Mistaken Identity

- 2 -

"Arthur?"

A shocked silence filled the room as all gazes fell simultaneously upon the equally shocked Prince of Camelot. When it felt as though the silence was stretched so thin it was hardly bearable, it was broken.

"Me?" Arthur's voice was filled with surprise, horror and confusion. "You can't be serious."

"He saw you, Arthur. Can you prove your innocence to me?" Uther's voice was hard, emotionless, unforgiving, and so cold that Arthur felt as though he'd been thrown into a bath of freezing water.

"No, but-"

"Then I have no choice. The good of this kingdom comes first and I will take no chances. There are no exceptions to the rule."

"You can't trust this... this peasant over me!"

"I can, and I will, Arthur. My judgement stands and you know the penalty for practising magic. My own son. How dare you?" Uther's voice had dropped dangerously low and menacing. "How dare you!" He shouted, slamming his fist against the arm of his chair. "How dare you practise magic in my kingdom? Under my very nose! How dare you?" He whispered again. "Seize him!"

At his command, guards streamed into the throne room and surrounded the Prince, flooding the suddenly seemingly enclosed and confined space. Struggle as he might, Arthur was unarmed, and no match for 50 of his father's finest men. Still struggling, he was suspended between two guards and dragged from the room.

"Father! You can't do this! I haven't done anything!"

Uther's lip curled. "I am not your father. Don't ever call me that again." His expression twisted into an indecipherable mixture of hatred and grief. He sneered and raised his chin. "Goodbye, Arthur."

As the guards escorted him to the dungeons, Arthur didn't fight them. He kept his face carefully calm and expressionless, and simply let them lead him, as if ignoring the world might, just for a moment, allow the world to ignore him, too.

But the cold, blank, emotionless mask slipped the moment the guards left the cell. Arthur was well practised at hiding his emotions, but this was different. He held back all outward signs of the storm within him, but there were so many emotions inside him that he didn't know what to do with himself.

He felt as though he was being torn apart from the inside, and there was nothing he could do. Anger at the unfairness of it all battled with grief at the way Uther had spoken, and confusion as to how he could possibly have been accused of magic. It had all happened so fast; he was shocked at how suddenly he had gone from his daily routine to a dungeon cell, and how his father had taken the side of a peasant against that of his own son.

Angry and frustrated, Arthur threw the small table as hard as he could against the opposite wall, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as it splintered and broke, falling to the floor. A split second later, however, the satisfaction faded and he was left alone in a cold cell with a broken table.

Great.

Still struggling to comprehend what had just happened, and expressing his emotions in the only way he knew how, Arthur kicked the wall savagely, glad of the pain and the distraction it offered from his jumbled thoughts.

One thing was certain: the penalty for practicing magic was death, and it was as Uther had said: the good of the kingdom came first, and his father would take no chances. There could be no exceptions to the rule.

Uther had always taught him that without the laws, and the people following them, the kingdom would be ruined. It had made sense then. Now, he was not so sure.

Sighing heavily, Arthur slid down the wall and rested his head back against the cold stone.

I'm going to die.