Merlin fic - Instruction - PG13 gen
TITLE: Instruction
RATING: PG13 Gen
CHARACTERS: Uther & Arthur
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
NOTES: 1370 words. Set pre-series. Arthur receives some instruction from his father.
Uther hears Arthur before he sees him, as always. His voice carries clear across the tilt yard, bright sharp peals of laughter rising above the rhythmic clatter of training swords.
It’s little more than a game to the boy; no matter how often Uther chides him on this point. Oh, Arthur will nod and pay lip service to the lecture, but as soon as he’s out on the training field again his father’s strictures are instantly forgotten. It doesn’t help that his enthusiasm and boundless energy are hopelessly infectious, and as a result he’s absurdly indulged by his teachers. By the whole court, if truth be told. Even at his tender age, Arthur is already an expert in exploiting a vast armoury of disarming smiles and dimples.
Uther has to steel himself against those particular weapons, their potency increased by a desperately painful familiarity. He cannot allow himself to be swayed by the brightness of blue eyes, by the soft curve of a dimpled cheek. To do so would be to coddle Arthur, fail to prepare him for his destiny. And Uther will not fail in his duty. Not this time.
He hesitates before rounding the corner, listening vainly for a semblance of dignity in the unruly clamour, for some sign that Arthur possesses even the smallest degree of regal solemnity. But it’s clear that Arthur is the ringleader, as usual. Uther recognizes his son’s animated yells with wearying ease.
“Owain! Think fast!” There’s a muffled thud, then a faint splash, accompanied by more raucous laughter. “Over here!”
Uther steps into the tilt yard in time to see his son dive to the ground, clutching a training helmet to his chest. The boy is soaked to the skin; his fair hair plastered dark against his skull, grimy streaks painted over his bare arms and legs. The reason for his dishevelment becomes obvious, as water floods from the helmet, drenching Arthur’s tunic, turning the grass beneath him to mud.
“Arthur!” He snaps the reprimand automatically, and the entire yard is instantly silent. The other pages fall to their knees; heads bent in proper obeisance.
In contrast, Arthur’s head comes up, blue eyes sparkling with impish merriment. “Father!” He smiles a gap-toothed grin, teeth flashing bright-white in his smudged face.
Uther sighs; long and deep and weary, and waits patiently for his son to correct his mistake. No matter how often this lesson is revised, Arthur still manages to forget it. Or simply ignore it; Uther can’t be sure.
It takes longer than it ought for the grin to waver; but eventually realization dawns. Arthur hauls himself up from his undignified sprawl and drops to one knee, his shoulders drooping slightly.
“Sire, I mean,” he says, his gaze fixed on the muddy puddle below his knee.
“What is the meaning of this?” Uther steps forward, aiming a gentle kick at the helmet.
Arthur risks a glance upwards. “We were training, Sire.” His son’s voice is quiet, but steady, no hint of apprehension in it.
“Training.” Uther echoes the boy’s answer, then turns to Arthur’s squire, who is kneeling over by the weapons. “Pray tell me, do, Squire Eldred, what manner of combat requires training in such a skill? Precision helmet tossing is not, as far as I am aware, a recognized requirement of a young knight’s education.”
He addresses the squire rather than Arthur, knowing that the boy will jump to his teacher’s defence. On that point, at least, Uther is sure.
“Your Majesty,” the older man begins, his voice quavering in terror, but he gets no further.
“Father,” Arthur interrupts, using the informal address quite deliberately. “Master Eldred had nothing to do with this. The fault is mine alone.”
“Of that, Arthur, I have no doubt.” Uther nods wearily. “I await your explanation with a due sense of foreboding and dread.”
“We were training with long swords.” Arthur clasps his hands to demonstrate, wielding an imaginary sword. “We’d been training for ages; most likely hours, I should think, and it was such a hot day.” He rests his invisible sword across his knee, squinting against the glare from the setting sun, then adds the requisite, though lamentably belated ‘Sire’.
“And the focus of your training today, Arthur? Or perhaps in the heat of such an afternoon these trivialities have already slipped your mind.”
Arthur’s face colours then, blushing at the censure. “We were practicing defence strategies, Sire.”
“Am I to assume, then, that you are now proficient in these strategies?”
Arthur’s cheeks redden, but this time it is temper rather than shame that heightens his colour. “We had worked hard, Sire. We only broke training a few minutes before you arrived.”
“I see.” Uther recognizes sincerity in the boy’s aggrieved tone, but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour. Arthur spends far too much time playing at war; a luxury that Uther can not afford him.
He strides over to the weapons store and selects two identical long swords. Heavier than the wooden swords that Arthur is used to wielding, but half-sized, still nothing more than training weapons.
“Very well, Arthur.” He tosses the sword to the boy and Arthur catches the hilt, although the weight of the sword carries him over onto the ground again. “Defend yourself!”
To his credit, Arthur maintains a tolerable defence. The boy fights instinctively, his natural talent combining with well-taught technique and loose-limbed easy grace. But there is something lacking in his performance, a deficiency in his fighting style that needs to be addressed.
Uther recognizes it immediately; the lack of fear in his demeanour. It is understandable, of course; Arthur has not yet had experience of defeat. There are few in Camelot who would dare to spill the blood of their most cherished prince, and for this Uther must accept the blame. It is his fault, and he should be the one to correct it.
He brings his sword down again, using his height as an advantage, and Arthur parries the blow, but his defence is weakening. Uther sees a fine sheen of sweat on the boy’s brow, the muscles in his arms trembling with the sheer effort of holding the sword aloft.
The defensive position has thrown Arthur off balance, all his weight suddenly shifting back onto one leg. Uther makes his move quickly, does not allow himself time to reconsider. Better Arthur learn this now, at his father’s hand, rather than on the battlefield, subject to the cruelty of an enemy’s whim.
Uther sweeps his sword low, turning the blade flat before it connects with the boy’s legs. Arthur has no chance. His feet leave him, and he falls hard onto his back, his head connecting with the ground with an audible thud. There is a sharp intake of breath, a unison chorus of hushed shock that whispers through the training yard, followed by stunned silence.
Uther looks down at his son, sees the dark stripe blossom across the back of his calves, sees a thin trickle of blood trace a path down Arthur’s chin. And suddenly he is filled with shame. Arthur is not yet ten years old, a child by any standard, and the blow Uther just delivered would have felled a man twice his age.
The things that hurt, instruct; but just for a moment Uther wishes that he had not been the instrument of such instruction.
Arthur struggles to sit up, blinking back tears, his shock and confusion at his father’s betrayal plainly evident. And then, gradually, there is a change in the boy’s demeanour. He swallows down the bitter sting of humiliation, and raises his hand to his father, an acknowledgment of defeat as much as a request for assistance. Uther pulls him to his feet, and Arthur swipes his hand over his face, smearing a bloody streak across his chin.
He hefts the heavy sword, panting with the effort, then spits a mouthful of blood onto the grass. When he raises his face again, the merry grin is gone, replaced by controlled anger and grim determination.
“I am ready, Sire.”
Uther hears the truth in those words, and for the first time since Arthur began his training, he sees the warrior that his son will one day become.
RATING: PG13 Gen
CHARACTERS: Uther & Arthur
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.
NOTES: 1370 words. Set pre-series. Arthur receives some instruction from his father.
Uther hears Arthur before he sees him, as always. His voice carries clear across the tilt yard, bright sharp peals of laughter rising above the rhythmic clatter of training swords.
It’s little more than a game to the boy; no matter how often Uther chides him on this point. Oh, Arthur will nod and pay lip service to the lecture, but as soon as he’s out on the training field again his father’s strictures are instantly forgotten. It doesn’t help that his enthusiasm and boundless energy are hopelessly infectious, and as a result he’s absurdly indulged by his teachers. By the whole court, if truth be told. Even at his tender age, Arthur is already an expert in exploiting a vast armoury of disarming smiles and dimples.
Uther has to steel himself against those particular weapons, their potency increased by a desperately painful familiarity. He cannot allow himself to be swayed by the brightness of blue eyes, by the soft curve of a dimpled cheek. To do so would be to coddle Arthur, fail to prepare him for his destiny. And Uther will not fail in his duty. Not this time.
He hesitates before rounding the corner, listening vainly for a semblance of dignity in the unruly clamour, for some sign that Arthur possesses even the smallest degree of regal solemnity. But it’s clear that Arthur is the ringleader, as usual. Uther recognizes his son’s animated yells with wearying ease.
“Owain! Think fast!” There’s a muffled thud, then a faint splash, accompanied by more raucous laughter. “Over here!”
Uther steps into the tilt yard in time to see his son dive to the ground, clutching a training helmet to his chest. The boy is soaked to the skin; his fair hair plastered dark against his skull, grimy streaks painted over his bare arms and legs. The reason for his dishevelment becomes obvious, as water floods from the helmet, drenching Arthur’s tunic, turning the grass beneath him to mud.
“Arthur!” He snaps the reprimand automatically, and the entire yard is instantly silent. The other pages fall to their knees; heads bent in proper obeisance.
In contrast, Arthur’s head comes up, blue eyes sparkling with impish merriment. “Father!” He smiles a gap-toothed grin, teeth flashing bright-white in his smudged face.
Uther sighs; long and deep and weary, and waits patiently for his son to correct his mistake. No matter how often this lesson is revised, Arthur still manages to forget it. Or simply ignore it; Uther can’t be sure.
It takes longer than it ought for the grin to waver; but eventually realization dawns. Arthur hauls himself up from his undignified sprawl and drops to one knee, his shoulders drooping slightly.
“Sire, I mean,” he says, his gaze fixed on the muddy puddle below his knee.
“What is the meaning of this?” Uther steps forward, aiming a gentle kick at the helmet.
Arthur risks a glance upwards. “We were training, Sire.” His son’s voice is quiet, but steady, no hint of apprehension in it.
“Training.” Uther echoes the boy’s answer, then turns to Arthur’s squire, who is kneeling over by the weapons. “Pray tell me, do, Squire Eldred, what manner of combat requires training in such a skill? Precision helmet tossing is not, as far as I am aware, a recognized requirement of a young knight’s education.”
He addresses the squire rather than Arthur, knowing that the boy will jump to his teacher’s defence. On that point, at least, Uther is sure.
“Your Majesty,” the older man begins, his voice quavering in terror, but he gets no further.
“Father,” Arthur interrupts, using the informal address quite deliberately. “Master Eldred had nothing to do with this. The fault is mine alone.”
“Of that, Arthur, I have no doubt.” Uther nods wearily. “I await your explanation with a due sense of foreboding and dread.”
“We were training with long swords.” Arthur clasps his hands to demonstrate, wielding an imaginary sword. “We’d been training for ages; most likely hours, I should think, and it was such a hot day.” He rests his invisible sword across his knee, squinting against the glare from the setting sun, then adds the requisite, though lamentably belated ‘Sire’.
“And the focus of your training today, Arthur? Or perhaps in the heat of such an afternoon these trivialities have already slipped your mind.”
Arthur’s face colours then, blushing at the censure. “We were practicing defence strategies, Sire.”
“Am I to assume, then, that you are now proficient in these strategies?”
Arthur’s cheeks redden, but this time it is temper rather than shame that heightens his colour. “We had worked hard, Sire. We only broke training a few minutes before you arrived.”
“I see.” Uther recognizes sincerity in the boy’s aggrieved tone, but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour. Arthur spends far too much time playing at war; a luxury that Uther can not afford him.
He strides over to the weapons store and selects two identical long swords. Heavier than the wooden swords that Arthur is used to wielding, but half-sized, still nothing more than training weapons.
“Very well, Arthur.” He tosses the sword to the boy and Arthur catches the hilt, although the weight of the sword carries him over onto the ground again. “Defend yourself!”
To his credit, Arthur maintains a tolerable defence. The boy fights instinctively, his natural talent combining with well-taught technique and loose-limbed easy grace. But there is something lacking in his performance, a deficiency in his fighting style that needs to be addressed.
Uther recognizes it immediately; the lack of fear in his demeanour. It is understandable, of course; Arthur has not yet had experience of defeat. There are few in Camelot who would dare to spill the blood of their most cherished prince, and for this Uther must accept the blame. It is his fault, and he should be the one to correct it.
He brings his sword down again, using his height as an advantage, and Arthur parries the blow, but his defence is weakening. Uther sees a fine sheen of sweat on the boy’s brow, the muscles in his arms trembling with the sheer effort of holding the sword aloft.
The defensive position has thrown Arthur off balance, all his weight suddenly shifting back onto one leg. Uther makes his move quickly, does not allow himself time to reconsider. Better Arthur learn this now, at his father’s hand, rather than on the battlefield, subject to the cruelty of an enemy’s whim.
Uther sweeps his sword low, turning the blade flat before it connects with the boy’s legs. Arthur has no chance. His feet leave him, and he falls hard onto his back, his head connecting with the ground with an audible thud. There is a sharp intake of breath, a unison chorus of hushed shock that whispers through the training yard, followed by stunned silence.
Uther looks down at his son, sees the dark stripe blossom across the back of his calves, sees a thin trickle of blood trace a path down Arthur’s chin. And suddenly he is filled with shame. Arthur is not yet ten years old, a child by any standard, and the blow Uther just delivered would have felled a man twice his age.
The things that hurt, instruct; but just for a moment Uther wishes that he had not been the instrument of such instruction.
Arthur struggles to sit up, blinking back tears, his shock and confusion at his father’s betrayal plainly evident. And then, gradually, there is a change in the boy’s demeanour. He swallows down the bitter sting of humiliation, and raises his hand to his father, an acknowledgment of defeat as much as a request for assistance. Uther pulls him to his feet, and Arthur swipes his hand over his face, smearing a bloody streak across his chin.
He hefts the heavy sword, panting with the effort, then spits a mouthful of blood onto the grass. When he raises his face again, the merry grin is gone, replaced by controlled anger and grim determination.
“I am ready, Sire.”
Uther hears the truth in those words, and for the first time since Arthur began his training, he sees the warrior that his son will one day become.