AN: Gah, this chapter is the bane of my existance! Seriously, I've edited it and re-edited it and I'm still not happy with it. It's a little too... clunky? I'm not sure if Arthur's anger really comes across in it the way I intended it to. And besides, it's a little longer than the others :/

Anyway, I decided to base this one on a specific event actually in the series; namely, the stand off with the griffin at the end where Lancelot and Merlin have to save the day. It was pretty hard to choose what though, so this chapter will probably end up being re-written when I have time. There's just so much that could make Arthur angry!

Disclaimer: Surely the point of fanfiction is that I'm a fan? Therefore, I don't own the series, nor do I gain any money by writting this (though if the BBC want to give me some, I'm not complaining ;]).

Reviews are especially appreciated for this chapter (:.

Enjoy, and hopefully it's not too bad... :/

Anger; it flows through Arthur's veins, strong and powerful, slowly consuming him until all that is left is bitter anger and regret.

He cannot escape it, just like he cannot escape who he is: Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, the disappointing son of the great King, Uther Pendragon. The anger he tries so hard to be rid of will never be gone because it is as much a part of him as it is of his father. The thought sends a shiver down his spine and he fights to push it from his mind. He will need all his concentration if he's going to succeed.

His men stare at him, well aware that there's a good chance that they won't make it out of this alive. They look to him for support and guidance, unaware that he doesn't even have any for himself, let alone them. They don't understand that Arthur's not the great prince he's lead them to believe in his cockiness and arrogance; he's just running scared like the rest of them, trying to please a father who never really cared.

A father who should have cared! Arthur is everything Uther has ever asked for, is he not? A brave man, obedient and courteous, a strong warrior determined to do his king and country proud. Determined to do his father proud. Doesn't Uther understand that Arthur can give him no more, that he can be no more?

No. To Uther, Arthur's best is not good enough.

A shriek to their left startles the knights though their formation holds. They can hear it now, padding through the trees, a silent stalker just waiting to rip out their throats. Arthur's hand shakes slightly and his heart begins to pound in his chest. The creature is coming.

One of the men beside him begins to pray, muttering to God to help him. Arthur knows that praying is no use; God cannot help them. They are alone in their peril. The creature is coming and it's bringing death with it.

Arthur is used to death. He has seen it and he has dealt it, smiting his enemies down without a second thought. It's easier that way because it hurts less. Still, their faces are burned in his mind forever, small scars that will never be gone no matter how hard he tries to be rid of them. Arthur always remembers who he's killed.

He knows that he'll remember these men too. Some are young, flighty men, with a great many years left ahead of them. Others are older, men who have served the country for years in the vain hope that one day, they will be rewarded with the respect and power of their sires. All are his friends. All are going to die.

The anger flares inside him again and he brandishes his sword with passion. If this is to be his last fight – Because this is his last fight, he will make it such a fight that it will be remembered in tales forever.

Arthur smiles vindictively at the image of his father kneeling beside his broken body, shoulders shaking and face in his hands. Let him weep, thinks Arthur. Let him realise that this was his fault! To send us here so unprepared, so helpless... The anger rises again, threatening to spill out of him like water from a pail. To send his own son into –

It's unforgivable.

A sharp cry echoes through the trees, the harsh sound reverberating around Arthur's helmet. He wishes the creature would just show itself so that the battle may be over and done with. With every second, his men lose nerve and a defeat looks ever probable. Arthur wishes he had more men with him; their numbers are too little to do much damage if what Gaius says is true. His fury rises as he realises that they are powerless without magic.

Arthur hates being helpless.

More thoughts about his father come to mind and Arthur has to fight to suppress them. How wrong it is that a son should loathe his father in such a way. Uther should have been a role model, the man Arthur wanted to grow up and become. Instead, Arthur can't think of anyone he wants less.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth as Arthur forces himself to stop. He can't afford to get angry; fury means mistakes and mistakes mean certain death. Still, as much as he tries not to think about it, the thoughts can't be banished from his mind. It's almost as if he wants to die...

No. He can't leave his men. They need him, what with the man they have for the king. The man Arthur has as a father.

That's what makes it worse, Arthur realises. The fact that it's his father sat warm and cosy up in the castle, his father who's sending them on this pointless mission, his father that's condemned them all to death. His father, who only days ago had told him he was proud of him. Arthur sees none of that now.

Uther might as well have executed Arthur himself.

The smile returns although the vision is different; Uther stood at a grave, his face worn, cheeks hollow, eyes empty... The solitary thought drifts around Arthur's mind;

Let him know what it is like to be a murderer of one you love.

Arthur grips the sword tighter as the creature emerges from the trees. A griffin they call it, a creature of magic. All he can see is a mindless killer, bent on causing wanton destruction and misery. It has no reason, no compassion. It doesn't care that its victims are innocent: women, children, the elderly... Good people who deserve life. By sacrificing his own, hopefully Arthur can give it to them.

They stare at each other for a second, the prince and the beast. Arthur searches its eyes for something, though what he is not sure. He is not sure about anything anymore. He risks a last glance at the men, his men, the men who need him to be strong. He needs him to be strong because he can't lose.

The creature strikes with unnatural speed, launching itself at one of the knights. John, his name is and Arthur's known him for years. Now, he can only watch as John falls with a scream, his mutilated body splayed at an unnatural angle upon the floor. Arthur knows he'll never get up again.

The sound of ripping comes to Arthur's ears as another knight falls. He can only watch, wide eyed, as it kills them all, great talons slashing and tearing at all within reach. None defend themselves because they don't have a chance. It should have taken minutes, hours even, to decimate his force; instead, it's all over in a matter of seconds.

Now Arthur's the only one left and his time is running out. The rage he's been fighting to suppress suddenly engulfs him and he cries out, plunging his sword forward, once, twice. The creature seems surprised to meet resistance but it rises to the challenge, snapping and squawking, desperate to destroy. Arthur's finally worked out where its passion lies; killing and maiming. It's done it many times, but then so has Arthur.

With every slash of his sword, Arthur rages. He's forgotten how good it feels to let go, to allow his anger to erupt from inside him like a torrent. Words come to his head, hard words but words that are important nonetheless. They help him, drive him even. Disappointment. Failure. Weak. Cowardly. A lesser son of greater men. The words keep coming and the dance continues.

A sudden noise in the wood steals Arthur's attention and his concentration slips. He's on his back in seconds, dazed and disorientated, and his sword is thrown sideways. The blade is shattered. His head rolls to the left and his eyes lock with the glazed, empty stare of John. No. Arthur refuses to think of him like that. It's just a body, an empty shell where someone once lived. It's not John anymore.

Arthur tries to stand but he can barely move. His eyelids begin to drop and his breathing slows. He's sleepy, oh so sleepy. If he can just shut his eyes then everything will be okay...

It's dark now, with his eyes shut. He wonders if he should open them but decides against it. It's better like this. Easier, somehow, to await his doom in the darkness, the final blow that will finish him forever. Arthur wishes the creature would hurry; he can't abide this waiting, knowing that he failed, that this is the end. He'd always thought it was going to be so much more...

Why doesn't it kill him?! Does it want to extend the agony? Torture him further? Does it want to play with him first, break him until his body is no longer recognisable? No, Arthur realises. It's going to leave him to die, slowly and painfully, surrounded by those he should have protected. The ones he couldn't save.

The distant sound of voices drifts to his ears. They're strangely familiar but Arthur can't place them. He tries to open his eyes but can't; they're so heavy and he just wants to sleep. Sleep. He knows he should fight it but he can't remember why and besides, does he actually want to? The darkness is strangely comforting.

Someone shakes his shoulder and he groans. The person speaks and another voice answers. Arthur wishes that they'd just leave him here and save themselves; he doesn't need another death on his conscience and besides, he can't bear to imagine himself going back to the castle and seeing his father's sad glances as he realises what a failure his son is.

A sudden clamour breaks the atmosphere. The beast is back and it's more furious than ever. The sudden influx of noise makes the prince's head pound. Someone is chanting, but the words all seem to run together so that none are distinguishable. He hasn't the energy to listen harder, nor the desire. All he can think about are his friends, not just the ones lying dead beside him but all of them, everyone he's ever fought beside. Everyone he's failed.

Sleep takes him then, leaving the ghost of a thought embedded deep within his mind.

No matter what happens, Arthur Pendragon will remember them.