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Maybe he had liked Freya because of Arthur, rather than in spite of him.
Arthur was loud, proud and the bloody Prince of Camelot, out of reach yet never far away. Arthur was smiles and jokes, but also bloodshed and apologies.
Freya had been… beautiful. And she had been like him. He had become so hopelessly attached to the idea of belonging and being loved for his authentic self, that he’d grabbed on and refused to let go.
He knew he’d gone too far, trying to hurt Arthur. But it wasn’t like he could have either of them now, anyway.