Bloody magic. Bloody kingdom. Bloody princely responsibilities.
Arthur trudged through the trees, slapping away branches with more force than strictly necessary.
You need to pay attention, Arthur.
Look at me, not the table, Arthur.
Stop bullying Morgana, Arthur.
Arthur loved his father. The King, he amended. He really did. He even loved being a prince most of the time because it meant he could protect people. He could stand up for the little man, the weak. But Arthur would love his princely role more if his fa- the King weren't nagging him over everything.
He took a deep breath and slowed his pace. The smell of the forest was much different than the smell of the castle. The comforting smell of oak and damp leaves calmed his nerves. Leaves crunched softly beneath his leather boots as he walked toward a fallen log, settled beneath a rowan tree. He might be frustrated, but he knew better than to wander far without his knights.
As he sat gingerly on the log, careful of rot, he tilted his head to the sky. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the tree, red berries glistening among its limbs. This tree often gave him comfort. It reminded him of his mother.
"Come here, darling. I want to show you something special."
Arthur stopped picking dandelions and moved to grab his mother's outstretched hand, stumbling over little sticks and leaves. She led him closer to the edge of the forest, a forbidden place for Arthur, and stopped at a tree with red berries hanging heavily on its branches.
Arthur craned his head around the tree. "I don't see anything," Arthur whined, looking up at his mother. His mother gently smiled down at him, beautiful golden hair brushing against her shoulders. She was always gentle, always beautiful. Even his father said so.
"This tree is a rowan," she began softly, her gaze returning to the tree, "and it has special powers. It protects people."
Arthur frowned, eyeing the tree warily. "That sounds like magic," he mumbled.
His mother hummed thoughtfully. "Nature works in mysterious ways, my dear. If ever you feel scared or alone, find a rowan. It is a haven for people who are lost."
After his mother died, Arthur had stayed away from these trees as much as possible. He had hated them. His mother often told stories that made little sense, and Arthur could not escape the many things that reminded him of her.
As he grew older, his views changed. He didn't believe her silly stories, of course. But he learned to cherish reminders of his mother. He might forget her face someday, already fuzzy in his memories, and mundane, inconsequential, everyday things like rowan trees would be his only connection to her. Arthur now sought these trees when he felt trapped or frustrated in his life and imagined his mother was standing beside him.
Arthur, lost in memories of his mother, jumped at the sound of crunching leaves. He slowly stood and fingered the pommel of his sword. The crunching grew louder. Definitely footsteps. Arthur crouched, sneaking quietly around the tree. Only one set? Not bandits then. He peered toward the direction of footsteps and waited with bated breath. It was probably a desperate forager or a foolish, lone traveler.
Finally, the traveler's form came into view. A man walked slowly forward, a slim build with dark brown hair, his face peculiar, almost otherworldly in design with dirt smeared along his delicate cheekbones. Most importantly, Arthur noted, he had no weapon or companions, dressed simply in brown leather, a flamboyant red handkerchief laying loose around his neck. Arthur rolled his eyes at the naivety of strolling the forest without protection but decided to stay undetected. He didn't fancy talking with a stranger, and the man was almost to Camelot anyhow.
The young man froze mid-step, however, his head turning firmly in Arthur's direction. They locked eyes, Arthur staring into a world of green. Damn it.
Arthur righted himself and reluctantly stepped out from behind the tree, toward the stranger. "Hello," Arthur greeted him blandly. The young man continued to stare at Arthur, his head tilting slightly, remaining silent. Arthur felt his eye twitch and spoke again, louder. "What brings you to the forest alone? Are you lost?"
The man's eyes widened. "I might be lost," he said cautiously, voice low, with a small nod. He shifted slowly toward Arthur; intense gaze unwavering. Arthur began to feel uneasy. The man was so odd. "My name is Merlin," the man continued as he circled around Arthur, drawing closer. "I'm lost and terribly hungry. Can I have a bite?"
Arthur scoffed. The nerve of this man, asking for food. Still, the man did seem genuinely hungry, dirt-covered and thin as he was. "You can call me Arthur. Let's find you some food, then. I didn't pack any, but I can walk you to the tavern," Arthur offered, feeling rather proud of himself. He could have introduced himself as the prince, but Arthur enjoyed pretending to be common.
Merlin smiled widely, a bit too wide to be comfortable if you asked Arthur, and whispered, "You're so generous." Arthur preened at his words. That is, until he noticed Merlin's teeth weren't quite normal. His canines stretched long, sharply pointed. Suddenly, uneasiness turned to panic. Is he magic?
Arthur reached for his sword, sweaty palms desperate against the grip, as Merlin lunged toward him with extraordinary speed.