Arthur Pendragon

“Here’s trouble.” Arthur huffs quietly from where he sits in the ballroom to Lancelot who sits next to him, nursing his wine. “Tell me,” He nudges Lancelot subtly as you and your maidservant Guinevere -oblivious to them amongst your own quiet conversation- stroll past them.

“Do you think her… beautiful?” Arthur asks almost hesitantly, his blue eyes not breaking away from how you’d moved in the firelight of the torches and hearths -as fluid as silk gliding through water- as you simply walk in your gown.

“Yes sire, I do.” Lancelot agrees, his own dark gaze trained on Gwen where she speaks to Merlin-Arthur’s manservant-beneath his dark lashes.

“Yeah, I suppose she is.” Arthur concludes -mostly to himself into his wine. His eyes shamelessly meet yours over the rim of his cup. Unashamed at being one of many men enthralled by your mere presence.

He, like many others, was captivated at the way your hair fell like a curtain, obscuring your back from his eyes. The fit of your gown, and the way the dancing candlelight only added to the sheen of your soft skin.

God, you were so beautiful. He’s always thought so, even as a boy when you were brought to Uther’s castle as a ward when your father died.

You were treated well. Like one of the King’s very own, really. Treated with the love and softness you’d missed from your own father. Aside from the dull ache of grief for your parents, your only problem in life was your “gift”.

You possessed majick. Old majick. As ancient and deep as the roots of the very mountains, and twice as powerful. It clawed at your bones, screeching for release like some wild wraith. Power demanding it be used, writhing in the very edges-just out of reach- of your sanity.

If anyone knew, (anyone aside from Merlin, who’d been sworn to secrecy after accidentally catching you while you practiced) you’d surely be executed before Uther could draw another breath.

The King hated majick, blamed it for being the cause of his wife’s death. He’d gone to a Seer while the Queen was pregnant, and she’d died in childbirth. In his grief, he could never accept the fault was his own. But you knew better than to voice that aloud.