AN: Random one-shot, not sure if I like it or not so might take it down later depending on feedback :/
Thanks to Myrmidryad and XtremeFrolickerer89 for reviewing the last chapter. They're always welcome and greatly appreciated :D
It's battle. At least, it will be imminently. Two armies, vast in size, about to fight for control over a few acres of land in Albion and in amongst the throng are the two generations of Pendragon; the King and his boy.
Arthur's heart is pounding in his chest as he watches his father raise his sword. Of course, the young Pendragon has seen battle before, but never on this scale. The opposing army is outnumbering them two to one and the chance of a win is looking slim. It's going to take all of Uther's prowess to win, and all of Arthur's strength to keep his men from fleeing.
"We can do this," he shouts, his voice all but drowned out by the roar of the opposition. His men look at him with wide, uncertain eyes; the prince is just eighteen, still a boy. Uther is being a fool having him in charge of his own section in the army. They are all doomed, doomed to die and for many of them, they're never going to see the sun again.
Rain pounds at the ground, great drops seeping through their armour and into their skin itself. Fitting, thinks Arthur as he stares up at the burnt orange sky crowned by clouds of black despair.
He turns his gaze back to his men; some quake, some cry, others mutter prayers to God. All are doubtful. All are scared. All are wondering what they are actually fighting for. Arthur wishes he could tell them but he's not sure himself. Is he fighting for his king? For victory? For the people in Albion whose lives are being threatened? No, he realises. He's fighting for his father and the little respect he has.
Uther raises his sword again, brandishing it high above his head. The men behind him cheer, knights, soldiers, all united by a common hatred; the enemy must die.
It's different for Arthur. He's not hardened by war, doesn't fully understand the carnage that's about to ensue. All he can think of are the men, his men, the men who like him have families and friends, dreams and aspirations, and he sees war for what it really is. A thief, a stealer of chances and lives.
Uther begins his speech, his words echoing out across his army.
"Dark. Dark will be Camelot's future if we should fail. These invaders, these barbarians are evil! They will sweep through Albion like a plague, killing all in sight, men, women children; your children! They care not for age, sex or creed. Show them no mercy, for you shall receive none! Good men of Camelot, fight, fight now for the glory of victory. Fight for your king!"
A roar rises up amongst the army, and only Arthur's unit stays solemn. They're strong willed, but they're frightened and no fancy speech from their king is going to change that. Murmured whispers sweep through the men, doubt mingled with fury.
Arthur's horse shifts nervously. The prince pats its neck and murmurs soothing words into its ear, though whether they're for him or it he doesn't know. The soldiers stare up at him as he turns his mount to face them, grim determination on his face.
"I know you think I'm just a boy. I know you think I'm not the leader you deserve nor the leader you want, but I know that we can beat this! Some of you will die, but if you do, you're dying with honour and glory, safe in the assumption that your king will –"
"Will what?" An outspoken soldier spits. "Will give us a fitting funeral?" The scorn in his tone is evident and Arthur recoils from his angry gaze, ashamed that he does not know the man's name. The soldier continues, forcing his sword into the earth between his feet, "Will honour our passing by saying that we died for what we believed in? That we died for the king? Some condolence it will be for our families knowing that we died to save a man who never –"
"No," Arthur interrupts, certain that he doesn't want to hear anymore. "No. When you fight, you're not fighting for me, or the king, or what someone is telling you to believe in. You're fighting for Camelot's people; your mothers and fathers, your sons and daughters, your brothers, your sisters, every last one of them, even the people you don't know! You're not fighting for land but for dreams and aspirations, for hopes for the future, and if you die, you know that you died doing what is right for them. It's okay to be scared; we all are, them included." He points towards his father but their eyes don't stray from his face. "These invaders will not stop here! Allowed to win, they will swarm all over Albion into your homes and they will kill all that resides there! That's what we're fighting for; freedom and a safe place for your family to dwell in peace."
"And what are you fighting for?" the same soldier asks, but his tone is considerably softened from when he last spoke.
"I'm fighting for Camelot," the prince says simply.
The soldier opens his mouth to respond, but the words are drowned out by the trumpets heralding the start of battle. Uther gives the order to charge just as Arthur's horse rears, its silhouette black against the setting sun. The rain continues to pour and the men surge forward.
The king drops behind, closely followed by his small band of knights. The men expect the prince to and their momentarily stunned when he urges his horse faster. Someone shouts his name, but he's too stubborn to stop. For the moment, he's just an ordinary solider, not the heir to the throne. For the first time in Arthur's life, he's just a man.
The two armies meet with a clashing of weapons. Shouts and screams fill the air, the sound of metal upon metal as each man strikes out for himself. Arthur slashes at his enemy, imagining them as Uther sees them; barbarians and dangerous assassins, not men like himself. Imagining them as human makes it so much worse.
He continues forwards and all around him, the enemy falls until one gets lucky and sweeps the legs out from under his horse. The prince and his mount crash to the ground and Arthur barely misses being crushed. Arthur struggles to his feet, watching in horror at the blood spurting from the gashes on the creature's legs.
A badly aimed dagger whistles past his ear and he's back in the moment, striking out at all within reach. A few metres to his right is the soldier who argued with him, the one who had made him realise what he was fighting for. The man's a decent fighter but he's overwhelmed and in a matter of seconds, he's down.
Henry his name is, and he's lying on the battlefield, blood gushing from the wound in his stomach. The blood loss makes his vision hazy, and he turns his head to the side. There's Uther on his horse, sword smiting down the enemy. To his right are the knights on their mounts gallantly fighting in a desperate bid to save their king from the death sweeping all other soldiers, the ordinary citizens not deemed important enough for them to protect. Everywhere lies the fallen; bruised, battered, broken... Dead. Oh God. There's blood, so much blood and the nearby river's running red.
A sudden roar of anger grabs his attention and he sees a figure, a dark silhouette against a halo of light. It appears to Henry that whoever it is has wings and they're floating above the carnage, silver helm shining despite the lack of sun.
"A guardian angel," he stammers, clutching at his stomach in a bid to stop the blood. "A herald of God!"
The angel fights with a passion rarely seen among the battle field and he hews at the enemy with a steady arm. The rain glances off his armour, washing off the blood and trickling down to the ground below and Henry knows, knows that they're going to win because something is on their side.
Soon the war is won and Camelot claims victory, albeit with heavy losses. Albion's men lie dead on the battle field and everyone is dashing around in a desperate bid to save the wounded. The angel kneels at Henry's side but the light is fading to reveal a blood streaked man breathing heavily and he realises who it is; Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, a lonely figure with hands of crimson.
Henry looks up at his face of the man he has up until now despised. The mouth is down turned, the eye brows creased, eyes wet; Henry might even go as far as to say that he is crying.
"I'll save you," Arthur swears but Henry only shakes his head, green eyes sad.
"No you won't," he replies. He dies smiling.
A silence falls on the battle field, morose moments of lamentation as Arthur rocks with his head in his hands. He's failed, failed his men. Uther calls, beaming at the sight of his son apparently unharmed and Arthur stands, once again silhouetted by light. The battle is over and Arthur's the angel amongst the fallen.
