Though you wouldn't know it to look at him, Arthur Pendragon, heir to the throne of Camelot, was a dreamer. Certainly, to his father, King Uther, he was the dedicated and promising, if somewhat impulsive, future king of the realm. To the Knights of Camelot, he was a strong and demanding leader. To the citizens of the kingdom, he was a beacon of hope: hope that he would be a good king like his father, and that the peace that Uther had brought to the land so many years ago would remain for many years to come. Princes had better things to do with their time than fantasize about what could not be. But, every so often, Prince Arthur found himself in a blessed moment of solitude, with no duty to hasten to and no façade to wear. It was such fleeting moments that brought Arthur his greatest joy – it was these moments that Arthur lived for.
On a hot summer day, Arthur Pendragon stood in the shadow of a great stone building, taking a moment to catch his breath and to attempt to cool down. He was simply touring the lower town, nodding rigid yet kind greetings to the people and scanning the area for any visible problems. He was pleased to see that the citizens seemed to have recovered well from their bout with poisoned water, when an afanc had made its home in their precious water supply and nearly killed them all. They looked to be busy and cheerful, which Arthur took to be a good sign. No one had called or run to him with tears in their eyes and pleas on their tongues. It was rather nice, really.
He leaned back against the grey stone, usually so cool, though today everything seemed to be absorbing the suffocating summer heat. He let his eyes wander over the bustling marketplace. What simple lives these people led. They had no kingdom-wide problems to solve, no princely duties to suffer. Certainly, their lives were not the kind he could lead, though perhaps he would not mind taking care of their duties for just one day or so. How hard could it be, to tend crops and sell them to the other villagers for a day?
Arthur's reverie was broken by the sight of a familiar figure loping through the crowd. Merlin, his manservant, with his usual goofy gin, was making his way through the throng of villagers, carrying a basket like a maiden out to collect flowers. Arthur was not surprised that Merlin could not even walk through a marketplace without looking a fool.
Arthur watched the way Merlin's whole body moved as he walked, as if his cheerfulness were genuine from his head to his feet. The way his lips turned up so handsomely, so perfectly, in that earnest smile that only Merlin had. The way his dark hair stuck to his forehead in the sweltering heat, the way his shirt clung to his skin. The way his eyes sparkled, even from a distance.
Arthur looked again at Merlin's lips, those lips that were always smiling. Arthur remembered the way Merlin had raised the poisoned cup to those lips, how he'd risked death to save his prince, how still and terrifyingly unsmiling those lips had been when he'd fallen limp and helpless to the floor from the poison. Arthur shuddered at the thought that those warm, cheerful lips had been so close to growing cold forever—
"Arthur! My prince!" A knight ran to him, looking tense and displeased. "My apologies, sire, but two farmers are feuding and have broken into a brawl. We require your presence immediately!"
Yes, Arthur Pendragon, heir to the throne of Camelot, was a dreamer. But dreams are fleeting: for all must wake to the deafening call of life, reality, no matter how warm and sweet a dream may be.
Prince Arthur snapped into action, muscles tensed and ready for duty. Prince Arthur did not look back at a carefree manservant walking in the opposite direction to gather supplies for his guardian, nor did he spare a thought of his manservant's smiling lips. And Prince Arthur Pendragon, who would one day be king of Camelot, did not think of what it would feel like to feel his manservant's smile pressed against his own. Prince Arthur had better things to do with his time than fantasize about what could not be.