Long Live the King (BBC's Merlin)

[Kawamura]

Even though he was no longer a boy, Arthur still took the steps two at a time when his father summoned him.

The old king had mellowed with age somewhat, his ages smoothing over like a river rock, but his son still hated to risk his ire. Uther would never hit the boy, had never laid a hand on him but for his few moments of gentleness, but the old man was still capable of finding punishments. At this age, striking would probably do little good, what with the son sharing the father's stubbornness. Punishment or not, Arthur had hurried from training the knights to answer his father's summons, the stink of young men in dirt and layers of armour and cloth clinging to him.

Maybe it would do the old king good: over the last fortnight, his health had taken a sudden and surprising turn for the worse. Uther had blamed the cold, the food, something in the wine, everything he could but the obvious and Arthur knew it was simply age.

Funny, the thought of old age creeping up on his father, a death like the slow crumbling of cities. Arthur had never imagined that death for the warrior-king, the slow falling apart of a body in decline because Nature and the Heavens willed that man would not live forever. He'd expected poisoning or battle or maybe even Morgana losing her temper on the poor men (women, after all, were still a different species as far as he was concerned, and perfectly capable of regicide should the moon be in the right place in the sky), but this slow decay over the years? Not even Uther was prepared for that.

Arthur nodded to the guards standing at attention near the king's study, his face tinged pink from the cold and exertion. Old, paranoid bastard, he thought, not unkindly (maybe time had smoothed out his own sharp edges concerning his father) and tucked his helmet under his arm. Something... something was off. He knew it the moment when he stepped into the cold, stony room with its heavy furniture that Uther sometimes took his appointments in to keep them short. It was too quiet. Too still. â??Father?â? Arthur said carefully, voice small in the stillness, more like a little boy's than a prince.

His body knew. His body knew before his mind did, because his mind refused to believe in his father's mortality as he glided over to the slumped form of his father, his heavy cape swishing around his booted feet as he moved, hand out stretched. No. No, Father was just sleeping. He was an old man who still pushed himself and old men, even his father, got exhausted. Certainly he wouldn't â?? he couldn't die. Arthur touched his hand and jerked back like he'd been burned by the cold of a body that was no longer a body, but a â??

A corpse.

In a fog much colder than any temperature he had ever known, Arthur returned to the doors with all the grace of a man whose legs had been replaced with wood and, in a voice he could not recognize, told the guard to fetch the physician and the priest. The king was dead. Who was saying that with all that control, with no waver to his voice? Certainly not Arthur, who had just been orphaned in between the time his father had sent down for him and now. The prince turned back, closing the heavy, wooden doors behind him, the sound of them shutting not registering in his mind. Again, he approached the king, slow and wary like a dog that had been beaten. Like a little boy chastised. Who was controlling his body? Certainly not him: he could no longer feel his legs, but when he touched his father's thinning hair, he could feel that.

â??The King is dead,â? he repeated hollowly, nervous fingers smoothing his father's hair, his collar, brushing invisible lint from the rich fabric now that the man could no longer see his son's affection for him as â?¦ as what, a weakness? Arthur tried anger. Tried to reach for the thought 'he was never there', but he could not. All he could do was crumple: his shoulders dropped, his helmet fell from his hands and the son pulled what used to be his father to him and sobbed, alone in that dark, draughty room made of stone.

The king was dead.

Long live the new king.

 

[Chokuro]

Gaius had been summoned and Merlin was quick to follow. The king was dead?! That did not seem possible. Uther seemed far too invincible for this to be true. How could it be? He just could not fathom the thought that King Uther could actually no longer be. How could that happen? That man was so strong. He was so very hard to ever beat. He, much like Arthur, imagined him to be killed by a physical opponent – not old age. Their King was so very strong. Obviously, he was not immortal. The mood in even the hallway showed him this was not just some false alarm.

Watching the white-haired man gingerly walk into the room, Merlin kept back. Arthur would need time to mourn. He doubted the blond would wish to even see him. Why would he want to? He was merely a servant. Nothing more to the prin—King. King Arthur. That … The ring to it was nice, yet the reason was so very bitter. Bitter-sweet. He truly did not like this at all. He knew Arthur would be a good King, but he also knew that it must be horrible that he lost his Father. He could relate. Losing his father. Being an orphan since his mother passed on a few years back, he knew what it was like to feel so suddenly alone, but why would Arthur care about his opinion?

In all the years he had been at Arthur’s side, the man still did not seem to trust him as much as he should. That something he was hiding probably did not help him at all. The raven-haired male kept to himself, heart racing as he waited to see Arthur. He wanted to help him. He had to. He just did not know how to! What could he do? There was not much that he could do other than be there for him. Other than that, what use would he be? He would not let him be alone. That would only make matters worse. Being alone in this time, would be bad.

 

[Kawamura]

â??Gaius.â? In the time the old physician had taken to come up to the kin-- the former king's study, Arthur had stitched up the pain like a battlefield's wound: quickly, carelessly and with the posibility of becoming something nastier later. No. No, it wouldn't. He'd seen the results of a leader being poisoned by grief. He wouldn't let it happen to him. And Gaius had brought Merlin. Fantastic. â??Thank you for responding so quickly.â?

Gaius. Now there was someone who had outlasted too many people. Hadn't his father been older than the physician? He could not think of Gaius as younger, especially as the old man curled in on himself as he bowed, head turned towards Uther's body. Maybe the ancient physician would out live him. â??Sire,â? he said, rheumy hands twisting in front of him. â??Shall I check fo--â?

â??I do not believe it was an assassination, Gaius,â?Arthur responded levely, body turned slightly from his father's... his father's corpse (the word had a finality to it, heavy like meat, not people). â??You may certainly run your tests, but I had hoped to speak with you about the living. Before the priest shows.â? Instead of the old man, though, he turned his eyes straight on Merlin, the first time really looking at him since the two had come in. â??I know my father's ... stance on magic. But I also know you have connexions with those who still practice.â? He swallowed down a gulp of air, chest expanding nervously -- he had always hopped that the dead did not mettle so much in the affairs of the living, but maybe his father's anger had yet to disappate â?? and said, â??I wish for you to ... contact the druids. Tell them that their new king would appreciate they pay their respects at the old king's funeral, Gaius. They will be under my protection.â? The whole time, his eyes stayed on Merlin, because Arthur wasn't stupid. â??I must tell Morgana. Please, ask the priest to hold off last rites before I return. And Merlin,â?he added, grasping for normalacy. â??I expect my clothes for the funeral will be properly handled tonight. Hopefully, your years of service will allow you to do this one thing right.â?

And with that, the new king turned on his heel, cape spining out behind him, and fled as slowly as possible from the room his father had breathed his last in, alone. Morgana and Gw-- and her maid's weeping would be picked up by the castle women and Merlin would not see Arthur until much later that evening.

 

[Chokuro]

Merlin hated to see Arthur in such a state. Yes, to most who viewed him, he would look normal. Composed. Strong. To him? The man who had been serving him for all these years? He could tell else wise. He was broken; shattered. He hated to see him like that. That look in his eyes that told him their new king was truly feeling the ache of losing his father. Understandably so, as well. They had their differences, but both men were close as father and son could be, especially a royal father and son. They were never openly affectionate, but the love was still there. It was no wonder that Arthur was so hurt. Not that he would tell him, nor try to comfort him unless given some sort of sign that he needed it. He did not wish to hurt his pride as well as his heart.

Nodding to the man, he gave a soft, “I will try to do my best, sir” and then waited for the other to leave. Exchanging a brief glance with Gaius, he soon turned to make his leave as well. The clothes were not going to get themselves to his lord’s chambers. The new King. King Arthur. He had awaited this day for so very long, but that did not make this any better to know just why he was king. He was positive that had it been assassins, or in battle, taking the former-king’s death would have been easier. There would have been one to be angry at. Now? It was just nature.

The evening came all-too-quickly and Merlin had done as told. He had the pri- King’s clothes neatly laid out on top of his bed, ready to be dressed to the man’s form. Merlin stayed in the room, waiting for Arthur to come back from his errands [though the word seemed harsh in the manner that Arthur’s ‘errands’ were about] and would be sure that his friend would be all right. Yes, he viewed him as a friend. He knew that it was frowned upon, but Arthur treated him fairly, especially in the recent years. He paced back and forth in the room, impatient to see if the man would be all right.

 

[Kawamura]

There was something... real about death, wasn't there? Arthur had thought he'd go for days without eating in grief, but the demands of his still very much alive body didn't go away because they didn't fit in with his idea of mourning. So he had taken a hasty meal in Morgana's rooms because his stomach had been dully empty after the good part of the day had been spent running around the castle, taking care of things that his father could no longer see to. The meat, cold remains of lunch, had tasted of sawdust, as had the wine and the conversation with Morgana, who spoke no more than three words.

They were both orphans now, but she had experienced the loss twice. Arthur had wanted to say something, but he had been incapable of doing more than taking her hand. As he left, he'd said a few words to Gwen to take care of her mistress.

Gwen hadn't met his eyes.

The room was well lit when he let himself in, the fire at a painfully cheery level. For some reason, he had thought the world would stop, would slow when a king like his father died, but the fire was no sombre pile of embers and ash, the candles still twisted slowly and warmly, and even the weather outside was mild for this time of year. Arthur headed straight for the clothes left on his bed, calloused fingers touching material: linen, of course, since mourning clothes were not meant to be luxurious, but soft none-the-less, carefully maintained by Merlin's skilful hands.

Arthur finally looked to Merlin, the corners of his mouth and eyes taut. â??It seems you've been promoted, Merlinâ? he said hoarsely, trying for the cocky drawl he had only had that morning when he'd complained of the man's armour buffing skills. â??How does it feel to be the king's manservant not just the prince's?â? His fingers began to pluck at the string of his cape, undoing the knot deftly. He had no reason to give Merlin a verbal command: they'd been together for so many years, Merlin would recognize and adapt to his routine without direction. â??You will accompany me to the wake. I trust you're capable enough to tend the candles.â?

 

[Chokuro]

Once the doors opened, Merlin’s pacing stopped. He stood still where he had been, his eyes staying with the blond while he entered the room. He truly looked like hell washed over him and then some, didn’t it? He hated to see Arthur in this manner. He had never seen it. Well, no, there had been very few times when the man looked like that, but it was never to this extent. Never so horribly broken. That was horrible. He felt like he was going to crumble in the man’s place. He could not. He had to stay strong. If Arthur could, he would as well. He had to. There was no doubt whatsoever that he could manage to keep himself together.

“Oh yes, promoted.” He agreed, giving the blond a simple little nod. “I feel regal just standing beside you.” Merlin stated, trying to get a bit of his own wit in there. He almost wished to comment about how Arthur would not be ready, but that would be far too inappropriate. He did not want that to happen. He was all right with just stopping at his words.

Moving over to the blond, he held his hand out to catch the cape before it fell to the ground, or before prompted to do such a thing. “Yes, sir. I will try to not set the castle on fire.” He said, giving a half smile to try and get a smile out of the man as well. Just a little one? A half-laugh? Anything to show him that the other was going to be all right. Anything. A sign to help him feel like Arthur would snap back in a few days, go back to the man that was so very full of himself, but managed to just barely not have Merlin smother him in his sleep.