Disclaimer: I don't own the "King Arthur: Legend of the Sword." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Inspired by the following soulmate prompt: "Every bruise, scrape, scratch you get your soulmate gets too." – My version of the prompt has this starts to occur after you first meet your soulmate.
Disclaimer: missing scene, soulmate au, one love au, canon appropriate violence, adult language, drama, enemies to friends, mixed emotions, angst.
Gyve
"Why don't you leave him with me for a minute or two, boss?" he murmured, setting his ring on the rocky outcropping that served as a makeshift window. A familiar ritual that helped him gather some much needed self-control. Unprepared for the riot of emotions that roiled through him when the man had walked in like he owned the place. Like the Resistance was something he fully intended to profit off of and not a body of people who lived and breathed for a dream he freely trod upon. People who should inspire his respect – if not loyalty.
This wretch?
Uther's heir?
The Gods had forsaken them all, if it was true.
"Put your ring back on, honey tits. You haven't had enough porridge this morning to talk like that," Arthur sneered in his direction before looking to Bedivere. Dismissing him with an ease that made his teeth ache. Seething internally despite making sure none of it showed on his face. "And if you like that sword so much, your lordship, you can keep it, to peel your grapes."
The slap he dealt was more than satisfying. It was indulgent. Like a fine wine or a fatty cut of braised pork, it was something to be savored. Relished. Knowing full well how much force he'd put into it when the bastard's head snapped back. Nearly knocking into the wall behind him. Good.
The only problem was, he didn't get to enjoy it.
Because the moment the man's head cracked back, he felt an equal blow burn across his cheek. Temporarily sending him off balance as he stumbled into the table. Too shocked to curse. Too confused to say anything. Do anything.
What the bloody-
His hand flew up to cup his cheek. Staring at the bastard with wide eyes that felt too big for his face. Feeling his expression twitch from confusion, rage and finally betrayal as Bedivere shot him a questioning look.
No.
It couldn't be.
"What's the matter, darling? Hurt your hand?" Arthur hummed, getting under his skin like he belonged there. Blue eyes flickering dark with an open challenge. Spoiling for a fight as Bedivere looked between them with a frown. Making him realize the truth was nigh to dawn any moment and he wasn't ready and-
He did the only thing he could think of.
He hauled back and slapped the pup again.
"Now, that would've hurt a lot more if I'd left the ring on," he forced out after a damning pause. Chewing on the words as the echo of the second slap surged across his abused cheek. Recovering, just barely, as Bedivere switched his focus to Arthur, who was stiffening like an affronted tom cat. Only far more dangerous.
Still, it got the desired affect, because Arthur was up and moving. Following after him like his arse was true north and frankly- the metaphor only served to disturb him further. Feeling vulnerable and naked as he kept his back turned, sauntering over to join Bedivere like he didn't have a care in the world. Knowing they'd succeeded in getting the pup's blood up when Arthur started talking again. Desperately trying to ignore the fact that every nerve in his body was focused on the man in front of him. On a separate heartbeat that'd never seemed more familiar than it was now.
"I see what you're doing… You're trying to get me to do something razzle-dazzle with that sword. I'm gonna tell you right now, I'm not gettin' drawn into this mess…"
Then Arthur really did bring the sword to life and quite suddenly he had an even bigger problem.
It was only when he found himself looking up from the table as Arthur limped around it, planning their next move against Vortigern, that he truly saw him for the first time. It was as if he'd been given the grace to replace his first impression. Softened no doubt by the hours he'd spent in agony as Arthur had survived the Darklands alone.
But the truth was, if it was a second impression, it was deserved.
He'd underestimated him.
Arthur was a warrior, but also a strategist and a politician.
A dangerous mix, to be sure, but he fit it.
Because it wasn't until he'd been alone in his rooms, curled up in pain and wracked with nausea as Arthur fought his way through the dark, that he'd been forced to remember something that'd had been easy to forget since his dear friend had passed. When the desire to put Uther on a pedestal had been a natural progression of their grief and they'd all mourned in their own way.
Arthur was a walking, talking, overly confident disaster that he fully believed would save them all.
Just like his father.
The apple didn't fall far from the tree, apparently.
"You two, down here. It's a straight run to the river."
"You go first."
"We don't have time to argue, Bill."
"Some of us will make it out in time. Some of us won't."
"Well, better some than none!"
"You go first."
He wondered, somewhat perversely, if the man could feel the cuts and scrapes he was sporting as he raised his sword, refusing to go until Arthur was safe. Had it all melded together or was it itching at the back of Arthur's mind like a rat chewing through a store-room wall? Close to sinking in, but not quite there yet.
Was that why he'd tried to get him into the gutters first?
Some far-flung instinct to protect the other half of his soul?
A nod to fellowship and the respect two brothers in arms share in the heat of battle?
Or was it purely by chance that Arthur had tried to order him down first?
He didn't expect he'd ever find out.
But what he did know was how the words had tasted on his tongue when he'd denied him.
They'd felt as righteous and true as his heartbeat.
"Sir William… If you would?"
"It would be my honor."
And it was.
It took everything in him not to fall to his knees in front of him after the great sword kissed Arthur's shoulders. Knighting him in accordance to his birthright and his valor in battle. It took everything in him not to tell him right then and there as they met eyes and shared something warm. Choking alive with something so drenched in bleeding pride that he didn't know what to do with himself but tuck it away. Barely able to keep his voice steady as he finished.
"Arise, my King…."
Because first meetings aside, Arthur was his King.
And Gods willing, he always would be.
Ironic how quickly things can change, given the right heart.
"King Arthur."
He felt the kissing edge of the sword rasp against the callouses of his palms as Arthur raised it high from the castle ramparts. Facing the cheering crowd not with a boyish grin, but with a grim determination he wasn't used to seeing on any face other than Uther's.
It wasn't completely welcome. Not like he thought it would be. Finding he missed the confident hustler the man had been not that long ago. The weight of the crown was heavy indeed, but the weight of the deaths that came with it? Those were crushing. He knew because he had eyes. But he also knew in another way. He knew because they hurt. And what hurt Arthur, hurt him.
The stories and legends hadn't lied. But somehow, he thought things would be different.
Then again, he'd never expected his one to be the bloody King of England, did he?
He was at Arthur's side as the celebrations moved in doors. Staying quiet as he observed the milling crowds in the great hall. Recognizing the careful groupings of nobles already forming into factions. Drinking and feasting, but each side watching the King's table closely.
Arthur didn't seem to notice them.
But he knew that was a lie.
He could sense it in the tension lingering in the man's shoulders.
Everything about Arthur was an open book for him to peruse and enjoy at will.
It was his right, after all.
Arthur just didn't know it.
Not yet.
His hand tightened around his goblet. Feeling the stress and wear that was taking it's toll the longer they kept apart. Pretending the welded bronze was slowly warping under the pressure. Keeping at it until he could feel the throb of his heartbeat through the small of the bones and the ache traveled its way up to-
He nearly knocked over his wine when Arthur sucked in a breath and shook his own hand. Looking down at it with a frown as his fork hit his plate with an obvious sound. Drawing not just the nobles' attention, but damn near everyone else at the high and low tables.
He hissed a curse at the lapse. But that only caused Tristan to look over at him, expression curious before slowly turning into something else. Something contemplative and dangerous. He just forced a smile, setting his knife to the side like he'd merely knicked himself with it. Drinking deeply from his wine as George called for a toast. Pretending all was well as the dinner continued.
His goblet was refilled more than once, but he barely touched his plate.
Not trusting his stomach with anything other than warmth and numbness.
At one point he was aware that the nobles connected to his own family were watching him with interest. Likely scheming how his position could benefit themselves and further pad their pockets. Normally he would be amused and use their disloyalty to his advantage, but not today. Today he met their stares head on and hard, keeping them pinned until they looked away. Disgruntled and clearly offended.
He didn't care.
Instead, he only breathed well when he and Arthur brushed shoulders as they ate.
The truth was, he didn't know how much longer he could keep this up.
He was fully aware the thin ice he was walking on would break underneath him eventually. That someday soon Arthur would find out the truth. But for now there was no course he could see but to wait and hope that the ice was the only thing that would crumble when it did.
Arthur's succession was too new for this kind of upheaval – especially after Vortigen's reign.
The King needed to marry and provide the Kingdom with an heir.
Something he would never be able to provide.
Fated or not.
He closed his eyes and rested his back against the oak door the moment he was back in his rooms - alone. Exhaling with a shuddering slowness that hurt as it left him. Feeling clammy and unsteady as the dry chill of the room crept into his bones and circled – aiming to stay.
For the good of the Kingdom, he had to hold out for as long as he could.
At least long enough for Arthur to take a wife.
Maybe, one day, Arthur would even forgive him.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.
Reference:
- Gyve: a shackle, to shackle.