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The celebrations in Arthur's honour had been going on for a candlemark or two, Arthur couldn't be certain. But where Morgana's birthday would inevitably invite drunkenness and generosity from his father, his own meant awkward silences and the early departure of the king, though no one ever dared to question it.
So, like every year, Uther had gone and left the rest to their revelry, and Arthur had gone and sneaked down the stairs like he was still an awkward eleven-year-old, down to where their kin were buried. He felt slightly foolish for it now - he was twenty winters old, if you took Fandom Island into account, and nineteen if you didn't. But he honestly couldn't stand all the nobles any longer, and for once, running off with Merlin didn't feel appropriate.
It took him a little while to get to his destination, for it laid far in the back. He supposed a more poetic man could've taken that and spun some kind of yarn about the distance of the king's heart, but he wasn't there for symbolism. He was here for her. He passed by Tristan's ruined resting place on his way there, pausing briefly before he continued on.
And there it was.
Her Majesty
Ygraine du Bois
Queen of Camelot
it read, in flowering script, and then the dates of her birth and death; he stared at the latter for a long while, tracing the lines of that made up his own birthdate as well, thinking, the only sound and light the steady flickering of his torch. Even the late summer heat didn't make it this far down.
[[ open to that wizard who probably stalked him here. ]]
So, like every year, Uther had gone and left the rest to their revelry, and Arthur had gone and sneaked down the stairs like he was still an awkward eleven-year-old, down to where their kin were buried. He felt slightly foolish for it now - he was twenty winters old, if you took Fandom Island into account, and nineteen if you didn't. But he honestly couldn't stand all the nobles any longer, and for once, running off with Merlin didn't feel appropriate.
It took him a little while to get to his destination, for it laid far in the back. He supposed a more poetic man could've taken that and spun some kind of yarn about the distance of the king's heart, but he wasn't there for symbolism. He was here for her. He passed by Tristan's ruined resting place on his way there, pausing briefly before he continued on.
And there it was.
Ygraine du Bois
Queen of Camelot
it read, in flowering script, and then the dates of her birth and death; he stared at the latter for a long while, tracing the lines of that made up his own birthdate as well, thinking, the only sound and light the steady flickering of his torch. Even the late summer heat didn't make it this far down.
[[ open to that wizard who probably stalked him here. ]]
