A different kind of love

Chapter 2,
Again, I do not own anything and I do not make any money from this story.

The relationship between Arthur and Uther gets even worse. In the first chapter Arthur was about five years old.
In this chapters first part he is seven, in the last part of this chapter he is twelve.

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Uther looked up from the papers on his desk and he watched the boy standing in the middle of the room. He saw the boy was shaking.

Stand straight, was all Uther said before he looked at his papers again, ignoring the boy.

Arthur had been standing there for three hours and he was tired. His legs trembled and sweat was dripping into his eyes. The full armor of chainmail, helmet, shield and sword was far too heavy for the seven year old boy, but he had to endure it. He knew what the punishment would be if he dropped the sword or if he fell.
Arthur gritted his teeth and tried to hold on. He hoped the ordeal would be over soon, but judging by the stack of papers on his father’s desk it could take another hour. He did not know if he could take it.
His legs trembled even more and he bit his lip, trying to keep straight.

I can do it, I can do it. He told himself. He would not cry, he would not fall. He had done it before, he could do it. He kept saying this to himself over and over again.

Uther put his quill down and stood up. He walked over to the boy, who had his eyes closed, concentrating on standing up.

Uther circled around Arthur who was now aware that his father was standing behind him. His breath hitched. Out of the blue Uther smacked the boy against his leg with a leather strip he kept for this purpose.

Arthur hissed in pain.

Pay attention boy, you need to be alert. Uther scolded.

And don’t cry, I told you, don’t ever cry. Nothing is worth your tears. A soldier does not cry.

Yes sire, Arthur said and managed to fight back his tears.

Uther circled the boy again, smacking him with the leather strip. Arthur was now prepared and stood straight, not flinching when the strap hit him.
Uther repeated this a couple of times, and Arthur did not make a sound. Uther was satisfied.
Good, he said. You did not do too badly. Now take the armor off, and put it away.

With some difficulty Arthur took the armor to the place where it was kept and put it away. He closed the door and turned around. He knew better than to walk away or to assume this was it for the evening. It was very possible his father had a few more things in store for him.

Stand over here, his father ordered and immediately Arthur obeyed. He stood next to his father’s table. Uther had a plate with some delicious looking bread rolls and cheese on it. Arthur had not eaten since breakfast and he was very hungry.

Hungry, boy? Uther asked and Arthur nodded.

Yes, sire.

So, ask for some food.

Sire, please, may I have something to eat? The boy asked. Uther stood up, picked up the plate and gave it to Arthur. The boy picked up one of the bread rolls and brought it to his mouth.

Did I give you permission to eat? Uther asked and Arthur looked at him confused, the bread roll halfway to his mouth.

A prince of Camelot is worth shit if he cannot endure some discomfort or hunger. And most importantly, a prince of Camelot does not ask for food. Throw that food into the fire.

Arthur swallowed and slowly put the bread down on the plate. But sire, he began.

He father backhanded him. A short vicious blow.

Do not talk back to me boy and don’t ever question an order. Throw the food into the fire.

Arthur looked at the bread rolls. Bread had never looked so delicious in his life. He was hungry, and throwing this into the fire was going against his entire being, but he had little choice.
He walked over to the fire and turned the plate so all the bread went into the flames. Arthur looked at it miserably.

Uther did not even look at the boy anymore.

You are again a disappointment, he said as he sat at his desk again. Go to your room, I will see you again tomorrow morning, for training.

Yes, sire, thank you sire. Quietly the boy left the room and went to his own. He was too tired to undress and he just fell onto his bed. Silent tears ran down his face. He felt under his mattress where he had a little satchel hidden. In this he kept the two blue glass beads from his mother’s necklace. He kept it hidden from everybody, he knew he would be punished if his father would ever find out, and he was not prepared to be mocked about it by the servants or something like that. So he was very careful that nobody could find it.
Despite the hunger Arthur fell asleep, exhausted and distressed, clutching the satchel in his hand.

In the years that followed Uther trained Arthur in all kinds of ways to endure tiredness, hunger, and pain. He kept him up all night, made him run fifty rounds, fight without armor, or with full armor too heavy for him. He had him ride the most difficult horses, made him fight with the heaviest swords. He whipped the boy when he failed a task.

You have to be the best, Uther told him. You have to be the very best. You cannot be any less than that, or your mother died for nothing. So ten more rounds, and this time, be faster.

Arthur pushed himself to the limit, every time again.
Uther had him standing for hours with a sword in his stretched arms, until his arms could hold it no more and he dropped it. Uther had Arthur go without food for days, or train in the hot sun without water until the boy collapsed.

Uther never allowed the boy any rest, never praised him. He had to make him a man, had to make him a good fighter. His only goal was to make Arthur a good prince of Camelot, a worthy soldier.

Or so he told himself. He told himself it had nothing to do with the fact that Arthur was the spitting image of Igraine. His harsh treatment of the boy had nothing to do with how every time he looked at him, Uther was reminded of the boy’s mother. Her blue eyes, her good looks, her good heart. Uther clenched his teeth, he would have none of this. It was the boy’s fault she was gone, and he must pay the price. Sentiment would not rule Camelot.

Uther watched how Arthur tried to wield the heavy sword. It was too big for him and he did not do badly, but Uther was not pleased.
Uther decided to step in.

I will take over, he said to the weapons master who respectfully bowed and made way for the king.

Uther picked up a sword and began to show Arthur how it was done.

Like this, then react, and strike, and react, and defend, and strike, and defend, and react.

With swift blows he had the boy in a corner, smacking the sword out of his hands. Arthur would have a bruise on his arm because of it, but this did not matter to Uther. The boy had to learn.

Pick it up, and go again, he barked.

And over and over again he made the boy pick the sword up so his father could knock it out of his hands.
Arthur became tired. He had had training all morning, and this sword was just so heavy, and his father never gave him a moment to adjust or to recover. It was blow after blow after blow. Arthur could hardly feel his arms anymore, expected them to be black and blue the next day.

Finally, Uther was finished.

Clean the swords and then come to my room, was his order.

Arthur said nothing, he knew what would come. His father was not pleased with him and he would be punished. He cleaned the swords slowly, hoping to put the punishment off a little longer. But he could not take forever with the task.

That afternoon he knocked on his father’s door and went in.

Uther did not say anything. He left the boy standing there for half an hour, waiting anxiously.

Without looking up Uther said,

You are pathetic, a disgrace to Camelot, you must do better than this.

He looked up, saw Arthur standing near the door with his head bowed.

Come over here boy, do not stand there like a whipped puppy. Be a man.
In the future you stand here in front of my desk, with your shoulders back and with your head high and eyes front. Not like a whimpering little girl as you do now.

He threw down his quill.

You know what to do. Lean over the desk, Uther said.

Arthur swallowed. That he knew what was going to happen did not make it any easier.
He stepped forward and untied his breeches, pulled them down and leaned over the desk.

Uther took the leather belt and positioned himself next to Arthur. He looked at the boy who leaned over the desk. He pulled the shirt up more, exposing more skin. His hand moved over the boy’s spine, up to his shoulders and down to his buttocks again.

Arthur shivered. He did not like this touch. At first his father never touched him like this. This was something that happened since a couple of months. The hand in the leather glove going up and down his spine always made him feel so exposed, so vulnerable. And for some reason dirty.
He felt how his father put some pressure in his touch, and started to knead his buttocks, something Arthur really did not like. He whimpered, but his father ignored him.

Then Uther let go and he gave Arthur the first smack. Up and down the leather belt went, until Arthur’s skin was deep red and the welts were rising.

Uther almost never whipped him so harshly as he did that first time, but he was never going easy either. Arthur did not cry. He held on to the desk with all that he had, his knuckles white, his breath difficult. All he uttered were soft whimpers and moans. These he could not suppress.

After the final blow Uther at down in his chair. Arthur still leaned over the desk, trying to catch his breath again.

Move boy, and go. I am getting quite sick of you.

Arthur pulled up his breeches again and went to his own room. He teeth were clenched as he hold back his tears. Walking was difficult and painful, but he tried not to show it. After all, a prince of Camelot did not show that he was upset, never let anybody know he was in pain.

TBC