Arthur

You shouldn't be too lost, as Arthur's story is all backstory still. He is an Irish prince, in a vague middle-ages- time, with a younger sister (Gwen) and brother (Galahad), his father still alive, his mother killed in battle. Their family has never fully recovered from losing her years ago, especially his bitter sister.

~Arthur~

I found something today, something very dear to me, that I thought I had lost perhaps forever. I found hope.
I don't quite know when I lost it, either; I only know when I realized it was gone. I was just sitting in the armory one afternoon last week when Gwen came in. She looked at me as I sat tracing the swirling designs on the blade of my sword, walked over too me, and said, "Arthur, what's wrong?"
"Hmm?" I stopped my fingers' idling and looked up at her. Her beautiful eyes, always so sober, seemed to see straight through me that afternoon. It is usually the other way around.
"Your eyes are so sad, Artos. They have been every time I've seen you recently."
I bristled indignantly, then was caught off guard by my own reaction. When had I become the angry one in my family? When had the steady calm of peace I had always felt been replaced with a sense of hopelessness? With a sigh, I stood and held my arms out for my little sister. She fled to me and I held her close, willing the turmoil away. "Oh, Gwen. This castle, this home, has not been the same since mother died, and I know it is not just her absence that has made it so... but I have tried for so long to restore joy that I have lost it myself."
"Artos." Gwen's eyes searched my face earnestly. "You have not failed. Look at Galahad; he benefits so from your guidance of him. And father would be even more burdened if you did not do so much for him. And I do not know what I would do without you."
Footsteps down the hall told us that someone was coming; I offered my little sister my arm. "Come, Gwen. Let's go for a ride; it's a nice day for it."
We left the armory and took a ride up into the low foothills skirting the mountains that I love to draw so much. Cantering the long distance down the tree-lined trails calmed me; we rode in thoughtful silence much of the way, the same memories of ten sad years winding through our meditations. But the quiet ride did us both good. Llyd nickered and sighed into my face as I groomed him, attempting to tell me everything would be alright in the end.
I gathered my sketchbook and pencils and found my usual spot, the hill with the most glorious view of the wild countryside for miles around. I couldn't draw the mountains that day, though. I found that I was still angry, still confused. I wasn't able to capture a single image on paper all this week; the turmoil in my soul was too great, and all I could do was think and pray. I kept asking why God has allowed the past ten years to be such hard ones for all our family, why our mother had to die, why my father is old before his time and my sister became a grave and vengeful woman at such a young age.
My only answer those days was the imposing majesty of the mountains. What can that tell me? I kept wondering, frustrated still. Suddenly, this morning, it made sense.
My favorite mountain peak to draw stands out among the rest because its long lines are exquisitely graceful and blanketed in sparkling snow most of the year, making it by far the most beautiful of all the peaks around. As I studied it for the hundredth time, I realized that it hadn't always been that way. There are taller peaks, more imposing; but their jagged crags are not as beautiful as the one I was looking at. It had been like many others before, but years of wind and storms have weathered its rough edges smooth and polished the perfect dips and valleys that catch so much sparkling snow. I imagined, as I looked at it with new eyes, that had that mountain been able to speak, it might have wondered why it of all the peaks had to weather the worst storms; but had it not, it would not be nearly so beautiful.
And as soon as I realized this, a verse came to me that I have not heard in a long time: "I lift my eyes up to the mountains, from whence cometh my help... my help cometh from the Lord, the maker of Heaven and earth." In this, I found my hope.

Arthur