Arthur couldn't breathe, couldn't see. There were voices, several and only one at the same time, but they sounded like how the sunlight filters through the trees in a dense forest - some brighter and others barely whispers of light. He tried to move towards them but they surrounded him. His limbs were sluggish and heavy, like weights attached to his weakened frame. Useless. The voice of his father came through his mind, swearing at him. Useless. Weak. Unworthy. Arthur wanted to cry, to panic, but he was dried up and empty. He was nothing.
You are nothing like we expected.
Who was he? His life, his being, was built on others' expectations. He was a prince, a knight, a monster's son. He was never himself. Who was he? What his father needed, what his people needed, what the druids needed to believe he was. Need need need. Useless. Weak. Unworthy. Failure. Nothing. The world was quiet, the voices disappeared into the murky depths around him and Arthur knew he was drowning. Drowning under the weight of expectations, the voices, their needs. Who was he? He'd never thought about his own needs before, only allowed himself to be guided by the needs of others. Need need need need. He needed air, he needed to breathe but when he opened his mouth the water seeped in instead.
We want nothing from you… we ask nothing of you.
Someone had said that to him once, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Raven hair, blue eyes, a strong jaw. Arthur couldn't recall the face, only the sensation of warmth squeezing his chest to combustion - or was that from the lack of oxygen, from dying? Arthur tried to swim but which direction was up? Is this how it ended, his existence washed away without a moment of hesitation, without a fight? Arthur didn't have the strength to fight but he thrashed anyway, arms and legs flailing through viscous liquid intent on keeping him prisoner. Weak, failure, unworthy.
You should not resign yourself to a fate that does not suit you.
Fate, sealed with his name, his birthright. Fate. Two halves of the same coin, light and dark, forever intertwined. You cannot truly hate that which makes you whole. Arthur wasn't whole, he was a cavern; walls made of stone but empty inside. Not quite empty now, filling his lungs with water, drowning, dying.
You are not who I thought you were… I don't know what to do with that.
Hate me, hate me, hate me. Hate me until it hurts, hate me more. Hate me until I feel it in my bones, in my chest, drowning in it. Mint and honey and sea water and air. Not enough air to breathe, exhale instead. Exhale into a soft chest, ruffle his hair with my breath, breathe in his exhale, repeat. Faces swam before his eyes, indistinct. The curl of brown hair on her forehead, freckles that dusted his nose, those dark blue eyes synonymous to a storm, cheekbones like a knife's edge. The smell of bread baking, the feeling of cotton under his hands, sunshine on his cheeks, laughter ringing in his ears. Kindness and warmth and coldness and hate burning in his chest, burning like he's out of oxygen. He apologizes to every face, every feeling. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. Useless, unworthy.
The darkness is pulling him under, he feels his eyes slipping closed, his head swimming, his lungs burning, drowning drowning drowning. He lets go.
Arthur woke, startled and disoriented. His body was wrecked with shivers from the sweat cooling on his skin and his throat ached. He sat up and disentangled himself from the furs that had wrapped around him. The camp was silent, save for the wind blowing through the trees, and Arthur knew he was alone. Emrys must have taken the others and left while he slept. The reality left him with a hollow ache in his chest. He already found himself missing the chatter, the sounds of working, the laughter, the life. A note was tacked to the post in the tent with a nail, and Arthur stood shakily to retrieve it. Unfolding the page, he saw a map. So, Arthur thought, angrily crumpling the paper in his fist, the bastard decided he couldn't be bothered to bring me back himself. Coward. He felt used, broken in and then abandoned like a wild mare when their master found a new steed. The ghost of Emrys' touches lingered on his skin, real enough to make him shiver but light enough to be blown away by a gentle wind. It made Arthur mad with violent longing but he tamped it down, stomping out the flames so that he felt nothing.
He thrust his way out of the tent and looked about. All that remained of the encampment was a small wooden table upon which lay his sword, his leather pack, and a plate of bread and cured meat. Llamrei was tethered to a tree beside where the animals had been gated the day before. She whinnied at him, ducking her head as if to tell Arthur she was ready to get on the road. Arthur shushed her gently, moving over to stroke her neck and check her ties to make sure she was ready to ride. Upon opening his pack Arthur found his waterskin, rations, and the bone needles Forridel had given him. Seeing them made his eyes prickle with tears and he quickly closed the flap, tying it closed so he wouldn't lose the only precious remnants he had of the druids. He ate without tasting, forcing the food down his gullet to give him the strength to ride through the night. He didn't wish to stop in case he met another bandit. This time, there would be no one around to save him. When he was finished he released Llamrei from the tree and hoisted himself atop her back. He consulted the map briefly before shoving it in his trouser pocket and starting off into the forest. He didn't look back.