Thank you Bailieboro for the beta!(I've decided not to change the ending grammar.)
Due to ff causing me problems with messaging, I will try to respond to reviews here instead when I can. If you do not wish to see them, simply move down to read the story. Thank you. :)
Aubrey-Sky-Blue: Sorry, can't say just yet! (as he doesn't know either. Author lost the next few chapters somewhere in his room and needs to rewrite them. Also must become more organized.)
dianaj2w: I will update as soon as I can. :)
Un-ended tales: Yes, your questions must have their answers...once I find them again!
MediEvil Ways: Hmm...hurt/hurt sounds nice. *rubs hands together evilly* yes, very nice indeed! Thank you for the compliments! As to your review you left on "For Your Life," it was the first fic where I tried to write more literal rather than what Nyxelestia calls "flowery" writing. It was also one of my first stories where I had written in third person about a year ago. My first story was written in second person, like this one. I don't plan on writing too many more in the style of "for your life." :)
fairy goatmother: No problem, thank you for being so loyal in your reading! I hope my writing can stay entertaining!
Also, to more backstory you shall have!
Do you all prefer shorter but more frequent updates, or longer updates with longer waiting periods?
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The laughing court surrounds you, your child-sized hands grasping your mother's skirt. Her soft hand is in your hair, petting you as she tries to soothe the tears, she somehow knows are building. Mothers are strange like that. Your father is there as well, but bound by thick chains. He coughs up blood, as the King smiles from his throne.
Iron. Your father is buried in iron, the heavy weight sinking him to his knees, to the floor. It almost resembles a coffin made of chains.
You were always warned about iron, that strange, magnetic metallic element which can render the most powerful sorcerer useless, within minutes. Bronze could weaken a magic-user, if worn, but iron was a death sentence. Once it makes contact with a mage's skin, it will instantly lock the magic within the sorcerer. That was why warrior mages never wore anything more than simple clothing or leather into battle, and covered themselves with multiple layers of clothing and cloaks. A strong grip from an iron-clad enemy would be a death sentence.
Laughter from the court fills the air like a chorus, ridiculing the once all-powerful Dragonlord now a helpless, weak man, an infant, even, as he can no longer stand.
"Do you finally submit to me, Balinor?" The man, you assume is the King, smiles, before his features twist and turn into something ugly.
Your father spits out, "Never!"
Sitting at the right-hand of his father, young Cenred's eyes find and lock onto you, your mother and the guards surrounding you. He tugs at his father's sleeve, pointing towards you. The King holding your father captive, gives the head knight next to your mother an inquiring look.
"Lord Balinor's wife and child, your majesty. We found them occupying the same cave where we found the Dragonlord." The knight replies.
The royal's old eyes study your mother, before instantly locking onto you. You grip your mother's skirt tighter.
A smile spreads on his face from ear to ear, "I didn't know you had a son, Balinor!" The King practically sings, heavy footsteps echoing as he leaves the throne and approaches you. You feel your mother's hands wrap around you, before she is snatched by a guard and moved a few steps away.
The King kneels in front of you, large rough hands grabbing your chin and turning your head from side to side.
His smile never leaves his royal features.
You see your father stiffen at the next words addressed to him, "Your first-born?"
Silence reigns as the King's eyes, old grey and cruel, never leave your face. Neither does the smile, as it broaden impossibly wider, as if he had just found a long-lost treasure, before he is interrupted by a sudden downpour of rain.
…Rain?
A splash of cold water pulls you from the dream, and you blink back, shaking your head, eyes unfocused as the world begins to slide back to reality. You blink several times as the droplets of water slide down your eyelashes. Once the haze fades, you find the Prince holding an empty water-pail, sitting in a chair next to you.
A quick pull of your arms, finds your hands locked behind you...tied together...in iron manacles.
Your heart almost stops beating.
The realization sinks into the pit of your stomach, before boiling and bubbling into anxiety. You reach out for your magic, searching every fiber of your being to find it dormant and unworkable, blissfully sleeping while you are left helpless and bound in a cell.
"...like them?" he pauses, "I made sure to have them fitted for you," the prince begins, before kicking aside the pail and slouching back into the chair. You glare up at him, from the straw-covered floor.
"Why were you sent to Camelot, Emrys?"
An annoyed sigh escapes him, when you refuse to answer.
The chair scrapes as he stands, his rich boots click against the stone floor as he approaches you. You take deep breaths as he nears, inhaling, to calm the anxiety and to refocus. You need to find a way out of here, fear and anxiety only muddle and cloud the mind while leaving you more defenseless should there be an attack.
He crouches next to you, his lips smiling as if mocking you, his face so close your noses almost touch.
One more deep breath, helps you steady the anxiety which is rising due to this invasion of personal space.
"Why are you in Camelot, Emrys?" he repeats, more playfully while keeping the words sharp and commanding.
"…Who's Emrys?"
Arthur huffs, lips tugging into a wider smile. Slowly, he reaches to the small sheath at his side, pulling out a dagger. Its elaborately decorated handle reflects the small amount of light from the torches as the Prince twirls-
-the handsome weapon as he flicks it, holding it in the appropriate position to strike an exposed chest.
Your mind plays tricks as you remember.
"Then... What use is there in keeping you alive?" Prince Cenred considers-
You shiver, pulling yourself out of the old memory. Slowly, you watch as the black-haired prince holding a dagger to your head, melds into a blond-haired prince whose blue eyes study the small blade, before darting back to yours.
The iron is cold as he places the tip of the weapon under your chin.
"I will have you know, Emrys, I have been trained to kill since birth."
You smile.
"Strange," you clear your throat, cautious of the blade as you reply. "So have I."