Three Years Later — Tintagel
The wind whispered across the grassy hills, carrying the sharp tang of salt from the sea. Tintagel's cliffs rose in the distance, jagged stone biting into the pale morning sky. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing across the empty coastline.
In a small clearing near the edge of the woods, a lone figure stood — small, determined, and entirely focused.
Arthur.
Only three years old, yet already gripping a wooden practice sword with both hands.
His hair shimmered gold, windswept and curling slightly at the ends, falling across a pale forehead. But it was his eyes that stood out — a deep, striking gold, sharp and aware, far too intense for a child his age.
He exhaled slowly, adjusting his stance, feet planted wide apart. He focused, then swung.
The wooden blade cut the air with a satisfying whoosh — though it wobbled slightly at the tip, his small arms not quite strong enough to carry the full weight. But Arthur didn't pause. He reset his feet, raised the blade again, and swung once more.
Again. And again.
Each strike came a little sharper, a little more controlled. His brow furrowed in concentration, his breathing steady.
Just as he prepared to swing once more, a sudden rustling broke through the grass behind him. His ears twitched, his body tensed — and without thinking, he dropped the sword and turned, arms wide.
A small blur — gold and white — launched into him.
"Oof!"
Arthur stumbled back a step, catching the small shape that collided with him.
Not a ball.
A little girl.
She clung to him tightly, laughing, her tiny arms wrapping around his neck. Her hair shone just like his, though finer, straighter, falling in soft wisps across her chubby cheeks. Her eyes were large, clear, a striking blue-green, and they sparkled with innocent mischief.
"Artoria," Arthur muttered, half-scolding, half-amused.
His little sister only giggled and squeezed him tighter.
"Artoria," he repeated, shifting to balance her better in his arms, "how many times have I told you not to run at me when I'm practicing?"
She pulled back slightly, pouting — her round cheeks puffed up adorably, lips pressing into a tiny, exaggerated frown.
"Moo~! But you said you'd teach me how to use a sword!" she protested, stamping one small foot.
Arthur felt an invisible arrow strike his heart. Damn, he thought, his mouth twitching. She's too cute.
He reached up and patted her head gently, his fingers combing softly through her golden hair as a cool breeze rippled past, tugging their hair in the wind.
He could feel himself wavering already.
"No," he started, shaking his head firmly. "Absolutely not. It's too dangerous. You're still—"
He glanced at her face.
Big, pleading eyes.
His words stalled in his throat. He quickly looked away, pressing the tips of his fingers to his temple.
Stay strong, Arthur. You can't give in. This is too dangerous for her. You have to—
He looked back. She was still pouting. Her eyes shimmered faintly with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling just a little.
Arthur groaned softly. Damn it. I can't say no to that face. It's unfair.
But what Arthur never showed her was the nights.
For almost a year now, ever since he turned two, Merlin had been visiting his dreams. Not the dreams of an ordinary child — no, Arthur's dreams were landscapes of memory and magic, woven by the great magus himself.
There, under the shimmering stars of a dreamscape that mirrored Avalon, Merlin taught him. Taught him strategy, wisdom, the burden of kingship. Taught him how to hold the weight of Britain on his shoulders.
But only him.
Originally, Merlin was supposed to split his teachings between Arthur and Artoria, nurturing two sides of the same coin. But Arthur had refused.
"She's just a child," Arthur had said firmly, standing before the white-robed magus in the dream. "Don't burden her. I will take it all. Train me, and leave her be."
Merlin had looked at him with an amused, almost mischievous smile.
"Ah, what a stubborn little king you are," Merlin had chuckled, his violet eyes glimmering. "So protective, so self-sacrificing. But are you sure, Arthur? She is meant to be your greatest support."
"Let her grow up happy," Arthur insisted. "I've been alone once. I won't let her carry what I have to."
Merlin had raised his hands in surrender. "Very well, little king. I suppose watching you struggle will be... entertaining."
Arthur gritted his teeth. Merlin always had this way of laughing lightly at even the most serious moments, his tone always dancing between sincere and infuriatingly detached. An incubus, after all, was never entirely human.
Still, night after night, Arthur listened, learned, absorbed everything. He had to. For himself. For Artoria.
By day, it was Sir Ector who took over. A gruff, strong man with a steady hand, he taught Arthur and his older foster brother Kay the way of the sword.
Kay was loud, argumentative, quick-witted, and never missed a chance to pick at Arthur. His light brown hair flared in the sun as he sparred, his armor gleaming beneath his red mantle.
"You lose, Arthur! You dropped your sheath!" Kay crowed one day, even though Arthur had landed the final blow.
Arthur glared, panting. "That doesn't count!"
"Oh? I'm still standing, aren't I? Don't act like you won!" Kay shot back with a grin.
Sir Ector barked a laugh nearby, arms crossed. "Kay, stop twisting words. Arthur, keep your focus. Both of you, again!"
Despite their bickering, Arthur respected Kay's skill. And when no one was looking, Kay even showed a softer side, sometimes handing Arthur clumsy little wood carvings of animals he'd whittled himself.
"Cheer up, runt," Kay would mutter, shoving the tiny carving into Arthur's hand. "You're too serious."
Arthur tucked each one away carefully. They meant more to him than Kay probably realized.
But none of it compared to Artoria.
She was the light of his life. His little sister, his twin, his soul. In his past life, Arthur had been an orphan, adrift and alone. But here? Here, he had blood family. Someone who belonged to him. Someone he belonged to.
He would die before letting harm touch her.
Every night before sleep, after training, after sparring, after Merlin's dream lessons, Arthur would slip quietly into Artoria's room. Just to check on her. Just to brush her golden hair gently from her face, to watch her breathe, to whisper softly, "I'm here. Always."
He didn't care if the world thought him a fool. Let them. This was his promise.
To be her shield. To carry the burden. Alone, if he had to.
Outside, under the pale light of the moon, Merlin watched from the edge of the dream. A smile played on the magus's lips as he turned, his voice a soft murmur in the wind.
"Ah, little king... how brightly you burn. Let us see how long you can hold that flame."
And somewhere, far away, destiny waited — sharp and heavy, like the sword in the stone.