Burns Too Bright, Lives Too Fast

Arthur had deposited Francine's beast of a cake where it belonged - namely, in a corner of his room where he and Merlin could pick at it occasionally. It was easily one of the better gifts he'd gotten for the whole waste of a day that was his birthday, barring perhaps the sword from Lord Ewyn, but he didn't have as much of an apetite for it as he'd thought. At least, not for a single go.

He'd left his door open this morning after Merlin had dressed him: not something he often did, but now it stood as a clear sign to any wayward women from the twenty-first century who might want to come in and speak to him before he took to the training field that day.

They were serving as a brilliant distraction, at least; the time he didn't spend with them was fruitfully spent worrying about their safety, instead of the significance of the past Sunday.

He leaned against the wall near one of the windows and stared out over the courtyard, thinking.

[[ open to anyone in Camelot ]]

Occasionally, Arthur had an hour or so to spare in between his duties. Sometimes, especially these days, he liked to come up here when he did so, peering out from the parapets and onto the streets below. Today was such a day; he'd climbed up here on his own, shirking his heavy jacket somewhere along the line.

He propped his foot up on the battlement, leaning one shoulder against a merlon. He'd had a lot on his mind, these days: Morgana's newly-revealed magic, the king's inability to relent in the face of innocent magic users (so far, he told himself, repeatedly. He wasn't about to give up on his father yet), the everpresent danger of Merlin being compromised somehow.

Lost in thought, he wasn't really paying attention to his surroundings, so much.