The flowers and the lion

Daisy. Camellia. Rose. Lily. Poppy.

The five flowers that circled the white lion of the royal emblem bore the name of the king's five jewels. The sisters were more than an emblem for the kingdom, they were also ferocious war strategists and fine mages.

Their grace and beauty flattened many egos, their pretty face was renowned across their lands and it further emphasized their authority during any face-off.

They walked at the same pace with one hand on the elegant handle of their rapier.

Their armored shoes and cuirass echoed in the wide corridors and the valets alike the maids lowered their gaze to avoid showing their envy.

The only way people talked about them was just like they were. In secrecy. They kept their thoughts to themselves even though they were thinking alike, as having the exact same mind.

Perfectly knowing each other, the only moments they concerted another sibling was to make sure which attire they'd wear to match outfits.

Compared to their little brother, they had plenty of experience with the outside world, they had visited hundreds of places, met thousands of people, but they lacked something only he had, the consideration of their only parent left.

Uther Aethersworn was a man true to his word, only the few he uttered once so often. He was a great mage too, but most importantly his wide shoulders and his imperturbable rigid glare attacked everything he looked at. Ever since the loss of his wife, he used the remnant of his energy to raise the unwanted child, braving the fears that corrupted the past royal generations.

Nonetheless, Arthur's presence was forbidden in public. Even for the judging trials, or to hear the plebeians, he was kept like a captive pet with more rights than the household staff.

Even the conversations between them were distant. When they saw each other, the rest of the room often separated them. Since most of the furniture supported the walls of the old castle, their words echoed and reached their destination easily.

"Have you studied today?" The king's voice was devoid of intonation, it was cold and almost senseless to the guards that stylishly decorated the place.

"Yes, father."

"Have you readied yourself for the ceremony?"

"Yes, father."

Not even a nod, not lifting an eyebrow. The few words he said only let him hear his son's voice, for it to not fade in his mind. The opportunities they had to talk were numerous, but unnecessary or even insignificant to the king's eyes. Alas, Arthur saw their flat relationship as a long-extinct flame. His own thoughts poisoned his mind each time their eyes met.

'The throne is too narrow for my royal ass to fit it anyway. The trivial conversations we're having are useless, just like what you asked me for. Why would my intellect matter if what you're willing me to do is give you twenty more years to rule over 'Trashran'? Why would this petty party be important to me, to us?'

He had no geography books, and no teacher for political matters. He learned how to read and write by himself, first deciphering little by little the embroideries on the palace's carpets, he managed to convince the maids and chiefs to sneak in books. By trading the few jewels he stole from decorative furniture and objects all over the place.

Once he couldn't hide his growing library anymore, by the age of five, he asked for a library filled with much more than the cheapest books in the capital. He gave his word to never let the outside world know about the royal losses in exchange because he needed his mind to escape from his luxury prison.

Never did the word 'war' enter his ear in the presence of the king or his sisters. He connected the dots to understand years of peace had been long settled before his birth and were to last for another decade or so.

In the evening, all schedules were specially arranged to fit the meeting. The seven royal bloods gathered in the ballroom for the prince's anniversary. The household staff was more than present, they entered and exited the room in a charming ballet to deliver fine dishes and specialties from across the kingdom. The table was immense however its only purpose was to fit the hundred plates.

Except for Lancelot, no guest was present. There was no possible outside threat where they stood since no window existed. Chandeliers, as big as a house, were hanging on the high ceiling, they were illuminating the painted walls down to the red carpet beneath. Their size as much as their weight gave off an overwhelming feeling that oppressed most newcomers.

It was no different from his room, it was another place he was confined in.

The five sisters sat on both sides of the table, the father took his usual seat, a miniature throne, next to another at the head of the table.

Uther was a man in his forties, he had a well-kept thick beard circling his mouth and thick eyebrows naturally frowning. His age could be gauged only by counting the ripples on his skin as every single strand of hair he had was white from birth.

Arthur had a lot of time to wonder about the many mysteries of a mage's mind, but the ones among his blood relatives seemed much more complex to him. Never did he understand the use of the eighth chair. It had remained empty for eighteen years, however not a speck of dust stained its surface.

The event had never been a great moment to remember, no core memory ever wrapped around what occurred in the ballroom.

Arthur was the last to enter, instead of copying his sisters, he sat next to Uther.

It itched him to no end to lean his back against the forbidden throne, the priceless spot that was bound to be empty from a silent pact between the rest of the family. It was his way to look for answers.

His eyes wide open, he looked at their reaction.

Sadly, what he hoped for never happened, his stomach churned, so he let his fork venture on the plates, and dinner started quietly.

A few vegetables fell from their plates. The generous pieces of meat were so big they dwarfed the knives. The tableware scratching against the porcelain and the mastication noises were what prevented Arthur from overthinking.

The worst part for him was to stare at his empty seat at the other end of the table and receive no reaction for it either. His rebellious act was vain, all he could do was purse his lips and endure his indignation.

After the dessert, Lancelot came next to Arthur. He had long been designated as the gift giver since he was the only one able to raise the boy's mood from the king's point of view.

This year, the gift was carefully wrapped and the mage held it almost sacredly.

Once Arthur stopped staring blankly over his plate, he saw how the top of his mentor's head was going bald, he finally paid attention to the gift. Lancelot's arms were shaking, even though what he held in front of his head was as light as a feather.

Kneeling, the man whispered. "Happy birthday my prince."

Unwrapping the gift, a high-pitched melody entered Arthur's ears. Each slight move executed by the mage let the object interact with the atmosphere.

"What is this?" The prince asked stunned by the marvellous thing. He dissected it from top to bottom, and even though he couldn't understand how the object appeared to emit its own light, he was mesmerized by its beauty.

It was the most delightful representation of a lightning bolt. A thin glass sculpture with a cylindrical hindrance wasting its full potential, another well-tied wrapping at its tip.

While the flowers lowered their chin, Uther's voice echoed. "This is the legendary sword, Smite. It is yours."

Lancelot deepened the meaning behind the king's words. "It is a ceremonial item. Even though it bears the sharpest edges of the kingdom, no master in this world has mastered the complexity of its shape, a fight is pointless with it. It is a well-chosen gift from the king, my prince. One that you can lay your hand upon, or even wear around your belt."

All the light it reflected, the shades of white and golden that made it look like a precious gem, and an aura that made a mage tremble, it was not only a unique item, it was a powerful one.

"Hah!" Arthur let his smile resurface. His reaction to the flagrant mockery, the truth he told himself made a frantic laugh resound for a few seconds.

"Another gift I won't ever use, I presume?"

He stood up and leaned on the table before taking a loud breath. He then muttered at first but his tone rose after each sentence.

"Seven years ago, a tree that bore tens of different fruits from an overseas kingdom, died in winter before I could step in the garden. Five years ago, a horse I've never met because I still hadn't the right to step outside. Four years ago, a mare to keep it company and next year, the matching carriage I have yet to see! Last year. A flamboyant, oversized armor. And now, now a fancy weapon I wouldn't even use as a letter opener, since I don't get any!"

With the back of his arm, he wiped the table in front of him. The delicacies hit the floor, stained the tablecloth, and the invaluable glassware shattered on the ebony floor.

He clenched his fists and turned toward Uther to redirect his anger.

"This is ridiculous!" He shouted, impatient to look back at his newly acquired treasure.

His heart was palpitating and his uneasiness grew by leaps and bounds with each passing second.

All of those sitting around the table had changed to stone statues.

Arthur instead, turned red and he slammed his fist against the table, making everything nearby jump.

"Why are you not angry at me?" He shouted, almost damaging his vocal cords. His words reverberated against the empty walls of the castle, leaving behind only the ghost of the boy's unanswered torture.

Uther's breath was steady. No muscle twitched on his face or his hand. He slowly blinked, he was mind-nodding to his son's plea.

Arthur carefully took the blade from Lancelot's arms and hurriedly exited the ballroom. After slamming the door of his room, his knees buckled and he felt his world starting to crumble.

He started to break up.

His loneliness was gnashing at his sanity. The lack of reciprocity with his emotions impacted his mind every day and the few people that did have feelings wouldn't openly talk with him because of his royal blood.

He stared at the glowing sword. Even the dim moonlight was providing enough light to let it illuminate his room. The inside of it was colored with new colors, new wonders. But all he had written in his scribbled books had less importance now that his determination was collapsing with his world.

Because of its magnificence, the national treasure lets Arthur forget about his problems for a split second. He reached for the glistening blade. Between his hiccups and heavy tears, he managed to miss the handle and opened a deep wound in the palm of his hand.

He gritted his teeth and repeated his evening formula aloud. "Never like him, never who they want... Never fall apart!"

Someone knocked at his door three times, it was a secret code for him to identify his guest.

He opened his door to Lancelot, hiding how messy his face was under his hair. He showed his bloody deep wound to the omnimancer, the mage that tamed all elements, and the loyal bodyguard's eyes instantly lit. The man reached for the prince's hand and the wound started to heal in a bright light.

The man's grip tightened as Arthur's sleeve slipped down.