Lonely
Written for the Tumblr blog – Merlin Memory Month 2018.
Day 3:
Path III – Emotion/Mood: Lonely
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The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.
—Mother Teresa
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From the corner of the market place, well hidden behind a stall selling brooms, the little boy watched the hustle and bustle with sad eyes.
His eyes didn't dwell on the treasures and treats for sale and barter. They didn't linger on the garish colors and strange designs of the traveling merchants' clothing and caravans.
No, they sought out and followed the children – ordinary boys and girls, zipping and dodging through the chaos, innocent and laughing and carefree.
He wanted to join them – to step out from his cover and race after them, crash into a few and fall giggling into the dust, stand up and reach out and exchange names.
Would it really hurt? Just this once? To just play? To make friends?
A boy – perhaps a little younger than him – suddenly spied him. He stopped, letting his friends go on ahead, and cocked his head in a curious way before grinning and waving.
Hesitantly, the hidden boy raised a hand and shyly waved back.
"ARTHUR PENDRAGON!"
He jerked his face up to find Nurse Agatha marching across the square right toward his apparently not-so-well-hidden corner, skirts raised above her ankles in her anger. His momentarily-found, not-yet-a-friend wisely scampered off, eyes huge.
Arthur gulped. There were only two people in his life that could actually inspire fear in him – his father and his nurse.
"You naughty, naughty boy!" she scolded, coming to a stop before him and grabbing his arm tight. Not tight enough to hurt – never that, for he was the prince after all – but tight enough to know his precious moment of freedom was over. "Do you know how long I've been searching for you? I was about to raise the alarm! This has gone on long enough! Your father shall hear of this!"
She tugged him forward – his heart sinking as she herded him through the mass of people. She would tell his father – his father would see to it that he never left the castle without permission again. He'd probably be old and gray before he made it outside of the inner courtyard once more.
With a longing so deep he couldn't really explain it he glanced back one last time. The other boy was watching him from behind the safety of a water-barrel. Arthur almost thought he might look sorry.
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The corridors were dark and cold – quiet. Almost too quiet. A year ago, Arthur would have been frightened by that, but now that he'd passed another birthday, he knew better than to be afraid. He was a prince. Princes were always brave.
Besides, he had traveled this path often enough to know there was nothing scary – unless he was stupid enough to get caught.
Three more turns, two doors and one metal grate that seemed entirely dumb and purposeless and Arthur was there.
Without a word, he set his candle down on the chest he'd dragged into position the very first time he'd made this visit and then settled on the floor, gazing up.
The painted blue eyes of a blonde woman on canvas looked back at him.
Heart aching with an emptiness so huge he couldn't express it, he simply hugged his knees to his chest and stared.
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"Very good, Arthur. You are doing it perfectly."
Arthur beamed up at the physician then went back to the mortar and pestle he was using to crush the pungent, green plant. It was repetitive, and Gaius was so particular about it being done in just the right way, but it was also so very different from the tasks he was usually given. Somehow, he found being here in this room that smelled of smoke and herbs and linen comforting, found helping Gaius…nice.
"Father gave me my first sharpened sword today," Arthur boasted proudly as he dropped a few more leaves into the bowl.
"Oh, he did?" Gaius said after just a moment, and Arthur couldn't figure out why his eyes looked almost sad instead of excited like they should be. A real sword was such an honor!
"Arthur!" the voice of the king suddenly pushed through the slightly open door of the tower room. "Where are you?"
"With Gaius, Father," Arthur called back, knowing better than to make his father keep looking.
The king swept into the room, an annoyed expression on his face that only darkened when he saw his son.
"What are you doing?"
"Helping Gaius…" Arthur mumbled, hands stilling in their work.
"Gaius?" the king question, turning an astonished face toward his physician.
"He seemed to enjoy the learning and the company, so I did not see any harm in it, sire," the man said softly, bowing slightly.
"Come, Arthur," his father snapped, grabbing his arm and jerking him away, not caring that it caused him to knock the bowl with all of his hard work onto the floor. With sorrow, Arthur eyed it as he was tugged away.
"I trust you will not be coercing my son – your prince – into anymore such learning again, Gaius," the king growled.
"Of course, sire," the older man replied, bowing again and giving Arthur a sad, gentle smile when the boy looked back right before he was dragged out of the room.
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With a growl of disgust, Arthur slammed the door of his quarters open and stomped to his desk, throwing his gloves down.
How dare he? How dare that mouthy peasant insult him like that, in front of…everyone!
And to think he'd had the nerve to call him friend!
Arthur scoffed, pulling his disgusting, sweaty tunic over his head and tossing it carelessly to the floor.
That was one lesson he'd learned better than all the rest – a prince didn't have friends! Acquaintances, yes. Followers, subjects, peons… But never friends.
A prince was to be looked at, admired from afar, feared, obeyed, and respected. But never loved.
A ruler was to be on a pinnacle - forever lonely and alone.
Suddenly feeling tired, small, and empty, Arthur crossed his arms and leaned his bare shoulder against the cold, stone wall, gazing out the window.
Sometimes he wished he'd never been born a prince at all.