Sword of the Rightful King - Part 1

[arithilim]

The beginning: The snow falls heavy as Merlin rides to the lake.

The horse begins to falter as it plows through the deepening drifts, but he urges it on faster. His cloak snaps behind him, a dark smudge against a world of white. There’s not much time.

The path narrows as it winds deeper into the woods, and he crashes through the branches, heedless even as they snap in his face. This is an errand of urgency, and he must return before his absence is noticed. The snow is deep, so deep now, and he realizes the horse cannot go much further. But no matter, he’s almost reached it. He urges it into a last spurt of speed and bursts through the trees into the clearing.

Jumping down, all normal awkwardness lost in urgency and purpose, he leaves the sweating horse to recover as he pushes his way through the drifts. His eyes flash gold, a thoughtless aside, and suddenly a path appears to the shore and he strides down it. The cold and wet doesn’t even register; he is intent on his goal.

The lake is calm. It isn’t cold enough yet to freeze, and the frigid water instead rests deceptively peacefully, disturbed only slightly by the flakes brushing its surface, floating for a moment with the barest hint of a ripple before they sink down, melting into the depths.

Merlin sees none of this, however, merely raising his hand, eyes gold once more.

Nothing.

And then the mists rise above the lake, swirling as a shadowy figure emerges from them.

He gazes on her. It’s difficult to explain. It is Freya and it isn’t. It’s her form, yes, her figure and her features, but there’s something more, something that makes her less a part of his world and more a part of the Other. The mists creep about her, caressing her ethereal form.

The Lady of the Lake.

He's seen her like this before only once, a final salute to what could have been, and he knows that this being does not belong to his world, even if Freya ever did.

“My lady,” he says, inclining his head.

“Emrys,” she answers, and her voice sings with the sighs of the trees and the power of the land. “You have come for it at last?”

He nods. “It’s time.” His eyes search out hers, and he cannot help but regret. She gives him a sad smile.

Do not mourn what was never meant to be.

She raises a hand, and it appears out of the lake, as beautiful and alien as when he last saw it disappear beneath the surface.

Excalibur.

She holds it out to him and he takes it by the hilt, unprepared for the power that courses through him as his fingers wrap around metal.

This. It is right, he knows it, in the way he knows he is Arthur’s, and the way he knew it was time. He knows and he has always known. And yet, this is not for him. The hilt will never feel as right in his palm as it will in the hand of another. The hand of the King. His King.

He looks back up and she has melted away. It returns to its rightful place at last. The thought caresses his mind in a final farewell. As do you.

He allows himself a last moment, before he turns away back to his horse, and to Camelot.

To destiny.

Arthur stands tall on the balcony looking out at his people. His people. His father lies inside, dying. No hope of recovery, Gaius told him in hushed tones, face grim with the weight of his knowledge. Arthur is now his, and everyone’s, king in practice, and before long he will be their king in name as well.

The responsibility settles heavily on his shoulders as he looks down into their grim faces as he proclaims the rations necessary if they are to survive the winter with the crop failures of the past year. No one will be untouched by this, not even the nobles of the castle. If his people starve, he will starve along with them. They are his, yes, but just as much, he is theirs. He must never forget this.

He turns away in a flurry of red cape, and frowns as he withdraws. Something is missing. It isn’t until he’s arrived back at his chambers that he realizes what. Merlin. Merlin, who has until this moment been constantly by his side through all this mess, is not there.

It’s no big deal, he tells himself. After all, it’s not like Merlin doesn’t have duties and chores, and certainly a life of his own, and maybe Gaius just needed him to do something or whatever, and clearly, there’s nothing much wrong here, so he might as well sit down and do his paperwork.

He can’t, however, completely rid himself of his unease, and he’s completely unproductive, seeming to get constantly sidetracked wondering about the idiot. If Merlin was going to be gone for a long time, he should’ve left word, or informed him or something. Honestly, it was such a poorly done job for one’s servant to disappear. What if he needed something done immediately?

What would possibly take him this long? There’s nothing around the castle that was that dangerous - though, Merlin does seem to have a knack for getting himself into all sorts of improbable trouble…surely nothing happened? Maybe he better just check up on…No, he growls. He is not going to run around after his joke of a manservant. It isn’t like he’s truly worried or anything.

Still when a different servant comes to deliver him supper and Arthur has heard no news, he might be a little snappish, sending the boy away in tears. Immediately feeling a bit guilty and then feeling angrier that he was feeling guilt, he kicks at the table leg. This is all Merlin’s fault.

The ride back from the lake takes longer than Merlin wants.

As he sees the sun setting, he knows he’ll have been missed by now, and tries to urge his horse on faster, but, all in all, it’s a futile effort. The snow is too deep and it’s becoming too hard to do anything but pick his way carefully through the drifts. Everything’s gray and white in the waning light, and it’s better to go slow than lose the path and spend who knows how long wandering in the dark.

Dusk comes and goes, and Merlin sighs with the realization that Arthur will have certainly noticed his absence by now. He’s been hoping to avoid this too. Arthur’s been touchy lately, not that Merlin can completely blame him, with the entire kingdom now depending solely on him, and his father fading a little more every day.

Uther was always such a proud, hard man, and even in his wasting sickness, he is still so proud, but as his face grays with pain and his strength fails - Merlin watches Arthur close down more and more after each visit.

Merlin doesn’t like to leave him alone now. Every moment Arthur spends alone is another one for him to fall into the grim contemplation that has become his new standby without Merlin there to pull him out, and it’s difficult to explain, but every time Merlin watches Arthur’s shoulders hunch under the weight of a kingdom the moment they’re alone, something inside him twists painfully, and all he wants is to make it go away.

So no, he hadn’t wanted this errand to take more than an hour or two. However, the weather seems dead set against him and, really, he’s not comfortable at all trying to relocate an entire storm that stretches miles. Each day, for the past few weeks, the compelling sense that he needed to retrieve the sword has been getting stronger until he felt unable to put it off any longer. So here he is, stuck in the woods while Arthur is probably becoming more and more annoyed with him each second he fails to show up to attend him. The worst thing about it all is that he can’t even tell Arthur what he’s been doing.

He doesn’t know why, but just as he knows it was necessary for him to do this, he realizes that it’s important Arthur doesn’t know about Excalibur just yet. This too is difficult to explain - the way he just sometimes knows things like they’ve been carved into him. He always has: He knew he was special somehow for as long as he could remember, and leaving for Camelot had felt more right than anything before in his life. Most of all, perhaps, is the feeling of rightness as he stands at Arthur’s side (though the gods only know how much he tried to ignore that at first). This knowing isn’t anything new.

It certainly makes things more difficult, now that he’s been delayed. He’ll need to sneak to his room, first, to deposit his tightly-wrapped bundle, which means he’ll have to avoid running into Arthur or any of Arthur’s sycophants. He also needs to think of something to tell Arthur - joy.

At long last he does reach Camelot, and hurries to take his horse to the stable.

Sir Leon runs into him just as he’s crossing to courtyard, canvas-wrapped bundle tucked securely under one arm.

“Merlin!” he calls. “There you are!” He sounds worried and there’s a frown on his face, and for one heart stopping moment Merlin thinks oh god this is it, something’s happened to Arthur while he’s been off waltzing around the countryside, and he never should’ve left him alone like this, he knows how much of a target Arthur is right now and Arthur, god, what’ll he do if he’s really hurt, and what if he can’t fix this and -

Reality catches up with him as he realizes that all around him people are going about their usual business normally, which certainly wouldn’t be the case if anything was seriously wrong with the prince, and he starts breathing again.

While he’s been having his panic attack, Sir Leon has crossed over to him.

“Thank god I found you,” he exclaims. “The prince is in a bit of a mood today. He threw that new page, wasshisname, Gareth, out of his rooms when he brought him supper. He made him cry and everything.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. Arthur in a snit never changed.

“Thing is, the kitchen maids have taken a liking to young Gareth. They’re planning mutiny now,” he confides. “And you know how they get towards us knights when they’re upset with the prince.”

Merlin shakes his head. He does know. “I’ll see what I can do,” he tells the knight with a heavy sigh. He takes off quickly to drop off his package and then get to the Prince’s chambers, hopefully before Arthur can alienate any more of the castle staff. Sometimes, being Arthur’s manservant requires saving the Prince from himself.

That winter Merlin watches over Arthur as the Prince steps up into the role he was born for.

Everyone loved Arthur as a Prince, but now Uther is dying and the people need a king. Arthur is young, barely more than a boy in their eyes. The crops failed that autumn and the peasants watch the deepening winter with trepidation. They know already their stores won’t last until spring. Arthur does what he can to distribute food and aid, but he only has so much to work with.

The foreign kings see, in place of a hardened warlord, a young grieving boyking. It is too soon, too soon. They lap at the borders like hungry wolves drawn to a weak lamb. They will not bide their time for long. Already they begin to edge in, bands of mercenaries raiding outlying villages. Arthur sends patrol after patrol out to defend his people, as many knights and soldiers as he can spare. But it is not enough. The mercenaries attack and disappear, and he’s stretching his forces thin as it is. He knows a full-out war is likely approaching, and he must save his troops for that.

His people are dying and he can’t do anything to stop it.

Merlin sees this all, and he worries. Arthur is destined to be a great king, but how can he become that if everything beyond his control seems to turn against him?

He helps in every way he can. He uses his magic to subtly bolster food and supply stores, to speed messengers on their way, to help protect Camelot’s fighters and give them a little extra edge in battle, all with Arthur’s blessing, but he can only do so much - Arthur may be acting ruler, but Uther still lives, and so does his hatred of magic. They cannot afford a panic that they’re under magical attack to spread right now, so all of Merlin’s efforts must, for now, remain undetectable, carefully moderated and hidden.

He helps in other ways too - he watches Arthur carefully, makes sure he’s eating, cajoles him into getting some rest. When he walks in on Arthur asleep over piles of reports from across the kingdom once again, he bites his tongue and doesn’t scold like his twisting stomach tells him to. He just raises Arthur up and floats him over to the bed, setting him down gently. He undoes Arthur’s boots and pulls up the covers over his exhausted form.

He pauses then, looking down at the sleeping prince, and a feeling so fiercely protective washes over him that his breath catches.

Of its own accord, his hand extends down to gently brush Arthur’s fringe off his forehead, and pauses there, resting lightly on Arthur’s head. And Merlin, Merlin wants.

Arthur snuffles and shifts, breaking the moment, and Merlin turns away once again, shoving his feelings down.

Arthur is a prince, a future king, and he - he is not.

The old king is dead, long live the king.

The king dies in the night. Gaius reading the signs, summons Arthur just before, and so he sits, clasping a cold hand as his father passes before him. Arthur is no stranger to death, but this is different. The death he has come to know, that he skirts nearly every day, is the violent death in battle. This, this quiet slipping away - he doesn’t know what to make of it.

He returns blindly to his chambers, a man in a daze. The world is so unreal, the flickering of the candles ethereal as the shadows they cast. He is numb. Dead. His father is dead.

He’s uncomprehendingly contemplating the fireplace, when the door opens. He hears it close and then soft, tentative footsteps approach. It’s Merlin. He knows.

A hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes, and were this any other day, Arthur would never allow it. But his father is dead.  The world is spinning, and that hand is the only thing anchoring him to this world. So he lets it settle, and can’t help but think the gentle touch feels like it belongs.

Merlin doesn’t say anything and for that Arthur is grateful.

Eventually the silence weighs too heavily until he’s smothering in it, and he says, “My father is dead.” It’s a dull statement of fact, emotionless nearly. Merlin’s hand tightens. It sounds so unreal to feel the words roll off his tongue, like someone else is saying them. “My father is dead,” he repeats, almost wonderingly, and it still seems so unreal, like any second now he’ll wake up to his father on the throne once more.

“I know,” Merlin tells him. “I came as soon as I heard.” There’s a pause, and then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Arthur laughs harshly, the sound bubbling in his chest. “Sorry? Don’t lie to me Merlin.  You’re not sorry.” He turns abruptly, and stalks away angrily, dislodging his hand. “You’re probably happy. I’m sure your kind is rejoicing, or will be as soon as they hear. This is it, isn’t it? What you’ve all been waiting for? And now you try to tell me you’re sorry, you’re fucking sorry.” He’s being deliberately cruel, part of him realizes, but he wants to lash out, hurt, fight. He’s so angry, he wants to be angry.

But Merlin’s having none of it. “I’m not sorry the man who murdered innocent people is no longer king,” he says calmly, with just a hint of reproach glinting in his eyes. “You’re right - I’d be lying if I said I was. But, I am sorry your father’s dead.”

And like that, all the fight is gone from Arthur, and he’s ashamed. He folds in on himself, like everything that’s been holding him up until now has disappeared. “Merlin,” he whispers, voice breaking, as the grief finally overwhelms him.

Then Merlin is there, arms sliding around to catch and hold him, hands cradling his head down against a warm shoulder as Arthur shakes and shakes. There’s wetness on his face, seeping into the coarse shirt, but Arthur, too busy clutching the fabric, doesn’t even notice. “My father,” he gasps.

And Merlin tightens his arms, holding on fiercely.

He’s not sure how long they stand there, but eventually his shaking recedes, and he sighs out, exhausted. Then warm hands are tugging at him, undressing him as he stands there numbly, and replacing his day clothes with a soft sleep shirt before he is pushed into his bed. He grips Merlin’s hands as the other man starts to move away, and Merlin must understand, because he nods, before reaching down to pull off his own boots and then sliding into bed beside him.

Arthur’s cradled in Merlin’s arms, head pressed to a surprising firm chest, and the thought floats through his mind that this is exactly what he’s tried to avoid for years, but it all seems so unimportant and distant right now, and besides, Merlin is warm and comfortable wrapped around him, and he’s so exhausted, so he just holds on tightly and lets himself have this moment.

Tomorrow he will have to be a king, but tonight, tonight is for him to grieve.

When Merlin wakes the next day, he wakes alone.

Arthur is already gone, and the bed is cold and empty. Merlin shivers. He didn’t expect anything else, but still, maybe, somewhere lurking in the corner of his mind, he had hoped.

When they finally meet later that day, Arthur shoves the armour he’s stripping off into Merlin’s arms, and Merlin knows. Nothing has changed.

Life moves on, however, and Merlin finds there’s really no time to dwell on it.

There’s Arthur’s crowning to prepare and the future to plan. Winter’s hold is breaking and Camelot’s people have emerged - tired and hungry, yes, but nevertheless still whole.

If Arthur was busy before, now he is run ragged, and Merlin with him. Everyone wants something from the king-to-be. The nobles are streaming into court, attending the funeral, but really, anticipating the coronation.

The official date is set for early Spring, early enough that Camelot will not be kingless for long, yet far enough that there’s a respectful period of mourning for Uther.

It is all politics, and Merlin hates it.

Arthur, the person who should most be allowed to grieve, is in actuality given no time at all. He’s not surprised that Arthur pushes away his grief and focuses on duty - what is more essentially Arthur? No, what upsets him most is that everyone else seems to think this is perfectly okay. They expect Arthur to be functioning normally, to act unaffected despite the fact that his only parent just died.

Merlin knows Arthur believes he cannot show weakness, but for others to condone this - it’s just ridiculous.

Arthur’s only a man, after all. No matter what he pretends, Merlin knows. He sees it in the deep, brooding silences. In the abrupt pained looks. In the slumped shoulders and bowed head alone in the evenings.

Uther is sorely missed.

Morgana returns ten days after Uther dies.

As soon as he hears the news, Arthur rushes out of the council meeting he’s holding.

He pauses at the top of the steps when he sees her, looking as fierce and devastating as ever, and yet a stranger. It takes a minute, but then she looks up at him and their gazes lock. There’s a long pause where he wonders if maybe the years are too much to breech, and then suddenly they’re in each other’s arms, clutching the other close.

“Morgana,” he breathes, and she holds tighter in response. “Father,” he starts, breaking off.

“I know,” she soothes softly. “I came as soon as I heard. I wish…” She too trails off. He hears what she does not say - “I wish I could have said goodbye.” “I wish he was not so stubborn and set in his ways.” “I wish it all could have been different.” - and understands. “So do I,” he answers. And for a moment it’s the two of them against the world once more.

They pull back slightly, and she reaches up to almost hesitantly touch his face. “It is good to see you, and to be home.”

“Yes, well. You may find things have changed,” he answers, a bit stiffly.

But she just laughs at him. “So I’ve heard. It seems you'll be in need of a Court Seer. I thought I might do you the favour. Someone has to help Merlin keep you out of trouble.” She smirks at him, and he rolls his eyes, and with that, it’s like she never left.

There’s a commotion behind them and they turn to see Merlin sprinting down the steps. “Morgana!” he cries, before remembering himself. “I mean, m’lady!” Arthur watches with a slightly disapproving scowl as Morgana simply laughs and hugs him.

“I see Arthur hasn’t managed to work you to death yet,” she says, casting a teasing glance sideways at the Prince.

Merlin shakes his head ruefully. “Not for lack of trying. I’ve even been given the roles of Court Sorcerer and Royal Advisor to add to my long list of duties,” he confides. He glances around. “Gwen?”

“She took our horses to the stablehands,” Morgana explains, looking behind her.

As if talking about her summoned her, Gwen appears hurrying toward them. “The mounts are taken care of, my lady,” she tells Morgana before spotting Merlin. “Merlin!” she cries, throwing herself at the gawky warlock, and Arthur is forced to watch yet another round of happy reunions.

Pulling away from Merlin at last, Guinevere turns to him and curtsies. “Your majesty,” she greets.

He inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Guinevere.”

The years have been good to her, and she looks happy, in a way he hadn’t seen for a long while before she left with her mistress and friend. Not since her father’s death, he thinks.

Merlin claps his hands together. “Is anyone hungry?” he asks. “We’ve gotten a new cook since you left, and I must say, he is beyond superb. The meat pastries are delicious.”

One spring day, Merlin dresses Arthur carefully. He could be doing this same routine any of the hundreds of times he’s done it before, preparing his master for a tournament, except there is no test of war prowess awaiting outside, just the future of a kingdom.

And if this were any other day, Arthur would be insulting him, teasing him. But this day is not any other day, and today Arthur stands silent. He barely acknowledges he’s being dressed, apart in another world, and something deep in Merlin’s chest twists to see him drifting beyond reach. After today, Arthur will only be further away from him, this he understands.

This day’s costume is different too, a magnificent statement, rich soft under things, the mail skirt and shirt that is polished beyond shiny. Pauldrons of a kingly size are fitted onto his shoulders. It is imposing and glorious all at once, the finery and detail befitting the highest power of a powerful nation, but the practicality and functionality fit for the warrior kingdom it is. It was not so long ago that Camelot was ruled by a warlord and not a king, and it is wise that they do not forget this. Uther’s rule was not so stable that it could erase the memories of constant warfare and bloody coups from the long memories of the people.

Merlin adds the final touch, swirling the enormous red cloak about Arthur’s shoulders and fastening the clasp. He steps back to observe his work.

A shaft of sunlight falling through the window silhouettes Arthur’s figure, all crimson and regal gold. Merlin’s breath catches. No longer is this a dim hope. The future is here.

Merlin’s legs give out and he kneels before his king.

“My king,” he vows.

Arthur extends a hand and raises him to his feet. “Merlin,” he says, hand still clasping Merlin’s, and it sounds like a promise. His other hand flits up, hesitantly, and then reaches out to ever so gently brush along Merlin’s cheek, before it’s gone.

Arthur lets go, and squares his shoulders. “It’s time,” he says simply.

He walks out to face the world, Merlin at his shoulder.

Part 2