Musings on kingship (Patreon)

Arthur was not fit to be king. 

It was a realization he kept coming back to. It had come to him in the dark, lonely hours of the night, tangled in his sweat-soaked bed sheets. It had come to him in a wave of nausea as he stood before the hungry eyes of the crowd. There were so many expectations, so many doubts. It had come to him as he paced around Merlin's study, when he sought both the man's reassurance that he would one day be the king he needed to be and his admission that putting Arthur on the throne was a mistake. That there was a need for someone else. Someone who wasn't him. And though there was someone, she had never been considered a choice. Not a serious one.

Arthur was no king, and he came again to this realization bent over his paperwork, fingers aching from gripping the pen, ink bleeding where the tip sank into the paper. The air could no longer fill his lungs or perhaps it was his lungs that could no longer fit the air. Arthur let the pen drop from his quivering hand and looked up. He hadn't really been writing for a while now, only staring down incomprehendingly. The words no longer took a shape that he could recognize. All sense was chased away, replaced by scurrying, wild thoughts - animals  circling, looking for a way to escape, looking for a place to hide.

Across from him, before the hearth, Kay sat on the carpet, where he’d slipped off the armchair, book splayed open on the cushioned seat. Opposite him, Lance sat properly in his chair, reading his book with an earnest expression. He looked more the dutiful king than Arthur felt. 

Officially, they were here as his guards. In truth they were here as his concerned friends who didn't want to leave him alone. He would have asked Merlin for help if he were here, but he was off to supervise the restoration of some important monument. He promised he'd be back in time for the meeting with the Merchants’ Guild, promised he wouldn't let Arthur flounder on his own. Even with Merlin at his side, this kind of meeting terrified him. He didn't want to imagine what it would be like facing it alone.

Arthur's voice was brittle when he spoke. “I can't do this.”

Kay made it halfway to the desk by the time Arthur unraveled into an incoherent mess. 

He put his steadying hands on Arthur's shaking shoulders; his whole body was racked by sobs. Excuses and pleas gushed uncontrollably out of him like blood out of an open wound. “I'm not made for this. I'm not made to be king. I may have the blood, but I do not have what it takes to do this. They must have made a mistake. They have to find someone else. I can't do this. I’ll ruin the kingdom. I already did.”

He ruined it before they even put the crown on his head, he did on the day that he drew the sword from the stone, on that night when he met Morgana and did what they did. He knew that no matter what everyone said he was not meant to be king. Morgana had seen that and had no qualms about making it clear to him.

He was no king. He knew not how to take a decision without Merlin's aid. He feared too much the consequences of making the wrong choice, it paralyzed him to the point where he could make none. At parties, nobles and courtiers approached him ceaselessly, all wishing to curry the King's favor. His voice was always too high pitched or too quiet, his smile too forced, body braced to flee. He trained with Merlin for hours on end to learn how to give a speech. He hated how his voice sounded in the empty, cavernous hall. He hated it even more when the chamber was filled with people, with more ears to bear witness to his inadequacy. 

What praise he could glean never felt enough, could never surmount all the ways in which he was lacking. He could only console himself with the promise that he'd be better than Uther had been. Kinder. 

But what kind king was he, sending away the child who had no fault for the way they made Arthur feel? Yet the way his stomach roiled at the thought of them could not be helped.

Lancelot hovered close to his chair. The concern on his face ran so deep, it was written in the creases of his brow, in the tight lines around his mouth. He'd been worrying for Arthur for so long, as had been everyone. 

Kay was so patient, his touch on Arthur’s shoulders, gentle and comforting. He was so patient and kind that it only made Arthur cry harder, reducing his ranting to incoherent, inarticulate gurgling and whimpering. 

“I’m just a burden on everyone,” Arthur sobbed.

Kay cupped his face and tilted his head so Arthur's eyes met his. “Never say that. You are not a burden, and I will repeat that to you as many times as it takes for you to understand, for you to remember it.”

They all said that. Elewen, in particular, had to often reassure him of it, since it was them who not only saw the turmoil on his face, but felt it the way it felt in his own heart. Elewen reassured him that it was part of their bond to share not only in their joy but their pain as well, yet Arthur could not shake off the guilt of subjecting them to this. He tried to gate his mind as much as he could. It didn't always work. But now he needn't worry about it; Elewen was travelling across the continent, pursuing their scholarly passions.

A gentle pressure came down on Arthur’s left shoulder. Even through the fabric of his tunic and his chemise, he could feel the warmth of Lancelot's palm - the touch anchored him so he would not drift away further.

When the tears dried and there was nothing left but a hollow in his chest and the salt on his cheeks and the pounding in his head, Kay pulled back and whispered “I'll bring you some tea and something to eat.” Before Arthur could protest, Kay insisted. “I know you ate little. Please, you need to eat something, Arthur.”

Then he was out to fetch the food and a pot of calming, soothing tea. Arthur guessed that when Merlin was back, a more potent concoction might be prepared for him.

The room was silent but for the gentle crackling of the fire and his sniffling, and in the quiet the absurdity of Arthur's ravings came into sharp, embarrassing focus. It was childish, ridiculous. Who else would be king but him? There was no escaping it and it was up to him whether he'd come down in the chronicles as a great and kind king - as he could only hope to be - or as an utter failure. Or perhaps he'd be a mere footnote, quickly skimmed over. But this last possibility he truly doubted, knowing Merlin’s vision of doom. His only choice was to find a way to not give the historians a calamity to talk about for centuries to come.

Merlin assured him that he could rise up to become the king he desired to be. But three years had passed since he stepped on the throne and he felt far behind that ideal. He had his whole life ahead to shape himself to fit this mold, and yet he still felt like unyielding, misshapen clay in the clumsy hands of a child. And the Kingdom had no choice but to make do with him.

There was a rustle of clothing and then Lance was knelt on one knee before him. He took Arthur’s hands in both of his - they were no longer shaking but still simmered with nervous fire just beneath the hot, feverish skin - and met his gaze. 

“Arthur,” Lance said,  “three years ago, I swore an oath to you. To have you as my king. The one for which I whet my blade, for which I aim my strikes. To be by your side, for better or worse. In times of hardship, in times of ease. But I'm not only your loyal knight, but your friend as well. And as your friend, too, I have taken on these vows.”

Lancelot, the friend who helped him in his squire training back when neither of them knew he was to be king. Who so patiently showed him through the fighting stances, who healed his scrapes with his magic, who played with him and smiled at him with an exuberance he showed very few people. 

Lance rested his forehead against the back of Arthur's palm, against his knuckles. “I believe that you will make a great king. That you will make me proud to call myself your blade. I will always be here by your side to clear a path towards your bright future.”

There was a weight to his words that did not crush Arthur but overwhelmed him all the same, and he was too tired to protest. Lance’s breath was caressing his skin, sending a shudder through his frame. He tried to tell himself that it was a normal reaction to have. That it only tickled, like the brush of a piece of garb. But he knew he'd be lying to himself.

Lance looked up, and Arthur was afraid of what his friend would see in his face. So, without thinking, driven only by impulse, he flung his arms around his neck and buried his face in his shoulder. 

One of Lancelot’s arms wrapped around his back while the other hand came to rest on his nape, fingers tangling in his curls. Arthur shivered yet again. He did his best to bask in this feeling, to think only of his friend, of his warmth, of the heartbeat he felt against his own chest. To think without guilt of the hand on the back of his neck, so he may not have to avoid Elena in shame.

He buried his face deeper into his shoulder, breathing in his familiar, leathery scent, and melted into Lance’s arms. Arthur wasn't sure how long they stayed like this. Time yawned and stretched, then snapped back into place when the door opened and Kay returned. Only then did he disentangle himself from Lancelot. He drank the soothing tea his brother brought and ate as much as he could stand.

Then he was whisked away from his study and back to his chamber where Kay uncovered an old game they always used to play - it smelled of mold and home. And for the rest of the evening, if only for a little bit, Arthur could entertain that he was no longer king, but just himself, having fun with his friends. Like they used to back when they were younger.