A hot fire in the fireplace.
A breeze in the autumn night.
Father and son, sitting beside each other, playing Knights and Horses until they become tired of the game.
"Someday, son... you will become king," Uther says quietly to his boy. Now that the night is darker, Arthur begins to yawn, but tries to hide it behind his hand. His father knows he will be asleep soon. "You will rule all of Camelot, and you will be the most powerful of the Pendragon line."
Although little Arthur loves to hear it, he is tired of all the stories and games. He longs for real adventure, and actual fighting. He wants a sword of his own, and a chance at his own victories. "But Father," he says, holding a wooden horse loosely in his hand. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, so as to stay awake longer. "When can I be king? Will it be soon?"
King Uther chuckles to himself, remembering himself at such a young age. "Soon enough," he replies. "When you are ready, you will know."
This night, deep inside of Arthur, there grows a burning, a passion for nobility, a young and naive hope for the future.
But this night, a burning also grows inside of the king. This burning will make its victim weaker, until there is nothing of him left.
Uther Pendragon does not have long.