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[versigny]

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[versigny]

[ for once, her mind struggles to come up with a graceful strategy for the situation they're in. they're not caught up in some hidden-camera prank out in the middle of nowhere, especially not when there is no such thing as special effects in reality. one second she'd been in the cold woods and the next, an entirely new sort of world. Mordred has the pleasure of seeing the incredulous expression return as she listens to his advice - not that it lingers when he. casts a spell?

there's a long silence where her eyes dart from him to the plum, clearly torn between outright disbelief and curiosity. in the end, curiosity wins over by a slim margin. clearly, she's out of her depth. ]

Would it be rude to ask what you are?

[ because even when her mind is being figuratively blown, it's no excuse to be rude; Olenna would be disappointed if Margaery gave into her initial instinct to be more direct - how do you know all this? what are you?

her hand reaches for the plum, letting the shape of it naturally roll into her curved palm; it looks and feels - and even smells - like every bit of the ripe fruit it is. and yet. something curdles in her stomach as it always does when she's felt woefully unprepared. ]

Based on what you've said, you must not be a fairy.

[eternalmagic]

[Mordred looks at her, and for a moment he's simply overcome with his affection for her, hinted by the trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth and the light in his eyes that belongs to her alone. Faced with the most unusual things she must ever have seen before, Margaery's decorum still doesn't fail her. This woman is endlessly graceful, and although he can hear the question that she doesn't ask, he can't help but be charmed by the polite one that makes it out of her mouth.

He offers her the knife - to cut the fruit, if she wants, but also as a gesture of goodwill. Don't be alarmed. You're still in control.]

I'm not. But my aunt is.

[It feels strange to be telling her, almost as strange as she must feel to be experiencing it, but Mordred simply cannot bring himself to imagine that she would take all this in and then run out to tell the world. That simply isn't who she is, and if anyone knows how to keep things out of the public eye, it's Margaery Tyrell. (He refuses to think of her with her husbands' name.)]

I've told you I spent most of my adolescence in various boarding schools. That's true, but it isn't the whole truth. I stayed with my aunt Morgana for several years, and learned... well, magic.

[As a demonstration, he holds up a hand and turns a little toward the food spread across the table. At a beckon, a fresh persimmon leaves its bowl and floats to his palm.]

I wouldn't be telling you, but we're surrounded by it now. I suspect this is a coven, celebrating the approach of spring.

[versigny]

[ Mordred's expression makes Margaery look away - not because she hates it, but because something about it makes her feel almost shy, something she thought she forgot how to feel a long time ago. the knife is taken as a grateful distraction, something to keep her eyes and hands focused as she carefully cuts away another slice with ease and eats it, which turns out to be the right decision as the flood of sweetness in her mouth becomes something of an anchor as she takes in the information.

magic, fairies, and witches are real. a whole new world existing beyond the realm of the logical and mundane. but more importantly, he trusts her enough to bring her into this experience, fully ready to share a truth that she might not have been able to accept.

she looks at the dancing women, remembering what the first woman had said: then you were meant to be here. and takes a deep breath. ]

Okay.

[ hesitant acceptance, because more than anything her mind can conjure up to explain all of this, she trusts him, too. and given the nature of this secret, they're more tied together now than they ever were before, which she doesn't dislike. ]

Is there anything else I should know, just in case?