Post by Uther Pendragon on Mar 19, 2019 20:55:16 GMT -5
This was necessary.
Uther knew that; he understood it. He took his place in the stands, his position prominent among the cheering and jeering crowds, and looked out over the tilt yard. This was necessary, he told himself again. Arthur was not a child anymore, he was a young man with everything to prove and he was surrounded by the very people he needed to prove it all to. And that was why this was necessary. Outwardly, Uther’s expression remained stony, unreadable. Implacably expressionless. But behind this carefully constructed façade of indifference, his nerves twitched and his heartbeat hammered in his throat.
Arthur was his son. His only son, the last living, breathing embodiment of his beloved Ygraine. He was the future of Camelot, in whose inexperienced hands the fate of a kingdom precariously lay. And tournaments were dangerous. He’d lost count of the brave young knights who’d lost their lives in the tilts, he’d seen them choking on their own blood with lances cutting through tender flesh like swords. When he thought of them now, their faces all looked like Arthur’s and his gut squirmed with nerves.
Outwardly, not a flicker of emotion played across his face. He had to let this happen. To intervene and pull Arthur out of the tournament would be a weakness, a sign of defeat. Pride alone would never permit such a disgrace, and Arthur would never forgive the overbearing humiliation.
Alas, his fears were all in vain.
Uther’s carefully concealed fears evaporated as Arthur rode to victory in round after round. Before long, he was on his feet with the rest of the spectators, applauding as his son rapidly and consistently proved his worth. So much so, he almost felt foolish for having been so nervous before the tournament began. Arthur was winning. Of course Arthur was winning!
Once it was over, and his son left the field, Uther was quick to follow.
He shouldered his way through the crowds of people who didn't see him coming, and largely ignored the bows of those who did. Once at his son's chambers, he knocked but let himself inside immediately. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. His son, a child no more, was probably too big for a bearhug.
"Arthur," he said, breathless from the dash across the grounds and up the stairs. "I know, I couldn't be more proud of you."
He settled for the next best thing to a hug and brought his hands to his son's face, holding him gently. "If your mother was here, she would be too."
He could think of no higher praise than that.
Uther knew that; he understood it. He took his place in the stands, his position prominent among the cheering and jeering crowds, and looked out over the tilt yard. This was necessary, he told himself again. Arthur was not a child anymore, he was a young man with everything to prove and he was surrounded by the very people he needed to prove it all to. And that was why this was necessary. Outwardly, Uther’s expression remained stony, unreadable. Implacably expressionless. But behind this carefully constructed façade of indifference, his nerves twitched and his heartbeat hammered in his throat.
Arthur was his son. His only son, the last living, breathing embodiment of his beloved Ygraine. He was the future of Camelot, in whose inexperienced hands the fate of a kingdom precariously lay. And tournaments were dangerous. He’d lost count of the brave young knights who’d lost their lives in the tilts, he’d seen them choking on their own blood with lances cutting through tender flesh like swords. When he thought of them now, their faces all looked like Arthur’s and his gut squirmed with nerves.
Outwardly, not a flicker of emotion played across his face. He had to let this happen. To intervene and pull Arthur out of the tournament would be a weakness, a sign of defeat. Pride alone would never permit such a disgrace, and Arthur would never forgive the overbearing humiliation.
Alas, his fears were all in vain.
Uther’s carefully concealed fears evaporated as Arthur rode to victory in round after round. Before long, he was on his feet with the rest of the spectators, applauding as his son rapidly and consistently proved his worth. So much so, he almost felt foolish for having been so nervous before the tournament began. Arthur was winning. Of course Arthur was winning!
Once it was over, and his son left the field, Uther was quick to follow.
He shouldered his way through the crowds of people who didn't see him coming, and largely ignored the bows of those who did. Once at his son's chambers, he knocked but let himself inside immediately. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. His son, a child no more, was probably too big for a bearhug.
"Arthur," he said, breathless from the dash across the grounds and up the stairs. "I know, I couldn't be more proud of you."
He settled for the next best thing to a hug and brought his hands to his son's face, holding him gently. "If your mother was here, she would be too."
He could think of no higher praise than that.