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Morgana leaned back against the alcove into the throne room. The sounds of a fake battle with Arthur as the just-as-fake knight had caught her attention. She smiled as Arthur climbed all over the throne, wooden sword in hand as he fell victim to the dragon he'd yet to slay.
“Playing pretend, are we?”
He scrambled up, leaving his weapon behind. “I don't play pretend.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Right. She rounded the throne to stand in front of him.
“I'm the heir to the throne.” He moved his shoulder, adjusting his tunic. His newly fitted clothes were baggy in all the right places for him to grow into.
“You'll need to fill out your own armor first before you steal your father's.”
“I fill out my armor just fine,” he protested. “I'll be crowned prince soon; then, I'll be king.”
“I hope you realize what would have to happen for you to be king.” She crossed her arms. “Camelot attacked; Uther Killed, and you king.” She leaned forward. “That is, if they don't kill you too,” she whispered.
“Stop!” He missed as he swatted at her.
She chuckled. “Uther would never give up the crown. It would have to be ripped from him, blood and all before you’d ever get it.” And she knew it would sit on Arthur's head just as blood soaked.
“Maybe he'll step down.”
“Do you even know your father?” She scoffed. “Trust me, he'll never let you have the crown.”
He straightened his posture but his facade of a hardened knight fell.
She shook her head. All her points missed by his desire for the crown and no more. “You're nothing but that of a dog, Arthur.”
He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed.
“A loyal obedient dog who does as he is told,” she continued. “Trained submission under your father's finger. You attack when he says to. You protect of your own instinct, but what is that worth when you're called off and told to behave?”
She stopped. Her eyes met his where despite his trained expression, tears threatened to well up. His knuckles palled around his tight grip on the arms of the throne.
She wanted his tears to mean something, he had shed enough tears from his father, but never to see just what he was.
He tried to blink his tears away and sit up straighter. “That’s not true.” His lips were in a pout, eyes still glossy; and if he cried she knew she would be the one scolded later.
She rolled her eyes, and backed down. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“I’m not a baby,” he argued.
“Come.” She grabbed his upper arm and wooden sword and hauled him off the throne. “You know you're not supposed to play here.”
And despite all urge to shove him and his wooden sword in the right direction. Instead she found herself loosening her grip as he grabbed back his sword and ran off to pretend to slay the dragon once more.