FIC: color(blind) {Uther Pendragon + Family}
People (long since cast out or killed for their treasonous actions) have called Uther blind to the truth, but he’s never thought so. In fact, he thinks he sees with more acuity and specificity than most. (They say the devil’s in the details, after all.)
Uther sees.
The way his wife’s once petite and lithe body lay in gentle repose on the small boat, padded with lilies of the valley and common bluebells, is engraved into his memory. Every part of her seems taut; her skin stretches over bones, her lips are sealed tight. Except for her eyes. Uther thinks she might open her eyes and smile at him once more, up until the moment the fires consume her forever.
Three full moons pass before Uther works up the courage and strength to nestle his son into his arms. He sees Ygraine’s cobalt eyes stare back up at him every time he approaches baby Arthur. It shocks him so much the first time that for an instant he feels his limbs turn limp, the only thing aiding him in recovering control of his body is the instinct to hold his only son safely against his chest.
In only a few weeks, Arthur’s blue eyes bring Uther both pleasure and pain. When he is calm and content, his eyes are as tranquil as the summer sky that he and Ygraine picnicked beneath, and when he is hungry or otherwise agitated, they are as tempestuous as the stormy sea (like the crashing waves he’d see in Ygraine’s eyes whenever they argued).
His (hers, always hers) baby boy, for better or for worse, has his mother’s eyes, through and through.
Uther sees.
Gorlois’s eyes are a deep, warm umber brown as he clasps Uther’s forearm in a gesture of solidarity before he turns to gather his men for a battle that he will not return from. (So faithful, so misguided.) Uther watches from his window as the man envelops the young Morgana and kisses her upon her raven head. He sees the girl’s slight figure tremble in the late summer wind before drawing a deep breath and composing herself. (Her dreams in the night show her beloved father painted in scarlet reds, a gash open wide in his belly. But she has already lost one parent and will not entertain any fears of losing another, no matter how terrifying the visions are.)
Vivienne’s fragrance of worry and desperation is what Uther remembers best from her. Still, during his loneliest nights, he recalls the glint of satisfaction in her hazel eyes (like the forest ground covered in dewy autumn leaves) in the aftermath of their intimacy.
And so it is with almost gripping concern when Morgana settles into her own room in Camelot, her teary eyes rimmed in red, but her eyes still so green - bordering on grey now under the canopy of dark clouds (so, so like his own) - that Uther is half-way convinced that the lords and knights will realize the ward’s true paternity.
Through the passage of time, Morgana matures in stature and personality, and her green eyes speak to him at every juncture, weaving a different story at every point.
In her youth, his daughter’s eyes remind Uther of the green of a caterpillar - so small and unsure, inching slowly through life, and then cocooned within its own chrysalis. (Yet vibrant, waiting for its time to emerge.) After a couple of years in Camelot, Uther sees the green take on that of an active toad, hopping happily from idly gossiping with her maidservant to aiming an affectionate insult toward Arthur. Even in womanhood, the steadfast gaze in Morgana’s eyes would remind him of the emerald forest trees, towering over all, proud and staunch. (Head held high even when big men in mail push it down as the ceilings’ heights recede, while she and her apprehenders near the dungeons where Uther deem she spend the night.)
And still, never would Uther have thought her to be a snake.
Uther sees. (Did he ever truly see before?)
Trapped in the cell, he peers out into the courtyard through the barred window. For all the impenetrable stone that the dungeon is made of, it does not mute Morgana’s demands for total allegiance from Camelot’s army, nor does it obstruct the shrill, shooting, bone-chilling cries of the populace when the knights refuse her from wiggling into his ears.
Morgana visits him and he looks deep into those eyes of hers that are merely a reflection of his and begs her to take his life, if only to spare that of his people. She simply sneers at him, using those piercing eyes to look him up and down and taunts, “First I want you to suffer as I suffered.” Her hatred of him (How could he not have seen this! Of all things?) devours her every thought and action until the only one that exists is of her ascension to the throne she believes to be rightfully hers. He should have known: green is the color of envy.
His clandestine daughter, for better or for worse, has her father’s eyes, through and through.
Uther hears.
He has been sitting in his chair for hours (days? weeks?) and the sun has set long ago, the moon now illuminating Camelot’s rooftops. The kingdom appears so peaceful. (It’s a lie, he knows. Despite having had a year to recuperate, the people are still grieving their neighbors. Blood, long since washed away by summer storms, is still seeped deep, deep beneath the cobblestones’ cracks.)
His thoughts are interrupted by Arthur’s profound sighs behind him.
“Tell me again, Leon. Do not hesitate to leave anything out.”
“Sire, there is nothing more to be told,” Leon stressed.
“You, you,” Arthur begins loudly then pauses to collect himself, and Uther notes the slight presence of fret and worry behind his brief stutter before concealing it from the world around him.
Lowering his voice a drop, Arthur echoes, “You say she was able to kill Sir Bertrand and Sir Wontague with a mere extension of her arm?”
Leon nods solemnly. “My lord. They were thrown to the ground. When Sir Elyan and I came to, we found their necks had been broken. I fear we can no longer hope to face the Lady Morgana as we would any other enemy. Her magic is considerably great.”
Any words they utter afterwards become gibberish in Uther’s mind.
Magic. Morgana practices magic.
His first reaction is intense hatred toward that witch, Morgause, who surely corrupted his daughter by indoctrinating her with false ideas and teaching her the ways of sorcery. That same young warrior wretch that appeared out of nowhere and nearly drove a permanent wedge between him and his son years ago.
In the following instant, however, he is flooded by memories. Morgana’s consistent nightmares which could not be cured or treated, despite Gaius’s most potent tonics; the lines of worry etched all over Morgana’s face before Arthur departed to face the Questing Beast and her fair skin, more ashen than usual, when he returned, bloodied and unconscious, carried to his chambers by four knights; her unusually quiet and acquiescent demeanor during Aredian’s visit.
These visions of the years past amalgamate in unnatural speed until suddenly, Uther’s mind shows him his daughter (beautiful and vivacious, eyes as green as spring) painted with golden eyes instead. The eyes of the enemy (nefarious and deceptive and … irredeemable, as far as Uther is concerned).
Magic took his beloved wife from him. Magic allowed his son to arrive to this world and magic is allowing his daughter to make her wicked mark on it, however she intends. For all his animosity and aversion, magic has reached out its poisonous tentacles and infiltrated and perverted everything Uther has (and rotted them, like he himself has been putrified, long ago).
The people he had disposed of had been right all along. The truth was there for Uther to see from the beginning and he turned a blind eye (two of them, in fact, cold and green).
He had only need look into a mirror.
(They do say that the devil is in the details, after all.)
Uther sees.
The way his wife’s once petite and lithe body lay in gentle repose on the small boat, padded with lilies of the valley and common bluebells, is engraved into his memory. Every part of her seems taut; her skin stretches over bones, her lips are sealed tight. Except for her eyes. Uther thinks she might open her eyes and smile at him once more, up until the moment the fires consume her forever.
Three full moons pass before Uther works up the courage and strength to nestle his son into his arms. He sees Ygraine’s cobalt eyes stare back up at him every time he approaches baby Arthur. It shocks him so much the first time that for an instant he feels his limbs turn limp, the only thing aiding him in recovering control of his body is the instinct to hold his only son safely against his chest.
In only a few weeks, Arthur’s blue eyes bring Uther both pleasure and pain. When he is calm and content, his eyes are as tranquil as the summer sky that he and Ygraine picnicked beneath, and when he is hungry or otherwise agitated, they are as tempestuous as the stormy sea (like the crashing waves he’d see in Ygraine’s eyes whenever they argued).
His (hers, always hers) baby boy, for better or for worse, has his mother’s eyes, through and through.
Uther sees.
Gorlois’s eyes are a deep, warm umber brown as he clasps Uther’s forearm in a gesture of solidarity before he turns to gather his men for a battle that he will not return from. (So faithful, so misguided.) Uther watches from his window as the man envelops the young Morgana and kisses her upon her raven head. He sees the girl’s slight figure tremble in the late summer wind before drawing a deep breath and composing herself. (Her dreams in the night show her beloved father painted in scarlet reds, a gash open wide in his belly. But she has already lost one parent and will not entertain any fears of losing another, no matter how terrifying the visions are.)
Vivienne’s fragrance of worry and desperation is what Uther remembers best from her. Still, during his loneliest nights, he recalls the glint of satisfaction in her hazel eyes (like the forest ground covered in dewy autumn leaves) in the aftermath of their intimacy.
And so it is with almost gripping concern when Morgana settles into her own room in Camelot, her teary eyes rimmed in red, but her eyes still so green - bordering on grey now under the canopy of dark clouds (so, so like his own) - that Uther is half-way convinced that the lords and knights will realize the ward’s true paternity.
Through the passage of time, Morgana matures in stature and personality, and her green eyes speak to him at every juncture, weaving a different story at every point.
In her youth, his daughter’s eyes remind Uther of the green of a caterpillar - so small and unsure, inching slowly through life, and then cocooned within its own chrysalis. (Yet vibrant, waiting for its time to emerge.) After a couple of years in Camelot, Uther sees the green take on that of an active toad, hopping happily from idly gossiping with her maidservant to aiming an affectionate insult toward Arthur. Even in womanhood, the steadfast gaze in Morgana’s eyes would remind him of the emerald forest trees, towering over all, proud and staunch. (Head held high even when big men in mail push it down as the ceilings’ heights recede, while she and her apprehenders near the dungeons where Uther deem she spend the night.)
And still, never would Uther have thought her to be a snake.
Uther sees. (Did he ever truly see before?)
Trapped in the cell, he peers out into the courtyard through the barred window. For all the impenetrable stone that the dungeon is made of, it does not mute Morgana’s demands for total allegiance from Camelot’s army, nor does it obstruct the shrill, shooting, bone-chilling cries of the populace when the knights refuse her from wiggling into his ears.
Morgana visits him and he looks deep into those eyes of hers that are merely a reflection of his and begs her to take his life, if only to spare that of his people. She simply sneers at him, using those piercing eyes to look him up and down and taunts, “First I want you to suffer as I suffered.” Her hatred of him (How could he not have seen this! Of all things?) devours her every thought and action until the only one that exists is of her ascension to the throne she believes to be rightfully hers. He should have known: green is the color of envy.
His clandestine daughter, for better or for worse, has her father’s eyes, through and through.
Uther hears.
He has been sitting in his chair for hours (days? weeks?) and the sun has set long ago, the moon now illuminating Camelot’s rooftops. The kingdom appears so peaceful. (It’s a lie, he knows. Despite having had a year to recuperate, the people are still grieving their neighbors. Blood, long since washed away by summer storms, is still seeped deep, deep beneath the cobblestones’ cracks.)
His thoughts are interrupted by Arthur’s profound sighs behind him.
“Tell me again, Leon. Do not hesitate to leave anything out.”
“Sire, there is nothing more to be told,” Leon stressed.
“You, you,” Arthur begins loudly then pauses to collect himself, and Uther notes the slight presence of fret and worry behind his brief stutter before concealing it from the world around him.
Lowering his voice a drop, Arthur echoes, “You say she was able to kill Sir Bertrand and Sir Wontague with a mere extension of her arm?”
Leon nods solemnly. “My lord. They were thrown to the ground. When Sir Elyan and I came to, we found their necks had been broken. I fear we can no longer hope to face the Lady Morgana as we would any other enemy. Her magic is considerably great.”
Any words they utter afterwards become gibberish in Uther’s mind.
Magic. Morgana practices magic.
His first reaction is intense hatred toward that witch, Morgause, who surely corrupted his daughter by indoctrinating her with false ideas and teaching her the ways of sorcery. That same young warrior wretch that appeared out of nowhere and nearly drove a permanent wedge between him and his son years ago.
In the following instant, however, he is flooded by memories. Morgana’s consistent nightmares which could not be cured or treated, despite Gaius’s most potent tonics; the lines of worry etched all over Morgana’s face before Arthur departed to face the Questing Beast and her fair skin, more ashen than usual, when he returned, bloodied and unconscious, carried to his chambers by four knights; her unusually quiet and acquiescent demeanor during Aredian’s visit.
These visions of the years past amalgamate in unnatural speed until suddenly, Uther’s mind shows him his daughter (beautiful and vivacious, eyes as green as spring) painted with golden eyes instead. The eyes of the enemy (nefarious and deceptive and … irredeemable, as far as Uther is concerned).
Magic took his beloved wife from him. Magic allowed his son to arrive to this world and magic is allowing his daughter to make her wicked mark on it, however she intends. For all his animosity and aversion, magic has reached out its poisonous tentacles and infiltrated and perverted everything Uther has (and rotted them, like he himself has been putrified, long ago).
The people he had disposed of had been right all along. The truth was there for Uther to see from the beginning and he turned a blind eye (two of them, in fact, cold and green).
He had only need look into a mirror.
(They do say that the devil is in the details, after all.)