Arthur sat at his desk thinking about the last three months, or more accurately, the number of men and women that had made the ultimate sacrifice in his name. According to his Aide-Decamp, the numbers were not something he wanted to think about, six hundred dead and over two thousand wounded. Then there were the obscene number of Royalist forces that were killed in actions that were, in all honesty, suicidal. In one instance, a platoon attacked a squad Leviathan Heavy Armour with nothing more than assault rifles and a few anti-armour grenades. The result was predictable, all bar three of the Troopers were killed and there was barely a scratch on the tanks. When the reports of the skirmish came in, Arthur had to excuse himself to throw up, it was beyond him how anyone could order one hundred and fifty men to attack a foe that was far, far beyond their ability to handle. Over the last two years he had learned to accept that he was the lightening rod that attracted the disenfranchised and the angry, but that incident had sat him on his backside.
There were times when all else fails that you throw caution to the wind, but this was no more than murder, and the commander of those dead men was the guilty party. Arthur was always aware that men and women die in war, but there were times that fact was without any comfort or explanation. In that moment, Arthur saw what was taking place, and his mind sowed the seeds of it's own rebellion. Yes, he had been trained in all the arts of command and politics, but he was not trained in the art of being a King. He always figured as a child, that he would end up in the military in some role or another, but he was also ignorant of his heritage and the responsibilities that would befall him before he was even back in his home country for ten minutes. At first there was the excitement over the realisation that he was actually of Royal blood and the rightful heir to the crown of England and her Empire. Then the start of the war to oust his Uncle had it's own excitement, being in charge of a committed and skillful armed force was like a drug. But as time passed, the understanding of the repercussions of his decisions, well advised as he was, were the deaths of too many good men and women on both sides of the conflict.
The reports he read from Geraint on the Cave of the Dead, as it was called now, made his stomach turn, but he knew that the royalist troops were the reason that the civilians were unable to clear out of the area before the Loyalist forces stormed through the area. But they were still dead, no longer able to see their families, feel the breeze on a summer afternoon, play with their children in the first snows of winter. Had Guinevere not been there when the reports came through, he knew he would have come to this point a lot faster than he had. But, now he was looking at everything that had gone on to date and he was feeling the weight of it all. He wasn't sure that he was ready to be a King, not now, and possibly not ever. His heart was breaking for all those that would never go home again, laying in holes on battlefields across the country. He was feeling every death like it was a close relative, and a King needed to be able to put that aside, move forward, not dismiss the deaths, but not allow the figures to be anything more than numbers on a sheet of paper. As he sat at his desk looking at the Sword, he was almost positive that he was not the man to lead the country, encourage the soldiers on to greater and greater feats of bravery and self sacrifice.
For the love of God, he was only twenty four.
The moment of decision came and he froze, his mind torn in hundreds of directions as the war and the responsibility came home to roost. There was a sudden weight on him that was irresistible and over whelming. He started to feel like he was being bent over by the weight of everything around him. A single tear ran down his right cheek and dropped onto the desk as his head moved forward. Arthur's fist curled into fists and his knuckles turned white from the pressure, joints cracking, nails biting into his palms. He had to get out of there, get away from the pressure, be able to breath again and feel the breeze on his face without twenty soldiers around him at all times. There was no privacy, no chance to stop and think, organise his thoughts and make his decisions considered, just be Arthur again.
In that moment he made a decision, and the weight was suddenly lessened, he could breath again and the world was no longer a place of pressure, death, destruction and hatred. Now he had a plan forming, and he could look forward to that plan bringing him back to himself, allow him to find the parts of him that had been lost in the explosive changes he had to go through in the past few years. He walked back to his rooms and sat in the massive chair he liked to relax in, all he needed was a couple of things to go his way and he would be right. The room was silent, Guinevere was in the north visiting some of the hospices that cared for the more badly injured soldiers, so he wouldn't have to face her shock and sadness at he was about to do. He had put up a front that he was able to maintain through hard work, and forcing his true feelings down into the dark depths of his mind. Now that place was full and there was nowhere else to hide the distress he was feeling.
He had a small pack in the bottom of his cupboard that he had owned since he was a young boy, it had been the one thing that he held onto to remind him of those times when he was no more than a normal everyday child that had no expectations heaped upon him. Now he was putting a few bits and pieces, as well as a couple of changes of clothes, into his old pack. On the bed, sitting on the top sheet, was a pure white envelope with his wife's name written in the spidery script he had learned as a child. Inside was his explanation why he had done what he was doing and how there was no other options in his mind. He had agonised over the letter for hours and he knew that there was no way that she was going to be angry and call him every name under the summer sun. But, when all was said and done, he was not the man that they all thought him to be, Kings were trained from childhood and not shoved into the chair after they had turned their majority.
He ran his finger along the envelope, his heart breaking a little as he lifted his hand and turned from the bed. If he didn't do this, he knew he would eventually crash, taking the last vestiges of his whole down in burning flames. The man that had been flitting between this camp and that camp, that battle and this battle, was a man that he had manufactured to protect the fragile boy that still hid in the back of his mind. The terror of battle sloughed off the back of the that leader he created, but the visage was fragile and he could hold it in place for a very short period. He was at the end of his ability to hide his true self, his strength was waning and his determination had reached it's limits. For so long he hid behind a shield of his own making, but now it was time for the real Arthur to make a break, or he would be lost forever. There was no way that he would ever allow that to happen, not while there was a chance for him to make his own way in the world. The natural progression of massive bodies such as the Empire was to crush and destroy those that didn't agree with the leadership. Harold was not an aberration, he was the what became of those that occupied the Diesel Throne.
Arthur walked to the door, stood and took one more look around, this was the last time he would be in the luxurious surroundings of Royalty. It certainly was a luxurious apartment. He closed the door and didn't look back.
*****
Guinevere entered the apartment, it had been a long and trying day, the wounded soldiers were so positive and made her feel so uplifted. But, once she exited the ward the horror of their plight settled on her shoulders. Some were so badly injured that they would never have a life that would in any way similar to normal, some would never leave the ward. She had shed a few tears as she was driven back to the airport, the sadness she felt had to be overcome so the Loyalists would keep the confidence they needed to over come the enemy and make the country safe.
She looked around the apartment entry, it was as spotless and quiet as it always was, but, there was something wrong. Something was out of place, it was as though things were not in the right places. She crossed to the bedroom and saw the envelope on the bed cover. Her heart dropped through her shoes as she moved to pick up the pristine white envelope, this was going to hurt. She felt a tear fall down her cheek, and she swiped it away angrily, she refused to let it overwhelm her. She slowly tore the top crease and opened it and removed the vellum inside. She knew it was from Arthur, he always wrote on the special cream vellum that was imported from Hong Kong.
As she read the letter, she saw the truth of the man that she loved so dearly. He wasn't prepared for the intense scrutiny and expectation that was part and parcel of the role of monarch. She sat on the bed and wept, she wept for her broken heart, the loss of her love, but, most ofall she wept for the man that had been broken down and forced to run by the constant pressure of being the son of a King.
"Guinevere, are you here?" A voice called from the entry hall, a voice she really didn't want to hear, not at the moment.
"Yes, Percy, I am in the bedroom." She responded. She heard his heavy steps approaching, in the moment she had a panic attack, what would be Percival's response to this news? Would he be angry? The last thing she needed was the older man ranting and carrying on while she tried to come to terms with the loss of her beloved.
"What's happened, Child?" He asked from the door. She held the letter out to Percival, not saying a word. He strode over and snatched the letter out of her hand, she wanted to scream at him for being so aggressive. He read the letter silently, other than the occasional grunt or wheeze of breath exhaled impatiently. Finally after a few minutes he stood there in silence, the letter hanging limply at his side. It was as though the life had been drained out of the man, his skin pale and his mouth moving as though he was trying to say something, but nothing came out.
"He's gone." She said looking at the floor. It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
"It's all my fault, I thought he would be able to handle the pressure, so I didn't bother to keep to close an eye on him." He said sadly. "He seemed to be handling it all so well, I didn't see that he was flailing like a drowning man." Tears were flowing freely down the mans face. "I failed him, and I failed his father." Percival dropped the letter on the floor and turned to leave.
"He loves you, Percy."
"That's what makes it all the worse, I love the boy too, and I never considered his feelings on the matter. Not once." The older man left the room without another word, the war was over, without the lightening rod of Arthur's birth right, there was nothing for the Loyalist cause to rally to. The sound of the door closing broke Guinevere, and she finally broke down completely, her sobs deep and rasping, she was lost and she would never recover. Arthur was someone out of the ordinary, he reached into her soul and felt who she really was, no one had ever even thought about her as more than an apprentice Mage, Arthur saw the woman.