IP: 82.19.140.112
Posted on June 6, 2013 at 05:29:30 PM by a r t h u r
 Arthur eyed the cigarette curiously and watched as the smoke curled from its glowing end. He could not discern any benefit from placing the small roll of what looked like parchment, into one’s mouth and could not help but wonder why Mallos kept doing it. There must be something more to it. Modern practices could be quite baffling, almost as much as some of the clothing. The sound of Mallos’ voice offered the King something new to focus on in order to drag him back into the present. He was not sure if he was entirely grateful. Arthur had the impression that the remainder of his day was set to be rather a long one, and probably largely devoid of distractions. Ever since he had been born into Shaman, Arthur had been wary of psychic magic. His own magic, save for one that Aura had granted him, had manifested largely in the physical, none of it, at least, allowed him to enter the minds of others and he had no desire to. The king nursed a fear of people finding their way into his head. It was filled with a lifetime of secrets, of joy, of sorrow, of pain and shame. A man’s memories, Arthur believed, were his own, to share as he wished, not against his will. There were things hidden in his mind that he would rather forget. He would have no one know them, to see some of the things he had done. “Ah, paperwork,” Arthur smiled, “paperwork and parrying words, they should call me the Paper King when all this is done.” The slight lift in the corner of his mouth lingered as he made eye contact with his father-in-law. The grey eyes told the Spaniard two things, that he knew what he was trying to do, and that he appreciated it. Everyone had their strengths, and everyone had their weaknesses, but there were reasons why the faeries had made their originals their gods. Their weaknesses were often not so weak as everyone else’s. It made Arthur appreciate his own god all the more. The King took another sip of wine from his goblet, “bishops,” he told Mallos at last, as he set it back down upon the desk, “were once the bane of my life. It was refreshing to discover that Shaman did not possess any, and now they creep in over the borders...it seems I am never to be free of them.” The Aurans however had a disadvantage over the long-dead bishops of Earth, they dealt neither with a boy, nor with a young man. They would not get their claws in so easily – armour did not need to be forged from steel. “I do not believe he trusts me either, and I do not think he trusts my Mother. Does he trust Tristan? It seems more likely, but when a child has been let down so many times, trust becomes difficult. I know that from experience. A child in a crown is a dangerous thing if wielded by the wrong hands.” Arthur sighed, and glanced down into the empty goblet, the smallest of measures of wine clinging to the bottom of the cup where a dip indicated the attachment to the base. It was probably for the best. “I pity the churchman who provokes you,” Arthur conceded with a chuckle, “and if they do try anything I hope that in the course of your retribution, you give them an extra kick from me.” “Ahhhh,” the King said, in a tone that indicated that he had realised something that should have been obvious to him sooner, “of course.” There it was. It was that threat of some stranger stepping into his mind and looking, making changes for their own design, that old fear. It had not been so different when he had been young and human, only less literal and more easily fought. Fighting, that was the key, it had always been the key for Arthur, he never felt stronger than with a sword in his hand. It meant nothing though, when your mind was not your own. Arthur considered Mallos in shrewd silence for a while, thinking, wondering. Trust really was so very difficult, one of the greatest risks there was. Arriving at the decision was not easy, and if it had been anyone else then he would not have even considered asking. “What you offered to do for Thoth,” he said, slowly, deliberately, rolling the goblet between the palms of his hands, “can you do something similar for me?”  |
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