Close Your Eyes (it’ll all be over soon)
Summary: Arthur is eight years old when it happens. He is twelve
when the swordmaster whose hands and eyes haunt him finally leaves and
he can breathe once more.
Now at twenty-three and with Merlin at
his side, Arthur still feels wholly unprepared to deal with the
swordmaster’s return to Camelot and all the repressed horror he
unleashes.
Or, a story about trauma, shame, and the resilience of the human heart.
AO3 Link
Arthur first holds a sword when he is eight years
old. It’s a short blade, meant for close range fighting, but perfect for a boy
still not tall enough to reach his father’s chest. The metal is cold in his
hand and he has to focus hard to keep the blade aloft, its weight heavier than
he expected.
Arthur tilts the sword in the sunlight, letting the stark
white reflect back in his own eyes. He squints, stabbing the blade’s tip into
the ground and looking up at his father with a thrilled grin. “Is this mine?”
he asks, barely able to contain his excitement.
Uther nods, smiling. “You will use it to begin your training
with Sir Godric.”
His father looks past him and Arthur slouches, wondering why
Uther’s attention ran like water through his fingers no matter how tightly he
cupped his palms. A man with long red hair tied in a ponytail and dressed in a
long leather coat walks towards them, giving Uther a short wave.
Uther smiles, clapping the man on the back when he arrives
and turns to his son, smiling proudly. Arthur wonders what the man did to
deserve that look. Was it something Arthur could do too? Will Uther look at him
like that one day then?
“Godric, you’re early!” Uther greets.
“When I heard you summoned me, I came running, my lord.”
Godric answers with an easy smile and Uther laughs, sharp and short.
“Well, I’m pleased you tore yourself away from your
adventures to return to Camelot once more. Godric, come. Meet my son, Arthur.”
Arthur grits his jaw, straightening his back and sticking
out his hand. Godric appraises him for a moment, his gaze dragging up from
Arthur’s toes right up to his face. Arthur fidgets, shifting from foot to foot,
uncomfortable with the long stretch of silence before Godric takes his hand in
his and squeezes it. “It’s an honour to meet you, Prince Arthur.”
And there, that’s more like it. Godric should be worried
about Arthur’s scrutiny, not the other way around.
“Likewise.” He answers haughtily, dropping his hand and
staring up at his father so he can finally explain what it is they’re all doing
here.
“Godric,” Uther explains, clapping the man on the shoulder
once more, “is Camelot’s finest swordmaster. He has trained the best of the
knights since just after I earned my own knighthood.”
Arthur blinks, looking up at Godric once more and really
looking this time. He’s older than he first appears, with his boisterous
attitude and easy smiles. There are fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the
normal signs of middle age. Arthur pegs him at around thirty or so but doesn’t
care to think about it any further.
“Will he be training me then?” he drawls, already bored.
“No. You will have to earn being trained by me.”
Godric interjects and Arthur frowns, looking up at him through his bangs. “You
heard your father. I only train the best.”
Godric bends down until they’re at eye level, he’s so close Arthur
can see the flecks of brown in his green eyes. “Are you the best Arthur?” he
asks softly and Arthur scowls, crossing his arms.
“I’m going to be the greatest knight there ever was.” He boasts
and Godric only laughs before his hand shoots out and collides against Arthur’s
chest.
Arthur stumbles backward, eyes widening, arms flailing
before he catches himself. He’s jumped back a foot and a half and Godric looks
at him with judging eyes. “A real knight stays rooted in place. He moves only
when he wants to. If this were a battle, I could have pushed you right into the
open blade of an enemy.”
“But we’re not in a-”
“We’re always in a battle. That’s what it means to be
a knight. You’re always fighting. You’re always vigilant! You must be ready to
kill or be killed at any given moment!”
Arthur’s chin drops, glaring furiously at the grass. Knights
are supposed to protect people. Knights were honourable. He doesn’t think there’s
a lot of honour in bringing the war back home. But he knows better than to say
anything silly like that.
Godric turns to Uther, “You’ve let him grow up soft Uther.”
His father simply sighs, “He has great potential Godric. You’ll
see it too.”
Godric merely sniffs. “Perhaps.”
“Again.” Arthur demands, planting his feet and clenching his
fists.
Godric raises a brow before complying, shoving him once more.
Ready for it, Arthur lowers his centre of gravity and rocks on his feet,
sliding back just an inch. Godric looks at him again, all of him coming apart.
“Come along Arthur,” he says at last and Arthur represses
the urge to pump a fist, “let’s see what more you can do.”
Arthur turns to his father who merely nods his approval,
already walking away. Godric looks at him with expecting eyes, holding out a
hand and Arthur takes it. They walk side by side. Hand in hand.
This is the beginning of the end, of course.
But Arthur is only eight. How was he supposed to know?
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