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tamingthemuseTitle: Fate
Fandom: Arthurian legends
Prompt: Prompt 443 - Wyrd
Warnings: N/A
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The Arthurian legends are in the public domain. I make no reference to any copyrighted work. So all is mine.
Beta: None, so any mistakes you see are mine.
Summary: Arthur was watching the camp from a break between the curtain of his tent. It was a strange sight to him, his men usually so cheerful and ready to battle were weary and tired.
The men sitting around the fires were silent, brooding over the challenge to come the following day. They knew they should be resting but their mind wouldn't let them, so instead they stared blankly into the flames of the fire hoping for some warmth and comfort.
Arthur was watching the camp from a break between the curtain of his tent. It was a strange sight to him, his men usually so cheerful and ready to battle were weary and tired. He had let them to France for a war none of them wanted to fight. They had lost Gawain, one of their hero, and they wanted to mourn. They wanted to hold their families tight against their chest and cry for the death of their kingdom.
"The death of their kingdom..." Arthur whispered unconsciously. He stepped away from the curtain and retreated to his desk, his gaze scanning once more the plan of attack for the following day. It felt like its worst to date. He couldn't bring himself to be ruthless and push his men to their limits. They had reached it already and were working on reserve, on some form of loyalty that had been so ingrained in them, they didn't question it.
Arthur felt a presence in the room, like a cold tingling feeling on the back of his neck accompanied by a soft smell of wheat fields at the peak of Summer. He knew that feeling and did not like it.
"I'm going to die tomorrow," he stated. It was not a question. He had gone beyond that. He was going to die, it was the only possible outcome to the situation and this feeling, this smell confirmed it to him. He had felt it before, when he had lifted that sword out of the stone, when Agravaine and Mordred confronted him about Guinevere and Lancelot. There had been no escaping fate then. There wouldn't be now.
He looked up from the map and closed his eyes. He could hear the fires crackling and in the distance the buzz of some bugs. He wasn't sad. He had always known he would die in battle - nothing else would ever make sense, his kingdom had never been strong enough in spite of the beliefs of many of his citizens - but he had hoped it would be with honour and alongside his friends. Lancelot was as good as dead now, Gawain buried back in France and ahead of him, his biggest regret ready to shame him and sentence him. A silent tear ran along his cheek.
"Mordred," he whispered hoping a breeze would carry his word to the other side of the valley, to his son. He wanted him to hear how sorry he was and how much he loved him in spite of everything. He loved him, had always loved him. Maybe if he had known how to express this love and move away from the shame of his actions things would have been different. But it was too late for maybes and ifs. Fate had come. And the following day, he would have to die.
Fandom: Arthurian legends
Prompt: Prompt 443 - Wyrd
Warnings: N/A
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The Arthurian legends are in the public domain. I make no reference to any copyrighted work. So all is mine.
Beta: None, so any mistakes you see are mine.
Summary: Arthur was watching the camp from a break between the curtain of his tent. It was a strange sight to him, his men usually so cheerful and ready to battle were weary and tired.
The men sitting around the fires were silent, brooding over the challenge to come the following day. They knew they should be resting but their mind wouldn't let them, so instead they stared blankly into the flames of the fire hoping for some warmth and comfort.
Arthur was watching the camp from a break between the curtain of his tent. It was a strange sight to him, his men usually so cheerful and ready to battle were weary and tired. He had let them to France for a war none of them wanted to fight. They had lost Gawain, one of their hero, and they wanted to mourn. They wanted to hold their families tight against their chest and cry for the death of their kingdom.
"The death of their kingdom..." Arthur whispered unconsciously. He stepped away from the curtain and retreated to his desk, his gaze scanning once more the plan of attack for the following day. It felt like its worst to date. He couldn't bring himself to be ruthless and push his men to their limits. They had reached it already and were working on reserve, on some form of loyalty that had been so ingrained in them, they didn't question it.
Arthur felt a presence in the room, like a cold tingling feeling on the back of his neck accompanied by a soft smell of wheat fields at the peak of Summer. He knew that feeling and did not like it.
"I'm going to die tomorrow," he stated. It was not a question. He had gone beyond that. He was going to die, it was the only possible outcome to the situation and this feeling, this smell confirmed it to him. He had felt it before, when he had lifted that sword out of the stone, when Agravaine and Mordred confronted him about Guinevere and Lancelot. There had been no escaping fate then. There wouldn't be now.
He looked up from the map and closed his eyes. He could hear the fires crackling and in the distance the buzz of some bugs. He wasn't sad. He had always known he would die in battle - nothing else would ever make sense, his kingdom had never been strong enough in spite of the beliefs of many of his citizens - but he had hoped it would be with honour and alongside his friends. Lancelot was as good as dead now, Gawain buried back in France and ahead of him, his biggest regret ready to shame him and sentence him. A silent tear ran along his cheek.
"Mordred," he whispered hoping a breeze would carry his word to the other side of the valley, to his son. He wanted him to hear how sorry he was and how much he loved him in spite of everything. He loved him, had always loved him. Maybe if he had known how to express this love and move away from the shame of his actions things would have been different. But it was too late for maybes and ifs. Fate had come. And the following day, he would have to die.
