Uther Pendragon knew something was off. He prided himself on knowing almost everything that happened within castle walls. So when his eight year old son Arthur refused to show for breakfast, and then again for lunch, Uther knew it was time to investigate.
He carefully knocked at his young sons door, wjhen there was no reply he cracked open the door and called out, "Arthur? Its your father, are you feeling well?" There was a panicked shuffling from behind the changing screen, "Arthur? I'm coming in." More shuffling and then a panicked response of;
" NO! Um, I mean I'm ok father! Dont come in!"
But Uther had already reached the screen. On the other side was Arthur, but he wasnt the little boy who had been racing around the courtyard yesterday. Small white wings sprouted from his thin back, drops of red blood decorated the snowy color. More feathers and even more blood covered he ground beneath him. A small shaving razor was held in his young hand, heaven knows how he managed to get his hands on it. Arthurs body trembled, tears threatening to fall where they already had that morning.
The knee jerk reaction that Uther had was to yell for the guards, to yell 'imposter' and kill this, this thing. His son couldnt be magical, couldnt have wings. It was impossible. But that could only mean one thing, someone had done this, had harmed his son and turned him into a freak.
Whoever did this would pay.
But it wasnt someone else's magic. It wasnt even magic, not really. The wings were as much a part of Arthurs body as any other body part. They grew with him, eventually reaching a wingspan of an amazing twelve feet. But in that moment, father and son looked at eachother, and with tears shining in their eyes they spoke.
"Oh son."
"I'm sorry daddy!"
