Chapter Text
“The secret to the immortality of the Pendragon line has been lost to history hundreds and hundreds of years ago,” Arthur states, “Until now.”
He is sitting on the throne at the head of the reception room and Tedros sits on a chair diagonal to him, head propped up on one hand. The space is empty save for father and son. Sunlight streams in through the stained glass windows, creating a kaleidoscope of colors across the marble floor.
Everything around them is decked out in gold, as is the Camelot fashion.
“Father, why are you telling me this?” Tedros yawns, already bored. He had already had six hours of lessons on etiquette and a variety of subjects a prince was expected to be knowledgeable in. These also, the prince found terribly boring.
“I’m telling you this, because you are a part of it.”
“I am?”
“Two generations of the Camelot royal family.”
Arthur gestures at himself, and then at his son.
“Truly?” The blond prince says, already perking up.
Arthur doesn’t smile. “Yes.”
The prince’s enthusiasm ramps up from boredom to actual interest.
“Do I get to do anything? I swear I won’t let you down. I can help!”
“You must. There is a vital role you must fulfill.”
Tedros is now bouncing up and down in his seat in excitement, always so eager to impress his father.
“Tell me.”
“Patience,” Arthur says, raising a hand. “I know because you are a smart, capable, brave young man, you will be able to do this for me.”
Although Tedros was still far from being a man, with his twelve years of age and still lanky body, Arthur’s words cause the prince to hold his back straighter, square his shoulders and puff out his chest.
“I will,” Tedros nods, expression determined, excitement thrumming through his body.
“Do you like sleeping?” Arthur asks softly.
A pause.
Tedros wrinkles his nose, confused by the sudden topic change. “Uh—“
“Do you not get annoyed when Miss Silvia comes to wake you?”
“Yes, but—“
“Would you like to sleep for a hundred years?” Arthur asks, even more softly.
There might have been better ways to go about this, but time was against the king.
“That’s a long time,” Tedros says, still confused. His dad was being strange.
“When you wake, I will be by your side. Just as I am now.”
Tedros shakes his head, looking down, overwhelmed and clenches his hands in his lap. “Um—“
Arthur waits, brows low.
“But I don’t— I don’t want to go to sleep for so long,” Tedros mumbles, almost too quietly to hear, ashamed.
“That is your responsibility.”
“But—“
“You cannot do this for me?” Arthur asks, tone dissapointed, edging into angry.
Crystal-blue eyes go wide, panicked, the fear of disappointing his father now a harsh reality.
“I— I don’t know,” Tedros replies, voice cracking, now close to tears.
“Unfortunately, my son, you must. Summon the strength.”
“Don’t I get to choose? I can’t–”
“You do not choose,” Arthur growls, gaze sharpening, “You were chosen,”
Tedros keeps staring back up into his father’s eyes, even as his chin trembles.
“I don’t wanna—“
The doors behind them slam open, and Guinevere is rushing through, as if summoned, face panicked. “Arthur, I know what you’re doing.”
“Silence!” Arthur snaps. He looks to the guards, “Who the hell let her in?”
“You cannot make him do this, you don‘t even know how the spell works!”
“Get her out of here.”
“Teddy, baby, come here.”
Tedros looks between his mother and father, unsure. But his feet begin to turn towards Guinevere.
“Tedros, stay where you are,” Arthur commands, voice dark.
Those words only seem to spur him forward and Tedros runs to his mother, throwing his arms around her and hiding his face in her arm. Guinevere glares at Arthur from over her son‘s head and Arthur just stares back, face blank, but a storm raging in his icy blue eyes.
———
It is noon when Guinevere decides to confront her husband. She had been kept from Tedros for the past three months. After the incident in the throne room.
“My last request is to see my son,” Guinevere says, voice steady, hands clenched, “You can’t deny me that, Arthur.”
Arthur scoffs, “I could,” his face goes expressionless, “But I won’t.” He raises an eyebrow, “Why would you call it your last request?”
“I know what you’re planning. And I know what I will do against it. You are not a stupid man.”
Arthur’s eyes flash at the implication. “So you assume I will have you executed?”
“I know it.”
Guinevere stands tall but her hands quiver at her sides. Arthur sneers, and it looks chilling on his handsome features.
The king turns to the guards, “Take her to him, but don’t leave them alone.”
“He’s only twelve,” Guinevere cries, “What could you possibly be afraid of!?”
“Your plotting has been my downfall more than once, Guinevere, I won’t let it happen again.”
Guinevere’s mouth sets.
The guards take her by the arms and lead her out of the throne room and into the hallway. They never let her go, and even after they have entered the prince’s room, she is only released at the last possible second.
Tedros turns to her, golden head of curls shining in the sunlight that streams through his big windows. Everything in the room is blue. From the walls to the pillows and furniture. Everything carries that distinct shade of sapphire.
“Mother!”
“Hello, my love,” Guinevere says, a hesitant smile gracing her features.
Tedros jumps down from his seat on the window ledge and runs towards Guinevere, throwing his arms around her.
“I missed you. Where’d you go?”
“I was away.”
Tedros laughs, lighthearted, “That doesn’t answer my question.”
Guinevere looks to the guards and sees one shake his head. She turns back to her son.
“I was on a mission to distant lands.”
Tedros’ eyes go wide. “Really?”
The Queen hums in response, looking around, searching for something.
“Teddy, my darling.” She leads him to sit on his bed next to her. “Please listen to me for now.”
The expression on his mother’s face is dead-serious and it makes Tedros newly uneasy. He nods.
“You remember what your father told you, yes?”
One of the guards makes a short sound of disapproval.
Guinevere continues anyway. “You cannot let him do that to you,” she says urgently. The clank of armor behind her signals her misstep. “You cannot, Teddy. Promise me. Your father is going to—“
Before his mother can speak another word, the guard now standing to the left of her hits her straight across the face with the butt of his sword, and the wet spray of red splatters across Tedros’ face.
He lurches forward, reaching for her, shocked, and Guinevere struggles to bring his hands to her face, smearing the blood there. His mother’s eyes are suddenly frantic, fingers trembling and he doesn’t know what to do, confusion and panic taking the reins in his head.
But as soon as she’s there in his arms, she’s wrenched away again, the two guards gripping her tight around the arms.
“Tedros, you have to kill him,” Guinevere begs as she’s dragged away, “You have to do it, baby,” she’s crying now, tears streaming down her face, “I’m sorry sweetheart, please forgive me—“
But she’s cut off by the guard who gags her, roughly shoving a piece of cloth between her teeth. The whole time his mother is still trying to speak, still crying as she’s wrenched through the doors to the hallway, towards the gate to the castle’s courtyard and towards where Arthur was waiting.
For King Arthur knew what would happen if he let Guinevere see Tedros. He had known how it would turn out. It would only speed up his plans, not hinder them. Tedros was too weak to do what Guinevere had asked of him.
Tedros is frozen in the middle of his room, hands shaking, still covered in his mother’s blood, scarlet and wet sliding across his fingers.
Guards soon come for him as well. They are only a tad gentler, pushing him with a gloved hand at his shoulder blades, towards where his mother was dragged away to, through hallways and out into the cold of the inner courtyard.
Tedros is still in shock, stumbling along without seeing. The wind leeches the warmth from his skin and he shivers. How could they treat his mother like that? She was the Queen, the wife of the King!
He doesn’t even register the chains clamping down on his wrists at first, not until he raises his hands and the heavy weight renders it impossible.
“What are you doing,” he asks woodenly.
The guards do not respond, but he is suddenly forced to his knees and Tedros realizes that it has started raining, because mud begins to creep up the knees of his cream breeches.
Everything is happening so fast that he can’t take in the details anymore, the world a blur around him.
The prince looks up and sees his mother and father. Arthur is standing, while Guinevere is on her knees, still sluggishly bleeding from the blow from before. Guinevere screams through her gag, muffled, and whips her head towards Arthur, shaking her head in panicked disbelief.
Arthur closes his eyes, tired. She likely did not want Tedros to be a witness.
“Father, what’s happening? What are you doing to Mother. I don’t understand—“
“You will.”
Excalibur glints at Tedros suddenly, as if calling for his attention.
“The Queen has been plotting against the throne, against our kingdom,” Arthur says, tone even, “She has been treasonous, and unfaithful.”
Tedros scrambles forward, hands in the mud, uncaring. “Wait, don’t—“
“She must face her punishment.”
Understanding dawns in the young prince’s eyes and he wrenches forward, fingers digging into the wet ground. It takes both the guards to pull him back, they grunt with the effort. Adrenalin fuels the boy’s movements.
Tedros is desperate now, panicked, fighting against the chains that keep him on his knees, “Father, please. Don’t do this, don’t do this, please don’t do this. I’ll do whatever you want, I need Mother, please—“
Arthur meets Tedros’ eyes, gaze filled with sudden, unencompased rage. He raises Excalibur.
Tedros shakes his head in one last desperate plea.
The sword comes down in a shining arc of polished steel, deadly, accurate and Tedros locks eyes with Guinevere for the last time.
His mother’s eyes crinkle, kind like they always were, and then her body falls, lifeless. Head rolling on the ground, hair limp.
Tedros wails, wrist deep in the wet mud, rain plastering his hair to his face.
“This is what is best for Camelot,” Arthur says, voice cold. Thunder booms around them, there is a distant flash of lightning and the rain starts pouring harder.
———
A year has passed, and it is once again the day Tedros dreads the most.
“It is your birthday today, my son,” Arthur states from his throne, crown crooked on his head and a wine bottle half hanging from his fingers.
Arthur’s descent into habits that were gossiped about all across the Endless Woods had only sped up in the past year.
Tedros can smell the alcohol from here. He fights the urge to wrinkle his nose. He instead stays silent, watching the man that used to be his father.
“Thirteen. Are you not happy?” he slurs.
Tedros nods once, curt.
“Come here.”
Tedros takes slow, mechanical steps forward. Like a soldier heading off to war, or a criminal walking to the gallows.
He stops before the throne where Arthur sits slouched on the red velvet cushions.
“The throne I’m sittin’ on,” Arthur points violently at Tedros, “Will be yours one day.”
The dagger at his belt burns a hole in Tedros’ thoughts.
“Princesses—“ Arthur shakes his head, eyes bloodshot, “Will kill you. Stay away from them!”
“Yes, father.”
“They’ll hunt you and they’ll tear out your heart.”
“Maybe you should go rest—“
“THEY’LL RUIN YOUR LIFE!” Arthur bellows, spit flying.
Tedros flinches back but Arthur grabs his wrist in a deathgrip.
“They’re a plague,” Arthur says, the bottle slips from his hand and crashes to the floor, burgundy wine spilling across the stones like velvet blood. “It’s why I had to kill your whore-mother.”
Tedros goes still, silent.
“Still can’t figure out why the spell didn’t work,” he mutters to himself.
Arthur releases his wrist. Tedros stays where he is, standing before his father.
The King suddenly stands up, but he sways in his spot. His son grabs his arm, steadying him.
They catch in a temporary embrace, Tedros is breathing hard over his father’s shoulder, mouth trembling. The floor is cold, even through his shoes.
Arthur is so drunk he doesn’t register the pain at first, after Tedros drives his dagger up in between his third and fourth rib.
The blond prince slowly pulls steel now glistening red from the wound and watches the throne over Arthur’s shoulder, his fingers in a deathgrip around the hilt of the knife, other hand clenching into the leather of his father’s jacket.
It’s a disturbing echo of a loving embrace.
The King chokes, garbles, and his knees give way as he collapses to the floor. Arthur stares up at his son in disbelief, eyes bloodshot.
Tedros still can’t quite believe that he’s done it. He doesn’t breathe as he watches his father die, standing frozen with the dagger in hand. The guards are of course nowhere in sight. For why would the prince serve any harm to the king?
Why would a son hurt his father?
The room starts to swim in front of his eyes and Tedros tries to blink it away but that only seems to make it worse, the colors around him start melting into each other and shapes lose their definition, bit by bit.
Tedros feels dizzy and attempts to sit down, one hand scrambling to grab on to something, anything, around him, but the shapes don’t seem to have just lost their definition. They are gone completely.
The last thing he sees is the castle of Camelot, as if seen from a great distance, covered in a sheen of gold, before blackness overtakes everything.