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He couldn't say how many people he had watched die. How many people he had sent to die. How many people's death he had relished.
It wasn't something that he was proud of – it is never anything to gloat about when a King has to punish his people for not obeying his most sacred law – but it was necessary. He had to keep order.
Today was no exception. A man was being burnt at the stake, a man by the name of Merlin for the worst crime imaginable – sorcery. As the King, Uther Pendragon always watched executions unblinkingly, his face never changing and eyes never leaving the prisoner being killed. It was what was expected of him, what would be expected of his son when he became king someday. The boy would have to toughen up – he had a good heart, that was for certain, but he had a habit of becoming attached to the prisoners.
The prisoners.
That's what Uther thought of them as, nothing less and certainly nothing more. He only knew this man's name because he had been his son's manservant, but also because he had to cite it in his pre-execution address to the people. Otherwise he didn't call those accused by their names, referring to them as "the prisoner" or "the sorcerer" or in special cases "the traitor." That made being harsh but firm about their punishment that much easier.
His son, Prince Arthur, on the other hand, tended to speak to the prisoners, call them by their names, even – it was quite like naming an animal. After you name it, you get attached to it, and when the time comes to burn it at the stake or chop its head off, it's much harder to let it go.
Arthur was now being restrained by at least six guards, still thrashing about like a crazed maniac. Uther had forced him to come to this execution. His son could no longer let his emotions rule him. He needed to be like his father, his king. He needed to block out the suffering of the individuals whose executions were necessary. He needed to see not his supposedly loyal manservant tied to the pyre, about to be burned alive, but a traitor, a piece of garbage, nothing.
Uther had to think of them as nothing but pieces of meat, traitorous sorcerers, because if he looked deep and saw them as people, carrying through with their execution would be difficult. He had hardened himself to the screams of pain, the cries of terror, the wails of heartache. That part of him, the part that still clung on to the few shreds of humanity, of compassion, in his soul, whispered for him to turn away, to not watch the devastation his sentencing caused.
There was a shout from his son behind him. Arthur was yelling something about how the boy, the traitor, had only ever protected Camelot, but that was preposterous. Ludicrous.
He watched as the bottom of the pyre was lit and suddenly his tiny bit of humanity was replaced with the other, stronger side of his being. While the prospect of watching someone burn was disturbing, it also fascinated him, probably to an unhealthy degree. He wasn't a sadist – of course not – but then again, it wasn't really a person being sentenced to death, dying by the flames. It was a sorcerer, scum. Nobody.
And so he watched, his ears deafened to his son's howling protests – really, it was quite silly, Arthur getting that bent out of shape over a servant – and listened to the sounds of the flames as they crackled. He watched as the bright fingers of fire ate their way through the wood on the pyre and began to lick the soles of the sorcerer's shoes tauntingly.
The smell of smoke grew stronger, more potent as the material caught fire. Arthur was yelling something else behind him, but Uther wasn't listening. He was listening to the heavy, terrified breaths heaved from the traitor's chest. He didn't see that Arthur nearly threw one of the guards off of the balcony as he struggled. He was watching the fire grow, eating through the thin shoes and beginning to feast on the sorcerer's feet.
That was when the screaming began.
That has to hurt like hell.
He couldn't watch, but he couldn't look away. He heard the cries of mourning friends in the crowd, the hitched sobs emanating from his out-of-control son's lips. He heard the agonized, tortured, inhuman shrieks tearing relentlessly from the traitor as he convulsed and shrieked. The fire engulfed his legs, then his torso. The smell of burning flesh, nauseating and stimulating, filled the air and Uther fought the urge to blanch.
Suddenly the stench of burning hair poured over the crowd present and it was then that Uther realized that the screams had abated and that the traitor could no longer be seen in the nest of fire encasing his burned corpse.
He was dead.
Arthur threw the guards off, rushed at his father, yelling something about how Merlin had been his best friend, had risked everything to save him.
Merlin. They boy had had a name, hadn't he?
Arthur slammed his fist into Uther's jaw before he was restrained by three more guards. The last words he heard from his son before he was dragged away were, "I will never forgive you for this."
He watched as the flames were doused and he saw the agonized, broken face of his most loyal advisor, Gaius. He remembered Arthur's pleading, yelling, manic protests. They cared for the boy. No, the sorcerer. But why?
He set his jaw, turning away from the pyre and the devastation he had caused by sentencing the sorcerer to death.
It was over, the sorcerer was dead, and all would return to normal. He couldn't help but recall, however, the terror and pain in those screams of the boy – the wizard, the traitor – as he burned alive. So young… Arthur's age… could have been Arthur… Never forgive me…
The smell of roasted human flesh washed over him and he all but ran into the castle, leaving the guards and executioner to clean up the mess. It was time to put all this behind him.
Much easier said than done.