Arthur's World. Part TWO.
Mar. 25th, 2003 10:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tammaiyaYes, that's right. The horror continues. It's actually slightly longer than the first part. *evil grin* It continues directly on, so if confused, refer to part one.
“Well, you’re certainly a HIGH King, but I’m not too sure about the rest of it,” Mordred observed, swinging his legs off the table and leaning forward to look at the picture. Arthur stuck his tongue our, then started writing again, reading it out loud as he crawled further along the Round Table.
“My other sister is Morgause. She is cool.”
“I thought her being my ‘other’ mother made her NOT cool,” Mordred interjected wryly.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Morgause has four sons, all of whom are cool, and none of whom are Mordred. Mordred is no longer WELCOME in my story.”
Mordred lent his elbows on the table and held his chin in his hands, eyes flashing challengingly. “Oh, yeah? And how exactly do you plan to keep me out?”
Arthur smirked. “Like this!” He moved to scribbled out the Mordred figure, as if it were a voodoo doll and had the power to erase Mordred himself. Lunging forward onto the table, Mordred wrestled the marker from Arthur’s grip. Damned if he was going to let himself be permanently scribbled out of a drawing that was going to remain on the Round Table for all eternity! Besides, he rather liked the storm clouds, and the captions had a high entertainment value. Although, come to think of it, he could think of some other things that really needed adding.
“This,” Mordred stated evilly, “is now MORDRED’S World. He has taken it over due to tactical incompetence on the part of King Arthur. HIGH King Arthur, as a matter of fact, who is NOT really, really cool and is actually just high.” Not surprisingly, Mordred’s writing was a lot smaller and neater than Arthur’s was.
“Hey! That’s not fair, this is MY world!” Arthur fumed.
“Not anymore,” Mordred shot back.
Arthur pulled the pen back and scrambled away, writing hurriedly and even more messily than before.
“Arthur is TOO cool. Mordred is just jealous because he will always be not cool and wants a world of his own.”
Mordred scoffed. “Yeah, right!” Snagging the marker again, he drew himself a NEW image of Galahad, this one definitely recognizable and lacking in armour. It was lacking an awful lot of clothing, too, when one came to think about it.
“Being ABOVE Arthur’s rather pathetic level, Mordred doesn’t feel the need to label everything as cool or not cool. Instead, he would like to make some changes. First of all, Galahad is NOT just really, really good; he is drop dead gorgeous. Especially when he’s pissed off. Secondly, Mordred would like to dispute the claim of Galahad’s so-called purity. He no longer has any, and I am extremely pleased to note that this is all due to ME. Finally, I would like to add that Galahad does TOO belong to me. Just ask him.”
Galahad chose that moment of all moments to enter the room. In hindsight, this was probably not such a terribly brilliant idea, given the timing and topic of conversation. Then again, none of Galahad’s ideas were particularly bright. Just look at Mordred- he pretty much embodied all of them. Including this one.
Looking around suspiciously, Galahad took into account the fact that Arthur and Mordred were sitting ON the table and that his father was hiding UNDER it, spasmodically shuddering in fear. “Ask me what?”
A faint whimper emanated from Lance’s hiding place. Galahad began to have a very bad feeling about this.
Distracted momentarily, Arthur turned from observing his son’s artwork to face Galahad. “Galahad, don’t you agree that Mordred SUCKS?” Arthur demanded.
Galahad blushed fiercely. “I. Um. WHAT?”
Mordred sniggered. “Thank you, round of applause, people.”
Lance groaned. “Oh, for God’s SAKE, do you people not understand that there are certain things that I do not WANT or NEED to know about my son’s LOVE LIFE?”
Galahad’s eyes widened in shock, and he exploded. “PARDON? What did you- what has he been saying about me?”
Then, for the first time, Galahad caught sight of the black ink scrawled across the Round Table. “What the HELL?” He then noted the slightly guilty but smug look on Arthur’s face.
“Okay. Somebody is going to tell me RIGHT NOW what is going on. What is Arthur ON? Why did you guys let him NEAR it?”
Lance shrugged. “I think it’s a father-son bonding experience. Anyway, how was I supposed to know how much coffee he’d consumed?”
“And sugar. And chocolate. And whatever the hell else he put in there. What DID he put in there?” Mordred wondered.
Galahad approached the table hesitantly, a little afraid of what Arthur might have done. If he only knew, he would be running in the opposite direction. Reading “Arthur’s World”, his eyebrows rose incredulously. He wrote a mental memo- ‘Note to Self: Never let Arthur have coffee again. EVER.’
Then Galahad reached the part where Mordred had staged his coup. Going pale, he began to hyperventilate, clenching and unclenching his fists sporadically.
Mordred held up his hands in a mollifying fashion. “Hey, hey, it’s not THAT bad, Pretty Boy!”
Galahad kicked the stone table viciously and swore; this was perhaps one of the weirdest things that had happened, as Galahad NEVER swore.
“Oh, FUCK!” He screamed. Everyone stared at him. “It’s not that BAD? What the bloody hell do you think you are saying? I am going to be humiliated! I am never going to live this down! This is permanent ink, it is never, ever going to come off the table, do you REALISE this? My reputation is RUINED!”
Mordred was drooling now. “Oh, I wouldn’t say RUINED, as such. I just made it more… interesting.”
“Interesting? INTERESTING? I hate you! I HATE YOU! AAH, FUCKING BLOODY HELL!” Galahad wailed.
“You know, I think I’ve lost count of how many times he’s said that,” Mordred remarked conversationally.
“Said what?” Arthur asked blankly. “Sworn? I’ve certainly never heard him do that before.”
“No, told me he hates me,” Mordred responded.
“Oh. That makes more sense,” Arthur concluded.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Now that I’ve mad my correction, feel free to go back to what you were doing. Have your pen back.” Mordred tossed the pen to Arthur, who grabbed it and grinned. “Yes, I think I will, thank you very much. Now that I look at them, your additions are kind of necessary.”
Meanwhile, Galahad had realized some of the more worrisome consequences of the whole table debacle. All the other knights were going to SEE this. They were going to see it REPEATEDLY. Every time that Arthur called a meeting, to be precise. And what was worse, that meant that his best friends Percivale and Gareth were going to see it repeatedly. And they would know. They would know EVERYTHING. And then knowing Percivale, he would COMMENT. And knowing Gareth, he would GRIN. Why him? WHY?
Now Galahad wore a traumatized expression identical to the one on Lance’s face. “Dad? Do you mind if I join you under the table?”
“No, go ahead. If they’re having their little bonding session, then we should probably have one too.”
“Oh, thank GOD!” Galahad gasped fervently, diving for the relative safety of his new favourite hiding place.
By this time, Arthur had started on the next part with Mordred offering constructive criticism. “No, I think her hair’s a bit longer. Yeah, like that. Give her a dress, the armour wouldn’t suit her. Exactly, perfect.”
My mind is a scary, scary place indeed.
“Well, you’re certainly a HIGH King, but I’m not too sure about the rest of it,” Mordred observed, swinging his legs off the table and leaning forward to look at the picture. Arthur stuck his tongue our, then started writing again, reading it out loud as he crawled further along the Round Table.
“My other sister is Morgause. She is cool.”
“I thought her being my ‘other’ mother made her NOT cool,” Mordred interjected wryly.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Morgause has four sons, all of whom are cool, and none of whom are Mordred. Mordred is no longer WELCOME in my story.”
Mordred lent his elbows on the table and held his chin in his hands, eyes flashing challengingly. “Oh, yeah? And how exactly do you plan to keep me out?”
Arthur smirked. “Like this!” He moved to scribbled out the Mordred figure, as if it were a voodoo doll and had the power to erase Mordred himself. Lunging forward onto the table, Mordred wrestled the marker from Arthur’s grip. Damned if he was going to let himself be permanently scribbled out of a drawing that was going to remain on the Round Table for all eternity! Besides, he rather liked the storm clouds, and the captions had a high entertainment value. Although, come to think of it, he could think of some other things that really needed adding.
“This,” Mordred stated evilly, “is now MORDRED’S World. He has taken it over due to tactical incompetence on the part of King Arthur. HIGH King Arthur, as a matter of fact, who is NOT really, really cool and is actually just high.” Not surprisingly, Mordred’s writing was a lot smaller and neater than Arthur’s was.
“Hey! That’s not fair, this is MY world!” Arthur fumed.
“Not anymore,” Mordred shot back.
Arthur pulled the pen back and scrambled away, writing hurriedly and even more messily than before.
“Arthur is TOO cool. Mordred is just jealous because he will always be not cool and wants a world of his own.”
Mordred scoffed. “Yeah, right!” Snagging the marker again, he drew himself a NEW image of Galahad, this one definitely recognizable and lacking in armour. It was lacking an awful lot of clothing, too, when one came to think about it.
“Being ABOVE Arthur’s rather pathetic level, Mordred doesn’t feel the need to label everything as cool or not cool. Instead, he would like to make some changes. First of all, Galahad is NOT just really, really good; he is drop dead gorgeous. Especially when he’s pissed off. Secondly, Mordred would like to dispute the claim of Galahad’s so-called purity. He no longer has any, and I am extremely pleased to note that this is all due to ME. Finally, I would like to add that Galahad does TOO belong to me. Just ask him.”
Galahad chose that moment of all moments to enter the room. In hindsight, this was probably not such a terribly brilliant idea, given the timing and topic of conversation. Then again, none of Galahad’s ideas were particularly bright. Just look at Mordred- he pretty much embodied all of them. Including this one.
Looking around suspiciously, Galahad took into account the fact that Arthur and Mordred were sitting ON the table and that his father was hiding UNDER it, spasmodically shuddering in fear. “Ask me what?”
A faint whimper emanated from Lance’s hiding place. Galahad began to have a very bad feeling about this.
Distracted momentarily, Arthur turned from observing his son’s artwork to face Galahad. “Galahad, don’t you agree that Mordred SUCKS?” Arthur demanded.
Galahad blushed fiercely. “I. Um. WHAT?”
Mordred sniggered. “Thank you, round of applause, people.”
Lance groaned. “Oh, for God’s SAKE, do you people not understand that there are certain things that I do not WANT or NEED to know about my son’s LOVE LIFE?”
Galahad’s eyes widened in shock, and he exploded. “PARDON? What did you- what has he been saying about me?”
Then, for the first time, Galahad caught sight of the black ink scrawled across the Round Table. “What the HELL?” He then noted the slightly guilty but smug look on Arthur’s face.
“Okay. Somebody is going to tell me RIGHT NOW what is going on. What is Arthur ON? Why did you guys let him NEAR it?”
Lance shrugged. “I think it’s a father-son bonding experience. Anyway, how was I supposed to know how much coffee he’d consumed?”
“And sugar. And chocolate. And whatever the hell else he put in there. What DID he put in there?” Mordred wondered.
Galahad approached the table hesitantly, a little afraid of what Arthur might have done. If he only knew, he would be running in the opposite direction. Reading “Arthur’s World”, his eyebrows rose incredulously. He wrote a mental memo- ‘Note to Self: Never let Arthur have coffee again. EVER.’
Then Galahad reached the part where Mordred had staged his coup. Going pale, he began to hyperventilate, clenching and unclenching his fists sporadically.
Mordred held up his hands in a mollifying fashion. “Hey, hey, it’s not THAT bad, Pretty Boy!”
Galahad kicked the stone table viciously and swore; this was perhaps one of the weirdest things that had happened, as Galahad NEVER swore.
“Oh, FUCK!” He screamed. Everyone stared at him. “It’s not that BAD? What the bloody hell do you think you are saying? I am going to be humiliated! I am never going to live this down! This is permanent ink, it is never, ever going to come off the table, do you REALISE this? My reputation is RUINED!”
Mordred was drooling now. “Oh, I wouldn’t say RUINED, as such. I just made it more… interesting.”
“Interesting? INTERESTING? I hate you! I HATE YOU! AAH, FUCKING BLOODY HELL!” Galahad wailed.
“You know, I think I’ve lost count of how many times he’s said that,” Mordred remarked conversationally.
“Said what?” Arthur asked blankly. “Sworn? I’ve certainly never heard him do that before.”
“No, told me he hates me,” Mordred responded.
“Oh. That makes more sense,” Arthur concluded.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Now that I’ve mad my correction, feel free to go back to what you were doing. Have your pen back.” Mordred tossed the pen to Arthur, who grabbed it and grinned. “Yes, I think I will, thank you very much. Now that I look at them, your additions are kind of necessary.”
Meanwhile, Galahad had realized some of the more worrisome consequences of the whole table debacle. All the other knights were going to SEE this. They were going to see it REPEATEDLY. Every time that Arthur called a meeting, to be precise. And what was worse, that meant that his best friends Percivale and Gareth were going to see it repeatedly. And they would know. They would know EVERYTHING. And then knowing Percivale, he would COMMENT. And knowing Gareth, he would GRIN. Why him? WHY?
Now Galahad wore a traumatized expression identical to the one on Lance’s face. “Dad? Do you mind if I join you under the table?”
“No, go ahead. If they’re having their little bonding session, then we should probably have one too.”
“Oh, thank GOD!” Galahad gasped fervently, diving for the relative safety of his new favourite hiding place.
By this time, Arthur had started on the next part with Mordred offering constructive criticism. “No, I think her hair’s a bit longer. Yeah, like that. Give her a dress, the armour wouldn’t suit her. Exactly, perfect.”
My mind is a scary, scary place indeed.
Beautiful...