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The first hour he had spent in a kind of shock, half believing his father would open his eyes and scowl and laugh at Arthur for thinking he had really given up the crown. Eventually, he had reached out a hesitant hand to the cold, stiff body and the true reality had hit him. The next hour he had let the tears flow freely, clutching at the king’s embossed Camelot cape and smoothing it out in turns as he let himself feel sorrow - sorrow for his father, not allowed to die a natural death as all people deserve, but killed as a king inevitably was. Arthur felt sorrow for the people of Camelot, whose safety now fell to him, unprepared and terrified though he was. And Arthur felt sorrow for himself, for how scared and very, very alone he was, forced to hold his dying father in his arms - the last family he had - and then watch as the spell had worked and then, somehow, failed.
The tears had dried on his cheeks, but the sorrow had remained. He had no idea how long he had stood beside the dais, but as the bells marked a new hour in the dark of early morning, he had finally sunk down to the hard stone floor, and curled his arms around his knees, and rested his cheek against them, facing the dead king.
And then. Then becomes now. And Arthur allows himself to study his emotions, tentatively, like a young horse intrigued by a river crossing but shying away from the cold water. Sorrow, yes. That feels painful, aching deep within his chest. Mixed in with the sorrow, there is also something more...like regret. That Uther was never truly the father he had yearned for, the type he knew existed when he watched Leon and Sir Lionel, or Elyan and Tom, or even Merlin and Gaius. Regret, as well, on a sort of distant behalf on Uther himself, about how the kingdom was run with a strong arm of fear and rigid laws...
And somewhere between thinking of laws, and fear, and Merlin...there’s a new emotion. It begins as a stab of something too vague to grasp, and then becomes a prickly discomfort that almost makes him want to do something horrifically inappropriate like laugh, or stick his tongue out at his father’s body. And then suddenly, just as the first grey tendrils of dawn snake through the high glass windows, the stabbing, prickly something becomes unstoppable, and there are waves of a sick sort of relief coursing through his whole being. Because he, Arthur, is king of Camelot now. And he will never again be chastised by his father or forced to do anything against his own beliefs. He can rewrite laws, free the unjustly imprisoned, create new alliances with young rulers Uther refused to acknowledge...
Arthur has to put his forehead back on his knees and breathe slowly at the sudden rush of knowing his own power, the power he holds, how powerful he is now. Suddenly, he needs to stand. He uncurls his limbs and raises himself to his feet, and steps away from the drapery of the dais holding the cold, dead king...no. Arthur is the king. And he can do what he wants. He can create the kingdom he has always known to be possible. He can knight commoners like Lancelot, he can...
A ray of golden sunlights breaks through the morning mist and shines directly on his face, and his stomach gives a small rumble. Arthur gives his father one last kiss on the serene brow, and turns to the frat chamber doors. His movements are a little shaky and his eyes are a little scratchy, but the sun is warm on his back as he opens the doors, and there, waiting, waiting just for him is -
“Merlin.”
The man Uther had "rewarded" with the position of servant, with no regard for whatever else he might have wished for in life. But gods, if that was the one gift his father gave him...
“It’s a new day.” Arthur tells him, and the tired blue eyes slide past him to the sun, now streaming into the room. Merlin rises to his feet as stiffly as Arthur had. “Have you been here all night?”
“Didn’t want you to feel that you were alone.” And his voice carries the same quiet exhaustion that Arthur’s does, but he sounds sure of himself and the prince (the king!) is struck by how much he values his servant. But no - Uther is dead, and he will never again scorn Arthur for how he chooses to address people, and Merlin may have servant duties but he is so much more.
“You are a loyal friend, Merlin.” And Arthur stresses that word, and sees a familiar play of sorrow-regret-overwhelming relief on his friend’s face.
The candles still burn around the dais, though the dawn has fully broken as Arthur closes the door. He gives a final look, and then he takes a breath and chooses to leave his sorrow and regret behind, turning to Merlin with only relief in his heart, and a new feeling - hope.
“You must be hungry.”
Merlin hasn’t seemed to decide on an appropriate emotion himself, but Arthur is glad when he answers hesitantly, “Starving.”
“Me too." He tries out a smile and it doesn’t work any better than Merlin’s attempt, but he can take all the time he needs. Because he is the king.
“Come on,” he turns with only a twinge of guilt for feeling so strangely lighthearted outside his father’s death chamber, “you can make us some breakfast.”
And if the castle staff are surprised when their young king straddles a rough wooden bench in the kitchen and smiles while his servant gather breakfast, and if there are two portions, and if they happily share a rough-hewn mug of milky tea and eat their meal in a corner of the bustling kitchen instead of the royal chambers, well.
It’s a new day, and Arthur Pendragon is the king.