Chapter Text
Nobody touches Arthur. That's so well known it's practically a law; you don't just go around touching the Crown prince. So who did that peasant think he was, coming up to him and giving him a lecture over throwing knives at Morris, and…
His pride isn't hurt in the slightest, not from someone so insignificant.
No, nobody touches Arthur.
____________
When his son is born, Uthers face is stony, holding in the greatest war of emotions of his life, as his wife lies dead and his son's cries echo around the chamber. Even then, Uther does not weep, for great kings do not show such weakness in front of others. He takes his son in his hands with the last gentleness he has left in him.
"Cradle his head, Sire," the midwife reminds him quietly, sounding nervous. He understands, for he has been….volatile, in these past wretched hours. "Babies need support there."
Uther nods, and holds the head, arms stiff and awkward, and he examines the child. Five fingers on each hand, and a healthy, strong pair of lungs that wail. In his wrinkled, infant way, he even resembles Uther, which pleases him greatly.
He loves the child more than anything he has ever seen, a tidal wave force rather than the slow bloom of his love with Ygraine. The force is a bittersweet one. She lies dead beside him even as this new life screams its displeasure in his ears. He wishes that he felt nothing. It would be better if he could purge his heart out and never feel again, than to have his heart ripped into pieces.
Moments ago he had cursed the world, had told himself he should never seek out magic for anyone the way he had for Ygraine, and that he would never love another such as he has loved her. But even now he knows he would do anything for Arthur, violate any principle to ensure the boys future.
It's shameful, the softness love brings upon him. He only hopes his son will be better than he. Arthur will rule with a stronger hand, not weak to these draining emotions that plague his father. Uther will teach him better. He will make him strong.
"You will be a great king one day," he says to the child, holding out a finger. The child grasps it firmly, fingers small and chubby.
Arthur halts his wailing for a moment, and he smiles. In that moment, he does not resemble Uther, he is someone else entirely. And Uther does not weep.
______________
Arthur holds a training sword the moment he can walk. His pudgy little hand barely fits around the wooden stick, and it is nearly as tall as he is, but he holds it nonetheless, with such a grip strength that the servants often struggle to get it away from him.
His first word is "up," as he reaches out grabby hands, pleading eyes asking for anyone to lift him up to rest his soft golden head on their shoulder. He is held by many servants, who cannot resist his pudgy cheeks and his sweet squeaky voice.
The king checks on the boy near obsessively, ensuring he is sleeping and that he is properly fed.
“Would you like to hold him, Sire?” asks the nursemaid upon the king's fifth visit of the day, fretting over the child's wellbeing and snapping at anyone and everyone.
“No, no. That is a task for his mother,” the king says. The nursemaid is silent, unsure what to say. They both know that role will never be filled. “He’s getting too old for that anyway. Come, Arthur,” he says to the child on the floor. “I’ve brought you several new training items.”
He murmurs in gibberish.
“That’s right. Now, do not break these." The boy had broken every training item he brought, in the typical way of small children. "You must learn to take care of something without breaking it. It's about discipline, you understand.”
Arthur looks up at him, not much looking like he understands, and throws his toy ball across the room. He tries again to reach for his father, but Uther waves the training sword a bit, and that catches his attention. He grabs the stick and holds it.
Uther turns to the nursemaid. "How is he eating and sleeping? Does he need anything from me?
"He is well, Sire," she says. "Though he does ask for you often."
"Hm." Uther looks at the boy, who is swinging the training sword around his head. "He ought to start formal training soon. See to it that a tutor is found, and that knights are assigned to his sword training."
"Yes, Sire."
________________________
They begin his training the following day. He is taught by Sir Galahad, Sir Dinadan, and Sir Bedeviere. They're excited to have him, jumping over themselves to teach him. Sir Galahad has the best stories to tell, and he says every word if it is true.
"The Golden knight dashed away, having solved the troll's riddle and finally, he climbed the tower to save the princess... but then! On the way down, they encountered trouble. The troll had followed, and and he had to sacrifice his life for hers!"
"No!"
"...But he lived."
"How?"
"Hm? I don't know, I forgot that part, Sire."
“Tell me another!”
“Have I told you the one where the Golden knight, this same knight who was terrifying to behold, and braver than no other, mind you-- he who tamed the dragon, who quieted the wolves howling with only a mean glance--”
“You told me those already!”
“How about the one where he redirected the river's flow with only his sword?"
"Stop telling him tales and teach him something useful, like how to hold a sword properly,” says Sir Bedeviere. “Come here, young prince."
Arthur runs over eagerly and stands before Sir Bedeviere. "You take it in your hands like so," instructs Sir Bedeviere, taking up his own claymore in two sturdy hands. Arthur fumbles with his own training sword, and the knight steadies his hands, moving them until he is in the correct stance and grip.
"There. You're a natural."
Arthur gazes at his strong hands, entranced by the scars across them, the remainders of battles won, no doubt, with glory and honor for Camelot. Probably slaying all sorts of beasts and evil sorcerers and the like, just like the stories.
Of course, as the prince, he's going to be the leader of these knights one day, have many adventures and bring more glory to their land than anyone before. Perhaps he will even rid the land of evil and magic forever, and then his father would be pleased and would pat him on the head and say 'good job, Arthur.'
Arthur swings the sword in an arc, testing it, and thinking of his great future. He’s definitely going to do big things to prove himself worthy, protect the lands from the forces trying to destroy them and things like that. He will even end their squabbles with Caerleon that his father often speaks of.
"What age do you think father will let me go to join the war?" He asks. He's not totally sure of what they're fighting, except that it's their enemies and magic and things like that, horrid evil things that keep Arthur awake at night. Caerleon is full of evil sorcerers too, so he’s heard.
"Hope you never have to," says sir Bedeviere solemnly. "It is my hope that you will only need to patrol the borders, never go to war yourself."
"Oh, he's only trying to frighten you, Sire," says Sir Galahad, scratching his chin. "I'm sure you'll bring glory to Camelot in time. I will bring many tales back from the battlefield myself in the fall!"
"You're leaving?" Asks Arthur. Sir Galahad nods.
"In a week, on the king's orders. I'm going to be out there taking heads, slicing down our enemies and protecting the people of Camelot from harm!" he gestures dramatically, ever the storyteller.
"And what about you?" He asks Sir Dinadan, who nods enthusiastically. "And you, Sir Bedeviere, will you be going?"
"Yes," says Sir Bedeviere quietly, still looking at his hands. "I will."
"Will you be bringing back some heads?"
Sir Bedeviere says nothing, only sighs. Sir Galahad is the bravest knight ever, Arthur decides, but Sir Bedeviere is, perhaps, a bit of a coward, that he doesn't want to go out and kill anybody at all. What kind of knight is that? But he is a knight and Arthur doesn't want to embarrass the man by saying so.
"A dozen heads of our enemies would suffice," Arthur says, but it doesn't seem to cheer him up. "But don't be disappointed in yourself if you can only manage one or two."
"I'll get a dozen and one," laughs Sir Galahad.
Sir Dinadan elbows him. "Plenty of tales for you as well, Sire, I know how you love your songs and stories. Never a silent moment with this one, hm?" He smiles patiently, the soft and kind smile he always aims at Arthur. He's got to be the nicest man Arthur knows, and sir Galahad the bravest.
Arthur grins. These are great knights indeed. He’s going to be just like them one day.
Well, except for Sir Bedeviere.
____________
He begins tutoring the same day. A scrawny man doodles into his room, adjusting his shirt and holding a large leather book.
"I am your new tutor, Callow," he says.
"Hello," says Arthur, looking him up and down in excitement. "What is a tutor? And why do you have such a weird looking nose? And why is that book so big? I can read, you know," he fires off rapidly
"Is that so? His Highness told me you were having some trouble reading, and I'm meant to help."
Arthur blushes at being caught in a lie. "Yes, well… I'm probably going to be good at it very soon."
"No doubt, my lord," he says, nodding. They sit at the desk. The tutor pulls out a massive book, worn and made of red leather. He drops it into Arthur's arms, and Arthur nearly drops it to the floor for its weight. The thing is like a brick.
"Now, we will begin with a lesson on reading and writing, and then we will begin our unit on Camelot's history. Afterward, we will take a break for lunch, and then go into the basics of our agricultural system, exports, and rankings. Then, dinner, and then we will go into--"
He far prefers the knight training to that stupid book.
"I want to do swords, not a economics lesson."
"You do not 'do' swords," says Callow. "And it is an economics lesson, not a economics lesson. Do not speak like a peasant, you are better than that."
He sighs, and prepares to daydream for the entirety of the incredibly pointless lesson.
____________
"And the knight then drew the sword, throwing himself in front of the others to protect them from danger, and--!"
The boy's eyes are wide, enraptured.
“When I grow up I'm going to be just like the Golden knight!"
"Nobody can be just like him," says Sir Bedeviere from the bench, where he is polishing his sword. "He's not real!"
"He is so," says Sir Dinadan. He winks at Arthur. "Trust me, you'll be like him, I can see it in your eyes."
____________
Arthur plays outside with some of the village boys, with their hoops and sticks, and sometimes their small, carved figurines. They play mock-tourney, hitting one another with sticks. The guards are never far behind him as he plays, and he can tell it makes the other children nervous around him. They make sure to never insult him or say the wrong thing, and they leave at the first sign of upset from Arthur. They don’t want to upset the kings son. He gets tired of it fairly quickly, but he doesn’t know how to explain to them that they're being too friendly, because it’s a ridiculous complaint to have. Still, it makes him bored of the games, especially as they allow him to win every time.
____________
His father watches him train, sometimes. Arthur always seems to fumble, when he's watching. It is not different today, as he swings his sword at a shield held by a servant, missing the target's center again and again, his face growing hot as he continues to fail. He doesn't need to look to see that his father is fixing him with that same look as always, the one that says he's not trying hard enough, needs to be pushing himself more. Later, perhaps, his father will take him aside to explain how he could be trying harder, and how the kingdom rests in his hands. He hates when he does that, it leaves him feeling small and useless, and those nights he cries into his pillows. Worse, though, is when his father does not yell at him, and only looks at him from afar, too disappointed to even bother. Those days make Arthur feel like nothing at all.
____________
Arthur likes to eavesdrop once in a while. He’s small enough to wedge himself into corners and listen in to the castle gossip. He doesn’t always like what he hears, when people don’t think he’s listening.
He spots his tutor in the hallway, chatting with his manservant furtively, and stands in a corner to listen in, staying a distance back.
"--never wants to do his lessons, only wants to train. He used to want to play, but I think the king must have told him he’s too old, or something, you know how he is."
“Hasn’t he got about a billion toys in his room?”
“You know it’s no substitute for a real friend, for a child that age,” sighs his manservant. "I still think he’s too young to be training with swords. He's under quite a bit of pressure, he should be doing the things children do at that age, like--"
"Doesn't matter what you think, we’re paid either way so I'm happy to leave the brat to it."
He swivels his head, but does not see the small golden head peeking around the corner.
"Don't say that, anyone could be--"
"Come on, I'd never say it to his face. You know that. And he is a brat."
“Yes, I admit that. He’s terribly rude to me. The other day I was putting away his socks and he took all of them right back out just to spite me. I think he--”
Arthur decides he doesn’t want to hear any more of that conversation. Perhaps he is rude to his servants, but what of it? They're paid, aren't they, and if they hate him so much they can simply work elsewhere. He's the prince, he has the right to do whatever he pleases with his socks. He never thinks he will get used to that. The way that they are with him versus when they're away. It gives him an empty feeling in his stomach, like he’s hungry, but for what he does not know.
If he had a real friend, he would protect them with his sword, like the knight in the stories, and the two of them would have all sorts of adventures together. He's sure one day he will, he's naturally charming. But as it is, he does not have any true friends. He sometimes spends time with nobles children his age, and with Morgana, but she’s outspoken about what a pompous brat she thinks he is and he’s none too fond of her either. She comes over with her father sometimes and spends half of the time clinging to the man's leg. And she’s a girl, she can’t be a true friend. He's going to go on and do great things and kill beasts and sorcerers, and she will be inside doing girly lady things.
He slips away, out of the castle and through the streets, and finally to the edge of the city. He wants to be alone. He goes to play in the mud outside, to practice. He pretends his stick is a real sword, and the mud is the slopping blood of some great beast that he must slay.
He plunges the stick into the mud again and again, and on a particularly deep stab, he loses his balance and falls over. Wet, cold mud seeps through his trousers.
This, combined with the rest of the stress of the day, finally brings him to tears.
He is sitting by his stick crying for only a few moments when someone places a hand on his shoulder. He jumps, wiping his eyes and hoping it isn't his father who has witnessed him crying like a weakling.
“Where is your mum, little one?”
“I don’t have one,” he sniffles. She frowns, eyes going soft and sympathetic.
He smiles at her. He hasn't had his hand held since he stopped being tended by a nursemaid. It's soft and warm, and he holds on tighter.
“What about your papa?”
He points to the castle in the distance, and her mouth falls open.
A band of horses rides up with purpose, his father among them with a glint in his eye. She drops his hand like it’s burned her, and takes a step back from him.
“Majesty,” she says, immediately dropping into a bow. His father lifts Arthur up on his horse, and he waves a hand toward the woman. The guards go to speak with her, probably to ask what happened, but she looks utterly terrified as they approach. Arthur turns away.
They are quiet on the way back. Finally, they reach the castle, and his father takes him aside to his chambers so he can properly yell at him. At least it's not in front of everyone, this time.
“What were you thinking, running off like that?”
“I wasn't far from the castle,” he mumbles, unconvincing even to himself.
“It's childish! You're too old for this sort of behavior. And another thing, you do not let people touch you. There are assassins and sorcerers everywhere, waiting for their opportunity, you foolish boy."
His heart thumps fast. Was that woman earlier truly a sorceress? She didn't seem too evil, but perhaps it was her tricky ways. He knows that they can look and act just like normal people. “Do you think that woman was a sorceress?”
“Either way, she is a peasant, meaning she has no right to lay hands on the prince. She may have wanted to kidnap you for ransom, or worse. There are many who will get close pretending to be a friend, only to use you for political advantage."
"How do you know when they're pretending or when they're not?"
"You must always assume that they are. That is not to say you should deprive yourself of company, but do not let it make you vulnerable. We simply have to use people to our own advantage." His father sighs. "Do not run off again, or the consequences will be severe."
____________
Arthur picks at his food at dinner. They eat rich, flavorful food every day, and he always likes it. By all means, the servant who refills his cup at a near neurotic pace, and the one placing a variety of little candies on his plate, should make him happy. To them, it's all about keeping him happy, all the time. They walk on eggshells around his temper, his tantrums, and his demands.
Sometimes he wonders if there's something wrong with him, that he's discontent even with all this. He stares at the candies in the bowl, and none are the ones he likes best, for he has told no one his true favorite. If he had, they would be there immediately. He wants to earn it, like he does with his swords training, his father's approval. Some things are special because they are uncommon.
He jolts out of his thoughts at the sound of his father's voice. "There is a meeting tomorrow. I expect you to attend.”
“Will it be boring?” he asks. He has never been to a meeting. “What will I have to do there?”
“You are only there to listen. When you are there, do not slouch."
"Yes sir."
"And do not hug them, like you did with the Mercian representative. You are here to listen only."
"Okay."
"And you will not speak. You must hold your tongue."
"Okay" he says, dejected.
"I understand that these things do not come naturally to a child," he says. "However, you are not only a child, you represent the future of Camelot. Others are led by their basest desires, but you must rise above all the petty things of common people to successfully rule."
He isn't sure he's above petty things at all. In fact he doesn't even know if he wants to be the king, if he's not allowed to slouch or talk or hug.
"What if I'm not?"
"You will be," he sighs, standing again and walking to the window.
Arthur does not understand, but he obeys nonetheless.
“We will meet with representatives from Caerleon. This meeting is to gather information without giving any away. Don't speak to anyone before or after either."
"Why's that?"
"We can’t trust anyone. If there is one lesson that sticks in your head, let it be that. Anyone can betray you at any time."
"What about people you love?" he asks quietly. He trusts his father more than anything.
"Don't love anyone, either, if you can help it. Haven't you heard a thing I've--" he runs a hand down his face. "We aren’t like them, Arthur,” he says, sweeping a hand out to gesture at the sweeping land of Camelot. “We are better. No exception."
“You don't have any exceptions?" Arthur can think of lots of things he thinks are exceptions, at least for him. He trusts the cook, because she gives him biscuits, and he loves his father more than anybody. "Not anything?"
Uther doesn’t look at him, or seem to hear him at all.
"Your tutor told me you have been distracted in your lessons. You must take your studies seriously, even if you do not enjoy them," says his father. "When I am gone, all of that will be yours, and you must know and respect every part of it."
"Yes, father," he says, chastised. "Though I don't see the point, I'm good with the sword, and I'm already intelligent, what does it matter if I know astronomy, or the specifics of trade roads, or any of that? It's not as if people will come in asking about it."
“That is an interesting question.” He says it in a disappointed tone, one he often takes with Arthur. Arthur braces himself for a verbal lashing, but his father only looks at him thoughtfully. “What do you think a good leader does?”
“I--”
“Don't answer, I want you to think about it first. Sit with that as long as it takes."
It’s such a strange interaction that Arthur really does think about it for the rest of the day. He finds that though he thinks of many answers, he has none that satisfy him.
____________
Young Lord Abelard is the child of Lord James, who is visiting for the meeting. He's not exactly pleasant, a bit loud and brash in ways that make Arthur want to hide behind his fathers legs, but that would not be received well. He is no coward.
Abelard extends a hand and they shake. "What do you say to an alliance, Sire?"
"Er," he says. He remembers the manners he and his father went over. "I humbly accept."
"Perfect. Now shall we take a stroll?"
Arthur looks back at his father and Abelard's father, who wear matching amused expressions. "Can we go outside?" He asks.
"Yes," says his father. "But do not leave castle grounds, and be back before afternoon, I’d like you to be at the meeting to observe, and I've still got training for you this evening."
He wants to complain at that, because he's sick of training and lecturing and tutoring all day long, but he nods. He's fairly excited about Abelard’s appearance, because… Arthur doesn't exactly have any friends his age, and he would like to have some people to talk to and play with. He prays he doesn't mess it up.
The two of them go to the wall. An old, hunched man goes by, carrying a bundle of sticks. He has no shirt on, likely a ward against overheating in the day's hot sun, and his back is covered in scars. Arthur stares.
"Look how odd," Abelard says, laughing. "He looks absolutely wretched."
"Don't be rude! What if he got them from war and adventures, bringing glory to Camelot?"
"That fellow? He was whipped for doing crime. I saw it."
"You did?" Says Arthur, feeling as though he has sucked a lemon. That sort of thing twists his stomach, it's scary. He doesn't think he'll ever be used to seeing floggings. Morgana cries every time. He used to cry too, but his father said he's not allowed anymore, so he's trying to hold it in better these days. A prince cannot be weak. He doesn't have to watch executions, at least, he needs some more time to get braver before he's allowed to see those.
"I saw it. It was bloody. If he didn't want that he shouldn't have done the crime, though, it was his own stupid choice. There's always a choice, when it comes to crime," he says in the voice that shows he's likely speaking his father's words.
He's not sure whether he agrees or not, but it sounds sensible enough and Arthur wants a friend, so he goes along with it.
"What did he do?"
"Hiding a sorceress in his house. They were gonna kill him, but he's so old they decided to have a bit of mercy. Killed the sorceress though, burned her face off."
"Good," says Arthur, shuddering. He's terrified of magic. He supposes he shouldn't feel sorry for that old man, because the scars are a reminder of his evil deeds, so people know not to bother with him or they'll be corrupted. He had never considered it that way before, that a scar could mark a noble knight for his glorious deeds, but could also mark his foe. At least he can rest easy knowing it was deserved. He watches that scarred man hobble past them.
"Ugly cripple!" Shouts Lord Abelard right away.
"Criminal!" shouts Arthur. "Perhaps they should have executed him, too. Someone so marred by evil is of no use to a great society like Camelot."
"Absolutely, Sire, you are so wise. Er, what does marred mean?" asks Abelard.
"It means," he sniffs haughtily, "Well, I don't know. I imagine it means something like… useless, or… or terribly ugly."
He doesn't know. He has only heard the phrase from his own father.
"Naturally you're right. In fact, I believe I heard it used in that sense recently."
Arthur is almost certain he hasn't, and that he's only soothing Arthur's ego. He keeps glancing at Arthur for his approval, every time he speaks. How disappointing. It looks like he is the same as the rest, seeing Arthur as an opportunity for status elevation and nothing else. Still, he appreciates the company. This is the best he can hope for in a friend, and it's likely for the best that their relationship is so clear cut. Don't trust anyone.
“Its near time to go back.”
“I'll be at the castle for a few weeks, so if you'd like, we can continue our alliance," says Abelard, too eagerly.
He supposes he would like that. Abelard is friendly enough, to his face, and Arthur’s been thinking he wants some people around to skive off tutoring and training with, even if he doesn’t exactly like Abelard as a person. He's sure Abelard doesn't like him much either, but it’s not about that is it? They both benefit, don't they? Abelards father gains favor with Arthur's father, and Arthur has a playmate. Everyone wins.
He hates Abelard. He hates throwing rocks together, and Abelard's snivelly, mean voice. He wishes that there were someone out there like him. With a mirror soul to his, someone strong where he is weak. Abelard is not that, no one is, for Arthur's weakness is for him to bear alone. Abelard is the best he's going to get, though.
"So. Friends, then?"
"Hm? Yes, allies."
"Right," he sighs. "Allies it is.”
________________________
"The treaty with Caerleon didn't last, and your father managed to salvage a part of the peaceful zone along the river, as both kingdoms needed it for trade,” says Callow, in his scholarly drone. They’ve been at this lesson for hours. “It provides a large part of Camelot's food supply that cannot be grown within the kingdom. This truce area still remains--"
"Why don't we just invade?" He asks, exasperated. His father is always speaking of it, like he wants badly to do so. Arthur agrees, he's heard of how they treat people over there, and he reckons that if Camelot expanded those people would be grateful to be citizens here rather than there. "We would gain territory, and then we could do our own trading."
He plays with the edges of the blue leather book, bored. He liked the descriptions of the war more than this aspect of it, trade routes and things are so dull compared to strategy. Strategy is what is needed, in these times of strife.
"It would likely create a full out war again, and Camelot would need to--"
"We could win a war." They'd been at war with Caerleon before. They could save all those people, and make Camelot bigger besides. It's common sense.
"It's more complicated than that."
"I don't want to hear it if it's complicated." He accidentally rips off the corner of the page, and looks up guiltily. Callow looks back, stern.
"Come on. You were plenty happy to practice swords earlier, why not this?" His tutor pushes the parchment back toward him.
"This is boring. And I'm good at sword fighting" he says haughtily. "They say I'm a natural at that."
"The fact that you struggle with writing means it's even more important that you practice at it."
Who cares about reading and writing, he's attended meetings on grain production and all, but it seems to be something that concerns commoners, lowly peasants mundane little lives. Nothing befitting of a prince like him, he wants to have adventures and lead knights and go to war. He certainly doesn't want to put up with this snobby tutor who is always this side of too patient, saccharine sweet in the way that all the servants adopt around him. There are more important things.
"Bring out the maps again, I wish to research battle strategies."
"Sire, I insist that you gain a well-rounded knowledge of the trade routes and the--"
"I don't have to put up with you, though. I'll tell my father you were bothering me and he'll get me a new tutor who understands that we are in the midst of a war on magic and our enemies, there is no time for this inane domestic research! I do not need to know how to farm, I am not a farmer, I do not need to know how to build roads, I am not a builder."
"You are a prince. You will oversee the farmers and builders. All of this is to your benefit, Sire."
Everyone calls him Sire, a term for authority, but treats him like a baby nonetheless. Callow has been his tutor for some time now, and Arthur has tried every manner of bothering him, but the man is stoic and deadpan no matter what, refusing to rise to any insult to defend himself. It's always a laugh trying to get a rise out of the deadpan man, but he can be quite irritating at times with his steadfast insistence that Arthur study. He doesn't know how to be rid of the man, or to force him to quit and get a tutor that's easier to manipulate.
"I could tell my father you've done magic in front of me," he says, a new idea dawning on him as he remembers the creepy old man. "He would get me a new tutor then."
Callows face goes white. "You mustn't," he says, so quietly Arthur almost misses it.
He grins, excited at the way that finally seems to scare him, and how he's taking Arthur seriously now.
"I must. Then I will never have to study this tripe again!"
Callow slams the book and stands, the chair screeching against the floor like a scream in a room that suddenly feels far too silent.
"You understand why you cannot go around making those kinds of accusations, don't you?"
He turns up his nose. "Why shouldn't I? I'm the prince, I should do whatever I--"
"Have you witnessed an execution?"
"Not yet. But father says I get to watch one soon," says Arthur. He's not sure why Callow is so upset. He knows he was only jesting, the same way as he does every day to try and get out of doing any work, playfully threatening the staff until they let him do what he wants and promise not to tell his father. They know he wouldn't actually do any of the things he threatens, this isn't one of those kingdoms where the nobles can treat people however they like. For goodness sake, they're not slaves, if they wanted to leave they could quit at any time. He's not sure what they have to complain about.
"You're only a child. You don't understand what you do," he says sadly.
"Don't call me a child, I'm nearly twelve," he snaps, feeling small and confused, and knowing that when you are confused you must not show it, you must double down so that they know who is in charge.
"Yes, Sire."
"...Are you going to tell my father? I command that you don't, understood?"
If his father knew he had falsely accused someone of sorcery, he would be so angry.
"Yes Sire," says Callow, voice ringing hollow somehow, as if something important had been taken out of him completely, and Arthur wants to demand that he fix it immediately or face consequences, but he can't even vocalize what is missing.
"Leave me," he says. "I do not want any more lessons tonight."
Callow bows and closes the door behind him, leaving Arthur alone. Good. Perhaps he will finally back off a bit on the other lessons and let him focus on important things, like the safety of their great kingdom against evil. The stupid foolish tutor, wasting prince Arthur's valuable time on reading up on grain supply when there's so much else at stake, doesn't he see that they must defend Camelot first and foremost? There are lives at stake, he's only trying to do the right thing and save everybody.
Still, it's… quiet, now. He's alone at last, but he senses that there has been an irreparable shift in his and Callow's relationship. Though it's what he wanted, perhaps he shouldn't have gone about it that way.
Arthur doesn't want to sit idle, thinking about the exchange that had felt loaded with things he was missing, like an undercurrent of a turbid, icy river where he could not see the bottom. He nearly goes after his tutor to apologize, but he waits, and then it has been too long, the heat of the conversation has cooled down and set, and it is done. Whatever it is.
He stands, unable to stew in it anymore, and runs outside. He wanders the path until he reaches the spot on the East wall where he and Abelard sit when he is at the castle.
Someone else is there already. It looks to be Sir Bedeviere, his slowly greying beard highlighted at the edges by the bright sun, like spun gold.
He sits down beside him, curious. Privately he wishes Sir Bedeviere were not here, so Arthur could sit alone, but it's almost like being alone now, with how quiet and still he sits. Sir Bedeviere is silent, staring out at the distance, like he sees something there that is terribly interesting. Arthur whilst his head around, looking for what it could be.
Finally, he asks. "What are you doing?"
"Just sitting."
"Doing what?"
"Sometimes I like to come out here and listen to the sounds."
Arthur listens, straining his ears. "I can't hear anything."
Sir Bedeviere holds a finger to his mouth, gestures to his ear and then points out at the horizon.
Arthur listens again, straining his ears for whatever sound has the old man so captivated. There are some bird sounds which are not entirely unpleasant, he supposed. The sounds of townsfolk chattering and the clopping of hooves and wagon wheels up and down the streets. What's so special about this?
“I don’t hear anything!”
“Exactly. It's the sound of peace, Sire. Peace and quiet.”
"We're not going to be at peace for long," he says. "Sir Galahad says--"
"Sir Galahad is young and untried. Any stories he tells are just that-- stories."
"Well you never want to tell me tales of battle and glory, or anything."
"There aren't any." He sighs. “One day you’ll find, Arthur--”
“Prince Arthur.” His father told him he must always correct his inferiors on that point.
“Prince Arthur. One day you’ll find that it is far more difficult to wage peace than war.”
Arthur sits there, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Must have gone back to listening to his… peace sounds. Whatever. Arthur isn't like that, he's going to be a true warrior, who doesn't cry at the sight of a flogging, who can… tame dragons, and quiet wolves with only a glance. And who orders executions of evildoers with a wave of his hand. And he will have a million friends. Yes, that's who he will be, when he's grown up.
____________
He plays chess with the Lady Morgana, when she comes to visit. They discuss all sorts of things when they play. He knows that his father secretly sort of wants him to marry Morgana when he's older, unless he finds a girl who is a suitable match to expand Camelot's lands, but Arthur isn't all that interested in girls. She's more like a cousin or a sister, anyway, or what he imagines those to be.
"My father is thinking of sending us to war with Caerleon," he tells her excitedly, expecting her face to light up in excitement to expand the kingdoms reach.
"Why?"
"For one, it would increase our land." She looks unimpressed, so he continues. "And they're evil, of course. They make their women stay inside and they beat their servants senseless, and I heard that they're sending magical spies to Camelot to take us over from the inside because they're greedy for our supplies. Check, by the way," he says proudly, moving his knight.
She moves her queen to take his knight. "Sounds a bit like Camelot."
"No it doesn't. We're civilized here," he says, offended on Camelot's behalf, and he moves his king.
"I don't get to roam around outside playing with swords like you," she says. "And… didn't they flog a servant for stealing just last week? And you cried, watching it."
"That's not the same," he says quickly, skimming over that last part, because he's trying to get over that whole crying business. "That's--"
"Besides, Camelot is trying to take Caerleons land too, it's not as if they're the only ones invading."
"Only to civilize them," Arthur says, rolling his eyes.
"I, for one, don't want to go to war."
Morgana's father is a warrior, he will likely explain it all to her at some point, how this is a good thing for Camelot. She doesn't know anything about anything.
"You wouldn't be the one going." She can be so foolish. Arthur gets it, because he's studied war strategy and he's basically a master tactician by now.
"I know," she says sadly, and moves her queen. "Checkmate."
____________
He spends an hour or two with Abelard again at the East wall when his father is around for more meetings and planning, sneaking some of his favorite candies for the two of them.
He's about to proclaim that they're his favorites, but he stops himself. Remembering what his father said about the dangers of trust, he reminds himself to be a bit more secretive about these things, lest someone find a way to use it against him. For all he knows, Abelard is a sorcerer. Can children their age be sorcerers? He's not sure. He's been a fool, sharing food with Abelard, any of it could have been poisoned.
His father would have remembered. Arthur would be a terrible leader if he doesn't even think of things like that. He remembers that question his father posed, quite some time ago.
"What do you think it means to be a good leader?” he asks.
Abelard thinks for a moment, popping a candy in and chewing. "You've got to take the reins and order people around a bit. You've got the most control of anyone, you are already a fine leader, truly the best, Sire."
Is he? He supposes so. He's learned to hold his tongue, he has control of his sword and his voice for public speaking, and he's certainly got control over the servants and nobles in the castle, he can get them to do whatever he likes with a bit of coercing. Everyone falls at his feet.
"...And besides that, you're dignified. That's the most important thing, keeping your dignity about you. You've got charisma, you hold the rooms attention like no other, and--"
Arthur waits, but he doesn't stop waxing poetic about Arthurs virtues. He cuts him off, changing the subject. "I've got to be back soon, I'm supposed to practice writing." He looks out over the wall, where the hill slopes and you can see the lower town, where peasants mill about, children playing stick and hoop, their mothers chatting over lunch. Arthur can't remember the last time he went down there and played stick and hoop. He's too busy learning control and discipline and astronomy and things. "Do you ever wish…"
"What's that, Sire?"
"Do you ever wish you could skip your writing practice?" It's not what he had intended to say. A passing impulse, nothing more.
"Generally, yes. However, one must be well read and articulate, in this world. We wouldn't want to grow up fools and be like that lot," he says, gesturing out to those peasants. "Not exactly good company, not like you and I."
Arthur imagines himself a peasant, for a moment. He wouldn't want to be out there with the pigs and horses, stinking of manure, that's for certain.
He wouldn't ever want to be one really, he tells himself. Even if he could get out of writing practice and other responsibilities, he would have to give up his fancy soaps and the tailored clothing his father gives him each year. Even if he would be free to speak his mind with his peers and play whenever he likes and laze about doing god knows what instead of being useful, he would have to be around a bunch of bumpkin idiots. And he would feel guilty for shirking his responsibilities. It wouldn't do. Arthur isn't meant to be carefree.
“Yes,” he says, "I heard they sit around drinking all day long."
"I heard-- oh, it's that old man again."
They throw some pebbles at him, for the fun of it.
The old man turns and looks at them. "You children had better watch who you bother," he says.
"Why's that, cripple?" Abelard shouts.
"There's an old saying, that which you do to others will be returned to you."
"Sure," Arthur laughs, lobbing another stone. "As soon as I start harboring sorcerers, I'll take your word. Wouldn't want all my sorcerers getting burnt up. I’m the prince, what are you going to do to me?"
He throws another stone. The man catches it.
"She was my wife," he roars, and for a moment his face is furious, as if he's about to lob it back at them. He must think better of it, for he turns and walks off quickly. They laugh as he goes, but it bothers Arthur more than he lets on. He doesn't mention it, because he doesn't think Abelard would really understand.
Arthur wonders if he had known she was a sorceress before the burning. He had been running on the assumption that the man was an active participant, because his father always said they only arrest the guilty, but… well, if you live in a place with your wife, of course people would think you were guilty, just for being there.
Arthurs stomach squirms with discomfort. He's not behaved nobly. And for what? To impress this ally of his? He could probably kick Abelard in the head and he would still be nice to him, because he's the prince.
But throwing the rocks was pretty fun. It hadn't really hurt the man, not that he could tell. It was only a bit of fun, that's all. It's his right.
He can see the river in the distance, and he remembers that old story, the Golden knight who redirected the waters. He nearly turns to tell it to Abelard, but he stops himself. Abelard would find it childish, believing in that sort of thing. Arthur isn’t sure he even believes it himself, that someone could be so strong and brave. But he hopes it’s real. He wants to grow up so strong he can crush Camelot's enemies in his bare hands, and so smart he will always know what is right and wrong.
____________
Morgana is always with her father, and he's so kind with her, swinging her around, playing games of horse, and joking at the dinner table, the two of them holding hands or making up little handshakes together. Arthur cannot stop watching them. His own father sits far from him, distant, his cold blue eyes piercing. He's never swung Arthur up onto his shoulders, and look how he turned out. It’s horribly inappropriate. She's too old for that! Far too old!
So when her father leaves for the border to go to battle, he's not as upset for her as he probably should be, even as she cries. She’s too old to cry, and he tells her as much, which only makes her glare at him and retreat to her chambers.
He can imagine it's an awful feeling, but he's a bit smug at the idea that he will be gone for months and Morgana will have to learn how to be more of an adult like Arthur, maybe learn to hold her tongue and stop needing so much attention all the time. It’s simply not fair that she should require so much love. A feeling scratches in his stomach thinking about the pair of them, something he cannot quite describe, but that makes him want to tear the two apart on purpose, while simultaneously drinking in every moment between them for himself. It’s a complicated feeling, and it makes him outrageously angry.
So, when Arthur sees a letter arrive for Morgana, he manages to take it from the servant delivering it, claiming he will give it to her personally. He takes it, goes to his room, and reads it in private. He plans to give it to her afterward, naturally, but he’s curious of what it might say. Perhaps it’s a letter telling her to be strong in his absence.
It's a long, personal letter. He talks about how bored and tired he is at war. He says he has a wound, but not to worry about it because it's only minor, and that he may be gone for some months. Standard details of his days out at the border, nothing exciting. He skims through.
Then, he spends the rest of the letter telling her how beautiful she is, how very much he loves her and misses her and how proud he is of the wonderful young woman she's becoming. He says not to worry for him out there, he's safe, and they will always find their way back to each other for he loves her above all else, and… he tells her it's alright to be upset. He wishes he could hold her like when she was small, and that as soon as he’s home he will give her the biggest hug imaginable.
Arthur reads it all, and reads it again, and he's gripping the paper hard enough to crinkle it. He smooths it out, and reads it yet again, pretending he is Morgana and he has a father who is so very proud of him just for existing, without having to do anything to earn it.
He doesn’t give the letter to Morgana. He keeps it in his drawer, and reads it from time to time. No, he isn't proud of it. It's awful that he does this. It's not his letter, it's not his love to receive, but he doesn't care.
That feeling inside him claws in his stomach and digs in its nails to his insides.
____________
A group of knights ride in, come back from battle, and Arthur goes out the front of the castle to see. They're dirty, their horses weary from the travel and many of the knights in bandages. He sees one man he recognizes, and runs up to greet him.
"Sir Galahad! You've returned!"
"I have," he says, not turning.
"How was the battle, have you tales? And where are the heads you promised so long ago?" He jokes. Sir Galahad does not laugh, does not turn a sunny grin on him as he once had, when telling his stories and laughing, teaching Arthur what it would take to be a warrior. Instead, he turns lethargically, as if he is in a dream, only halfway in his surroundings. He's dirty, and he looks exhausted to his very bones. He blinks, as if only just seeing Arthur, and he smiles a heavy, rueful smile.
"I have no tales for you, Sire," he says, ruffling Arthur's hair, and he goes on his way. "Nothing you'd like to hear."
"Hey! Come back!" he calls, disappointed. Sir Galahad does not turn back.
Arthur sighs. It seems he has become as boring as Sir Bedeviere.
____________
He's afraid, the first time he's present for an assassination attempt on his father.
His father is scolding him when it happens, in front of the knights. Arthur is sitting with his head down, waiting for it to be over, his training sword still in hand, when she throws the door open and throws Uther into the wall. The knights jump to action, surrounding her. Arthur is up in a heartbeat, his training sword held high and ready to strike, but.
The sorceress turns to him, her eyes wide and she looks so… human. She looks just like anyone else he’s seen, cheeks round and pink. He’d thought there would be something in her face or her eyes that looked evil, but there isn’t, there isn’t anything but wild fear and the welling up of tears, and he drops his weapon.
"Wasn't expecting such a large audience," says the sorceress, and her voice is high pitched, like she's not much older than Arthur herself. "I'll have to come back another day, won't I?"
"I…I.. I…" he stutters, unable to reach for the weapon, or to move, frozen.
She takes the opportunity, grabbing his lanky frame and holding a blade to his neck.
"Let him go,” says his father.
"You think me a fool? He is the only thing keeping me alive. I need promises. You will allow me to live, and to leave this place."
"So you can come back and attempt another assassination?" He raises a brow. Arthur is weeping, tears streaming down his cheeks. He can’t help it. He's never been able to help it.
"Yet, if you let me leave, your son will survive the night." She holds the knife to his throat. "Well?"
Uther thinks for a moment, his eyes flickering between Arthur and the sorceress with something dark and deep set in them. Finally, he responds.
"No."
Arthurs heart sinks, though he knew this would be the outcome. He knows without a doubt that his father values Camelot over any individual life, including his, but it is only now that he realizes what that means. He would rather lose an innocent life than let a guilty one go free, protecting Camelot and it's king over all else.
It is this moment that Arthur sees his fathers strong hand for what it is, and the sacrifices he must make for his kingdom. And in this moment he respects his father more than ever.
"I understand," says Arthur quietly, looking into his father's eyes, the last thing he will ever see, for he is weak, weak, weak. If he had raised his sword and swung she would be dead, if he had not failed earlier that day he would not have been here at all but still on the training field. It is his fault that it has come to this, and he must suffer the consequences.
She presses the blade up under Arthur's chin. Then, she stiffens and twists against him, and brings the blade around her back, where it connects with something heavy. Something wet and warm drips down the back of his shirt. The blade falls to the ground with a clatter, and finally he turns to look back.
The sorceress lies on the floor, head two feet from her body. Sir Bedeviere stands behind her, holding a sword covered in… in bright red, real life blood.
"Are you all right, Sire?" He asks softly, and Arthur does not answer.
His father looks him over and then leaves. Arthur sits in his shame. He had told Sir Bedeviere he would be a great hero, told his father he would one day be a great king, but he has failed to even apprehend a sorceress. He couldn't even speak, much less fight. He needs to grow up.
Something drips onto the carpet. "You're hurt," says Arthur. That must have been what the sorceress blade had connected with.
Sir Bedeviere shrugs. Arthurs stomach sinks. He's mucked up everything. He's let Sir Bedeviere get stabbed in the stomach for him, and his father hates him now, he's never going to stop being disappointed over this, and--
“I know what you’re thinking,” says Sir Bedeviere. “The king could see me behind you, he knew I was going to strike. He’d have never let you come to harm."
"I wasn't scared," he says immediately.
"It's alright if you were," he says gently.
Arthur nods, but he's not really paying attention. Its time for him to get serious about this. He can't let this happen again. He needs to show his father what he's capable of, not as a person, but as a prince who rules with an iron fist.
Sir Bedeviere crumples over, then, blood dripping through his chainmail, and Gaius has to collect him.
____________
They burn her the next day. There are three burnings side by side, the assassin, a sorcerer and another sorceress caught for stealing. Normally Arthur is ushered away by a servant before the burning begins in earnest, but today his father grips his arm tightly, forcing him to stay and watch.
Someone runs to the pyre, perhaps her sister or her lover, and her eyes are filled with the same frenzied fear. How undignified, that they wouldn't let fate be. She's a criminal. She hurt people. She tried to kill him and his father. What use is it to fear what is inevitable? To try to save someone from the fire?
Her skin begins to catch fire and she's screaming and Arthur isn't sure about this anymore.
"That's sort of harsh, isn't it?" Asks Morgana, who has deigned to join them. "One of them was only caught for stealing."
"Even that one must burn. She is a disruption to the systems of Camelot, if she steals with magic she can do far more. Arthur and I saw the evidence of that last night." He motions to the assassin, hung up on the pyre.
He supposes it makes sense, but he can't bear to watch, she's disintegrating, bits of her floating up with the smoke and fire and an intense smell and it's horrible, like hellfire itself climbing her skin.
He forces himself to watch. She must burn for some ten minutes before she passes out, from the smoke or the pain he does not know.
Arthur throws up in his mouth, but manages to swallow it so his father doesn’t see, so he isn't disappointed at Arthur's weakness. He is going to have to order executions someday, it will not do for him to be squeamish. Hes done crying. He's done being afraid.
His father bends down to speak to him, and Arthur thinks he might pat his head, hold out his arms for comfort at what they've just witnessed, seeing the sickness in his son's face. He prays that he can't see it, because he doesn't… he doesn't need any of that, he's done needing his father's love. But there is no need to worry, for his father only looks at him sternly.
"This is how you run a kingdom," says his father, and he turns from the balcony to go back inside.
____________
"Want to go throw rocks by the wall?" Asks Abelard.
"I don't have time," Arthur says. He has to train. He cannot disappoint.
____________
"Lady Morgana will be staying with us from now on."
Her father has died. He can hear her crying through the wall, and there's no one there to comfort her. Arthur doesn't want to, he's probably the worst person for it, but he has to. He peers into her room. She is weeping.
"Are you alright?" he asks quietly. She jumps, startled, and then wipes her eyes. He comes further into the room, to the edge of the bed. "Father says you're staying with us now."
She nods. "My father. He went to battle and he never received reinforcements," she cries. "He asked for them, he never…"
Oh. Arthur doesn't know what to do. He half reaches for her, but thinks better of it.
He clears his throat. "He was a brave man. And kind. He was… proud of you." She says nothing, and he knows he's botching this, she needs something else, but he doesn't know what.
He remembers something. "I'll be right back."
He runs to his chambers and digs through the drawers. It's right where he left it. He can hardly bear to part with the thing, he's read it hundreds of times now. But Morgana needs it more than him, he's her father for god's sake. He brings it down to her room.
"This is a letter from him."
"From where? It never reached me."
"It got mis-sorted," he lies. "And then they found it the other day, and, er, g-gave it to me to give to you, but I forgot til now."
She reads it, looking at the words with such an intensity that he half expects her anger, for her to lash out because he kept it from her. But she looks at him and her eyes are once again shining, and she hugs him so hard his bones creak.
"Thank you," she whispers. "This means the world to me."
"It's nothing," he murmurs, guilty at the attention. "Please let me know if I can do anything for you."
"Actually, I've been meaning to ask... are you alright, Arthur?" She asks. "You've been different, lately. I want us to be, er, there for each other, alright? I know something's on your mind."
He opens his mouth, because he wants to share it with someone, all of it. He wants to share how afraid he is, how he can't be king if it means what he thinks it means. He's weak on the inside and he's going to ruin everything. He wants to be picked up and held like when he was small, but no one touches the prince, no one, he is on his own. He wants a friend, a confidante, someone with a matching weakness on their souls and someone who is strong where he is weak. He wants his father to care for him the way others father's do, with pride in their eyes, and he wants his father to scream at him for his mistakes the way he deserves. He wants to not want anything at all and to be as strong as he's trying to be, pretending to be, because he fears he may never ever be strong at all.
It's not the time to share those thoughts. She's lost her father. And he cannot have anyone knowing his weakness.
He remembers that question, the one his father had once posed.
"What do you think it takes to be a good leader?" he asks.
"Well, er," she sniffles. "Being there for people, I suppose, when they need you."
It's such a small answer, nothing to do with real leadership. But he nods thoughtfully, like he agrees, because she's just lost her father, and it's not the time.
____________
Arthur grows up. Restraint, discipline. That is what it is all about. Don't indulge too much, don't seek out other people, only train to become a warrior, a leader. Someone worthy. He holds his tongue in meetings, even when he disagrees. He holds his pillow to his chest at night, softer than any human touch he encounters as he trains, as he shakes hands in meetings.
He is not like other children, with their two parents who dote, he is a prince, a future king. His own father does not hold him the way he does Morgana, for she is not a prince. Arthur sees that other children are treated differently than him, but he is not jealous. He isn't. Those people can trust one another, but he can trust no one. He isn't the same as them, he is better. Or, he will be. His father won't even look him in the eye, he is still unworthy.
This is his duty. If he were coddled, he would not grow, would stagnate, become lazy and soft. He must work to be the very best, and that means he cannot be like the rest. He is better. He is exceptional. He does not need to be picked up on his fathers shoulders or swung around, or to be held in the arms of a mother, only the embrace of armor on his skin as he trains to protect Camelot. He does not need friends, only allies to ensure his kingdoms future. He throws himself back into training, hitting the sword held by his servant, again and again and again.
He becomes the fittest warrior, the strongest fighter and best swordsman. He studies tactics and strategy, and strategizes with his father over how to manage the increasing numbers of assassination attempts. And he finally begins to see that look that he craves, the flash of approval in Uthers eyes from across the table.
____________
He plays with his old training sword for the last time, and jabs it hard into the mud. It's more of a stick than a sword by now anyway. Enough childish things, he doesn't need it any longer. He's a man now, he's decided. So there. That's that. He turns back and looks at it one last time, his favorite stick, worn and chipped from all those games of mock-tourney, lancing at the other boys and messing around. He doesn't want it anymore.
He turns around and leaves it there.