#but then he'd ultimately circle around to feeling insecure again bc that's how things started w him and aria too

[forgottenarthur]

The Eagle & the Raven | Arthur & Edmund

It could easily be said that Edmund brought out the worst in Arthur. In truth, it wasn't any particular quality of either boy that made this so but, rather -- at least in Arthur's case -- what his brother represented to him. While Guinevere also offered a challenge to Arthur's own imperial hopes (and, indeed, needs -- Arthur did not believe he would survive his bid for the throne, should it fail), it was Edmund whom Arthur saw as the genuine threat.

Edmund was a collection of powers Arthur could not hope to contest, not really. Edmund was sharper, more calculating, and more educated. He was surrounded by witches, and heathen kings and gods were to be counted amongst his ancestors. He was subtle and slippery and Arthur rarely saw his barbs coming, till he came apart, all unprepared, the sharp sneer of his witnessing father clouding over Arthur's vision like the bright after-image of a blow to the head. But perhaps, indeed, Edmund's most formidable weapon was the one to which Arthur had the least resistance: he was Arthur's brother, and Arthur loved him. He knew that one day he must harm him, if he wished to survive, but Arthur had no desire to strike that blow.

Today, though? Today, he maybe did wish to hurt him. He couldn't say why, precisely, but the mere thought of Edmund pushed Arthur towards fury, and it was a fine feeling. This was how he ought to feel about him: his life would be easier if he did. The boys had bandied their usual barbs, that morning, and while Arthur was still smarting from them (these intellectual blows were always beyond his power to overwhelm), he'd caught the image of Edmund chatting with Aria from the corner of his eye while Arthur worked the practice yard. He'd been so absorbed in watching Aria's smiling eyes, locked on Edmund's, bloom into joy, that he'd not seen his opponent's blow coming, leaving Arthur staggering to the ground at the last moment. He'd lost the round -- and they were still talking as Arthur limped away.

It truly was a wretched day.

Arthur had been doing nothing but stewing since the event, but perhaps the thing that he regretted most of all was that he'd walked away from the fray -- not the practice yard: that was the only responsible and honorable move after his loss: but he could have walked up to Edmund and Aria, might have given a go at making her smile, himself, but instead he'd limped off to go nurse his wounds alone. So sure was he that Edmund's clever tongue would only leave him looking foolish in front of Aria, he'd not even given him the chance -- or taken the chance that perhaps (unlikely though it was), the matter might have gone another way, entirely. In truth, it wasn't Edmund's fault that Arthur had retreated before engaging -- but it was Edmund at whom he directed his anger.

His leg was still sore, but it was well enough, but still when he saw the opportunity approach -- he took it. As Edmund approached to take the last available chair, which happened to be beside Arthur, Arthur swung his leg up into it.

The ministers and generals were gathering, as they often did, for a conference with the emperor following the riots that week but -- they each of them in the room knew -- the emperor would leave them all waiting for hours till whatever time he decided he was quite ready. With the other ministers and generals all cahtting amongst themselves, no one noticed as Arthur beamed at his brother.

He gestured to the chair, grinning smugly to himself. "You don't mind standing, do you? My leg hurts like the blazes. But those're the risks we take, those of us brave enough to enter the training yard."

This was his go-to jibe, but it didn't satisfy him the way he wished, and he swallowed hard, glancing away from his brother in anger. Did she think he was more handsome? Funnier? More kingly? He was cleverer, Arthur knew that, he was quicker, and she liked high intellects. Aria was brilliant, really -- she knew everything about this place, its people, its rivers and its skies. She knew how to make the people love her, too. It was easy to love Aria -- quick wits and sharp tongue and spirited discourse, all. He couldn't blame Edmund if he'd set his sights on her. And he couldn't blame her, either, if she thought him a better match. Edmund was quick wits and sharp tongue and spirited discourse, too, in a way Arthur could never be. But it didn't stop the idea from making Arthur angry. Spiteful. It was an iron band around his chest.

All he did was try his best -- and it was never, ever enough. It made him sad. It made him angry. And it made him glare at Edmund, too, made him glare and cover it up with a glib smirk as if it mattered nothing to him.

He hadn't expected to feel this way, and he didn't like it. He didn't like what it meant. Didn't like how it felt. Didn't like that he'd likely lose this to Edmund, just as quickly as his father's crown. He was about to lose her. He could feel it. Just like he'd lost Eithne. Just like he would always lose.

"Or maybe you were too busy flirting with captives to join us, this morning?"