Beholden
First, a Merlin picture, because I am a sucker for pretty faces:
This picture, conveniently enough, ties into the next order of business: fic!
Title: Beholden
Pairing: gen, a hint of Arthur/Merlin; Uther's POV.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1337 (heh)
Warnings/Spoilers: ANIMAL HARM. It's brief, but it's there, and I'm sorry but it had to be done.
Notes: Would you believe this is the first fic I've finished in this fandom? I've been working on a longer story for kinkme_merlin for about three weeks now, yet I pounded this whole thing out in the middle of the night on a passing thought.
When Arthur was eight years old, Uther gave him his first hound. It was a valuable creature, bred from some of the finest hunting dogs in Uther’s possession, but at the moment it was not much more than a puppy, leaping about on paws too big for its body. Uther hoped that, in caring for something as rambunctious as Arthur himself, the boy would learn some responsibility.
For a while his plan seemed to be working: Arthur spent nearly all of his free time down at the kennels, training the dog as the kennel-master instructed him. The hound’s name was Constantine- “like the Roman emperor,” Arthur said with the smugness of a student who knows the correct answer- but sometimes Uther heard his son saying “Scrappy, come,” in a low coaxing voice that was nothing like the firm tones of command that dumb creatures required. This unexpected gentleness only came out when Arthur thought himself alone. Uther knew he should put a stop to it before the beast was incurably spoiled, but he could not bring himself to; the soft childish voice was too much like its mother’s.
As the months passed, Constantine grew from an unwieldy ball of energy to an accomplished hunter. White fur, once downy and tufted, was now sleek and groomed; the bulky paws now supported a well-muscled frame. Despite Arthur’s coddling- and Uther had witnessed his son sneaking bits of meat from his own table- Constantine was able to track game longer than some of Uther’s own hounds. Arthur was always exceptionally pleased when Constantine led the party to a clean kill, and in this Uther recognized his own satisfaction at a job capably performed.
Arthur was still young enough to find hunting trips exhilarating, though they always stayed close to Camelot, where the woods were tame. It was this illusion of security that caused Uther to drop his guard, to give in to Arthur’s pleas and allow him to lead for a time. Every once in a while, Uther caught his son murmuring to Constantine in that strange affectionate tone.
As they passed a clearing the hounds lifted their heads, as one, and began barking excitedly. Constantine was the first to dash off on the trail. Arthur heedlessly raced after him. The knights laughed at the sight, elbowing each other and reminiscing about their own earliest hunts. Uther smiled inwardly and allowed them the liberty, and they followed Arthur at a more stately pace.
Suddenly there was a squeal from the brush and a wild boar burst through the trees, flanked by hounds and heading straight for their party. “Spears!” called Uther as the knights readied themselves. The boar paused, tiny eyes rolling. It swung its great tusks and headed for a bramble to their left, but a hound leapt into its path, barking madly.
“Scrappy, no!” Arthur shouted, and before Uther could even think to restrain him, the boy flung himself in front of the boar, unarmed, looking incredibly small and fragile next to its bulk but with fiery determination in his eyes. The boar lowered its head and charged.
Later Uther would remember the smooth curve of his arm as he hurled his spear, the shouts of his knights as the boar was knocked cleanly aside with the shaft through its neck. All he could think as he threw was please, not him too.
Arthur seemed oblivious to his danger as he knelt down beside Constantine, stroking the dog’s white head and whispering, “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. Everything is all right.” Constantine placed his paws on Arthur’s knee and licked the boy’s face. Arthur giggled, but his smile faded when he looked up to see Uther towering over him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Uther demanded, wanting to shake some sense into his son, wanting to hold him close, and permitting himself to do neither.
“I just-“ Arthur began, but at Uther’s stony expression he straightened his back and said dutifully, “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Do you know what that boar could have done to you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you thought that less important than the life of a dog? A common cur?”
Arthur stared up at him. “He’s not a cur, Father, he’s a hunting dog, a good one.” Fiercely he added, “I’m s’posed to protect everyone that needs me. You said. You gave him to me, Father.”
Yes, he saw it now. This incident was Uther’s own doing. He should not have given the boy a hound before he was prepared to handle it properly; he should have intervened when it was clear that Arthur was forming a dangerous attachment. This time, Uther would not allow his mistakes to fester.
He dismissed the knights when they returned to Camelot and beckoned Arthur to the fountain. “Bring the hound,” he said, and Arthur did, confused, cradling the creature as though it were a child. Uther took it from him.
“You love this dog,” he said. Arthur, starting to become uneasy, gave an indifferent jerk of his shoulders but nodded. Uther could see the innocence in those blue eyes, so like Ygraine’s, and regretted what he must do next, but someday his son would thank him for it. He dropped the dog in the fountain and pushed down its head.
“What are you doing? No, stop!” Arthur pulled at Uther’s arms, scrabbling at the sleeves, but Uther steeled himself and held on. Bubbles came from underwater and broke on the skin of his arms. “I’m sorry!” cried Arthur, close to tears now. “I’m sorry, Father, don’t, please!” The white body slowly went limp in Uther’s hands.
“Arthur,” Uther began. “Son.”
“You killed him!” Arthur yelled, and burst into real sobs. “He- he never did anything wrong!” With an ineffectual shove at Uther’s chest, Arthur turned and ran across the courtyard into the palace.
Uther gave time for the boy’s rage to run its course before summoning Arthur to the throne room. When Arthur finally appeared, his cheeks were dry.
“I am sorry for my behavior,” Arthur said dully. “It was unbecoming of a prince.”
Uther waited for Arthur to meet his eyes. “I know you think my actions were cruel,” he said. “But a king does nothing without a cause. Do you know why I drowned your dog?”
“No, Father.”
“You had grown too attached.” Uther could see Ygraine in every curve of his son’s face, and the fire of memory gave him eloquence. “When you love something, you give that thing power over you, do you understand? You were willing to put yourself in danger for the sake of a dog, but your loyalty must be to your kingdom, not to your pets. Camelot cannot afford you to spend your life so casually. A king is beholden to no one.”
“I understand, Father,” Arthur said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” Arthur stood at attention for a few moments more, then his face twisted. “But Father, you shouldn’t have killed him-“ and he ran back out the door. Uther sighed but let him go. Someday, Arthur would understand.
“Sorcerer!” Uther whispers, and draws his sword, but Arthur is already standing over Merlin’s unconscious form, and his sword, too, is drawn. Uther spits out every charge against Merlin- sorcerer, renegade, traitor- but one look at the set of Arthur’s jaw and he knows the words are wasted.
And oh, Uther has failed again- failed to notice the attention his son paid to a simple-minded servant, failed to see the growing closeness for what it was, failed to realize that Merlin’s insolence and Arthur’s loud complaints should not be taken at face value- failed, after all, to impress upon his son the danger of trusting with his whole heart. Arthur’s weakness has betrayed him even more deeply than Uther’s own, and Uther can only imagine the horrors this will bring to Camelot.
“You love this boy,” Uther accuses, and thinks that this may be a crime worse than magic. Arthur’s sword never wavers.
“Yes,” says Arthur. “I do.”
ETA: About the picture at the top- I thought it went with this story because whenever I see it, I see Arthur standing between Merlin and his father, and you can just tell by Arthur's face that he already knows whose side he's on, no matter what the cost.
This picture, conveniently enough, ties into the next order of business: fic!
Title: Beholden
Pairing: gen, a hint of Arthur/Merlin; Uther's POV.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1337 (heh)
Warnings/Spoilers: ANIMAL HARM. It's brief, but it's there, and I'm sorry but it had to be done.
Notes: Would you believe this is the first fic I've finished in this fandom? I've been working on a longer story for kinkme_merlin for about three weeks now, yet I pounded this whole thing out in the middle of the night on a passing thought.
When Arthur was eight years old, Uther gave him his first hound. It was a valuable creature, bred from some of the finest hunting dogs in Uther’s possession, but at the moment it was not much more than a puppy, leaping about on paws too big for its body. Uther hoped that, in caring for something as rambunctious as Arthur himself, the boy would learn some responsibility.
For a while his plan seemed to be working: Arthur spent nearly all of his free time down at the kennels, training the dog as the kennel-master instructed him. The hound’s name was Constantine- “like the Roman emperor,” Arthur said with the smugness of a student who knows the correct answer- but sometimes Uther heard his son saying “Scrappy, come,” in a low coaxing voice that was nothing like the firm tones of command that dumb creatures required. This unexpected gentleness only came out when Arthur thought himself alone. Uther knew he should put a stop to it before the beast was incurably spoiled, but he could not bring himself to; the soft childish voice was too much like its mother’s.
As the months passed, Constantine grew from an unwieldy ball of energy to an accomplished hunter. White fur, once downy and tufted, was now sleek and groomed; the bulky paws now supported a well-muscled frame. Despite Arthur’s coddling- and Uther had witnessed his son sneaking bits of meat from his own table- Constantine was able to track game longer than some of Uther’s own hounds. Arthur was always exceptionally pleased when Constantine led the party to a clean kill, and in this Uther recognized his own satisfaction at a job capably performed.
Arthur was still young enough to find hunting trips exhilarating, though they always stayed close to Camelot, where the woods were tame. It was this illusion of security that caused Uther to drop his guard, to give in to Arthur’s pleas and allow him to lead for a time. Every once in a while, Uther caught his son murmuring to Constantine in that strange affectionate tone.
As they passed a clearing the hounds lifted their heads, as one, and began barking excitedly. Constantine was the first to dash off on the trail. Arthur heedlessly raced after him. The knights laughed at the sight, elbowing each other and reminiscing about their own earliest hunts. Uther smiled inwardly and allowed them the liberty, and they followed Arthur at a more stately pace.
Suddenly there was a squeal from the brush and a wild boar burst through the trees, flanked by hounds and heading straight for their party. “Spears!” called Uther as the knights readied themselves. The boar paused, tiny eyes rolling. It swung its great tusks and headed for a bramble to their left, but a hound leapt into its path, barking madly.
“Scrappy, no!” Arthur shouted, and before Uther could even think to restrain him, the boy flung himself in front of the boar, unarmed, looking incredibly small and fragile next to its bulk but with fiery determination in his eyes. The boar lowered its head and charged.
Later Uther would remember the smooth curve of his arm as he hurled his spear, the shouts of his knights as the boar was knocked cleanly aside with the shaft through its neck. All he could think as he threw was please, not him too.
Arthur seemed oblivious to his danger as he knelt down beside Constantine, stroking the dog’s white head and whispering, “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. Everything is all right.” Constantine placed his paws on Arthur’s knee and licked the boy’s face. Arthur giggled, but his smile faded when he looked up to see Uther towering over him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Uther demanded, wanting to shake some sense into his son, wanting to hold him close, and permitting himself to do neither.
“I just-“ Arthur began, but at Uther’s stony expression he straightened his back and said dutifully, “I’m sorry, Father.”
“Do you know what that boar could have done to you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you thought that less important than the life of a dog? A common cur?”
Arthur stared up at him. “He’s not a cur, Father, he’s a hunting dog, a good one.” Fiercely he added, “I’m s’posed to protect everyone that needs me. You said. You gave him to me, Father.”
Yes, he saw it now. This incident was Uther’s own doing. He should not have given the boy a hound before he was prepared to handle it properly; he should have intervened when it was clear that Arthur was forming a dangerous attachment. This time, Uther would not allow his mistakes to fester.
He dismissed the knights when they returned to Camelot and beckoned Arthur to the fountain. “Bring the hound,” he said, and Arthur did, confused, cradling the creature as though it were a child. Uther took it from him.
“You love this dog,” he said. Arthur, starting to become uneasy, gave an indifferent jerk of his shoulders but nodded. Uther could see the innocence in those blue eyes, so like Ygraine’s, and regretted what he must do next, but someday his son would thank him for it. He dropped the dog in the fountain and pushed down its head.
“What are you doing? No, stop!” Arthur pulled at Uther’s arms, scrabbling at the sleeves, but Uther steeled himself and held on. Bubbles came from underwater and broke on the skin of his arms. “I’m sorry!” cried Arthur, close to tears now. “I’m sorry, Father, don’t, please!” The white body slowly went limp in Uther’s hands.
“Arthur,” Uther began. “Son.”
“You killed him!” Arthur yelled, and burst into real sobs. “He- he never did anything wrong!” With an ineffectual shove at Uther’s chest, Arthur turned and ran across the courtyard into the palace.
Uther gave time for the boy’s rage to run its course before summoning Arthur to the throne room. When Arthur finally appeared, his cheeks were dry.
“I am sorry for my behavior,” Arthur said dully. “It was unbecoming of a prince.”
Uther waited for Arthur to meet his eyes. “I know you think my actions were cruel,” he said. “But a king does nothing without a cause. Do you know why I drowned your dog?”
“No, Father.”
“You had grown too attached.” Uther could see Ygraine in every curve of his son’s face, and the fire of memory gave him eloquence. “When you love something, you give that thing power over you, do you understand? You were willing to put yourself in danger for the sake of a dog, but your loyalty must be to your kingdom, not to your pets. Camelot cannot afford you to spend your life so casually. A king is beholden to no one.”
“I understand, Father,” Arthur said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” Arthur stood at attention for a few moments more, then his face twisted. “But Father, you shouldn’t have killed him-“ and he ran back out the door. Uther sighed but let him go. Someday, Arthur would understand.
“Sorcerer!” Uther whispers, and draws his sword, but Arthur is already standing over Merlin’s unconscious form, and his sword, too, is drawn. Uther spits out every charge against Merlin- sorcerer, renegade, traitor- but one look at the set of Arthur’s jaw and he knows the words are wasted.
And oh, Uther has failed again- failed to notice the attention his son paid to a simple-minded servant, failed to see the growing closeness for what it was, failed to realize that Merlin’s insolence and Arthur’s loud complaints should not be taken at face value- failed, after all, to impress upon his son the danger of trusting with his whole heart. Arthur’s weakness has betrayed him even more deeply than Uther’s own, and Uther can only imagine the horrors this will bring to Camelot.
“You love this boy,” Uther accuses, and thinks that this may be a crime worse than magic. Arthur’s sword never wavers.
“Yes,” says Arthur. “I do.”
ETA: About the picture at the top- I thought it went with this story because whenever I see it, I see Arthur standing between Merlin and his father, and you can just tell by Arthur's face that he already knows whose side he's on, no matter what the cost.