Cowboys & Aliens UK Premiere in London, August 11th

amnell:

Jon will want me, even if no one else does. He’ll call me “little sister” and muss my hair.

hotelsongs:

contrasts | slayground | nephilims:

juan: have you comissioned your portrait yet brother?
cesare: i see no need.

 #OF COURSE YOU SEE NO NEED #YOU’RE PROBABLY ALL LIKE FUCK PORTRAITS BITCHES REMEMBER MY FACE WHENEVER I FUCKING GO OUT IN PUBLIC #YOU’RE WERKING SOME KIND OF A MEDIEVAL MULLET THO SO GO AHEAD AND HAVE A PORTRAIT YOU KNOW SO I CAN HAVE A LAUGH OR TWO OR THREE WHENEVER I SEE IT

goldenalbatross:

Maybe I had said something that was wrong.
Could I be? Was I there?
It felt so crystal in the air.
I still want to drown whenever you leave.

PAIRING: ARTHUR X MORGANA.
PROMPT: PRISONERS OF HISTORY.

The boy would die at sunrise.

The boy had to die at sunrise.

Didn’t he?

The question had plagued him since Mordred’s capture that morning. Old enough to be called man, and yet, Arthur still saw him as a child—unable to pose any real threat to his life.

Sighing, Arthur dragged a hand through his hair, eyes shut tight in frustration. The boy was destined to bring his downfall, but how? When? It felt… wrong to kill him now, to act so certainly on the belief that Mordred was possible of besting him.

He didn’t know what to do, and the ever looming dawn threatened to make the choice for him.

They’d set up camp in the forest, making their way back to Camelot after a journey to Britain’s southern cities—catching Mordred a fortunate accident. He’d not left his tent since then, breaking from his contemplation only to eat and exchange words with Merlin. The latter not helping Arthur’s plight in the slightest.

The skies burned red, the time for action swiftly ticking away. His hands braced the table, squeezing with all the strength he was capable, eyes locked on the foot of his bed.

He stood like that for a while, only changing his position to loosen his grip on the table. It wasn’t until he heard a gentle cough that he truly broke from his reverie. Part of him wished he hadn’t looked up at all.

“Morgana,” he breathed, eyes wide.

“Don’t kill him.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. Of course she was here for the boy. “He deserves no mercy,” he muttered, the words leaving a foul taste in his mouth. Impulse and anger ruled his thoughts, logic having retreated to the far corners of his mind. She was here for Mordred, the very notion made him sick to his stomach.

“Please.” Her voice was pleading, weak, and Arthur couldn’t bear to hear it. All the pain she’d caused, the destruction, and she still had him wrapped around her finger.

“If I don’t…” he murmured, voice on the verge of breaking.

She knew.

He could see it in her eyes. Morgana knew what Mordred was destined to do… and begged for his life regardless. That hurt.

“What about me?”

Fight it as he would, he knew she’d won. Mordred would leave the camp unscathed, and he was helpless to stop him. He couldn’t say no to her.

“He means that much to you?” He caught her eyes, unshed tears stinging his eyes. All they’d been through together, and the boy still ranked above him.

She nodded, the look in her eyes foreign to him—the fire long since extinguished, leaving only lifeless pieces of coal in their stead.

“Take him and go,” he stated, resigned to the outcome, “my knights won’t stop you.” He slid his signet ring across the table, eyes locked on her fingers as they hesitantly reached for it.

“Arthur…”

“Just go.”

In the end, it was not the dawn that made his decision, but the woman he was destined to fight against.

For four months I spoke only Spanish. I met a girl from Chile and we went there and lived with her family for a month and a half. Afterward, we traveled to Bolivia and Argentina. I don’t really speak it anymore, but I’d love to act in Spanish one day.

NYLON, May 2011.

You can read the online version here.