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In the night-time, the kingdom lies as still as death before him, dunk in blackness. Should they be able to, Arthur assumes his people to sleep. It is certainly not light that could hinder them from slumber, for there is none. Tonight, the moon is hidden behind thick clouds, unable of shedding its light onto the streets or houses; almost as though it sought to honour the darkness and the consequent silence. The people of Camelot are bereft of the wan moonshine reflected on the rain puddles on the street to glisten and guide a wanderer’s feet through the night.
And yet, as ever, Camelot is ignited in a soft red blaze. The inky lines of house walls and rooftops cut through the glow of flaming torches, illuminating the streets so no one would walk lost. The sight before him, the great kingdom of Camelot by night, is strangely disheartening. They might lie in their bed at night, peaceful with the sleep weighing heavy on their eyes. There is no cause for them to stay awake; their lives are safe for as long as the alarm bell holds it vow of silence. Arthur could never imagine living a life which depends on the hands of others. To die, or to live, at another’s will has been nothing he was ever capable of accepting. Born with the sword in his hand, he has always been capable of defending himself. If he died, it would be the failure of his own strength and his own decisions.
He is unable to sleep, this night, and there is something dark and heavy sitting in his stomach, twisting and turning. Likewise, he has the foreboding sense that he will not be unable to sleep many a night after this.
A tired sigh escapes him, and he touches his gloved hand to his forehead, frowning. He is turning in circles. He should get sleep. Tomorrow they will crown him, and he will not be able to withstand the heavy weight of the crown on his forehead with a trembling, tired neck that might just yield.
There is a part inside of him that still fears that the crown might not fit. It might be too great for him, in size and purpose both. It has long been since he has last regarded himself as young, or as a child. Yet, there is a tremor creeping up his spine that he cannot halt from slithering into his torso, into his limbs, until he feels incapable of regarding his own reflection in the mirror, fearing against all sense that it would be another’s face he were to see. No, it is impossible. It has always been the Prince’s reflection that he has seen, and from tomorrow on it will always remain the King’s reflection that will be his.
Lately, though… he has begun to wonder. Has begun to question his reflection; what he perceives and what the perceived might bear inside could be two different matters entirely. Couldn’t they? Yes, they could, in that he is certain. Morgana is the answer to his question. Arthur has realized, in a sudden and achingly painful revelation, that what one sees or thinks to know might not hold to the truth of the thing. For his entire life he has regarded himself as the Prince he was expected to be; noble, courageous and chivalrous. Luckily, it was unneeded to teach him these traits—they have always come to him naturally, as though they were a part of him rather than something learnt. He has never questioned them, like he has never questioned the feeling of the sword in his hand as just another extension of his body. Yet, he was once an obstinate child, has always been spiteful and headstrong, and has always valued his own voice over another’s. But as each child must grow, so did he. When Arthur now catches a glance of his face upside-down in the spoon at breakfast, it is a frown that he sees. It is the uncertain line of a mouth, it are fingers curled too tightly around the handle of the cutlery. He is still spiteful and headstrong, still values his voice more than others—yet, he has grown into a strangely malleable young man; more often than not, in difficult times, Arthur finds himself questioning his own decisions, and wishing for advice. It is a quality that his father has never expected to find in him. It is not necessarily something that Arthur ever expected to find in himself, either. Just recently, though… things have changed. Arthur has changed.
For the better or worse, he does not yet know.
Raising his eyes back to the scenery before him, Arthur is surprised. The black ground of the court is no longer; there are a few dozen people holding torches in their clasped hands, standing shoulder by shoulder as they hold the vigil for the dead king.
Their sight empowers him to a wan smile, makes him unclench his hands and rest them on the windowsill before him. Now Camelot is truly ignited, and they do not need the moon.
“Arthur?” comes a quiet voice from somewhere behind him. “Arthur, why are you not asleep?”
With a jolt, Arthur turns around, sad blue eyes encountering his servant, Merlin. Standing in the doorway, hesitant, face set in a concerned expression, holding a candle that illumates Arthur’s dark chamber.
“I cannot sleep,” Arthur replies monotonous, too exhausted and careless for any venomous retort. “It should be obvious as to why.”
“Probably,” Merlin acquiesces, and says no more. There is a moment of silence before Merlin takes a step forward and closes the door behind him, disregarding any formal enquiry that would allow him to step in. Disregarding it as he always does, his wilful, plain-spoken servant. (Friend.) It makes him smile into the darkness, in spite of everything. Arthur would not have it any other way.
“You really should sleep,” Merlin begins saying lowly, never one to remain quiet for too long. “Tomorrow is your grand day, after all, and you should be ready. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep in front of everyone, right? That wouldn’t really make a good impression. They’ll call you King Arthur Sleepybum for the future generations, and that’s really more terrible than Prince Prat, I believe. Well, if it were for me, I’d rather be known as Prince Prat in history books. Arthur Sleepybum doesn’t stand a chance. Would never be permitted to be written down in a book. And what king doesn’t want to stay in a book?”
“I don’t care about books,” Arthur comments absently, not really listening to Merlin’s words, as he is wont to do. He does not offer any further reply and instead finds his gaze drawn back to the people in the court. Merlin stands closely behind him, and Arthur guesses his eyes too are fixed on Camelot’s inhabitants. They remain silent for a while.
“They already did say goodbye to the King.” Merlin’s voice is a mere murmur behind him. “They have no gold or precious belongings to offer you in consolation. This is their consolation.”
I don’t deserve it, Arthur wants to say. I’m not made to be King.
“They can welcome you already as King because they know you are more than worthy.”
I’m not. The words are stuck in his throat. He wants to swallow, but it hurts.
“They have had time to say goodbye from Uther. That entire last year… it was you that made those decisions, Arthur. It was you who kept them safe. Your father was… he wasn’t… he didn’t rule. He couldn’t. He was broken. It was you. And the people knew, and they have acknowledged that.”
“But how can they?” It breaks out of him at last. He staunchly ignores the croaking quality of his voice. “How can they trust me with their lives?”
“They know you,” Merlin says slowly. “They have watched you grow. They have seen you raise your voice against your father’s unfair decisions. They have felt you rule that entire last year.”
Arthur bows his head, closes his eyes. This might be too much.
“Don’t be afraid, Arthur,” Merlin says, so incredibly softly. Almost Arthur can imagine he is not speaking at all. It feels more as if Merlin is speaking inside his head, the words melting down his nerves, soothing and calming. “If you don’t trust yourself, trust your people. Trust Gwen, your knights, and Gaius and me. You would give your life for any of us, you have proven that more than once. You would give your life readily for your people, and that is the highest gift that there can be.”
Arthur jolts at the touch on his shoulder; Merlin’s hands curl around his shoulder blade, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Merlin’s face illuminated by the torch he holds; sees his crooked smile, a sliver of teeth, those glinting eyes.
“So don’t be afraid,” he repeats, a little louder, words gaining strength, gaining confidence. They make Arthur stand straighter. “And hold your head high.”
After what feels like an age of staring at one another, Arthur finally retorts, “And you hold yours lower.”
He does not stop to think about the way Merlin’s soft grin makes the heavy weight in his stomach a little lighter. He does not stop to think about anything—merely feels. There is a sense of relief flooding his chest, and Arthur feels Merlin’s words take root, and again he manages to unclench his hands, and for the first time in days they rest idly at his side. His stance relaxes, tension fleeing the hardened muscles. This is right. Standing equally besides one another, this is right. Standing equally and placing trust in one another, speaking the truth. Because he knows Merlin has; Merlin would never lie to him. Couldn’t lie, really, being the clumsy, oblivious guy that he is. Yet strangely wise (which Arthur would never admit) and painfully honest.
And for a moment, Arthur is painfully honest with himself. For the first time, he can admit to himself that he would trust Gwen, his knights or Gaius with his life. Would trust, above them all, Merlin with his life.
The expected sense of doom does not come. Instead, Arthur can inhale deeply and feel his chest expand with breath.
“You should sleep,” he then says, throws Merlin’s own words back at him. It is not that he is ungrateful, it is not that he is ashamed; his limbs are tired with sleep, and standing upright begins to feel dizzying. Arthur is tired, and he has not slept in a long time. “So get back home.”
“Prince Prat will be King Prat, I see,” Merlin comments dryly after a moment, but says no more. He probably recognizes the fatigue in the rings under Arthur’s eyes, and steps back, turns around and walks toward the door.
Before he leaves the room, Arthur utters a rough, “Thank you, Merlin.”
Merlin is humble all the time, but rarely subservient; still, what he does next comes as no surprise. He kneels before Arthur, bows his head. Says slowly, clearly, honestly and fully devoted, “It is an honour, sire.”
Then the door closes softly, and Arthur is left alone in the darkness.
But he feels sane, so much saner than he has ever felt.
Turning around, his eyes come to rest on his people once again. His father has always spoken about how becoming an adult is a gradual, slow, unnoticable process; Arthur now contests this. An occurrence, a person or a conversation could change many things. He is not sure when it has begun, but he has changed.
He presumes he has changed for the better.
In this darkest hour, he has forgotten that what shines brightest is honesty, hope and understanding. He does not want to say that Merlin has shown him that, but he is grateful for their conversation. As a child it was hard not to feel his people’s trust in him as just another burden to weigh his young shoulders down, to make his back hunch over. Now, he has learnt that it is an honour that he has been gifted with. That these people sleep peacefully at their night under his watch, that they are capable of closing their eyes and entrusting them with all they hold dear—it is not folly, nor is it idiocy. It is the greatest gift he could ever had hoped for, this trust they have in him. Just as his friends’ greatest gift in him and his in them is the same.
That man, throughout these hard and terrible times, should still harbour a heart warm enough to be able to place such trust in someone else—it is a sign. It is a sign that there will be a tomorrow, that after this night, the sun will rise again to herald a new day.
In this darkest night, Arthur makes a decision.
No longer is he a child as he takes a step back and kneels down to bow before his people. No longer is Arthur a child, but a king; no longer he wishes for their trust to fade, but to grow. It is no longer a burden, but an honour. No longer is Arthur a child, no longer is he Prince—he is the King.
He is the King bowing before his people and friends where they cannot see, swearing to himself to serve them the best way he knows how to.
Without them, he is nothing. He is the King, and he is their servant.