Mordred (Concept)

I watched the dark with sharp eyes, the howls of wolves lingering in the distance, crickets and frogs crying, the owls and nightingales singing without care. Despite the pitch of the dark, I could see. I could smell. I could hear. My ears picked up the soft fluttering of wings and the rustling as a boar scratched through the damp, autumnal earth, seeking berries and truffles for the hoard of piglets following. I could smell their heat, the warmth of their coat, hear their little hearts flourishing. My muscles rippled, my mouth drying, but I stiffened myself, clutching at the unloaded shotgun I held tight. I couldn't hunt. I couldn't turn. If I did, I'd give us away. The only way to survive right now was to pretend to be human.

A scented fire now. Inside, Hanna was heating the stove up, poking it to get alight. Meat followed, fat and crackling. Normally I would like the smell of it. The bear in me would raise its head and recognise the signs of a meal. I didn't eat nearly enough to keep me strong and full, the children came first when it came to food. But sometimes, the smell of meat did something else to me. Wrenched memories I'd rather forget.

It seems tonight was one of those times.

Suddenly, I was back south; a ball of heat roaring behind me. The stink of oil, charred metal and cooking flesh shoved its way up my nose, but it couldn't block out the blood. It was everywhere. Over me. On the earth and tracks. Pumping from the woman I had just become friends with.

The bear in me stirred, fighting to fight. I shook my head, trying to shut out the vision, but I couldn't. It pressed down on me mercilessly. Forcing me to remember hauling Diane from the wreckage of the steam-train broiled in flames and death. Forcing me to remember she was lost anyway by the shrapnel lodged in her chest, slicing her open. Forcing me to remember her clutching at my hands, begging me to cut open her swollen belly and give her baby the chance of life. I'd done it. I'd grabbed a knife and cut out the baby, two weeks too early but determined to give them a chance. She had died of blood loss before I'd even finished and be able to show her her little boy. All I could do was stare and cradle the squalling child, feeling sick with terror and shock and drowning in blood and fire.

'Maeve?'

I shuddered free off the memory, rubbing at my nose to rid the smoke and burning flesh, and quickly cleared my throat to shed the tears gathering in my eyes. 'Yes?'

I looked over my shoulder, finding a dainty woman staring with big soft eyes, soft skinned and as white as a swan. Cybil, a woman who was deceptively brave and the only reason that baby still lived. With two young children of her own, she was able to feed him when I couldn't, and helped me learn how to be a mother when I had no idea. As a swan, she had struggled being close to me, fearing I'd eat her, but she had become a fast and close friend before long.

Cybil was watching me with a nervous frown, her worry showing clearly, and something shifted by her drab, scratchy skirts. A small boy, long but fragile with curling chestnut hair and umber skin, stared sheepishly.

'Doyle ain't sleeping.' Cybil said. 'Think he's out of sorts with Mordred gone.'

I smiled softly. It was my turn to be watching out for trouble and couldn't afford distractions, but if Doyle needed me, he needed me. I gestured for him to come and he stumbled forward, diving into my chest and burying himself in my bear-fur coat. I could feel him trembling, smelt the warmth of him, the scent of a fawn drifting up. He was sensitive; most sensitive to where myself or Mordred was out of a haphazard group.

I held him close, setting my old shotgun aside and gently cradling him. 'Did you have a nightmare?' I asked.

Doyle simply nodded.

'What about?'

'Daddy.'

My heart tightened at the title he'd given Mordred. It wasn't surprising. Mordred was the man most hands on with Doyle ever since he was brought to me, half dead after being caught in a bear-trap. At first, caring for Doyle had been a means to return to me saving his life, but I knew now it was because Mordred felt the bond himself. It surprised me. Mordred was a bear, rough and solitary, men often having little paternal drives, but he never minded Doyle tottering after him, calling him daddy or needing reassurances whenever he had to leave to check on potential dangers.

In turn, it was no surprise that I, and lonely female, was being increasingly drawn to him. Despite Mordred's roughness, how quiet he was and keeping to himself, sharing nothing but a name I knew was a lie and always holding me at arm's length, I found myself wanting to be by his side, watching him, how, despite his limp, he moved powerfully, his large hands deft and steady, his dark eyes burning with a bestial wilderness his patience never betrayed.

Doyle squirmed, burying himself deeper to hide from the cold, his little body unable to warm himself. I wrapped him up tight.

'Daddy's gone to check out something.'

That something was soldiers. National men armed to the teeth hunting down people like us. Beasts. Humans with animal souls knitted deep within. Before, I had lived within a city, working as a nurse. I was happy. I was safe. Yes, I was barely paid, yes, I was judged and barely accepted amongst civilisation, but I didn't need it. I was a bear. Solitude was my life, I just liked to be left alone. Most did when I showed my strength and realised they couldn't bully me or chase me from my home. That was until a city further north broke out in rebellion, refusing slavery standards as their life. Fires, death, and war spread like wildfire, whipping up distrust and hate to such a frenzy all beasts were declared killers. Monsters. Murderers. Despite having never harmed a fly, I knew the pitchforks were being sharpened. I had fled south, like many others, and that flight had led me to a small farm on the mountains, a baby writhing in my arms and a handful of survivors by my side from that dreadful train. We had survived two years so far, but the war still raged. It still wasn't safe to go home or even leave to try forge south again.

But I didn't tell Doyle that. I didn't tell Doyle that Mordred was out there with Greyson, our resident boar, making sure those soldiers didn't find us and, if they did, they vanished with clues pointing well away from here.

Instead, I just said something.

'Want daddy back.' Doyle mewled miserably, the worry thick in his throat.

Doyle didn't need to know his adoptive father was risking his life. He just knew.

'He'll be back soon.'

Doyle huffed, sniffing back a wail, but he fell silent when I stiffened. There, thrumming against my ears, was the roar of an engine. Propellers whirling, an engine roaring, wind being cut in two. I glanced up sharply at the night sky clawed at by pines and branches. A plane.

I whirled about, clutching Doyle in one hand while grabbing my shotgun to bash it against the door. The chatter inside died before a rush of feet echoed. Little candles were snuffed out, the stove doused, and the black-out curtains were tugged just to make sure. I shushed Doyle as he bit his lip and swallowed his fear, my arms cradling him and comforting him. The plane whirled over ahead. I couldn't see it, the sky was too dark and the moon black, but it was there. It could be a trade or passanger plane, we were far enough from the fighting for safe air travel, but it most likely was a scout sweeping over the mountains just to make sure beasts weren't hiding amongst the trees.

After a few heartbeats, it faded, and I gently tapped again. Voices murmured and lights came alight, relief rushing out.

'It's gone now, Doyle. It's gone.' I murmured.

But I could tell he was upset, the plane having disturbed him and Mordred still being gone making him more worried than a two year old needed to be. So, I gently slipped out the battered penny-adventure novel from my coat that smelt of cigarettes, the one Mordred first read to us when Doyle struggled to sleep. I flicked it open and began to read, smiling when it had the exact effect I wanted. Doyle began to shiver less, and his ears became raptured by those words he knew, settling him.

So, I read in the late evening, soothing the son that had been flung into my life, waiting for the man I was growing to love but shouldn't to return home, and all the while listening for dangers that lurked in the darkness, trying to keep the small family I'd cobbled together safe.

Survive. I just needed to survive. Then we could go home and life could begin again.