A Different Destiny / Merthur

Flower Crowns

They'd been at the camp almost two weeks before Arthur's shoulder had healed enough for him to train.  It was a surprisingly fast recovery.  A combination, Merlin supposed, of magic and Arthur's sheer force of will.

The Prince was not a patient person.

And so, finally, he'd convinced Iseldir to let him have his sword which, until yesterday, had been kept hidden.  Armour was still out of the question though.  It was far too heavy.  Besides, it was only a training exercise.  It wasn't exactly dangerous. 

~~~

Merlin winced as Mordred almost impaled Arthur with a sword.

"Good," the Prince laughed, twisting out of the way just in time.  "You're improving. Now," he moved back into position, "go again, but this time try not to put too much weight behind the sword. You don't want to lose your balance."

Sat at the foot of a tree, Merlin watched as the Druid began his advance again. His face was set with concentration: calculating, but not cold. He moved gracefully, like a leaf in the stream of creation.

And then he was lightning.

He shot forward in one swift strike, sword slicing through the air and— and straight into the ground.  Mordred had lost balance. 

"Did you see what I did?"  Arthur said.

"I know where I went wrong," Mordred blurted out, at the same time.

The Prince smiled.  "You almost had it.  When I moved I caught the edge of my sword on yours, and it completely unbalanced you.  Here," he held out a hand, "you're actually pretty good.  If you were up against someone else — say, Merlin — you may have pulled that off."

Merlin shot him a half-hearted glare.

"I'm not that good."  Mordred allowed himself to be pulled back to his feet.  Then, brushing off the dirt, he added: "I've just got a good teacher." 

"Well, that part's true. My Knights would say the same."

Somehow, Merlin doubted this.  Not because he thought the Knights disliked Arthur's teaching, but because he knew they could never resist an opportunity to tease him.  For them, disagreeing outright with the Prince of Camelot was just another Tuesday.

"Right," Arthur steadied himself, "you defend this time."

That was the only warning he was given.  Mordred leapt back as Arthur advanced, ducking out the way of the first strike, and just about meeting the second: a loud metallic clash ringing out through the trees. 

Arthur moved again. 

Mordred managed to stay up right as the Prince threw him backwards, and then promptly disappeared from view.  Mordred knew what came next.  He spun, just in time, to see Arthur's next strike: sword gripped high in both hands and soaring downwards.

It was over in a second.

Without thinking, Mordred brought his own sword up, meeting Arthur's with just enough force that the sword jolted backwards and went flying out of the Prince's hands.

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath.

"I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"It's fine," it was not fine, his shoulder was intensely uncomfortable, "you did well.  You should be proud."

"Are you sure you're okay though?"

Merlin, already on his feet, had decided that perhaps enough was enough.  "Arthur, maybe you should rest."