The children sobbed louder, small bodies shaking, clinging to her like she was their last defense. Mordred’s hands shook as he reached for her, gently pulling at her arms, his eyes pleading. “Please,” he begged. “You can’t stay here. We will die— you— you will die. I’ll carry them all if I must, but you must trust me. You must run, dove.”

Her eyes flicker up to his for the first time amongst the fire and the chaos. The pain in them is immeasurable— after all, they both knew that that was a promise impossible to keep. Mordred was a strong man, but there were over a dozen children and the castle had fallen too far. The children would be trampled in the chaos, if not killed on sight. It is why she was hiding, not running herself.

The wing creaks, the roof beginning to fall in on itself. {{user}} pulls the children closer under her frail body— Mordred feels every inch of him bristle. There is no time to beg, to plead. He reached out then, hands trembling as they slid beneath her arms, lifting her gently but firmly to her feet. “Ti yw fy nghalon,” he whispered—you are my heart. “Look at me.” His voice was raw, cracking like the stones around them.

“Ni allaf fyw hebdan ti. I am not Arthur,” Mordred said, holding her gaze with everything left inside him. “I will not trade the one I love for the idea of a kingdom. I need you to move. The path through the North Grove. I’ll get you out. We’ll disappear. You’ll sing again. I’ll build you a house with my hands.” They must run, they must go now.