Chaunge
Who: Uther? And...?
What: Trauma sets him back.
When: Morning after this confrontation with Morgana. Possibly also the morning Arthur and Merlin finally make it back to the castle? Maybe?
Where: The Castle.
Rating: E for eleven.
Status: Private and incomplete.
He must have blacked out, petrified, in the night, for Uther did not remember the hours passing, or the sky turning blue through the windows. But light streamed into the chamber, mockingly bright, and Uther blinked his aching and dry eyes, stirring fitfully. His cheek was cold against cold stone, and his shoulder hurt where he had hit it, falling, against a table leg.
A table leg? But he hadn't been... Uther wanted to scramble up and run, because something was wrong, more wrong than it had been last night, and he did not think that that could have been possible. But Constans--Uther swallowed the bile that came up the back of his throat at the thought of his brother--Constans had told him to be still, no matter what, and Uther was trying to hide.
Wasn't he?
Then why was he under a table, and not behind the screen in Constans' chamber? And what table was this, anyway? It was not one with which he was familiar, and eleven year old boys were familiar with every nook and cranny in their homes. At least, Uther was. Had he been kidnapped, stolen by the Picts for ransom, or worse?
There had been Druids, hooded men, among the attackers. Shut him up and stop him struggling, the leader had ordered.
Something furry and warm and wet touched Uther's ankle and he jumped, yelping involuntarily with surprise. He turned to see what it was that had given him away, and saw a largish, prick-eared pup with an open face and big paws. It seemed to know him.
"Go away," he hissed, but the pup wormed its way to his side and worried at his hands until his palms lay open, wounds still raw and moist with congealed blood where last night he had dug his fingernails into his flesh to stop himself from crying out. But they had had other ways to keep Constans quiet as they performed their gory task. The pup licked at his palms. It stung, but though Uther wanted the pup to leave him to his hiding--perhaps his shout of surprise had not been heard--it was in truth very comforting. He had always wanted a pup of his own, to be always by his side when he needed it.
But he closed his fists and nudged the half-grown dog away, then made his way to the edge of the table on his hands and knees, where he peered around the forest of chair legs. He was in a hall, but not a hall he recognised. And it was cold. There was no fire blazing in the big hearth. It had been summer in the land; where could they have taken him in one night that would be so cold?
What had happened?
Where was he?
What: Trauma sets him back.
When: Morning after this confrontation with Morgana. Possibly also the morning Arthur and Merlin finally make it back to the castle? Maybe?
Where: The Castle.
Rating: E for eleven.
Status: Private and incomplete.
He must have blacked out, petrified, in the night, for Uther did not remember the hours passing, or the sky turning blue through the windows. But light streamed into the chamber, mockingly bright, and Uther blinked his aching and dry eyes, stirring fitfully. His cheek was cold against cold stone, and his shoulder hurt where he had hit it, falling, against a table leg.
A table leg? But he hadn't been... Uther wanted to scramble up and run, because something was wrong, more wrong than it had been last night, and he did not think that that could have been possible. But Constans--Uther swallowed the bile that came up the back of his throat at the thought of his brother--Constans had told him to be still, no matter what, and Uther was trying to hide.
Wasn't he?
Then why was he under a table, and not behind the screen in Constans' chamber? And what table was this, anyway? It was not one with which he was familiar, and eleven year old boys were familiar with every nook and cranny in their homes. At least, Uther was. Had he been kidnapped, stolen by the Picts for ransom, or worse?
There had been Druids, hooded men, among the attackers. Shut him up and stop him struggling, the leader had ordered.
Something furry and warm and wet touched Uther's ankle and he jumped, yelping involuntarily with surprise. He turned to see what it was that had given him away, and saw a largish, prick-eared pup with an open face and big paws. It seemed to know him.
"Go away," he hissed, but the pup wormed its way to his side and worried at his hands until his palms lay open, wounds still raw and moist with congealed blood where last night he had dug his fingernails into his flesh to stop himself from crying out. But they had had other ways to keep Constans quiet as they performed their gory task. The pup licked at his palms. It stung, but though Uther wanted the pup to leave him to his hiding--perhaps his shout of surprise had not been heard--it was in truth very comforting. He had always wanted a pup of his own, to be always by his side when he needed it.
But he closed his fists and nudged the half-grown dog away, then made his way to the edge of the table on his hands and knees, where he peered around the forest of chair legs. He was in a hall, but not a hall he recognised. And it was cold. There was no fire blazing in the big hearth. It had been summer in the land; where could they have taken him in one night that would be so cold?
What had happened?
Where was he?