Chapter Text
Arthur was riding slowly through the forest on an afternoon in summer, his mail was hot and heavy in the sunlight, and he was growing unobservant and tired, as the path toward the city that he had travelled countless times elapsed at a sluggish pace.
Three days' ride to a neighbouring Kingdom. God he was sick of being his fathers errand boy. He thought of a glorious future in which he was King, and would no longer be sent on these boring escapades, plodding, sweating, etcetera. His men were weary too, given up on conversation or even close attention, as the safety of Camelots' familiar trees and rocks and rivers shaded and surrounded them. The dull, rhythmic clop of horse hooves.
They stopped to water their horses, Arthur stooped down to splash some water from the stream on his face and neck, hoping to rouse himself a little. It did nothing to quicken his reaction time as a whistling sound in the air became an arrow through the neck of one of his men. His ears rang and it felt like forever as the man fell to the ground with a choked noise before Arthur was able to cry out.
“AMBUSH!” He ducked and rolled over to his startled horse to grab his shield. More arrows came whistling through the air from every direction. Archers seemed to be hidden all around them, he kept his back to his horse and drew his sword, not knowing from where the next shaft would come. Two more of his guards were shot through and he heard a strangled cry from the last as he ran wildly into the trees.
Only then did the attackers show themselves. Coming slowly out of the trees with bows bent on the young prince, who turned this way and that, sword ready. His blue eyes were wide with fear and adrenaline, they hadn’t killed him yet.
A tall man in grey garb approached from behind the archers and spoke.
“Prince Arthur of Camelot,” He stated. He was from the north. His piercing grey eyes, dark hair and pale complexion told of that also. Arthur didn’t answer, only stared with a wrath. So it was to be ransom, he guessed. Not without a fight , he thought.
“Kindly lower your sword Sire, we do not wish to hurt ye.”
Arthur grimaced at that. As if. “No, I don't think I will.” He said firmly.
“Very well.” The stranger sighed. “Come.” He said, gesturing to one of his men, who brought Arthur’s youngest companion, struggling from out of the trees behind him. He had a nasty wound on his head where he had been hit, and he looked dizzy and sick. Arthur's fury burned.
“Who are you?!” He barked from behind his shield.
His companion was handed to the man in grey who pulled out a long iron knife and held it to the boy's neck. Arthur tensed and shut his mouth firmly.
“Do as I say now.” The man spoke softly, like a nanny berating a young child. He tilted his head back and watched as Arthur slowly laid his sword on the ground.
Arthur watched the boy carefully, intent on not having his life spent. His eyes rolled around as his head lolled back and forward, barely able to keep himself standing. Kept his eyes on the man as guards moved in to bind the prince’s hands behind his back and proceed to search him and throw down his other concealed weapons.
“Thank you for your cooperation, highness.” he said with a smile, then he swiftly drew his knife across the boy's throat and he fell to the floor.
“NO!” Arthur choked out, turning his face away. Then, rage renewed, he struggled to free himself, only to be met with strong hands on his arms and shoulders holding him and he bucked wildly, biting and kicking whatever he could.
A sharp press of metal to his neck stopped him cold, he looked up to meet his captors eyes.
“The King won’t pay ransom for a dead son.” Arthur said bitterly.
The man smiled and sheathed his knife. “Quite right your highness.” He struck him hard across the face, the punch left Arthur reeling, his mouth bloody.
“Maxum Maccready, at your service.”