Land's End
The sea spray crashes into a vertical cliff below, and Arthur peers over the edge at the eddies and swirls of the pulling and pushing of the current. He almost wants to take off his clothes and dive into the gray water, its saltiness seeping into his mouth, but he is not stupid: a plunge into the ocean on a day like this would result in certain death, and nobody is here to save him.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turns around, almost expecting to spot someone standing nearby. Nobody is here to save him. Swaddled by maids since infancy, trained to fight by the best knights in the land, and now waited upon by Merlin -- Arthur will grudgingly admit on a good day that his current manservant is passably adequate at what he does -- he has been attended upon since birth. The concept of being alone and simply being does not occur naturally to him -- that is the only explanation he can divine for why he asked Father if it would be permissible for him to ride to where the kingdom meets the unknowable water. For an afternoon, just an afternoon, Father, without anyone else, and you know I'm perfectly capable of defending myself, and Father, perhaps feeling indulgent, had agreed.
Thus, Arthur surveys the world, the hardy grasses and pale white rocks at land's end, and he lowers himself to the ground, legs crossed and head bowed. He closes his eyes and envisions a day in the indeterminate in future when Father is dead and the emblem of royalty rests upon his own head, and all of this -- all of this, he thinks, his fingers brushing against the loose pebbles beside him -- will be his: to govern this world is his destiny. But, as he opens his eyes, leveling his gaze against a muted sunset, he wonders if there is somewhat more that he will never rule.
