Quickly checking there was no one about, Arthur rested his forehead against the cold, stone wall of Tintagel's keep.

The sensation eased the crushing weight of his headache for a moment, but only for a few seconds, and then it came crashing back down.

With interest.

And it was not just his head.

Everything hurt.

Since his return from that disastrous excursion to Isca Dumnoniorum, he had done his best to keep up a brave front. He was Prince Arthur, after all. The life and soul of every party and the hero that would unite his people beneath the strength of his sword and the justice of his rule.

After Isca and the slaughter of his Marghekyon, it was doubly important that he was seen not to have changed. Everyone knew the story of his appalling burns and subsequent wonderous healing at the hands of the new Court Mage. It was a great tavern tale - it should be, he's paid enough to that fucking bard - but no one wanted to be reminded of how close Briton had come to disaster should he have succumbed to his injuries.

While everyone made jokes about his hair, which had resolutely refused to grow back, it was clear that was as far as what had happened was ever to be discussed again.

From the kingdom's perspective, for sure Prince Arthur had suffered a reversal. But it was a minor one, and it would not do to be too worried about it. To sell that vision, everyone needed to see him back to his carousing, whoring, and fighting self.

But everything hurt.

And it didn't seem that anyone cared.

No, that was not entirely fair. Arthur sensed Morgan would be open to discussing things further. She'd been there for all of it, after all. If anyone could understand why he felt . . . changed by the experience, it was the red-haired Celt.

But she was out with Bors, wasn't she? Doing the sort of work his father made abundantly and repeatedly clear should have been his duty. He'd even suited up to lead a raid or two to show willing. But the very idea of initiating that sort of slaughter again . . .

He felt vomit surge up his throat and sucked it down as the door ahead of him opened, and a servant poked her head out.

Arthur plastered on his most lascivious expression and moved to push past her. "Please excuse me for my haste, kind lady. If I hadn't been summoned with all speed by the King, I sense you may have a place where I may sheath my longsword."

The servant blushed and dipped her head, opening the door to let him past. He deliberately brushed against her as he went through, even though the slightest touch made his skin burst into agony.

"Arthur, leave the girl alone."

His father, Uther, stood by the flickering hearth, his face thunderous. The Prince was unsure he had seen any other expression from that quarter for years.

If he had hoped that his near-death experience would bring them closer, he had been crushingly disappointed. If anything, Uther's demands on his son had increased in the days and weeks following the siege of Tintagel. Never had the fragility of the kingdom of Dumnonia been made more apparent, and therefore, the strength of those who ruled it needed to be underlined - in fire and blood - to anyone who watched.

Messageners had been sent the length and breadth of the British border to ensure that those allies that owed their fealty to the Pendragon were kept in line.

Uther had just returned from visiting one of the petty kingdoms whose reply to that message had been less than full-throated support.

Some nice new ornaments were on spikes above Tintagel's battlements.

Sensing this would be another one of their more testing encounters, Arthur took a settling breath and raised his chin defiantly.

"If you will keep all these buxom lovelies hanging around, Father, what's a red-blooded Knight to do?"

Uther's scowl deepened. It was approaching being at the soul level at this stage. "How fares the Princess Guinevere?"

"Oh, you know. Still a colossal bitch. Sorry, I forgot. You actually do know, don't you? Didn't you choose certain death on the battlefield rather than attempting to bed her yourself?"

Uther flushed and bit back an angry retort. The truth was, he was not even especially angry with Arthur right now; it was just that he was troubled by what he had needed to do over the last week and sought an outlet for that worry.

It had been decades since there had been any suggestion that the King of Dumnonia might not be the de facto ruler of the Britons. An awful lot of blood had flowed under the bridge to make that so, and the suggestion—post Isca and the arrival of a Saxon army at the gates of his own castle—that this may need to be re-examined had taken him by surprise.

Almost as much as how tired he had felt leading an army in the field. Nothing brought home to you how many years had passed when you nearly caught a peasant's pitchfork in your throat.

An uneasy silence settled between them. Arthur was damned if he was going to be the one to break it. His father was the one who'd requested this bloody audience, after all.

"The Saxon retreat was a respite, not a victory," Uther's voice was like far-off thunder, quiet but threatening more storms. "Your timely arrival with the wizard turned the tide, but their strength remains poised to strike again."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

"You're welcome, by the way."

"I'm welcome?"

"For the save."

Uther crashed his hands into the stoneware above the fire. "This is not a game! The Saxons were here! We were fighting them on the bridge. Do you understand how close we came to being wiped out?"

"I was at Isca, father. I have some conception."

"But you weren't, were you? You were fucking a farmer's daughter while our people burned."

Uther regretted the words as soon as he said them. But that was no matter. It was as if he saw fresh wounds open on his son's soul, and yet the Prince did nothing to fight back. That was the thing that worried Uther most about his son. The spark seemed to have left his eyes.

"Was there anything else, father?"

Arthur moved to leave, but Uther grasped his arm. "Without an heir, Arthur, this respite means nothing. They will come again, and we need Leodegrance's spears."

The weight of his father's oft-repeated words hung around Arthur's neck like a millstone, and he nearly staggered. Did Uther not think he knew all this? The importance of lineage, of securing a future for the kingdom, was all he'd thought about since he'd been healed.

"The Princess has her own mind on the matter," Arthur said quietly, the raw edge of near-death softening his voice. "And, as you know as well as I, her will is not toward motherhood."

Uther's stare hardened, and he struggled to keep his anger under control. "We do not have time for her to find her feminine instincts, boy. Even now, I hear reports of boats filled with Saxons arriving from over the sea. Just weeks after driving them from our walls, their numbers replenish. There is talk - not just low murmuring but open discussion - that a new Pendragon may need to be chosen in order to secure the British line. Money flows across the borders of Gwent, of Powys, of Deheubarth, and I can see no other reason, but they are preparing to change for my throne. We are approaching disaster because your wife's womb lies barren. Do not leave us in such a situation again."

"Was there anything else? It's just I feel we've explored every version of the 'go and fuck your wife' conversation a father and his son can realistically hold. It's becoming a touch weird."

The King's jaw worked as if he sought to grind the impudence of his son's response out of existence. They both knew they were pushing the boundaries of their relationship too far. That was all either of them seemed able to do lately, yet the gravity of the situation would not let them back down.

Arthur wondered how it would be if he shared the reality of his minute-by-minute agony with Uther. Would that make a difference to the bitter war they now fought? The saddest thing was he knew it would.

He just couldn't bring himself to say it.

Fathers and their sons.

After what felt like forever, Uther broke the silence, his voice a low growl. "Get out of here and do your duty, Prince Arthur."

Well, he guessed that was that.

With the finality of closing time, Arthur turned on his heel and strode from the room, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind him. He moved with such alacrity that he almost forgot to wink at the girl who waited for him in the corridor. Almost, but not quite.

He had an image to maintain, after all.

Outside, the air was crisp, the cold biting at his cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the throne room. Each step took him further away from the King's presence, yet the weight of his father's expectation clung to him like a drowning man.

As he walked, he clenched and unclenched his fists, the phantom pain of his burns flaring with each movement. Phantom pain. Ha, the banality of those words almost made him smile.

Britain needed an heir. That fact was as accurate as it ever was, yet the thought of Guinevere, with her cool indifference and sharp tongue, made the prospect of his bed chamber as appealing as a draught of poison.

A glass of which he'd found himself contemplating in the dark hours of late.

He suddenly stopped and threw back his head, roaring to the sky. "Fuck!"

The healing that had sealed his wounds had not dulled the memory of the fire that had ravaged his body.

The desolation that had threatened to consume his spirit had as powerful a hold on him now as it ever had. Arthur remembered the look of sheer terror in his men's eyes as they had witnessed his agony. He was the Once and Future King. This sort of thing happened to other people. Morgan's timely intervention had saved his life, and for that, Arthur was begrudgingly thankful. But the healing had left him changed, not just in his resolutely bald head, but in his soul.

He stopped at the edge of the training grounds, where the rhythmic clang of iron rang out. With the death of so many of his Marghekyon, the call had gone out for anyone who sought revenge for the predations of the Saxons. So far, they had not unearthed anyone of the calibre of those lost, but he knew Bors lived in hope.

At least one of them did.

Arthur had once found solace in the simple clarity of swordplay, in the honest exertion of physical combat. Now, he felt no enthusiasm for such things.

If I'd known you were going to be this much of a fucking sad sack, I'd have gone hunting with the girl.

The Prince did not know why he'd taken to strapping Drynwyn to his back. He'd relinquished Wynebgwrthucher to the armoury, much to the shield's chagrin, so he couldn't quite explain why he'd decided to retain the sword that was the cause of his pain.

Or maybe that was why.

Trust me as one who has spent significant time around a fucking masochist. You ain't that. If you want my opinion -

"I really don't."

Well, that's a fucking shame, ain't it? Because you're getting it. As far as I can see, you're good at two things. Fucking and fighting. And I haven't seen you do either since the Saxons ran for it. Why's Morgan out there with Bors tearing them a new one? Seems like the sort of thing the Prince of the Britons should be fucking taking the lead on.

Arthur ignored the sword. Sometimes, that was the only way to deal with the truth.

He could blame his pain. He could say his father had forbidden him from leaving Tintagel. He could even say that the prospect of facing Guinevere, of enduring her sharp words, cut more profound than any physical agony could.

And maybe it was all of those.

But the truth was he just did not want to do any of it anymore.

Arthur's eyes drifted to the battlements, the flags above snapping in the wind. Each banner stood for a house, a family, a lineage - all bound together under his father's rule. He knew he was letting them all down.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his burdens, Arthur turned from the training grounds and made his way to the relative solitude of the stables. The calm, quiet sanctuary offered a reprieve from the clamour of the world outside.

Here, in the dim light filtering through the windows, with just Llamrei's solid presence for the company, Arthur could hear the whisper of his own thoughts. He sank onto the floor, the straw familiar beneath his fingers.

In the silence, Arthur allowed himself a moment of weakness; his head bowed not in prayer but in a search for clarity. How could he lead a kingdom when his life felt like a battlefield? How could he give an heir to the kingdom when that notion felt like an act of war?

He had to find a way through this, not just for Britain, but for himself.

Rhydrech always said, never meet your fucking heroes.

"I never wanted to be a hero. I never had any choice."

Well, boo, fucking, hoo. It must have been a fucking nightmare growing up with every door and shapely pair of legs falling opening for you. My metal heart bleeds.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. No one does."

Fucking sad sack, the sword murmured.

And in that, Arthur felt the sword had it pretty much spot on.