Chapter Text
Arthur knew that as soon as he was born, he was different.
As soon as he took his first gulp of air into his screaming lungs, cradled in the gentle arms of his golden, fading mother, he knew he wasn’t right.
He had no concept of morality, no idea of right or wrong, black or white, night or day, who his mother or father were. Yet, he could still sense deep in his infanted bones, that he was not as he should be.
Perhaps it was the waning light from his mother, going limp, her heart beat dropping from a steady pulse to a dampened beat, to nothing, to silence. Perhaps it was the negligence from his father, his steely indifference cutting into his newborn wailing, desperate, pleading for someone to hold him, clutching him to their chest, their love seeping into his skin. But he was different. Not unique, but different.
On recollection, Arthur has very little memory of his infanthood. He has been informed by adoring nursemaids that he was angelic, a ray of golden light toddling through hallways, brandishing his toy sword proudly, a perfect prince. He has eavesdropped upon his former manservants who complained of his neediness, his arrogance, his temper that was a roaring fire, staked by his furious father who sparked the flames of his youth. Despite these very few memories he holds, he can still recall the outlying, poisonous feeling of otherness .
He can still recall endless lessons and lectures on the dangers of magic, the toxicity of sorcery that was drilled into his head daily, weekly, monthly, for all of his formative years. His father seemed insistent on reminding him that magic, something that his snooping in the library had told him was once an essential foundation of life in Camelot, was a fountain of evil. A force of corruption, something that would encroach upon his perfect golden soul, topple the crown, end the Pendragon lineage. Yet he never could truly believe this.
He understood that this was his failing as a son, as a prince. He already knew that every time his father looked at him, he saw a shadow of his dead wife, a mere living memory that failed to live up to expectations. Ygraine would never breathe again, never smile again, never love again, and Arthur was a sorry reminder of this every time he met his father’s eyes. He could not reveal that he didn’t believe in his father’s main policy, the guidance by which he lived his life. Arthur feared what his father would do, whether his disappointment would evolve into hatred, and Arthur was brave enough to admit that while disappointment was a heavy weight upon his shoulders that he could bear, he did not think he could live with the knowledge that his father despised him.
This belief only solidified with Morgana’s entrance into his life, a whirlwind of dark hair, snide glances, a sharp tongue and an overwhelming amount of love to give. Uther took him aside one day, his gloved hand on Arthur’s clothed arm, layers of fabric between them, and explained carefully Morgana’s presence. Arthur, at only eight summers old, did not really understand what a ward was, but knew only too well the sharp grief of losing a parent and secretly relished in the idea of having someone to talk to, instead of his tutor or his manservant, two people he did not truly talk to, but address. Command. Arthur wanted a friend. And here one was.
Quickly, the two grew thick as thieves, her dark head against his golden one a common image throughout the castle. They worked together as a force against Uther, Morgana’s strength a shield against Arthur’s vulnerability, and Arthur’s privilege a shield against Morgana’s disadvantages. Arthur held Morgana as she sobbed late into dark nights, her anguish soothed by Arthur’s tentative yet affectionate touches. Morgana comforted Arthur as he choked away tears into his fist, after Uther called him weak, or pathetic, or unworthy. They raced through long corridors, giggling and screaming at each other, chasing away cold winter days. They played in the long summer grasses of Camelot’s forests, picking fresh strawberries, staining their sweaty, sticky skins red with the flesh of the sweet fruits. They bathed in the refreshing coolness of rivers, splashing around, soaking their tunics wet through as they stumbled from the shore, collapsing into piles of giggles. Even their joy could not ruin Uther’s steely countenance; those summer evenings were full of frequent dinings together, rich meals of fresh meats and watered wine that encouraged their fits of snickering while Uther looked on, a half-suppressed smile curling at his lip.
The day Morgana confessed to him that she had magic would be a day that Arthur would never forget for as long as he lived.
Arthur was familiar with her nightmares. They were gruelling, torturous; they left her with dark bruises under her eyes and a pale, lifeless face, hands trembling as Arthur held them gently in his own palms comfortingly, slowly developing the callouses of a knight, rather than the pampered hands of a prince. The nightmares worsened as they grew older, Morgana beginning to refuse sleep, worrying not only Arthur, but Uther and Gaius too, who Arthur often overheard conferring in low, concerned tones, throwing unsubtle glances towards a shivering Morgana.
It was when Arthur was fifteen summers, and Morgana was seventeen summers, that she took Arthur by the hands in her chamber after dismissing her warm-eyed and sweetly smiling maidservant, and whispered those three, fateful words in the moonlit privacy of her room.
“I have magic.”
Arthur knew that he was not in support of his father’s beliefs. Knew that he often spared magic users as best as he could, never engaged with conversations on the toxicity of magic, how it would be the end of Camelot, understood that it marked him as different, and must never be revealed to his father. Still, those three words solidified his beliefs even further.
He swept Morgana, his best friend, his sister, into his arms, pressed his face into her tangled, dark hair and whispered soothingly -
“You will never come under any harm, so long as I am breathing in Camelot.”
She sobbed louder at his words, burying her face into his broadening shoulders, him taller than her now despite her superior age. Arthur knew from that day henceforth: the day he became king, magic would be made legal, allowed to flourish, allowed to grow and thrive and breathe.
He likes to think it’s what his mother would have wanted.
And then, that fateful day sprung. The day he met that bumbling, clumsy, oaf of a peasant.
The day he met Merlin.