The Hapless King

      The lords are waiting; he can hear them whispering their discontent in rough, hoarse voices. They feign nonchalance while rearranging their shoulder plates and tap their fingers on the pommels of their swords. Half a year ago they were clamouring for a new king. Watch them now, waiting for him to fail.

      He’s done this so many times that every streak and imperfection of the marble block has become as familiar a sight as the tracing of blue veins on his own hands. He could recognize the sound of metal scraping against stone with his eyes closed.

      It took them all by surprise, and when they came to see for themselves- the knights and the earls, the barons and the dukes- he wanted to laugh at their puzzled expressions. They’re no better than dogs, fighting each other for a slice of his birthright. Let them bark and bare their teeth. His moment has come.

      Sometimes, in the darkness of his tent, he allows himself to panic, to long for the rolling countryside of Wrexham. But the morning brings him peace and strength, and when he steps out onto the green fields that surround Canterbury, he is Arthur Pendragon once again.

      His fingers wrap themselves around the hilt, holding it tightly. It fits perfectly into his palm, as if made for him. He wants to believe it is so. That it’ll be him, and not Kay, who sits on Uther’s throne. On entering the cathedral he’s heard the lords comment on his brother’s bearing, his elegance, his manners. It has made him painfully aware of his own scrawny arms and legs and the nose he broke hunting two years ago.

      He can’t remember when it started, this petty rivalry that was never rivalry, this childhood game that turned into something else. Riding, archery, swordplay- Kay would best him effortlessly again and again, making his father’s eyes shine with the pride he yearned for. He knows he meant no harm, even if he took everything away from him. This time he can’t follow, prove himself the abler man; Arthur will rule a kingdom and be freed from him at last.

      Try as he might, he can’t shake off the feeling that something’ll go awry, that the future Merlin augured him might yet slip off his fingers. But it is too late to harbour doubts. Fortune favours the bold. He places his legs slightly apart, takes a deep breath, and pulls. A screeching sound, like fingernails on an iron plank.

      And the sword remains in place.