Chapter Text
Arthur knelt beside the tomb and placed a soft kiss on the marble. The crown felt heavier today. He had always pictured Uther leaving softly and with a smile on his face, dressed in his favorite formal robes, pressing his ring into Arthur’s hands with his last moments. Never did Arthur imagine that it would be his fault. He’d turned to sorcery out of desperation, and this, undeniably, was his fault. Were he still alive, Uther would say the same. He would never have made the same mistake, would never have considered sorcery as an option. No matter the circumstances. Arthur leaned his forehead against the cold stone and felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. Never again would he be fooled by magic. This situation, at least, would serve as a reminder. He remembered the sorcerer’s face well. Kind, twinkling eyes, situated in the frame of an eccentric old man. All he’d asked for was to live in peace, and Arthur had agreed. He had seemed so harmless, so genuine.
Arthur felt a stab of anger. Never again.
He muttered a few mostly inaudible words of thanks to the image of Uther before rising to his feet. The urge to rip the crown off of his head and return it to his father’s came and went like a wave. As it always did.
“I’ll be better,” he said quietly, placing his hand on Uther’s stone visage. “I swear.”
Arthur turned from the tomb and squared his shoulders. The time for mourning was over. The people needed a king, not a scared little boy. Uther would be proud of his resolve, would understand the choices Arthur had made, would tell him he was pleased with the way things were going. Arthur allowed himself to smile at the thought.
Then, he felt a presence. A dark and malevolent energy enveloped him, radiating outwards from a point behind his back so strongly that he almost felt dizzy. It seemed like sorcery but felt unlike anything Arthur had ever experienced; this was rage incarnate, emanating nothing but malice and a wish to do harm. He gritted his teeth against it. His hand flew to his sword with practiced ease and he whipped around to face the source. The sword dropped to the floor immediately.
“You would kill me again?” His father said.
Arthur stared. He reached out, retracted his hand, tried to speak. Nothing came out. The tears that had begun to threaten him dried, knowing they weren’t welcome.
“How-?”
Uther stood before him, dressed in the same black robes and shiny jewelry they’d entombed him in just weeks before. His image shimmered slightly, as if he wasn’t quite there. And, when Arthur glanced down and saw the tomb through his body, the reality stole his breath from his lungs. His father’s eyebrows were arched in disapproval, the corners of his mouth curled in disgust. The dead king turned, gazing upon his tomb with a cold expression. The rage couldn’t be coming from him, Arthur thought wildly, struggling to retrieve his sword from the floor. His father was stern, authoritative, perhaps a bit harsh; but nothing like this. Not evil.
“Father?”
Uther raised a hand, moving his fingers slowly and watching the light refract through his gloves.
“Explain to me, if you would, where the sorcerer is.”
He turned, a hint of a hopeful expression etched onto his face. When Arthur faltered, it turned to ice.
“My killer, Arthur. Tell me where he is.”
“He got away,” Arthur replied dutifully, sensing rather than seeing his father’s anger grow in intensity.
“You let him leave.”
“We’ve searched everywhere, he-”
Uther turned, his unnaturally pale skin rippling in the light.
“If you had searched everywhere, he’d be dead,” The spirit hissed.
“Why are you here?” Arthur asked quietly.
“Unfinished business, I presume,” Uther snapped, venom dripping from his words. “I have been gone for scarcely a month and already you’ve made a mess of my kingdom.”
Any delusions Arthur had carried about his father being proud or even tolerant of his rule disappeared in an instant. Arthur felt the heat behind his eyes once again but blinked away the sensation. Not now.
“Father, I’m sorry. I won’t let-”
“You will. And you have,” Uther said. “There are peasants masquerading as knights, murderous sorcerers walking free, servants believing themselves to be above the law-”
“Leave Merlin out of this.”
Uther raised his eyebrows and laughed harshly.
“The girl, Arthur.”
When Arthur didn’t respond immediately, the dead king’s face contorted into something like disgust.
“She stands by you in hopes of becoming queen,” He continued, eyes narrowing. “It would not surprise me if she were plotting against you at this very moment.”
“Guinevere is a trusted friend. She is no usurper,” Arthur insisted. His father’s rage swirled around him as if it were tangible.
“You were always naive, Arthur, but this is no longer sustainable.” The ghost glanced around and hardened his expression. “You should be thankful that I was brought back to guide you. Now, at last, we can clean up the mess you’ve made.”
Something like panic must have registered on Arthur’s face, because Uther smiled.
“You will start by revoking the knighthoods you bestowed in my absence.”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?” Uther snapped, rounding on his son. Arthur remained defiant.
“They are more worthy than any noblemen I’ve ever encountered. They deserve the title.”
“They’re peasants.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. You will come to see that, in time.”
“Those men kept Camelot from falling while you sat in your room, defenseless and in need of care,” Arthur hissed. “We owe them our kingdom.”
“And they owe our traditions respect. You will do as I say.”
“I won’t.”
Uther’s cold eyes narrowed.
“Then you’ve left me no choice.”
“Father, please, can we just-?”
The spirit vanished in an instant, leaving Arthur alone and with a pit of dread in his stomach. It was only when Merlin burst in minutes later carrying a blood-soaked rag that Arthur understood the weight of his father’s words.