Burns Too Bright, Lives Too Fast

While Arthur may have claimed that he never brooded, the truth was that it came to him as naturally as fighting ever had. After the conversation with Dinah, he was in fine form, lurking by the window. His fingers brushed against the curtains, but the view didn't change.

It didn't help that he was isolated, unknown. It made his mind travel a million miles a minute, trying to unravel how much of here could make its way back to Camelot, to his father; between Liir and sparing Dinah, a few more notches had been added to the list of actions on his part that would greatly disappoint his father.

He'd be furious.

Arthur wasn't much better. He peered outside as his mind added up several contradictory voices. Morgana's, baying at him about being a man and forgoing his father's will. Father's, lecturing him on the dangers of magic a thousand times over. Guinevere's, the way she'd been when Father had made him cart her off to be executed on suspicion of using a bloody healing charm on her sick father. Merlin's friend, Will, the look on his face and so, are you going to kill me?

Of course not. He was not that cruel.

That was ridiculous.

Dinah couldn't kill a man with a sword, he'd seen that much during practice. Did he know what the right thing was? Of course. Did he know how to act on it? Not a clue.

Did her seeming inability to kill mean anything at all? It could've been a ruse. But she'd seemed earnest enough. But they were still dangerous forces. But she'd lied. But it would've been the only choice at home. But. But.

He could almost do with a Morgana to yell at, but she'd probably just make his head spin instead.

[[ open door, open post ]]