[ The ease at which Gray regains her feet is impressive. Watching her, Mordred wonders if in another time and place, the other girl could have carved out a life for herself on the battlefield, and how fast it would have broken her. How much violence and bloodshed would have been too much? How much meaning would she have been able to find in the meaninglessness of war, the futility of peace? Would whatever was left even be recognizable, or would it be as different as the child who looked upon a glorious king, and the monster who fell at the end of his lance years later?
(Still a better hypothetical to ponder than the other, far more obvious one: if Mordred had never been born, if Camelot had never fallen, would Gray have needed to learn these skills in the first place? Or would she have lived a peaceful life, with her own face, and never had to know such cruelty?
Isn't this another of her own sins, in the end?)
Deflecting Gray's attacks is simple enough, though not as simple as she expected it to be going in. (One thing she should have learned long ago: nothing is simple when it comes to Gray.) If she were to use a fraction of her real strength, she could surely end this fight in an instant, yet she finds herself unable to do more than defend. When, after a minute of barely holding her ground, she's forced to take a step back under the onslaught of blows, something snaps. ]
More! Faster! I'm freakin' falling asleep over here! [ A frenzied madness rises, threatening to overtake her — she lets it out with a roar. ] What's the point? What's the point of you having that, if you can't even kill me?
[ Sealed or in a different form, it's still the same weapon, wielded by someone with the same face, on the opposite side of the battlefield from her. She can practically hear Morgan's laughter, a mocking taunt echoing in the back of her mind, louder and louder, until it drowns out the sound of everything around her; already half-blind with rage, and now half-deaf too.
With wild eyes and a wilder expression, she abandons Clarent altogether — throwing the sword to the ground beside her — and moves in to grab Gray's hands instead, to lock the two of them into a more primal struggle. No doubt it'll mean taking a scythe-blow to the shoulder, the side, or somewhere more deadly, but she doesn't care. ]
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(Still a better hypothetical to ponder than the other, far more obvious one: if Mordred had never been born, if Camelot had never fallen, would Gray have needed to learn these skills in the first place? Or would she have lived a peaceful life, with her own face, and never had to know such cruelty?
Isn't this another of her own sins, in the end?)
Deflecting Gray's attacks is simple enough, though not as simple as she expected it to be going in. (One thing she should have learned long ago: nothing is simple when it comes to Gray.) If she were to use a fraction of her real strength, she could surely end this fight in an instant, yet she finds herself unable to do more than defend. When, after a minute of barely holding her ground, she's forced to take a step back under the onslaught of blows, something snaps. ]
More! Faster! I'm freakin' falling asleep over here! [ A frenzied madness rises, threatening to overtake her — she lets it out with a roar. ] What's the point? What's the point of you having that, if you can't even kill me?
[ Sealed or in a different form, it's still the same weapon, wielded by someone with the same face, on the opposite side of the battlefield from her. She can practically hear Morgan's laughter, a mocking taunt echoing in the back of her mind, louder and louder, until it drowns out the sound of everything around her; already half-blind with rage, and now half-deaf too.
With wild eyes and a wilder expression, she abandons Clarent altogether — throwing the sword to the ground beside her — and moves in to grab Gray's hands instead, to lock the two of them into a more primal struggle. No doubt it'll mean taking a scythe-blow to the shoulder, the side, or somewhere more deadly, but she doesn't care. ]