idlewritings:

It’s not that this world is so different from Arthur’s, it’s that they’re far too similar, where they should be far more different. It’s not that Arthur is so different from this dull world’s Arthur. He’s very much the same.

But not quite.

Because he will still smile where this Arthur will frown—he thinks this world’s Arthur would be a terrible killer, with his drab colours and his angry glares. He’s practically made a suspect out of himself, for this world’s sharp-eyed police.

He wants to drive this world’s Arthur to kill, to see how he does it. Certainly not with tender care, and kind smiles. No, this Arthur is far too businesslike for that. And still, he wonders. There’s so little passion in this world—how could there be murder at all? What was killing, if not a crime of passion? What was killing if not a passion at all?

How could he manage it, he wonders? This Arthur is so easily riled, but so difficult to truly anger. What could he poke, where could he prod? Where did this world’s Arthur’s sore point lie? Where were the fresh bruises, the scabs to rip off.

But he’s clever, this Arthur—and it’s always “this Arthur” because he has already been christened “other Arthur” and it has stuck tight, like a barb—and he’s dealt with the fae, the nasty kind. He knows tricks and sleight of hand, and most certainly how to keep his temper if need be.

So while he may be curious, other Arthur cannot bait this dismal counterpart to kill, cannot drive him to such great acts, and it is so terribly irritating, that fact. It drives him to anger while this Arthur remains calm, seated in an old chair, engrossed in his books.

Yes, he knows all about passion, all about the intimacy of strangulation and the simple charm of defenestration and the messy strips of skin left by flagellation. But he’s not like this Arthur, doesn’t take the time to consider what the most satisfying way to kill him might be.

Instead, he simply does, all in the heat of the moment.