Alina's confession

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Before we begin, please set your Mordred's appearance. Eyes: <<cycle "$eye">> <<option "green eyes" "green">> <<option "blue eyes" "blue">> <<option "gray eyes" "gray">> <<option "brown eyes" "brown">> <<option "hazel eyes" "hazel">> <<option "violet eyes" "violet">> <<option "black eyes" "black">> <<option "amber eyes" "amber">> <</cycle>> Hair color: <<cycle "$hair">> <<option "dark brown, deep and rich and almost black." "dark brown">> <<option "chestnut brown, dark and lush." "chestnut brown">> <<option "light brown like honey." "light brown">> <<option "lush, dark blond." "dark blonde">> <<option "icy blond, cool and lush." "icy blonde">> <<option "golden blond, warm and lush." "golden blonde">> <<option "auburn, deep red." "auburn">> <<option "copper red, fiery." "copper red">> <<option "pure black like the midnight sky." "black">> <</cycle>> Hair type: <<cycle "$hair_type">> <<option "straight" "straight">> <<option "wavy" "wavy">> <<option "curly" "curly">> <<option "coily with corkscrew coils" "coilycurls">> <<option "coily and cloudlike" "coily">> <</cycle>> Complexion: <<cycle "$complexion">> <<option "ivory" "ivory">> <<option "warm beige" "warm beige">> <<option "cool beige" "cool beige">> <<option "rosy" "rosy">> <<option "tawny" "tawny">> <<option "olive" "olive">> <<option "light brown" "light brown">> <<option "sepia brown" "sepia brown">> <<option "golden brown" "golden brown">> <<option "russet brown" "russet brown">> <<option "dark brown" "dark brown">> <<option "warm black" "warm black">> <<option "cool black" "cool black">> <<option "deep black" "deep black">> <</cycle>> Mordred's pronouns: <<cycle "$gender">> <<option "he/him" "he">> <<option "she/her" "she">> <<option "they/them" "they">> <</cycle>> [[Next|SetMordred]]

<div class="titlelettersone" style='font-size: 100%;'>Llamagirl</div>

<<set $eye = "unknown">> <<set $hair = "unknown">> <<set $gender = "unknown">> <<set $magic = 50>> <<set $swordsmanship = 0>> <<set $persuasion = 50>> <<set $intimidation = 50>> <<set $deceit = 50>> <<set $independent = 50>> <<set $pendragon_magic = "1">> <<set $water_magic = 50>> <<set $honest = 50>> <<set $confident = 50>> <<set $impulsive = 50>> <<set $calm = 50>> <<set $kind = 50>> <<set $defiant = 50>> <<set $emotional = 50>> <<set $affable = 50>> <<set $complexion = "none">> <<set $age = "a few days old">> <<set $controlled_magic = 50>> <<set $hair_type = "no">> <<set $Gareth = 0>> <<set $chapt4_curious = 0>> <<set $chapt4_guilty = 0>>

<<link "Stats" "stats">><</link>> <<link "Credits">> <<script>> Dialog.setup("Credits"); Dialog.wiki(Story.get("credits").processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>>

Name: Known as Mordred Leudonus of Lothia - but more often than not called Mordred Le Fay Age: You are 10 years old. //A description of your likeness// You have $eye eyes, much like your parents, $hair $hair_type hair alike your mother's, Morgana and $complexion complexion like your father's, Arthur. <<link "« Return to game" $return>><</link>>

<a href="https://nyehilism.itch.io/twine-template/">Twine Sugarcube Template</a> <a href="https://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/">Sugarcube 2 Documentation</a> <a href="https://github.com/ChapelR/custom-macros-for-sugarcube-2">Chapel - custom macros collection</a> <a href="https://github.com/cyrusfirheir/cycy-wrote-custom-macros">Cycy's custom macros</a> <a href="https://unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a> for sidebar images (<a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/P8LZaU52NME">light mode</a> and <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/pDKoVuXYKxU">dark mode</a>)

<div class="titlelettersone" style='font-size: 150%;'>The Bastard of Camelot</div>

<<silently>> <<if $gender == "he">> <<set $pgen to 0, $child to "boy">> <<elseif $gender == "she">> <<set $pgen to 1, $child to "girl">> <<else>> <<set $pgen to 2, $child to "child">> <</if>> <</silently>> A few questions before we begin! What does Mordred's relationship with Gareth look like? <div class="choice">[[You're very close; best friends; confidants.|NextQuestion1][$Gareth to 90]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Gareth loves Mordred dearly, and gets protective over them; you're friends.|NextQuestion1][$Gareth to 70]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You're not close, but you get along.|NextQuestion1][$Gareth to 50]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You usually avoid each other. Not hostile, just distant.|NextQuestion1][$Gareth to 30]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You can't stand each other, and often clash.|NextQuestion1][$Gareth to 10]]</div>

On to the story! [[Alina makes a confession. April 2023|Start]]

The note was slid under his door, stopping at the edge of the carpet with a swoosh as gentle as a sigh. Its arrival was heralded by a percussive, nervous knock and the telltale patter of someone running away, surprinsingly fast. <<if $Gareth >= 60>> Gareth was reading, curled up on the sofa and perfectly content with his comfortable position, with no urgency of getting up just yet. <<else>> Gareth was reading, curled up on the sofa and perfectly content with his comfortable position, with no intention of getting up soon. <</if>> The mysterious slip of paper changed everything, though. Curiosity compelled him to rise and grab it - fingers brushing over the soft texture and thick paper, which spoke of a quality that indicated royalty. It came from a peer, most likely. Unfolding it revealed a writing that was overflowing and elegant, though its curlicues seemed clumsy, strained, the work of a hand more used to simpler, more practical penmanship. <<if $Gareth >= 60>> Gareth read the note; it was short, succinct and incredibly inconvenient. Alina Solomon was kindly asking that he meet her in the inner courtyard in an hour's time. Which, unexpected a request though it was, would prove no problem to fulfill - except Mordred expected Gareth in the kitchen in an hour as well, and this later meeting was one he felt more eager to attend. Yet it piqed his interest, and knotted his stomach with ill-defined unease at the same time. Alina had little reason to seek him out. <<else>> Gareth read the note; it was short, succinct and exuding, even from its few lines, a certain anxious hope. Alina Solomon was kindly asking that he meet her in the inner courtyard in an hour's time. Unexpected a request though it was, Gareth had no other obligation to attend to, so no reason not to heed it. Whatever regret over losing his cozy perch on the sofa was replaced with interest in Alina's intentions - interest and ill-defined unease. Alina had little reason to seek him out. <</if>> <<if $Gareth >= 60>> They were far from friends, though they once may have played as if they could be friends, before she proved herself capable of cruelty. Now, they were merely acquaintance navigating the same Court - an unwelcome presence Gareth would rather avoid. Speaking to her brought the bitter taste of bile on his tongue, even as he kept his practiced, affable smile pinned on his lips. This wasn't all that peculiar though - no, stranger yet were Alina's recent attempts to make conversation with Gareth, far often than she'd done before, and outside of any courtly, social cirscumstance where they might find themselves compelled to talk. Perhaps, now that her mean treatment of Mordred had been throughly curbed by the King, she'd thought a good idea to enter Gareth's good graces; as if Gareth could so easily forget all she'd done. Gareth folded back the note, slowly running thumb and index along the ridge as he made up his mind to meet Alina. He'd go, if only to settle matters and sate his own curiosty - but he would not keep Mordred waiting, not on Alina's behalf, so she'd have to be quick. <<elseif $Gareth >= 40>> They were far from friends, though they once may have played as if they could be friends, before she proved herself capable of cruelty. Now, they were merely acquaintances navigating the same Court - a presence Gareth would rather avoid. Speaking to her brought the bitter taste of bile on his tongue, even as he kept his practiced, affable smile pinned to his lips. Gareth folded back the note, slowly running thumb and index along the ridge as he made up his mind to meet Alina. He'd go, if only to settle matters and sate his own curiosty. <<elseif $Gareth >= 20>> They were far from friends. They were acquaintances made familiar by circumstance and rank, navigating the same Court. Less often than with others of his peers, who, unlike Alina, did not find themselves dedicating so much to swingings swords around and whetting blades and throwing punches at hay-stuffed dummies. He never sought out her presence - he avoided her as much as possible. He disliked her cruel conduct, and the things she'd spew about his mother. Gareth folded back the note, slowly running thumb and index along the ridge as he made up his mind to meet Alina. He'd go, if only to settle matters and sate his own curiosty. <<else>> They were far from confidantes - he wouldn't even consider themselves friends. They were acquaintance made cordial by circumstance and rank, navigating the same Court. Less often than with others of his peers, who, unlike Alina, did not find themselves dedicating so much to swingings swords around and whetting blades and throwing punches at hay-stuffed dummies. Gareth folded back the note, slowly running thumb and index along the ridge as he made up his mind to meet Alina. He'd go, as a courtesy to Alina and favor to his own curiosity. <</if>> <<if $Gareth >= 60>> [[Continue|CourtyardMordred60]] <<elseif $Gareth >= 40>> [[Continue|CourtyardMordred40]] <<elseif $Gareth >= 20>> [[Continue|CourtyardMordred20]] <<else>> [[Continue|CourtyardMordred0]] <</if>>

-when leaving with Mordred if they show themselves otherwise on his own mention Gareth thinking back on the "defects". where did she get it from? her family and the court always seemed to act so carefully, so sympathetically - so much so that it came off as insulting and belittling at some point, he couldn't deny. he should consider himself lucky that most people forgot or willingly overlooked his lack of magic in a line of sorcerers, since the sorcerer he could have gotten his magic from was such a beloathed figure at Court. He could understand how one might come to think of themself as less -he too, had wondered what it'd be like, if only the magic hadn't skipped him, if only he too felt that simmer of magic in his veins and were able to do all the things his mother could. he might have grown envious of Mordred - but he couldn't bring himself to be so. He may have become chagrined/resentful of magic itself, the unreachable fruit - but instead he loved all Alina alienated herself against; he loved magic and Mordred and his mother. And whenever frustration and pain rose, he turned in hope to a figure he could relate: Igraine, the grandmother he'd never met, the Le Fay with no magic who, despite that lack, never let it hold her down. when relationship under 20

Upon arriving in the inner courtyard, Gareth found Alina already waiting for him. He hesitated on the gallery, surveying the scene that welcomed him before making his way down the stairs, taking advantage of Alina's ignorance of his presence. What he saw surprised him; the girl looked strangely nervous, as if awaiting examination in a lecture, and not a talk with a peer. Unease extended yet another slimy, slick tendril, wrapping tightly around Gareth. Yet he steeled himself and went down into the courtyard, his light steps against the stone finally alerting her to his arrival. "You wished to see me?" he asked as he stopped before Alina, voice even and patient. Standing closer now, Gareth realized he had misjudged. Anxious though, Alina didn't look as if about to enter an exam; she looked as if headed for a party. Her dress was lovely, and far more refined than was called for in casual circumstances. Which was, indeed, a certain fashion statement some courtiers indulged in, though not Alina, not until now. Her hair, too, was coiffed more than usual, falling sweetly about her rosy-tinged, smiling face. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, soft-spoken as he'd never heard her before. Gareth wanted to get to the bottom of this, to settle this matter now. Yet he would not do that at the expense of Mordred. "Is it urgent?" he asked, retaining his calm, speaking plain enough for her to understand she should get to the point quick. "I promised someone I would be somewhere else very soon." Alina's eyes gleamed, bright and hopeful and //soft//. "But you made time for me," she said, completely misinterpreting Gareth's motivations. Gareth, on the other hand, clearly understood hers now. His unease crystallized to dread as he realized what this was about to turn into. He could have gone away, there and then; cut her short before she could even utter the next words, yet Gareth dithered. No, he decided as he took in her hopeful visage, tender and devoid of the mocking cruelty it held whenever it fell on Mordred. He'd stay, and let Alina say her piece and settle this right now, once and for all. "What is it?" he prompted, keeping his tone flat. She pulled back the arm she'd tucked behind her back and proffered a red rose. "There's something I wanted to tell you." Cool, sharp nails racked his back, yet he let her go on. "I admire you, Gareth. I've admired you for a while now, though I didn't dare approach you..." She tilted her head, brushing blood-red hair behind her flushed ear. "But I dare now, and I dare hope perhaps you'll feel the same." It was quite daring of her - quite preposterous of her to hope he'd return her feelings, after everything. Yet...he found little pleasure in what he was about to do. He softened the blow, mellowed the words, an allowance Alina had never made for Mordred. He didnt' have to stoop to her petty level. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. "I'm sorry, Alina, but I don't feel the same way about you." It's as if, by speaking the rejection, he'd cast a spell to turn her into stone. Alina stood motionless, stunned into silence. The smile crumbled and along with it dimmed the brilliance of her brown eyes. The blood drained from her face as she simply stood there, letting the words sink in - or rather, bite in, deep and sharp. The best course of action right then, for anyone involved, was retreat, as dignified as it could be - which Gareth decided to kindly give the cue for. "Now, I should really get going, if you'll excuse me." Alina didn't budge, though. He expected her to shake off the bemusement and flee the first opportunity she received, to save everyone from further embarrassment. The arm holding the rose fell by her side, the flower's red-crowned head downcast in mortified shame. Alina's head, however, was still held high, her gaze growing shuttered and hard as it pinned Gareth. Fingers tightly wrapped around the rose's stem, as if she might bash it against his head at any moment for his rebuff. When she spoke again, gone was the coy gentleness. "Is this about ?them?" Her words were quiet yet heavy - stones thrown to sink to the bottom of an unfathomable sea that was best left undisturbed. If she continued, she was asking for a storm. "Alina." Alina did not care for his attempts to stop this before it went too far. She was stubborn, as always, mullishily set in her ways, no matter how wrong. The blood returned to her cheeks, an explosion of furious red. She raised her balled fists as she demanded, louder and wilder now: "It is, isn't it?" The last threads of his patience snapped. Any veneer of politeness he'd held up, for both of their sakes, dropped, as he let surface his own simmering frustration. "You've treated ?them poorly for years." //Poorly// was an understatement. This whole confession - romantic confession, that she'd planned in such detail, delicate, tender detail, from the note under the door and red rose to the pretty dress and pink powdered across her freckly cheeks - felt so crude to him. It felts like a sordid joke that she asked. No, that she would even entertain the idea that his answer would be anything other than a resounding //no//. What delusion, to think that he'd take the flower and confess to feeling the same after everything that happened, after everything she'd done to Mordred. Rancor bit at him with sharp and poisoned teeth. Alina should have left at this point - should have left long ago, before it all went awry. Instead she dug her heels further in. "Why do you keep shielding Mordred? You do know ?they <<verb 'is'>> the reason your mother left you!" She realized she went too far only once the words were already out in the open, pervading the air and echoing in the silence. Gareth stewed in that heavy quiet. She went straight for the jugular. She knew where to hit, and she was succesful in her cruel endeavor. How many times had Gareth had to hear such nasty statements, thrown behind his back, sometimes even in his own face, wrapped up in pretty, pitiying smiles and commiserating tones? How many times had he had to endure those same words from his own father? All those attempts to poison him against his sibling and his mother. There was no wonder Morgana would want to get away from this awful, hateful Court and take her child - he only wished she might have taken him too. He'd extended the courtesy of an elegant, quiet retreat to Alina. He'd gave her a clear warning once things started getting out of hand. This time, Gareth opened his mouth and spoke sharply, firmly and articulately enough for her to finally get the message: "I think you should leave, Alina." A chocking, indignant noise rose from the back of her throat, followed by an explosive puff and dramatic toss of the rose, as if the flower itself had any fault in this dreadful charade she started. Finally she took her leave, red-faced and riled. Gareth thought he saw the misty gleam of tears in her eyes before she spun away and ran up the stairs, disappearing with a ringing patter of frenzied footsteps. Left alone, the resentment and wrath that had coursed through his veins, cold and searing like the bite of winter, washed away to weariness. It pushed down on his shoulders like invisible, clawed hands. His gaze fell on the abandoned rose, its petals like spilt blood against the flagstone, marking the scene of a grisly battle. He picked it up, the unwilling witness to all this, the poor victim of Alina's temper. Its thorns had been cut off. Gareth only wished Alina too had shed her thorns. He would have loved to know that the girl had changed, that the King's ultimatum had offered the needed push for her to reflect on her actions and fairly deem them cruel. But, according to Mordred - according to his own ears and eyes - Alina's heart was still poisoned against his sibling, only hidden and smouldering under a feeble veneer of civility that was imposed by Arthur's threat. A veneer so thin it burnt away in the face of her embarrassed rage. <div class="choice">[[Mordred showed themselves. No sense pretending they didn't just witness what happened.|GarethTalk60][$chapt4_curious to 1]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Mordred waited for him to leave before continuing on their way to the kitchen and didn't mention the incident, to spare the both of them whatever this was.|GarethNo60][$chapt4_curious to 2]]</div>

Upon arriving in the inner courtyard, Gareth found Alina already waiting for him. He hesitated on the gallery, surveying the scene that welcomed him before making his way down the stairs, taking advantage of Alina's ignorance of his presence. What he saw surprised him; the girl looked strangely nervous, as if awaiting examination in a lecture, and not a talk with a peer. Unease extended yet another slimy, slick tendril, wrapping tightly around Gareth. Yet he steeled himself and went down into the courtyard, his light steps against the stone finally alerting her to his arrival. "You wished to see me?" he asked as he stopped before her, voice even and patient. Standing closer now, Gareth realized he had misjudged. Anxious though, Alina didn't look as if about to enter an exam; she looked as if headed for a party. Her dress was lovely, and far more refined than was called for in casual circumstances. Which was, indeed, a certain fashion statement some courtiers indulged in, though not Alina, not until now. Her hair, too, was coiffed more than usual, falling sweetly about her rosy-tinged, smiling face. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, soft-spoken as he'd never heard her before. "Talk away, then," Gareth patiently prompted, hidding his own growing curiosity laced with wariness. She giggled, the sound chiming and bright, as if Gareth just said the most amusing thing possible. This bubbly, sweet behavior, with no trace of being a charade, was so unlike her. Alina's intentions were plain to him now. His unease crystallized to dread as he realized what this was about to turn into. He could have gone away, there and then; cut her short before she could even utter the next words, yet Gareth dithered. No, he decided as he took in her hopeful visage, soft and devoid of the mocking cruelty it held whenever it fell on Mordred, or spoke of Morgana. He'd stay, and let Alina say her piece and settle this right now, once and for all. She pulled back the arm she'd tucked behind her back and proffered a red rose. "There's something I wanted to tell you." Cool, sharp nails racked his back, yet he let her go on. "I admire you, Gareth. I've admired you for a while now, though I didn't dare approach you..." She tilted her head, brushing blood-red hair behind her flushed ear. "But I dare now, and I dare hope perhaps you'll feel the same." It was quite daring of her - quite preposterous of her to hope he'd return her feelings, after everything. Yet...he found little pleasure in what he was about to do. He softened the blow, mellowed the words, an allowance Alina had never made for Mordred. He didn't have to stoop to her petty level. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. "I'm sorry, Alina, but I don't feel the same way about you." It's as if, by speaking the rejection, he'd cast a spell to turn her into stone. Alina stood motionless, stunned into silence. The smile crumbled and along with it dimmed the brilliance of her brown eyes. The blood drained from her face as she simply stood there, letting the words sink in - or rather, bite in, deep and sharp. The best course of action right then, for anyone involved, was retreat, as dignified as it could be - which Gareth decided to kindly give the cue for. "Now, I should really get going, if you'll excuse me." Alina didn't budge, though. He expected her to shake off the bemusement and flee the first opportunity she received, to save everyone from further embarrassment. The arm holding the rose fell by her side, the flower's red-crowned head downcast in mortified shame. Alina's head, however, was still held high, her gaze growing shuttered and hard as it pinned Gareth. Fingers tightly wrapped around the rose's stem, as if she might bash it against his head at any moment for his rebuff. When she spoke again, gone was the coy gentleness. "Why?" The word was quiet yet fell heavy in the space between them - like a stone thrown to sink to the bottom of an unfathomable sea that was best left undisturbed. If she continued, she was asking for a storm. "Alina." Alina did not care for his attempts to stop this before it went too far. She was stubborn, as always, mullishily set in her ways, no matter how wrong. "I thought we might understand each other," she said, stumbling desperately over her words, as the blood returned to her cheeks, an explosion of furious red. "Because we're both the..." she halted, slapped the rose against her thigh in a fit of passion and frustration. "Since we're both the defects of our family," she whispered. "Though I suppose it's lucky for you. Gives you a chance to distance yourself from your mother and her name." It was time for Gareth to be stunned, all of his muscles coiling with tension. "Excuse me?" It was disbelief that pushed out the words. He needed no further explanation from Alina - he only needed her to leave - yet she offered it anyway: "Well, your mother's done a great job running a smear campaign on her own name." "Don't speak of her like that." Alina's balled hands raised. "Why are you protecting that woman?" she demanded. "She abandoned you, she abandoned you for that stupid bastard." The last threads of Gareth's patience snapped. Any veneer of politeness he'd held up, for both of their sakes, dropped, as he let surface his own simmering frustration. This whole confession - romantic confession, that she'd planned in such detail, delicate, tender detail, from the note under the door and red rose to the pretty dress and pink powdered across her freckly cheeks - felt so crude to him. It felt like a sordid joke that she asked. No, that she would even entertain the idea that his answer would be anything other but a resounding //no//. What delusion, to think that he'd take the flower and confess to feeling the same after everything that happened, after everything he'd heard her say about his family. Rancor bit at him with sharp and poisoned teeth. How many times had Gareth had to hear such nasty statements, thrown behind his back, sometimes even in his own face, wrapped up in pretty, pitiying smiles and commiserating tones? How many times had he had to endure those same words from his own father? All those attempts to poison him against his sibling and his mother. There was no wonder Morgana would want to get away from this awful, hateful Court and take her child - he only wished she might have taken him too. "Alina," Gareth spoke calmly yet firmly. He'd extended the courtesy of an elegant, quiet retreat to Alina. He'd gave her a warning once things started getting out of hand. This time, he needed to be more articulate. "I know my father allows the court to drag my mother's name through the mud. But I won't stand for it. So next time, Alina, I advise you bite your tongue." A chocking, indignant noise rose from the back of her throat, followed by an explosive puff and dramatic toss of the rose, as if the flower itself had any fault in this dreadful charade she started. Finally she took her leave, red-faced and riled. Gareth thought he saw the misty gleam of tears in her eyes before she spun away and ran up the stairs, disappearing with a ringing patter of frenzied footsteps. Left alone, the resentment and wrath that had coursed through his veins, cold and searing like the bite of winter, washed away to weariness. It pushed down on his shoulders like invisible, clawed hands. His gaze fell on the abandoned rose, its petals like spilt blood against the flagstone, marking the scene of a grisly battle. He picked it up, the unwilling witness to all this, the poor victim of Alina's temper. Its thorns had been cut off. Gareth only wished Alina too had shed her thorns. He would have loved to know that the girl had changed, that the King's ultimatum had offered the needed push for her to reflect on her actions and fairly deem them cruel. But, according to Mordred - according to his own ears and eyes - Alina's heart was still poisoned against his sibling and mother, only hidden and smouldering under a feeble veneer of civility that was imposed by Arthur's threat. A veneer so thin it burnt away in the face of her embarrassed rage. He carefully placed down the rose on the stone bench by the wall, a splash of blood-red against the monotone beige. Then he headed up the same stairs Alina stormed off, intent on leaving this disastruous confession behind, too. [[Next|Gareth40]]

Upon arriving in the inner courtyard, Gareth found Alina already waiting for him. He hesitated on the gallery, surveying the scene that welcomed him before making his way down the stairs, taking advantage of Alina's ignorance of his presence. What he saw surprised him; the girl looked strangely nervous, as if awaiting examination in a lecture, and not a talk with a peer. Unease extended yet another slimy, slick tendril, wrapping tightly around Gareth. Yet he steeled himself and went down into the courtyard, his light steps against the stone finallyalerting her to his arrival. "You wished to see me?" he asked as he stopped before her, voice even and patient. Standing closer now, Gareth realized he had misjudged. Anxious though, Alina didn't look as if about to enter an exam; she looked as if headed for a party. Her dress was lovely, and far more refined than was called for in casual circumstances. Which was, indeed, a certain fashion statement some courtiers indulged in, though not Alina, not until now. Her hair, too, was coiffed more than usual, falling sweetly about her rosy-tinged, smiling face. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, soft-spoken as he'd never heard her before. "Talk away, then," Gareth patiently prompted, hidding his own growing curiosity laced with wariness. She giggled, the sound chiming and bright, as if Gareth just said the most amusing thing possible. This bubbly, sweet behavior, with no trace of being a charade, was so unlike her. Alina's intentions were plain to him now. His unease crystallized to dread as he realized what this was about to turn into. He could have gone away, there and then; cut her short before she could even utter the next words, yet Gareth dithered. No, he decided as he took in her hopeful visage, soft and devoid of the mocking cruelty it held whenever she spoke of Morgana, or looked upon Mordred. He'd stay, and let Alina say her piece and settle this right now, once and for all. She pulled back the arm she'd tucked behind her back and proffered a red rose. "There's something I wanted to tell you." Cool, sharp nails racked his back, yet he let her go on. "I admire you, Gareth. I've admired you for a while now, though I didn't dare approach you..." She tilted her head, brushing blood-red hair behind her flushed ear. "But I dare now, and I dare hope perhaps you'll feel the same." It was quite daring of her - quite preposterous of her to hope he'd return her feelings, after everything. Yet...he found little pleasure in what he was about to do. He softened the blow, mellowed the words, an allowance Alina had never made when speaking of his family. He didn't have to stoop to her petty level. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. "I'm sorry, Alina, but I don't feel the same way about you." It's as if, by speaking the rejection, he'd cast a spell to turn her into stone. Alina stood motionless, stunned into silence. The smile crumbled and along with it dimmed the brilliance of her brown eyes. The blood drained from her face as she simply stood there, letting the words sink in - or rather, bite in, deep and sharp. The best course of action right then, for anyone involved, was retreat, as dignified as it could be - which Gareth decided to kindly give the cue for. "Now, I should really get going, if you'll excuse me." Alina didn't budge, though. He expected her to shake off the bemusement and flee the first opportunity she received, to save everyone from further embarrassment. The arm holding the rose fell by her side, the flower's red-crowned head downcast in mortified shame. Alina's head, however, was still held high, her gaze growing shuttered and hard as it pinned Gareth. Fingers tightly wrapped around the rose's stem, as if she might bash it against his head at any moment for his rebuff. When she spoke again, gone was the coy gentleness. "Why?" The word was quiet yet fell heavy in the space between them - like a stone thrown to sink to the bottom of an unfathomable sea that was best left undisturbed. If she continued, she was asking for a storm. "Alina." Alina did not care for his attempts to stop this before it went too far. She was stubborn, as always, mullishily set in her ways, no matter how wrong. "I thought we might understand each other," she said, stumbling desperately over her words, as the blood returned to her cheeks, an explosion of furious red. "Because we're both the..." she halted, slapped the rose against her thigh in a fit of passion and frustration. "Since we're both the defects of our family," she whispered. "Though I suppose it's lucky for you. Gives you a chance to distance yourself from your mother and her name." It was time for Gareth to be stunned, all of his muscles coiling with tension. "Excuse me?" It was disbelief that pushed out the words. He needed no further explanation from Alina - he only needed her to leave - yet she offered it anyway: "Well, your mother's done a great job running a smear campaign on her own name." "Don't speak of her like that." Alina's balled hands raised. "Why are you protecting that woman?" she demanded. "She abandoned you, she abandoned you for that stupid bastard." The last threads of Gareth's patience snapped. Any veneer of politeness he'd held up, for both of their sakes, dropped, as he let surface his own simmering frustration. This whole confession - romantic confession, that she'd planned in such detail, delicate, tender detail, from the note under the door and red rose to the pretty dress and pink powdered across her freckly cheeks - felt so crude to him. It felt like a sordid joke that she asked. No, that she would even entertain the idea that his answer would be anything other but a resounding //no//. What delusion, to think that he'd take the flower and confess to feeling the same after everything that happened, after everything he'd heard her say about his family. And to have her now pour that poison right in his face? Rancor bit at him with sharp and poisoned teeth. How many times had Gareth had to hear such nasty statements, thrown behind his back, sometimes even in his own face, wrapped up in pretty, pitiying smiles and commiserating tones? How many times had he had to endure those same words from his own father? All those attempts to poison him against his mother and his sibling. There was no wonder Morgana would want to get away from this awful, hateful Court and take her child - he only wished she might have taken him too. "Alina," Gareth spoke calmly yet firmly. He'd extended the courtesy of an elegant, quiet retreat to Alina. He'd gave her a warning once things started getting out of hand. This time, he needed to be more articulate. "I know my father allows the court to drag my mother's name through the mud. But I won't stand for it. So next time, Alina, I advise you bite your tongue." A chocking, indignant noise rose from the back of her throat, followed by an explosive puff and dramatic toss of the rose, as if the flower itself had any fault in this dreadful charade she started. Finally she took her leave, red-faced and riled. Gareth thought he saw the misty gleam of tears in her eyes before she spun away and ran up the stairs, disappearing with a ringing patter of frenzied footsteps. Left alone, the resentment and wrath that had coursed through his veins, cold and searing like the bite of winter, washed away to weariness. It pushed down on his shoulders like invisible, clawed hands. His gaze fell on the abandoned rose, its petals like spilt blood against the flagstone, marking the scene of a grisly battle. He picked it up, the unwilling witness to all this, the poor victim of Alina's temper. Its thorns had been cut off. Gareth only wished Alina too had shed her thorns. He would have loved to know that the girl had changed, that the King's ultimatum had offered the needed push for her to reflect on her actions and fairly deem them cruel. But Alina's heart was still poisoned against his family, only hidden and smouldering under a feeble veneer of civility that was imposed by Arthur's threat. A veneer so thin it burnt away in the face of her embarrassed rage. He carefully placed down the rose on the stone bench by the wall, a splash of blood-red against the monotone beige. Then he headed up the same stairs Alina stormed off, intent on leaving this disastruous confession behind, too. [[Next|Gareth20]]

Upon arriving in the inner courtyard, Gareth found Alina already waiting for him. He hesitated on the gallery, surveying the scene that welcomed him before making his way down the stairs, taking advantage of Alina's ignorance of his presence. What he saw surprised him; the girl looked strangely nervous, as if awaiting examination in a lecture, and not a talk with a peer. Unease extended yet another slimy, slick tendril, wrapping tightly around Gareth. Yet he steeled himself and went down into the courtyard, his light steps against the stone finally alerting her to his arrival. "You wished to see me?" he asked as he stopped before her, voice even and patient. Standing closer now, Gareth realized he had misjudged. Anxious though, Alina didn't look as if about to enter an exam; she looked as if headed for a party. Her dress was lovely, and far more refined than was called for in casual circumstances. Which was, indeed, a certain fashion statement some Courtiers indulged in, though not Alina, not until now. Her hair, too, was coiffed more than usual, falling sweetly about her rosy-tinged, smiling face. "I wanted to talk to you," she said, soft-spoken as he'd never heard her before. "Talk away, then," Gareth patiently prompted, hidding his own growing curiosity laced with wariness. She giggled, the sound chiming and bright, as if Gareth just said the most amusing thing possible. This bubbly, sweet behavior, with no trace of being a charade, was so unlike her. Alina's intentions were plain to him now. His unease crystallized to dread as he realized what this was about to turn into. He could have gone away, there and then; cut her short before she could even utter the next words, yet Gareth dithered. No, he decided as he took in her hopeful visage, soft and devoid of the mocking cruelty it held whenever she spoke of Morgana. He'd stay, and let Alina say her piece and settle this right now, once and for all. She pulled back the arm she'd tucked behind her back and proffered a red rose. "There's something I wanted to tell you." Cool, sharp nails racked his back, yet he let her go on. "I admire you, Gareth. I've admired you for a while now, though I didn't dare approach you..." She tilted her head, brushing blood-red hair behind her flushed ear. "But I dare now, and I dare hope perhaps you'll feel the same." It was quite daring of her - quite preposterous of her to hope he'd return her feelings, after everything. Yet...he found little pleasure in what he was about to do. He softened the blow, mellowed the words, an allowance Alina had never afforded when speaking of his mother to others. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. "I'm sorry, Alina, but I don't feel the same way about you." It's as if, by speaking the rejection, he'd cast a spell to turn her into stone. Alina stood motionless, stunned into silence. The smile crumbled and along with it dimmed the brilliance of her brown eyes. The blood drained from her face as she simply stood there, letting the words sink in - or rather, bite in, deep and sharp. The best course of action right now, for anyone involved, was retreat, as dignified as it could be - which Gareth decided to kindly give the cue for. "Now, I should really get going, if you'll excuse me." Alina didn't budge, though. He expected her to shake off the bemusement and flee the first opportunity she received, to save everyone from further embarrassment. The arm holding the rose fell by her side, the flower's red-crowned head downcast in mortified shame. Alina's head, however, was still held high, her gaze growing shuttered and hard as it pinned Gareth. Fingers tightly wrapped around the rose's stem, as if she might bash it against his head at any moment for his rebuff. When she spoke again, gone was the coy gentleness. "Why?" The word was quiet yet fell heavy in the space between them - like a stone thrown to sink to the bottom of an unfathomable sea that was best left undisturbed. If she continued, she was asking for a storm. "Alina." Alina did not care for his attempts to stop this before it went too far. She was stubborn, as always, mullishily set in her ways, no matter how wrong. "I thought we might understand each other," she said, stumbling desperately over her words, as the blood returned to her cheeks, an explosion of furious red. "Because we're both the..." she halted, slapped the rose against her thigh in a fit of passion and frustration. "Since we're both the defects of our family," she whispered. "Though I suppose it's lucky for you. Gives you a chance to distance yourself from your mother and her name." It was time for Gareth to be stunned, all of his muscles coiling with tension. "Excuse me?" It was disbelief that pushed out the words. He needed no further explanation from Alina - he only needed her to leave - yet she offered it anyway: "Well, your mother's done a great job running a smear campaign on her own name." "Don't speak of her like that." Alina's balled hands raised. "Why are you protecting that woman?" she demanded. "She abandoned you, she abandoned you for that stupid bastard." The last threads of Gareth's patience snapped. Any veneer of politeness he'd held up, for both of their sakes, dropped, as he let surface his own simmering frustration. This whole confession - romantic confession, that she'd planned in such detail, delicate, tender detail, from the note under the door and red rose to the pretty dress and pink powdered across her freckly cheeks - felt so crude to him. It felt like a sordid joke that she asked. No, that she would even entertain the idea that his answer would be anything other but a resounding //no//. What delusion, to think that he'd take the flower and confess to feeling the same after everything that happened, after everything he'd heard her say about his family. And to have her now pour that poison right in his face? Rancor bit at him with sharp and poisoned teeth. How many times had Gareth had to hear such nasty statements, thrown behind his back, sometimes even in his own face, wrapped up in pretty, pitiying smiles and commiserating tones? How many times had he had to endure those same words from his own father? All those attempts to poison him against his mother. There was no wonder Morgana would want to get away from this awful, hateful Court and take her child - he only wished she might have taken him too. "Alina," Gareth spoke calmly yet firmly. He'd extended the courtesy of an elegant, quiet retreat to Alina. He'd gave her a warning once things started getting out of hand. This time, he needed to be more articulate. "I know my father allows the court to drag my mother's name through the mud. But I won't stand for it. So next time, Alina, I advise you bite your tongue." A chocking, indignant noise rose from the back of her throat, followed by an explosive puff and dramatic toss of the rose, as if the flower itself had any fault in this dreadful charade she started. Finally she took her leave, red-faced and riled. Gareth thought he saw the misty gleam of tears in her eyes before she spun away and ran up the stairs, disappearing with a ringing patter of frenzied footsteps. Left alone, the resentment and wrath that had coursed through his veins, cold and searing like the bite of winter, washed away to weariness. It pushed down on his shoulders like invisible, clawed hands. His gaze fell on the abandoned rose, its petals like spilt blood against the flagstone, marking the scene of a grisly battle. He picked it up, the unwilling witness to all this, the poor victim of Alina's temper. Its thorns had been cut off. Gareth only wished Alina too had shed her thorns. He hated how she'd jumped directly to attacking his mother, as if that would earn her any favor with him. If she meant to sting, she'd fulfilled her aim. She got her chance to inflict pain in exchange for her own humiliation, for her moment of vulnerability. Whatever made her think this would go well? Her words echoed in his head, like an answer. //Since we're both the defects of our family.// Those words had hit, too, for an entirely different reason. Gareth could understand that bitterness, that resentment that accompanied them, and where it welled from. Had he not felt it before? Even now it raised bile to his mouth, just to think of how the magic skipped him, forsake him - but not Mordred. Mordred, who made it all the more worse for his mother. Mordred, for whose sake she fled to Avalon. He carefully placed down the rose on the stone bench by the wall, a splash of blood-red against the monotone beige. Then he headed up the same stairs Alina stormed off, intent on leaving this disastruous confession behind, too. [[The End|End]]

The patter of boots - not Alina's, but gentle, slow steps close behind - speared the silence and startled him. "Mordred." He stared, perplexed, at the figure across the courtyard. How long had ?they been here? He hadn't heard ?their descent - though he could have been too distracted to. ?Their sheepish, uncomfortable expression spoke of a less pleasant possibility. He summoned a weak smile - it felt more like a grimace on his lips, weighed down by all that pressed down on him. "How much did you catch of that?" Mordred made a humming noise, an inarticulate buzz to fill the air between them and substitute the lack of an actual answer that neither were happy to admit to. Then ?they finally said: "Everything." Gareth expelled a sigh, ripping his gaze from Mordred to the rose he still held in his hand. He rolled it between thumb and index, spinning it as quickly as his thoughts. He hated how Alina had jumped directly to attacking Mordred, as if that would earn her any favor with him. If she meant to sting, she'd fulfilled her aim - more than she could have known, more than she could have hoped, given Mordred too was here to witness her horrible words. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Mordred should take the fall for so many things out of their control - that everyone would pile up guilt and crimes on to ?them, so carelessly, so coldly. Gareth looked back up at Mordred, voice low and gentle as he said, "You do know it's not your fault, do you?" <div class="choice">[["I know," Mordred lied. They couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty.|GarethTalk60Mordred][$chapt4_guilty to 1]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Technically, she's not wrong," Mordred said airily, trying to hide their hurt.|GarethTalk60Mordred][$chapt4_guilty to 2]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I know," Mordred said. "I just hate how she said that to hurt you."|GarethTalk60Mordred][$chapt4_guilty to 3]]</div> <div class="choice">[["She's stupid anyway," Mordred said flippantly, wanting to leave this subject behind. They just hated how she said that to hurt him.|GarethTalk60Mordred][$chapt4_guilty to 4]]</div>

Still, even as he made his way through the gallery, then the white-walled halls of the Castle, towards the kitchen, his mind kept circling back to the exchange. He hated how Alina had jumped directly to attacking Mordred, as if that would earn her any favor with him. If she meant to sting, she'd fulfilled her aim. She got her chance to inflict pain in exchange for her own humiliation, for her moment of vulnerability. Whatever made her think this would go well? What did she think might link them, despite everything? A thought crept up on him. There had been...other instances before, when Alina had tried to make conversation. He thought it was her going for clumsy reconciliation, all for the sake of entering his good graces, but now he wondered if it were more. A genuine attempt at connection. Gareth kept all chatter with her brief, but there had been mentions of their lack of magic. It never went anywhere, but now Gareth could clearly see the thread she'd picked up, that she thought might tie them together. They both were the ones forsaken by the magic in their bloods. But whereas this glaring lack brew resentment in her, in Gareth it blossomed into something brighter. A curiosity, an affinity for that which, despite not posessing it, he strived to understand. A part of him longed and grieved for the magic he did not have, but he always tried not to dwell on rancor. It turned one sour, as he'd seen with his father. Instead he turned in hope to a figure he could relate to: Igraine, the grandmother he'd never met, the Le Fay with no magic who, despite that lack, never let it hold her down. [[The End|End]]

Still, even as he made his way through the gallery, then the white-walled halls of the Castle, back to his chamber, his mind kept circling back to the exchange. He hated how Alina had jumped directly to attacking his mother, as if that would earn her any favor with him. If she meant to sting, she'd fulfilled her aim. She got her chance to inflict pain in exchange for her own humiliation, for her moment of vulnerability. Whatever made her think this would go well? Her words echoed in his head, like an answer. //Since we're both the defects of our family.// Those words had hit, too, for an entirely different reason. Gareth could never condone Alina's actions, but he understood her frustration. No one ever said the word //defects//, but it wormed its way into her head, somehow. Her family and the Court always seemed to act so carefully, so sympathetically - regarding her //condition//, her status as magicless among a family so predominantly made up of sorcerers. So carefully they acted, in fact, he could see how it may start coming off as insulting. Perhaps he should have considered himself lucky that most people forgot or willingly overlooked his lack of magic in a line of sorcerers, since the sorcerer he could have gotten his magic from was such a beloathed figure at Court. He could understand how one might come to think of themselves as less - he too, had wondered what it'd be like, if only the magic hadn't skipped him, if only he too felt that simmer of magic in his veins and were able to do all the things his mother could. But did it really make him less, or was that what he'd make himself believe? Of course, the lack of magic would be glaring, standing among a family of sorcerers - but why should that hinder them? Gareth wanted to believe he could be more, sorcerer or not. That he was deserving of the Le Fay name, that he could wear it proudly - just as Igraine had. [[The End|End]]

Still, even as he made his way through the gallery, then the white-walled halls of the Castle, back to his chamber, his mind kept circling back to the exchange. He hated how Alina had jumped directly to attacking his mother, as if that would earn her any favor with him. If she meant to sting, she'd fulfilled her aim. She got her chance to inflict pain in exchange for her own humiliation, for her moment of vulnerability. Whatever made her think this would go well? Her words echoed in his head, like an answer. //Since we're both the defects of our family.// Those words had hit, too, for an entirely different reason. Gareth could understand that bitterness, that resentment that accompanied them, and where it welled from. There were many times when he, too, felt that his lack of magic had rendered him...less. Less of a Le Fay, oddly disconnected from this side of the family, what with everyone trying so hard to distance him from Morgana's reputation - and how easily it was for them to do so, when he wasn't even a sorcerer. When he resembled Lot so much. They could simply ignore the parts they didn't like, and shine light on the image of Gareth they'd constructed for themselves. Gareth understood Alina's sentiments, even if he didn't condone her actions. He knew well the taste of bile, brought on by the thought of how the magic had forsaken him. He felt so envious of Mordred at times. It hurt to think how mother had left him all those years, all for Mordred's sake. How he wished she would have taken him, too. It wasn't Mordred's fault for any of that, though. Whoever inherited magic was a fluke; and fate did not smile down upon Gareth. [[The End|End]]

<<if $chapt4_guilty == 1>> Mordred's lips curled in a small smile. "I know," ?they said. Gareth really, really hoped Mordred did. And if ?they didn't, he was going to repeat it till ?they believed it too. <<elseif $chapt4_guilty == 2>> Mordred bounced on the ball of ?their feet, affecting nonchalance as ?they drawled, "Well, technically, she's not wrong." Pain lanced his chest, a pain more acute than Alina could have caused with any nasty word thrown his way. That, he could handle. "That's not true, Mordred. It is most definitely not your fault." "I was the catalyst for her leaving the Continent," Mordred insisted, waving a hand dismissively - as if ?their concerning feelings on the matter and all this undue blame placed on ?their shoulders was merely some annoying bee. "You were a baby. And I'm pretty sure not the one who told her to leave." "Maybe I was an evil whispering baby." Gareth snorted despite himself. He hoped that if Mordred could joke about all this, ?they weren't judging ?themselves too harshly - but it could all had been a front, much like Gareth himself put on. "Fine, //evil whispering baby//. Less blame, more cake, alright?" He would not push things now; but if Mordred ever needed a reminder it never was, and never will be ?their fault, he'd be there for ?them. "Let's go." <<elseif $chapt4_guilty == 3>> They had touched on his subject before, threaded it lightly as if it were thin ice. Gareth was cautious, mindful of not opening wounds, but with all the undue blame hurled on Mordred, he needed to be sure ?they wouldn't start believing it, too. "I know," Mordred said with a weary sigh. "I just hate how she said that to hurt you." It was endearing ?they'd worry about him - could he fault ?them for it, when he harbored concern for Mordred himself? - but the words placed more sharpness towards Mordred than him. While their edge had cut and drawn blood from Gareth, it was his own wound to heal. "Don't worry about it, Mordred," he said. "You always say that. Doesn't change anything." Such impertinence! How could ?they worry, when he'd explicitly told ?them not you? That earned ?them a playful rose across the arm. Mordred smiled. "Shall we go? Cake's waiting for us." <<elseif $chapt4_guilty == 4>> They had touched on his subject before, threaded it lightly as if it were thin ice. Gareth was cautious, mindful of not opening wounds, but with all the undue blame hurled on Mordred, he needed to be sure ?they wouldn't start believing it, too. "It's stupid. //She's stupid//," Mordred said with feeling, crossing ?their arms and shrugging as if to throw off all these troubles forced upon ?them. "Let's go have cake." It was stupid, and best left behind them. They could talk more about this, but not now. Not when sweet cake awaited. Gareh smiled. "Let's." <</if>> They walked away, talking of happier topics. Upon a lull in the conversation though, Gareth's mind slipped back to the disastruous exchange in the courtyard. Whatever did Alina think there was, to give hope enough for her to confess? A thought crept up on him. There had been...other instances before, when Alina had tried to make conversation. He thought it was her going for clumsy reconciliation, all for the sake of entering his good graces, but now he wondered if it were more. A genuine attempt at connection. Gareth kept all chatter with her brief, but there had been mentions of their lack of magic. It never went anywhere, but now Gareth could clearly see the thread she'd picked up, that she thought might tie them together. They both were the ones forsaken by the magic in their bloods. But whereas this glaring lack brew resentment in her, in Gareth it blossomed into something brighter. A curiosity, an affinity for that which, despite not posessing it, he strived to understand. A part of him longed and grieved for the magic he did not have, but he always tried not to dwell on rancor. It turned one sour, as he'd seen with his father. Instead he turned in hope to a figure he could relate to: Igraine, the grandmother he'd never met, the Le Fay with no magic who, despite that lack, never let it hold her down. [[The End|End]]

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!