Whittling with Arthur

"I have something for you," Arthur says as he produces a wooden box from his chest. You take it, curiosity piqued, and run your fingers over the intricate curlicues grooved into the wood while Arthur watches you with a barely suppressed smile. You jerk open the small, metal latch and open the lid of the box. The golden, soft candlelight of the parlor shines down on a set of tools delicately placed atop the velvety inside, making the different silver blades - straight, curved, thick or thin with a mean pointy end - shine warmly.

Whittling tools, you realize with delight. You glance up at Arthur - his radiant smile no longer held back - and find yourself mirroring his expression, so wide and happy that your cheeks smart.

"You mentioned in our correspondence that you'd like to start whittling," Arthur supplies, and gestures rather self-explanatory at the box you're holding. "I hope you like it," he adds hastily, as if all of a sudden nervous that your desire may have only been a whim of the moment or an attempt to appeal to him.

"I love it," you assure him and find your voice soppy and thick and a tiny bit high-pitched. 

How could you not love it? How could you not love such a thoughtful gift you didn't even dare ask for? You'd broached the topic in your last letter, and that you did not have any idea of where to even start, and couldn't quite summon the confidence for it, either. You didn't say it on paper,  but you wanted to learn so that you might too one day give back to Arthur a token, like all the little ones he encloses in his letters. A simulacrum of your affection, carved and etched into every line and cut and furrow of the wood.

You swallow the knot that's formed in your throat and blink back the tears of joy that lurk at the corners of your eyes. "Can you show me how?"

"Of course! Oh," Arthur turns back to rummage through the chest and comes up with arms full of different wooden blocks - square and rectangle, some small enough to fit in one hand, others too big to cradle with even both - and dumps them on the carpet between the two of you with a satisfied grin. "Carving blocks. All soft and light, perfect for our purpose. We have silver birch, willow and alder here."

You pick up one of the smaller blocks, clueless as to which of the three it could be, and weigh it in the palm of your hand, its linen beige surface smooth and level against your skin. 

"What would you like to carve first?" Arthur asks, preoccupying himself with fishing two leather gloves and a pencil from the depths of the chest.

You set down the block and let your eyes roam blindly over the blooming swirls and whorls of the carpet, over the fire in the hearth blazing in a dance of cozy, homey orange flames, as you twist and turn the question around in your head. In the weeks since you've expressed your desire to whittle, your head was stuffed choke full with ideas of what your hands might design. Grand sculptures and tiny, simple yet adorable little figurines, filling your mind unbidden, all now spooked and dispelled by the question, as it always happens. 

The fire in the hearth crackles, a dry, loud, clear pop that overlaps with the brilliant bang of an idea crystallizing in your head. 

"What's your favorite animal?" 

Arthur has slid one of the gloves on his left hand, and flexes his fingers slowly, thoughtfully. "Dogs," he says. Then, more heartily, with a brisk nod of his head. "Dogs. I grew up with dogs. We also had cats - and there was that time Kay kept a frog - but I've always had a soft spot for dogs."

You nod and smile, drinking in and clinging to any new little detail that you uncover about Arthur - what he likes or dislikes, bits and shards of his past and everything adjacent to him.

"One of them," Arthur goes on, his eyes having taken on a faraway misty glaze as he stares through the hearth into memories only he can see, "a bloodhound - though I can assure you he did no hunting, unless it was hunting for anything you might let slip from the table - loved to sleep with me in bed. He'd cuddle at my feet, sometimes even next to me. Oh, and when Lance first visited us - I was little, but I still remember - he was all so stoic and quiet even as a child," Arthur recalls, a tender smile curling his lips, voice softening ever so slightly, "but he broke when he saw all our dogs. He wanted to pet them all!" He chuckles and you smile - just faintly, the corners of your mouth dragged down by the heaviness settling in the pit of your stomach like a rock in the dark, slimy, murky bottom of a lake.

Arthur's gaze drifts to your face, still misty-eyed; he must have read something amiss in your expression, for his laugh cuts off abruptly and he draws a deep, sharp breath, a drowning man gulping for air as he resurfaces from the seas of recollection. His eyes widen with alarm and he says, voice tight with contrition, "I'm sorry. You probably don't want to hear about Lancelot."

"No, no, it's fine," you rush to assuage him, and bury that feeling deeper, past the bottom of the lake into the sand, out of sight, out of mind. You smile at him even as your chest constricts. "He's your best friend, I understand. I'm sure you like talking about him."

You know very well how little Lancelot approves of you - it's in the negative, actually - and that your newfound presence in Arthur's life must apply some tension to their friendship, even if it may not break its sturdy bond. Arthur speaks rarely to you about Lancelot, fearing he might upset you, especially after the whole tournament charade with Accolon, but every so often he'll veer unwittingly into something the two of them have done, something Lancelot had said; and he's told you that he's been doing his best to get him to see you in a better light, to look past the prophecy and all else that might hold him back.

You'd love for Lancelot to soften his view on you. It'd make everything so much easier for everyone. But if he truly is as Morgana makes him out to be, you don't know how much it'll take to shake his firm, iron-cast opinions of you.

"I say we start with the whittling?" Arthur suggests, swiftly and definitely changing the subject. You don't argue.

Arthur surveys the blocks strewn between you and selects two of them, similarly sized, each with facets about the size of his hand. Then he picks up the pencil and sketches over the wood the outline of a dog - a fluffy, floppy-eared dog. He leans forward to allow you to see what he's doing as he explains the importance of establishing a general profile of what you want to carve. Then, reaching into his toolbox and encouraging you to look into your own, he grabs one of the knives, with its polished wood handle and small, slightly curved blade. 

"Put the glove on first, on the hand you'll hold the block while you carve. Good. You're very much familiar to blades by now, so I trust you to handle this one with the same confidence. First," he lightly taps the side of the blade against the block with a small, dull thump. "we'll carve off all this surplus of wood, get our rough shape of the dog. Get close to the outline, but be careful not to go over it. Watch me." Then he sinks the blade into the block, shaving off a thick, long chunk of wood. You follow along, your cuts slower and more hesitant than Arthur's self-assured incisions.

The blade bites into the wood with ease - it really is as soft as Arthur said, softer than you expected. 

"The outline sort of reminds me of one of Kay's dogs," Arthur says as he chips away another chunk of wood. "He's big and fuzzy and very much considers himself a lapdog."

You smile but don't take your eyes off your block; you fear you might either slice through it or your finger if you do. "Do you have a dog?"

"Yes, but mine's actually a lapdog," Arthur replies, "a small ball of fluff." He excitedly slips into a series of anecdotes of the various adorable and mischievous antics of this small ball of fluff while you both toil away.

Once you have a rough dog-shaped block in your hands, Arthur halts and you glance at him for further instructions.

"Now," he says in that mellow voice of his. You could fall asleep listening to it detail carving techniques, in that tone like wrapping yourself in a scarf, impossibly fuzzy and fluffy and warm. You could, if your mind wasn't so acutely honed in on getting this whittling affair right - if you weren't hanging onto his every word with such desperate greed. It's not often that you actually get to sit in a chamber with him - that you get to see him.

"We want to get rid of all that's outside the outline, which is a bit trickier now." He points with the tip of the tool towards the various such parts. "You'll want to make gentle cuts, don't push too hard, just-like this-" He sinks the blade in with a sort of rocking back and forth motion, slow and deliberate. "Alright?"

You nod and try to replicate his movements, placing your fingers the way he's showed you on the carving knife, making careful, smaller cuts. His hands move deftly, expertly maneuvering the blade, easily twisting the wood - which is starting to look more and more like a dog - between his fingers, working away steadily. You gain confidence with each new slice you make into the block, with each new hollow and groove you hew. Buoyed by your progress, getting used to the motions, you chip away quicker, more eager - perhaps a bit too eager, you realize belatedly as your knife sinks and bites into the wood too deep, too hard.

The dog's head comes tumbling down in a spray of splinters.

You both freeze, staring as the head lolls off, very fittingly and rather poetically, into a whorl of bright red on the carpet. Then Arthur burst into laughter. A sound of such unrestrained, pure, bright mirth that it's utterly infectious. You join in, your laughter rising to mingle and fill the chamber with its merry echo.

"Here," he says once he's finally calmed down, gingerly wiping away tears with his ungloved thumb. "You can take mine if you don't want to start over."

You shake your head, determined not to let this hiccup set you back. You want this to be your work, start to finish. "No, it's fine, I'll just grab another block." There's a minute shift to Arthur's expression, a slight twitch of his lips. It's a small and brief change, but it makes your blood sing. He looks proud of you.

"Do you have any other pets?" you inquire as you start your carving anew. This time you've learned your lesson, and guide your blade gentler to avoid further decapitation or dismemberment of any kind.

"A couple bunnies, but I'd say they're Guin's pets." He's stopped whittling to allow you to catch up with him, and instead propped his elbow on his knee and leaned his chin in palm, watching your progress. "She's always been fond of rabbits," he says with a smile that lets you know he's in turn very fond of Guinevere. No, you realize as you study his face, the crinkle of his eyes, the curve of his mouth - it's something more tender, stronger than fond.

You've heard Morgana speak about their marriage, that is was an alliance of convenience, just as conveniently arranged by Merlin. 

"Do you-" you stop yourself as warmth creeps up your neck, hewing around the question as carefully as you chip away at the wood. The question you wanted to pose is rather personal, and while you'd like to hear the answer, you don't mean to pry where things may not concern you, or sound in any way rude or demanding or accusatory. Arthur waits patiently for you to gather your words. "I was simply wondering if your marriage is more than one of convenience?"

"I love Guin," Arthur says with a conviction that's as strong as the words are tender. "She's my wife - my good friend - my partner in rule."

You glance up with a wry, amused smile. "Isn't it partner in crime?"

Arthur chuckles. "Well, that'd be a bit concerning, given we're the monarchs."

Arthur supervises your whittling until you bring your own block to the same rough dog shape as his, piping in now and then to guide or encourage you. Next, you chisel away some more at the outline, trimming down the block's thickness. Then Arthur traces further pencil guidelines for finer details, like the ears. You chat while you whittle - Arthur asks if you've had any pets and you tell him of Junia's cat, back in Avalon, and the cats that would wander to your house and lounge in your garden and library. Arthur inquires about your studies and other hobbies and anything interesting you've done or seen. Sometimes the conversation lulls to companionable, focused silence. The fire murmurs in the background with intermittent sharp fizzles; your blades hew away at the wood with crisp scrapes and swishing slits. Slowly, the wood is shaping up to be a rather cute dog.

The result is not perfect - it's symmetrical as long as you squint at it. Indeed, it's clear to see it for what it is, the amateur work of a beginner. But it's done, and it's yours, and you love it.

"Great work, Mordred," Arthur praises you, which makes you love it even more.

"I want you to have it."

For a moment, he looks utterly nonplussed, staring between you and the extended figurine. Then breaks into a radiant, wide yet still dopey smile. He takes the wooden dog and cradles in in both his hands as if it were a baby bird - something delicate and precious that needs to be cosseted and protected. 

"Thank you," Arthur says, and his voice sounds fragile. "I adore it. But let's make this an exchange." He offers you the dog he carved, so ably and beautifully chiselled. 

You smile, your own voice fluttery: "Deal."