Chapter Text
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“How small you are for such a great destiny”
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From the moment Arthur Pendragon entered this world, he was destined for great things. Not all of them good, but Fate had given him his part to play, and he was no fool. From the moment he was born he had a role, a duty. A name and a legacy to protect. Uther Pendragon had founded a dynasty that was believed to last through the ages. He had carved his way into the history books and founded a kingdom on slaughter, determined to send every single sorcerer to damnation, his own soul be damned. Magic had rid him of his wife, and so he would rid this world of magic.
He expected his son to follow suit. Uther Pendragon expected nothing less of his son than to be the one that dealt the final blow to rid the world of those sinners if he were to fail. It was his mission, his cause, his crusade - and he would see it through to the bitter end.
This was of course disregarding his son’s thoughts and morals on the matter. Like father, like son. This was the way the world was and should continue to be. There was a precedent set, a responsibility to uptake. Blood was thicker than water after all. Uther had spent enough time scrubbing it from his skin to know that. The name ‘Tyrant King’ didn’t come without merit after all. He had fought, slaughtered and schemed his way to the top and he would be damned if a low-born petty magician would be responsible for his downfall. Once he’d been fool enough to let magic weasel its way into his heart. Never again.
The line of Pendragon was not built on weakness and fear after all. It was built on courage, strength and determination - all the qualities of a man, a knight and a ruler. If an iron fist was what it took for Uther Pendragon to remain in power, an iron fist he would deliver. It would take someone having to steal the crown off of his dying body for him to relinquish the throne. He’d rid Camelot of a plague of sin, and for that they should be grateful.
Every poor harvest, every drought, every plague was nothing compared to the filth he’d purged from his kingdom. The peasants had legends that spoke of the screams of the dead echoing throughout the walls of Camelot long after the first culling. Let them. Let their screams fill the air, cursing them to an eternity of damnation for their crimes. They had sins, were sinners and sinners must atone. Uther Pendragon was a Soldier of God. He’d climbed his bloody way to power through righteousness. He had a God given right to kill those people and sit on his throne. He’d earned it, and on that throne he would sit until it was time to pass the torch to his son.
His son. Arthur. Meaning Noble-Strength. Named for the attributions needed to be a good king. Noble enough to be admired, strong enough to pass hard judgements. Strong enough to allow people to die for you in order to succeed. Arthur would be strong enough, one day. He was still too young and far too in love with the world to rule. Monarchy did not take well to kindness. It would chew Arthur up and spit him out a failure. If Arthur didn’t grow up fast he would be usurped. It takes a usurper to know the usurped.
It was the one thing that worried Uther. When one came to power the first move in order to consolidate power was to have someone to pass power over to. The absence an of an heir had more than once brought a great kingdom to its knees. Uther would allow Arthur to indulge in his naive fantasies a short while more. Then it was time to grow up and be a man. Arthur was young, but that was no excuse. He would one day take up the mantel of king and all the trials and tribulations it entailed. It was one thing to lack an heir. It was another thing entirely to have an heir that opposed your values.
He had shown weakness once, shortly after his fifteenth winter. The king had decided that it was time the prince embraced his legacy and finally took the reins on a raid. Druids were a thorn in Uther’s side. Not only did the bastards embrace magic, but they valued sorcerers and gave them positions of power. The thought of having to bow down to someone who willingly poisoned their body with magic made Uther sick.
Uther expected Arthur, as he always had done, to thrive. This was his birthright. But instead, Arthur had cried and thrown his sword down like a babe. It was Uther’s greatest source of embarrassment. Never before had rage clouded his vision in such a way. He struck Arthur with the blunt of his sword upon his return. The boy deserved it. Not a single druid deserved to have escaped justice that day. Arthur had undermined everything that Uther stood for - all of his morals, his goals and his rule.
But Arthur had learned. Arthur learned that there was no choice but to agree with his father, as mad and twisted as he may be. The weight of Uther’s bloody crown lay heavy upon Arthur’s shoulders, threatening to crush him at any moment. Uther wouldn’t rest until magic was just a distant memory. Uther wouldn’t rest the blood of the Druids dripped red from his sword. Uther would burn Camelot to the ground if it meant that he would be the one that started the fire. Uther Pendragon was known as the Tyrant King. He’d earned that name. He’d kill everything and everyone he loved in order to be the final victor in his bloody mission.
Uther Pendragon had a legacy. A violent, bloody legacy that weighed heavy on his son’s shoulder. A legacy that Arthur Pendragon would one day refuse.