May my arm always defend you; part one - " />
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May my arm always defend you; part one
IP: 82.19.140.112
Posted on September 17, 2013 at 10:30:16 PM by t r i s t a n



Arthur had kept him waiting, and that...that wasn’t good. That meant that the king wanted his son to sweat. It didn’t bode well either that he had been left alone in the main hall, rather than in his father’s study, as was more usual. Three large, and very stern-looking guards had been left on the other side of the doors, and Celidon and the puppies had been made to stay with them. It was a strange and intimidating room to be left all alone in. The floor seemed to stretch on forever between the doorway and the dais upon which Arthur’s throne stood right at the centre of the raised platform, illuminated by the flickering torches on the wall. The suits of armour seemed to stare at him through the sightless slits of their helmets, and even the rich tapestries that hung from the walls, and the heraldic arms did nothing to warm their cold steel exterior. The prince shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He had not been provided with a seat. There was the throne, and then there was the floor, and Tristan doubted very much, given the look on his father’s face when he had found them in the cove, that Arthur would appreciate it if he entered the hall to find his son sitting cross legged on the floorboards.

The first sign of Arthur’s approach came just as the dusk had turned to darkness, and Pendragon flew in through one of the open windows and landed on the back of the throne, his talons curling around the carvings. He fixed Tristan with a piercing look, but didn’t say anything. The prince found that his hands were feeling sweaty, and his heart was pounding anxiously. A knot twisted in the pit of his stomach, and his mouth felt dry. He was in trouble, more trouble than usual, and he knew it. When Arthur finally entered through the doors, he was frowning, his grey eyes stormy beneath a hard-set brow, more soldier than father or king in that moment and Tristan dropped his head respectfully as his father marched passed him. Arthur made no attempt to meet the boy’s searching eyes. The prince had often observed that his father had the habit of establishing the tone of a conversation long before he opened his mouth. He understood then, when his father sunk down onto the throne, that this was not just a situation where a son was being scolded by his father; this was an interview between a prince and his displeased monarch.

Arthur waited. Tristan took a deep breath and sunk down onto one knee, keeping his head bowed, and his eyes fixed upon the floor.
“Lord Father,” he said, his voice shaking a little, as he tried his utmost to sound as respectful and penitent as he could. Arthur left him kneeling.
“Why,” he said curtly after a drawn-out silence, “do I employ guards for you, Tristan?” The boy glanced up, biting his lip,
“to keep me safe, Father,” he replied.
“And why do I want to keep you safe?” Tristan frowned, wondering where the questions were leading, and wondering if he was going to be tricked into admitting something he’d rather not. Arthur’s face however did not give indication of much patience however,
“because I’m your heir, and you love me.”
“You know it then, and I know full well you are not stupid, so what does that leave me with?” Arthur wondered out-loud, “disobedient? Foolish? Rash?” Tristan didn’t reply, he wasn’t supposed to. His father’s voice was cold and collected, it would have been better if he had yelled.
“Do you think me an unfair man, Tristan?” he asked, “do you not trust me?”
“It wasn’t like that, Father,” the boy protested, “I didn’t mean...I didn’t think...”
“Exactly!” Arthur said, raising his voice a little, “you seem to forget to think with an alarming frequency. You act, and you do not give a thought to what the consequences could be if your luck ran out. Tristan, you cannot live on luck forever, and when I’m dead, you cannot expect luck to keep your kingdom for you.”



photography by brockvicky at flickr.com





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