Kings don’t make mistakes—but, for the love of a son, fathers often do.
Uther has made many mistakes with Arthur. He can see that now, with a sort of grim clarity that had hitherto eluded him: can see it in the indulgent tilt of his son’s head as his so-called manservant fills his ears with softly teasing words while he sees to his master’s cup, in the barest flicker of a smile when fingers brush as the boy pulls reluctantly away, his task complete.
Sorcerer, he thinks darkly, the knowledge festering like a fetid wound.
How it galls him to look on as his authority is so easily flouted, his law and his legacy unmade before his very eyes! The future of Camelot holds a devil to his breast and Uther is helpless to act: he knows what a man enchanted looks like and love is an enchantment more potent than any sorcery. The boy is cunning. Magic can be broken. This—thing—he is not so sure of.
What might his son do, should he call the boy out for what he is? Would loyalty to a treacherous sorcerer override loyalty to king and country? Would love for a servant overcome love for a father?
Uncertainty stays his tongue.
Looking at Arthur, watching him dart amused glances toward the boy now miserably attempting to deflect the coy advances of some misguided servant girl, something twisted and dark coils in his belly. Something very much like fear.