Disclaimer: Anyone recognizable is owned by the BBC and you know, Arthurian Legends if completely bastardized. I'm just a poor, about-to-become-a-pre-med-student with no intention to make money from this.
Title: In Hunc Effectum
Characters: King Uther, Prince Arthur
Genre: Pre-Series
Rating: Everyone
Summary: A meeting called for a particular stated purpose.
Notes: Random fic written over the course of a night due to seeing lavvyan's Writer's Guide to Camelot post and this comment: ...could imagine the occasional knight or clumsy servant (or teeny-tiny!Arthur) falling right on their face. This isn't quite what I imagined, but it works.
Word Count: 831

Arthur was three the first time his feet touched the floor.

Literally.

Being the King's only son and heir, he'd had servants waiting on him from his first breath and despite Gaius' orders to the nurses to allow the boy to use his two feet, Arthur was carried from the moment he woke to the moment he slept. He wore stockings only to keep the winter chill away; two pairs of turnshoes had gone unworn.

He was a toddler, far calmer a child than he would be as a man, when Uther emerged from his grief and discovered the coddling Arthur had been privy to.

And oh, he was displeased! For how could the future King of Camelot be someone enemies feared and knights could follow in battle if he had never took a step by himself, if he had never used his legs. Uther promptly called for and chastised his boy's keepers, taking the child into his own arms before realizing that it was the first time since his birth that he had held the Prince.

Arthur, of course, screamed heartily at the new person who had taken him from the nurse he called 'Mummy'.

So startled, Uther immediately put him down on the floor and watched with a sick feeling as Arthur crashed to the hardwood, even though his feet had been under him. He let out a wail, his hands pressed stiffly against the slick boards as he tried to pull his knees under him.

Instinct was kicking in on both their parts – Uther reaching out for the last piece of Igraine he had in the world, Arthur pushing his rear into the air so he could put his feet flat and stand. He wobbled, swayed from side to side, in utter silence, then let out another yell before attempting to flee.

Which sent him back to the floor.

Between the recently greased boards and his unused legs, Arthur had little chance of actually get out of his father's Throne Room, only at the age of three, he didn't understand that.

He tried to stand again, this time still crying out at the top of his young lungs, and made it so far as to take a step only to be thwarted by Uther who snatched him up from the floor. Pulling the kicking child close, he closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them again, he dismissed the servants – including Gaius who had joined the group in time to see Arthur's first attempt at walking.

The slam of the main doors heralded the departure of the others and Arthur jumped back in his father's hold, quieting again as the fear set in that he was alone with a man he'd seen and heard before, yet had never been spoken to or touched by. He pushed weakly at Uther's linen-covered chest, whimpering, and when Uther eventually sighed and put him down, Arthur plopped back on his rear to stare at Uther though wide eyes.

"Come now, son," he started, reaching out, "It is time you learned how to walk proper." His voice softened as he added, "I will teach you, but first..."

Large hands wrapped around tiny ones, as Uther attempted to pulled the boy up. He knelt down when Arthur refused to cooperate, trying bitterly to ignore the squeeze of his heart – this, this is what his three years of wallowing in sorrow had done: his own child was scared of him.

"Arthur, stubborn boy, I am your father. I'll not hurt you," he declared, weary and off-kilter, and held out a hand to his son.

Arthur sniffled and regarded the man in front of him. No one had stopped him from calling Ayleth Mummy, but whenever he'd called his manservant Brom any variant of father, there had been gentle correction and rejection. He could understand why if this man, this King with a simple Crown on his head, was his father. The air around him was sad, angry, agitated, and other emotions that little Arthur couldn't begin to name or comprehend.

But he promised that he'd not hurt Arthur, and Arthur was a naturally trusting child, not yet having the experiences that would make him innately curious about a person's loyalties.

Quirking his head to the side, he smiled which presented quite the picture with Arthur's reddened, tear-streaked face. Then, carefully, he put his rear in the air once more, pushed himself up, and stood with his legs wide on the floor boards to support his meager weight.

For his father, he could do this. Perhaps he could make the sadness go away.

He took a step. Then another, and Uther, who had looked down at his hands to contemplate how he had managed to scorn the memory his wife so horribly as to abandon their babe, turned his eyes back to Arthur to find he was moving steadily if staggeringly toward the weighty wooden throne opposite the main doors.

Uther smiled.