Merthur- Just like Magic

i

His magic hadn't disappeared, or even diminished, in a year. If anything, it had flourished. It trailed him where ever he went, like a lovesick puppy, clinging to his ankles as he walked. The strange thing Arthur noticed though, was that he didn't suffocate in its mysticality. It didn't drag him down or bury him under the floor. Instead, it buoyed his steps and made him float along the castle. At first, he had doubted himself; he still did. He still felt dirty, sinful, unclean. He refused to believe that magic was good, but sometimes, alone in his room, he would practice it, and it made him feel so calm, and peaceful, that he couldn't help wonder.

He was torn between the two sides of him: the side that refused to bow down to the evil sorcery within him, and the side that questioned his very existence. He was disgusted in that side, at how it blatantly defied his father and betrayed his kingdom. However, he couldn't pry it loose, no matter how much he tried.

He knew that one wrong move could get him killed. Even after a year of thought, he still wasn't sure that his father wouldn't kill him. If anything, his worry grew. He saw himself as a monster, one who should be eradicated, and sometimes, in dark moments that were few and far between, he considered turning himself in so as to purge the evil from Camelot. Because he knew he was evil. Cursed.

At the same time, he didn't want to die. He didn't want to be burned at the stake. He didn't want to see himself as evil. So he hid his gift away, so as not to seem suspicious. When he wore that frame of mind, the magic did indeed present itself as a gift. He could do great things with them- reviving flowers that had long since traveled to the realm of the dead, healing young birds who fell from their thrones: and he didn't want to let his magic go.

Every so often, he would have a close call. A ball of fire would vanish as a door opened, or a flower would hastily be stored behind a back. The conundrum of magic was that in order to not perform it by accident, one must iterate it all the more. In order to not use it, one must use it. And Arthur despised that. Sometimes, he felt so alone, with no one to talk to, or confide in. He would have done anything for some advice. Or just someone who could understand.

It was awful when his father praised him because he knew he was betraying him. He knew he didn't deserve it, and that truthfully, he deserved the opposite. He wanted to be beaten, thrown in the dungeons, treated like he deserved to be. And he didn't. He didn't, he didn't, he didn't. And he couldn't make up his mind.

And when he got confused, he played with magic until he wasn't.

And that restarted the cycle.

When his father told him the royal family up North was coming to visit, Arthur was even more confused. And scared. They were a wealthy family, who wholeheartedly agreed with his father's principles. They also disagreed with magic. That meant the prince had to be more careful than normal. He asked how long until they came, wanting to prepare, and his father's answer was a shot to the moon from his guess:

"They come tonight. Be ready to greet them at the entry hall."

Arthur was stunned.

A few facts about the Ainsworths:

-They were relatively poor for a royal family. His Majesty the king, Uther, continuously urged them to augment the taxes. They would not.

-They hadn't come to visit in quite some time. Ten years, to be exact.

-They had seven children, aged 21 to 9, and one of them was Arthur's age. A boy.

Arthur didn't know his name.

...

When they arrived at the gates of Camelot, their long journey seeping from their clothes and forcing them to sag in their seats, Arthur was still getting changed. As they walked through the town, where all the streets were lined with ghosts of people, like paintings along a corridor, Arthur was still putting on his boots. As they passed through the Inner Wall, Arthur walked out of his room, and down the hall, and to the entrance of the castle. He cracked open the majestic french doors and slipped through; He was never comfortable with striding through doors and slamming them open, especially given his secret. It drew too much attention for his liking.

He stepped into place beside the king, shoulders back, spine straight, and chin held high, eyes glued to the complementary wall of the courtyard, and barely glanced down when the guards announced the arrival of the other king. He kept his breath slow and steady. He didn't know what to expect. The prince heard the sound of the horses, their shoes echoing up the sky and the reverberating silence of the royal guests. And he heard them stop. The horses took off their shoes at the steps, and a single one walked up the steps to greet them. It wasn't a horse. Just the king.

"King Uther, Ruler of Camelot. It has been a while, old friend." The voice was gravelly, like it had been slung about with little care during the voyage and had collected dirt from the path when left neglected.

Arthur could feel his father's smile, as it extended past the threshold and strangled the necks of everyone in sight. "Welcome, William. I hope you find your stay adequate." His voice dripped with the sound of justice, fine-tuned by the screams of the cursed he had saved. No, Arthur's mind countered. The terror of the innocent packaged off to their deaths.

The prince glanced down as His Majesty the King, Sire Ainsworth, stepped before him. The square-shaped man held out his box-like hand, and Arthur clasped it in his own, smiling along with everyone else. The man shaking his arm hand no eyebrows, and wouldn't let go. They just kept shaking and shaking and shaking.

"Welcome," the young teen said. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure to meet you too," the eyebrow-less man chuckled. "Last time I saw you, you used to love running around the castle like a wild animal. Entirely naked! Just like a baby!" Arthur tried his best not to choke. "You were a wee little thing. But four or five summers old!" Arthur didn't know what to answer to that, so he didn't.

The three men walked down the stairs where the rest of the procession was waiting. The eyebrow-less king went to his wife, a circle to his squareness, and swung her down from her mount. Uther helped down the eldest daughter, with much formality and little words, and Arthur went to aid the other daughter, a svelte tree nymph with hair that tangled and braided into the tail of the mare that she sat regally upon. He held up his hand, and she took it, sliding from her saddle. She didn't make it supervised to the ground though. From his lowered point beneath the horse, something more intriguing had caught his eyes. The princess landed, stumbled, and looked back, but the foreign prince was already enraptured and paid her no notice.

...

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