Merlin drabble: To Be King [PG]
Jan. 3rd, 2010 09:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adelagiaFound this while rummaging around in my Googledocs yesterday; I'd written it about six months ago and then never posted it because some massive amounts of cheese got all up in the dialogue, ew. So, anyway, I cleaned it up a bit, and now I have a shiny little Uther POV drabble to share (may still contain trace amounts of cheese).
Title: To Be King
Rating: PG
Summary: Uther reflects.
Notes: Post-S1; allusions to Merlin/Arthur relationship.
The differences are slight, but they are there all the same. It's as if the king in Arthur has only been lying in wait all this time, during the years and years that Uther's despaired of his son's recklessness and lack of judgment; it is slowly awakening just now, unfurling its strength and radiance in small doses -- nothing truly revelatory, but just enough to spark Uther's curiosity.
Arthur is still headstrong, sometimes rash and prone to the occasional flight of fancy, but these days he tempers those urges with reason and deep intelligence, and a great deal of heart that has always been there, and Uther wonders if his boy is finally growing up.
In the last year, Uther has watched Arthur blossom more fully and shine brighter than he's ever seen in the twenty-odd years Arthur's presence has graced his life, and it's obvious that this change has coincided with the arrival of the lanky, empty-headed servant Arthur carries around with him like a shadow. Uther cannot see how in the world Merlin could be a good influence, coming from such a lowly birth as he does and twice as foolhardy as Arthur at his worst, but there is no denying that the bond of unlikely friendship between them has more than a little to do with Arthur quietly, gradually growing fit to take on the mantle of kingship. They are thick as thieves when they think no one is watching, though Uther always is.
There are rumblings, whispers around the castle corners that the servant boy spends more nights in Arthur's chambers than he does his own room, and Uther chooses to care little about this either way. There are certain improprieties he can afford to overlook; let Arthur find snatches of happiness where he may before he must bend under the weight of Camelot and her crown.
But there is only so far Uther will turn his head for his son's sake. Hushed indecorum is one thing, and high treason entirely another.
That Merlin turns out to be a sorcerer is more than a surprise; it is the sort of gutting shock that comes with being stabbed in the back by a friend, and it carries throughout the whole court like a lament on the wind, so inconceivable it is that a traitor could live under the king's roof not only undetected for so long, but eke out a presence that has been so welcome and well-loved.
The betrayal that stings the worst, though, that burns and gnaws and rips without mercy at Uther's insides, is that Arthur is not at all surprised by this. For all that Uther has taught him, Arthur still has yet to master the art of schooling his features properly; his wide eyes, so like his mother's in their all-encompassing warmth and expressiveness, still remain too easy to read, and they say, What must I do to protect him?
It is perhaps to Arthur's credit that he does not merely lie down and accept the death sentence as he should; a king must, after all, always question and probe and debate until he is satisfied. But Arthur is not the king, Uther is. And Arthur cannot bend the law any more than he can bend Uther's will. Yet Arthur tries and tries.
Uther has heard it all before. Loyalty. Friendship. Trust. They're only ways their kind ensnare you, make you complacent, and he cannot believe he still has to explain this truth to Arthur after all these years, after the servant boy has made a fool of everyone, brazenly lied to the court, lied to Arthur's face.
Arthur might well be throwing pebbles against a mountain for what little service his arguments do him. The words run out after a while, the rage flags, the fire flickers to ash. And then all he has left is one word, one tired, broken word. Please.
It is as if the balance of nature hinges upon that word, and Uther feels his chest tighten, pulled taut by the threads of old memories he has kept dark and close and secret, tangled and wound like a vise around his soul.
He had been like Arthur once, young and in love -- he sees now, where Arthur has entrusted his heart -- and too naive to see everything that threatened and would eventually taint his whole future.
He had trusted once, in friends who spoke of the Old Religion and all the blessings and joy they could bring upon this great, beautiful land.
He had said please once, when Ygraine was dying in his arms.
It's a mistake his son should not have to repeat. It's a mistake Arthur should not even contemplate making, not after everything Uther has been through to ensure that his golden child can live in an age and a realm free of evil and deceit, as his wife could not. Her death is a wound that can never heal, and it sickens him all over again, blood rising to his face and thundering in his ears.
Uther roars his son out of the Great Hall, roars to drown the memories that he can't get rid of and can't let go.
He slumps in his throne, worn and stretched and old. How many times will he have to fight this battle before it is won?
It does not come as a surprise the next morning, well before first light, when the warning bells peal across the white stone of the courtyard, echoing in Uther's ears like death knells. Despite the large contingent assigned to guard him, the prisoner has escaped. There are two mounts missing from the stables. There is no puzzle to piece together when Uther, against his best hopes, has already seen this coming.
He stands in the doorway of Arthur's chambers, the bedclothes mussed and last night's dinner left half-eaten on the table, as though Arthur has only just stepped out for a while. Uther does not pass this way often -- Arthur comes to him when he is called, or used to -- and he wonders what secrets have transpired here, what happened to the chubby-fisted toddler with the warm, bright smile, how he grew into the man who would defy king and castle for the misguided love of a traitor. Uther has spent so long scrutinising his son that he really ought to know, but it's only the heir to the throne he's been watching; perhaps he's never really known Arthur at all, and they lost each other while he wasn't looking.
And perhaps he will never know. Sorcery has robbed Uther of the love of his life, and now it has taken his only son as well.
There will be hell to pay, he thinks, and etches the promise into the ether.
Title: To Be King
Rating: PG
Summary: Uther reflects.
Notes: Post-S1; allusions to Merlin/Arthur relationship.
The differences are slight, but they are there all the same. It's as if the king in Arthur has only been lying in wait all this time, during the years and years that Uther's despaired of his son's recklessness and lack of judgment; it is slowly awakening just now, unfurling its strength and radiance in small doses -- nothing truly revelatory, but just enough to spark Uther's curiosity.
Arthur is still headstrong, sometimes rash and prone to the occasional flight of fancy, but these days he tempers those urges with reason and deep intelligence, and a great deal of heart that has always been there, and Uther wonders if his boy is finally growing up.
In the last year, Uther has watched Arthur blossom more fully and shine brighter than he's ever seen in the twenty-odd years Arthur's presence has graced his life, and it's obvious that this change has coincided with the arrival of the lanky, empty-headed servant Arthur carries around with him like a shadow. Uther cannot see how in the world Merlin could be a good influence, coming from such a lowly birth as he does and twice as foolhardy as Arthur at his worst, but there is no denying that the bond of unlikely friendship between them has more than a little to do with Arthur quietly, gradually growing fit to take on the mantle of kingship. They are thick as thieves when they think no one is watching, though Uther always is.
There are rumblings, whispers around the castle corners that the servant boy spends more nights in Arthur's chambers than he does his own room, and Uther chooses to care little about this either way. There are certain improprieties he can afford to overlook; let Arthur find snatches of happiness where he may before he must bend under the weight of Camelot and her crown.
But there is only so far Uther will turn his head for his son's sake. Hushed indecorum is one thing, and high treason entirely another.
That Merlin turns out to be a sorcerer is more than a surprise; it is the sort of gutting shock that comes with being stabbed in the back by a friend, and it carries throughout the whole court like a lament on the wind, so inconceivable it is that a traitor could live under the king's roof not only undetected for so long, but eke out a presence that has been so welcome and well-loved.
The betrayal that stings the worst, though, that burns and gnaws and rips without mercy at Uther's insides, is that Arthur is not at all surprised by this. For all that Uther has taught him, Arthur still has yet to master the art of schooling his features properly; his wide eyes, so like his mother's in their all-encompassing warmth and expressiveness, still remain too easy to read, and they say, What must I do to protect him?
It is perhaps to Arthur's credit that he does not merely lie down and accept the death sentence as he should; a king must, after all, always question and probe and debate until he is satisfied. But Arthur is not the king, Uther is. And Arthur cannot bend the law any more than he can bend Uther's will. Yet Arthur tries and tries.
Uther has heard it all before. Loyalty. Friendship. Trust. They're only ways their kind ensnare you, make you complacent, and he cannot believe he still has to explain this truth to Arthur after all these years, after the servant boy has made a fool of everyone, brazenly lied to the court, lied to Arthur's face.
Arthur might well be throwing pebbles against a mountain for what little service his arguments do him. The words run out after a while, the rage flags, the fire flickers to ash. And then all he has left is one word, one tired, broken word. Please.
It is as if the balance of nature hinges upon that word, and Uther feels his chest tighten, pulled taut by the threads of old memories he has kept dark and close and secret, tangled and wound like a vise around his soul.
He had been like Arthur once, young and in love -- he sees now, where Arthur has entrusted his heart -- and too naive to see everything that threatened and would eventually taint his whole future.
He had trusted once, in friends who spoke of the Old Religion and all the blessings and joy they could bring upon this great, beautiful land.
He had said please once, when Ygraine was dying in his arms.
It's a mistake his son should not have to repeat. It's a mistake Arthur should not even contemplate making, not after everything Uther has been through to ensure that his golden child can live in an age and a realm free of evil and deceit, as his wife could not. Her death is a wound that can never heal, and it sickens him all over again, blood rising to his face and thundering in his ears.
Uther roars his son out of the Great Hall, roars to drown the memories that he can't get rid of and can't let go.
He slumps in his throne, worn and stretched and old. How many times will he have to fight this battle before it is won?
It does not come as a surprise the next morning, well before first light, when the warning bells peal across the white stone of the courtyard, echoing in Uther's ears like death knells. Despite the large contingent assigned to guard him, the prisoner has escaped. There are two mounts missing from the stables. There is no puzzle to piece together when Uther, against his best hopes, has already seen this coming.
He stands in the doorway of Arthur's chambers, the bedclothes mussed and last night's dinner left half-eaten on the table, as though Arthur has only just stepped out for a while. Uther does not pass this way often -- Arthur comes to him when he is called, or used to -- and he wonders what secrets have transpired here, what happened to the chubby-fisted toddler with the warm, bright smile, how he grew into the man who would defy king and castle for the misguided love of a traitor. Uther has spent so long scrutinising his son that he really ought to know, but it's only the heir to the throne he's been watching; perhaps he's never really known Arthur at all, and they lost each other while he wasn't looking.
And perhaps he will never know. Sorcery has robbed Uther of the love of his life, and now it has taken his only son as well.
There will be hell to pay, he thinks, and etches the promise into the ether.
