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Conversations with Dead People
Nov. 1st, 2011 01:36 amThe castle keep is cold and dank - no one has lived here, worked here, for years. Not since the night Morgana came to steal The Rising and instead made off with his life. But he's here anyway, his breath frosting in the chill autumn air.
"So, it comes to this, apprentice." The words might be familiar and possibly friendly, but this is not at all a friendly situation. The tone is as cold as winter ice, and despite centuries, familiar.
"Mordred." The black knight stands where Merlin fell, a slim shadowy figure who looks nothing at all like his father.
"You were always such a bright boy." Mordred, son of Morgana, sneers. "Mother always said so. She was so disappointed you never understood your true potential." They are phrases that he's heard before, once upon a time in a land lost a long, long time ago.
"Still hiding behind your mother, Mordred?" Balthazar asks tiredly. "Haven't you thought of any new insults? Or have you really come back from the dead just to recycle those hackneyed phrases?" It hasn't escaped him that this must been a dream - he saw the castle keep fall into ruin centuries ago, and he knows where those ruins lay buried.
Mordred smiles, a thin sharp smile that reminds Balthazar that even though Mordred is annoying, and entirely too in love with the dramatic, he's also something else. Entirely evil.
"I do wonder, Balthazar, how mother is getting on with Veronica. All those centuries alone... I doubt there's much left of your little friend." Balthazar doesn't even think, cannot think around the anger and fear. Of course he's wondered, and worried. He has for centuries. And this rat has the gall to even speak her name...
There's a laugh, wild and strong and entirely unpleasant, and Balthazar is alone in the castle keep, as the autumn wind howls past the open doorway.
"So, it comes to this, apprentice." The words might be familiar and possibly friendly, but this is not at all a friendly situation. The tone is as cold as winter ice, and despite centuries, familiar.
"Mordred." The black knight stands where Merlin fell, a slim shadowy figure who looks nothing at all like his father.
"You were always such a bright boy." Mordred, son of Morgana, sneers. "Mother always said so. She was so disappointed you never understood your true potential." They are phrases that he's heard before, once upon a time in a land lost a long, long time ago.
"Still hiding behind your mother, Mordred?" Balthazar asks tiredly. "Haven't you thought of any new insults? Or have you really come back from the dead just to recycle those hackneyed phrases?" It hasn't escaped him that this must been a dream - he saw the castle keep fall into ruin centuries ago, and he knows where those ruins lay buried.
Mordred smiles, a thin sharp smile that reminds Balthazar that even though Mordred is annoying, and entirely too in love with the dramatic, he's also something else. Entirely evil.
"I do wonder, Balthazar, how mother is getting on with Veronica. All those centuries alone... I doubt there's much left of your little friend." Balthazar doesn't even think, cannot think around the anger and fear. Of course he's wondered, and worried. He has for centuries. And this rat has the gall to even speak her name...
There's a laugh, wild and strong and entirely unpleasant, and Balthazar is alone in the castle keep, as the autumn wind howls past the open doorway.
