las challenge 10 - Voting
LAS Challenge Ten Voting
VOTING RULES:
Please READ carefully before voting, thank you.
- Participants are encouraged to vote, however you may NOT vote for your own submission or ask others to vote for yours.
- Please read each entry to vote.
- Vote for your three favourite pieces, and please be sure to include feedback for each one. Please bear in mind the following point allocation while voting:
- a first place vote gets 3 pts;
- a second place vote gets 2 pts;
- a third place vote gets 1 pt.
- That said, with a view to being able to give each participant some feedback, reviews of individual stories are very much encouraged. If you liked the story, or noticed room for improvement, please let the author know!
- Use the form in the textbox below to vote. In "general comments", include any feedback for the stories you didn't vote for by indicating the number, followed by your review.
- Voting should be based around quality only: Was the prompt met? Did the author follow the Challenge-Specific Guidelines? How is the spelling, grammar and punctuation? Did the piece hold your attention?
*Guidelines from thefuturequeen's LAS Competition.
VOTING FORM
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General comments:
The Challenge-Specific Guidelines were:
- Your story can ONLY be set in the same era as Merlin is.
- Other characters from Merlin or any of the Arthurian Legends may appear as support.
The Prompt: was: Uther dies. Arthur becomes KING.
Voting closes Wednesday, May 18, 2011 @ 11:59 PM Eastern Standard Time (World Clock)
#1. Listen (PG13, 1995 words)
-----
They began as whispers. Soft, sibilance in the darkest hours, tormenting Uther from full rest. They nibbled at the edges of his sanity, but the core remained intact, protected by the fact that he couldn’t see their haunting visages. When day came, and he gazed at his crumbling kingdom through the barred windows, the sunshine burned away the voices until he could convince himself they’d never existed at all.
At least, until midnight crept out of the shadows to cocoon him away from the rest of the world again.
Arthur’s victory should have banished them, but if anything, they grew stronger. They found form at the corners of his eyes, distracting him at the most inopportune times. Arthur would be discussing council business, Uther would see a flash of velvet off to the side, and everything Arthur was attempting to convey would be lost as Uther tried to chase them down. If he could only catch them, he was certain he could rid himself of them forever.
But he never did.
The voices only fell silent once. The morning the maidservant found him in the stables.
He was whispering to the stag Morgana had favored when she appeared next to him. He’d thought the horse should be able to hear Morgana, too, but nothing he could say to the beast could coax the response he wanted.
“Sire…” The maid curled her small hand gently over his forearm, easing him away. “Prince Arthur is looking for you.”
His ready retort of how dare she touch him died on his tongue. The stable was silent. Nothing fluttered at the edges of his vision. Only her solemn brown eyes gazed up at him, waiting for him to respond.
“Do you hear that?” he said.
She glanced around, a small line appearing between her brows. “No…”
His relieved smile erupted, free and jubilant. “Exactly.” He straightened, and her hand fell away. “Arthur needs me, you say. Well. Take me to him.”
She led him back to Arthur’s ready room, dropping a short curtsey before rushing away. The second the door closed behind him, however, the mocking whispers returned.
He barely heard a word Arthur said. Morgana’s “Look at him. He thinks he’s king already,” and Igraine’s “Poor Arthur, if he only knew half the lies you’ve told him,” taunted him at every pause.
“Father. What are you doing?”
Uther blinked. He hovered on the room’s threshold. He had no recollection of opening the door. “That maid.”
A pause. “You mean Guinevere?”
Guinevere. She’d been Morgana’s. He remembered that now. Was she a witch, too? Was that why the demons were held at bay in her presence? Perhaps. He couldn’t be sure. He only knew… “I’d like her to replace my manservant.”
“What?” Arthur’s voice was shocked. “Father, I don’t think-”
Uther whipped his head around, glaring at his son. “That wasn’t a request, Arthur.”
“Gwen has other duties.”
“She’s a servant, is she not?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“And last I checked, I was still king.”
A muscle twitched in Arthur’s jaw. “Yes, sire.”
Red danced off to Uther’s right, but he ignored it, focusing on the reprieve he’d managed to find. “Then you’ll do as I order. As soon as possible.”
Arthur bowed his head. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
-----
“You’re joking.”
Arthur sighed. “I wish I was. But he was adamant about it, Gwen. He wouldn’t even listen to me.” He turned toward the window, gazing down at the courtyard. “I wish you’d seen him. For a bit there, he seemed like his old self.”
“You mean, bossy and arrogant?” she almost said, except she couldn’t because the sadness in Arthur’s profile broke her heart. The weeks since deposing Morgana had taken their toll, but no trial weighed more heavily on Arthur’s shoulders than his father’s deteriorating mental state. Instead, she stepped closer, hoping he would see reason. “Arthur, I found him in the stable. Begging Morgana’s horse to talk to him.”
He slumped. “What am I supposed to do? If I refuse, it might make matters worse.”
“He doesn’t even like me.”
“He left with you without arguing, though. When Merlin tried to get him out of the dungeons the other day, he nearly ran Merlin through with his sword.” He glanced back, and the bleakness of his shadowed eyes begged her to agree. “I know it’s not ideal. And if you say no, I’ll make whatever excuse I must to him. But…he’s asked for nothing else since we rescued Camelot, Gwen. Nothing. I have to believe this is important to him.”
She had no idea why. He’d been ready to have her killed because of her feelings for Arthur, not to mention what had happened with Tom. But she did understand she couldn’t look Arthur in the eye and tell him she wouldn’t at least try. He gave up far more than she did every single day in his battle to keep Camelot together. Tending to his father was the least she could do, especially if it allayed his fears even a little bit.
“When do I start?”
-----
The first day Guinevere came to him, Uther couldn’t stop smiling. He knew he must look a fool, but the blessed quiet was so thorough, he couldn’t contain his happiness. He insisted they take a walk down to the open market, something he hadn’t done in years, simply to prove to himself that he’d made the right choice, that this witch of Morgana’s was powerful enough to keep his demons at bay even amongst so many of his people. He didn’t even mind that she found some way to alert Arthur to their plans and gain them an entourage of knights for protection.
She was always formally polite, eternally wary. When she left him for the night, he stood at his window to watch her leave, gritting his teeth against the icy hands Morgana and Igraine now laid upon him in Guinevere’s absence. She stopped and chatted with the guards, smiling and laughing in ways she never did with him.
“Because she thinks you’re a monster,” Igraine whispered. “She only serves you out of fear.”
They were right. He tried to forget that in the weeks that followed, but eventually, the truth became too heavy to bear.
“Sire, you must eat.”
He’d refused breakfast for the third day in a row. Guinevere’s voice was oddly soothing, and he rolled away from the temptation to give in to its solace.
“Are you ill? Do I need to fetch Gaius?”
If they only knew what plagued him when she wasn’t around. “Gaius can do nothing.”
“So something is wrong.”
“Something is always wrong.”
He thought that would be it. The breakfast tray barely made a sound as she carried it off, but instead of going to the door, she rested it on the table and returned to face him.
“You are not the only one who grieves for Morgana.” Though she clasped her work-worn hands in front of her, the twisting of her fingers betrayed her emotions. “She was my best friend. I loved her like a sister, so when she turned her back on us…” Her lashes ducked, but not before he caught the shine in her eyes. “I understand how much it hurts. More than you can ever know.”
Words failed him. When the silence between them stretched into minutes, Guinevere curtseyed, then turned away. She made it all the way to the door before he heard a voice. His own, surprisingly enough.
“Thank you, Guinevere.”
She glanced back. The morning light streaming through the room gilded her dark profile. For a moment, he thought her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
“Would you like your breakfast now?”
He offered a wan smile. “Yes. Please.”
-----
Arthur had no idea how she did it, but he was grateful for Gwen’s gentleness toward his father every time he saw them together. He still occasionally caught Uther wandering the castle, muttering to himself, but always when Gwen wasn’t around. When they were together, Uther was a different man, different even to the king he had been. More than once, Arthur would’ve sworn he even witnessed Uther smile at her with affection.
So when Gwen went missing, he wasn’t surprised when Uther stormed into the council meeting, fire in his eyes.
“Where is she?”
Gaius shook his head in warning, but Arthur ignored it. Uther needed to understand the seriousness of the situation.
“Morgana’s taken her. We’re readying a rescue party.”
Uther frowned. “That’s not possible. She’s stronger than Morgana ever was.”
A curious comparison, but one Arthur had no time to dissect. “Still, it’s been done.”
“What does Morgana want?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Everyone jumped when Uther slammed his fist down onto the table. “You are not king yet, Arthur! Tell me.”
With Gwen’s life at stake, they didn’t have time for these games. Against his better judgment, Arthur told him. “You.”
The announcement shattered Uther’s confidence, and his hand fell, his head twisting to the side as if he listened to something behind him. The knights and council held their breath as they waited for his response, but Arthur felt every second ticking away as another stolen from Gwen’s life.
Without another word, Uther turned on his heel and marched out the way he’d come in. All eyes shifted to Arthur.
“Watch him,” he ordered one of the sentries at the door.
The meeting resumed, as if it had never been interrupted. When they left ten minutes later, however, they found the sentry unconscious in an alcove, no sign of Uther to be found.
His horse was gone, too.
He had no time to consider his choices, to wonder what Uther had overheard. For the sake of the two people in the world who meant the most to him, he had to assume the worst.
The broken trail Uther left behind was the mark of an amateur, but it confirmed Arthur’s fears. They raced after him, spurring their mounts faster and faster, closing in on the spot Morgana had selected for the trade. He knew it was a trap. He’d always known. But the subtleties they’d settled upon to circumvent it now had to be sacrificed for expediency if he wished to save either one of them.
The screams cleaved the air before they reached the clearing. The knights scattered to battle Morgana’s guards, while Arthur plunged forward, breaking through the line of trees with his sword already drawn. Three figures created the tableau that greeted him - Morgana’s in readiness to throw something, a bloody Uther, and Gwen as she dragged Uther out of Morgana’s path.
Arthur charged. Something whistled past his ear, hurtling toward Morgana. Uther shouted something wet and incoherent, and then, a blinding light drove Arthur to a halt.
When he could see again, Morgana was gone, and Merlin and Gwen knelt over Uther’s fallen body.
“Get this off.” Gwen pulled at Uther’s shirt, searching for the source of the heavy blood flow staining it. “We have to save him.”
Leaping from his horse, Arthur joined them, but as he tried to help, Uther grabbed his wrist and tugged him down.
“Arthur…” He coughed, and blood sprayed everywhere.
“Don’t speak, Father.”
“No.” An odd light came into his hazel eyes. “Must be done.”
“What?”
The implacable grip guided his hand to where Gwen pressed fervently against the bleeding holes in his chest. He molded Arthur’s over hers and said, “Protect her. Because now you are king.”
His meaning sank in at the same time Gwen understood. Her breath caught, and her fingers tightened reflexively beneath Arthur’s. Together, they watched Uther’s eyes dim.
“He saved me,” Gwen murmured. “Morgana was taunting me about how she was going to kill all of us, and he simply charged in and swung at her.”
She didn’t understand the sacrifice, but Arthur did. Uther had proven himself Camelot’s king all the way to the end.
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#2. The Sunlight on Your Face (G, 1507 words)
The king is dying.
His son sits by his bed, head bowed, their hands twined.
“It's too soon,” he murmurs, squeezing his father's fingers. “We didn't - I mean, we never got to . . . how am I supposed to . . .?” His voice trails off, unable to put to words the question lingering in his thoughts.
She sits next to him, wraps an arm around his shaking his shoulders. Leans over, kisses his brow. “You will. You will,” she whispers, as she tries to will her strength into his, anchor him.
*
Sunlight, filtering through the ash.
Arthur lifted his head, breathed. Tried to breathe. His ribs were aching, the wound on his leg stinging raw, and if he was breathing, he'd be all right, surely. The sky was red, everything seemed awash in blood, faces pale and sickly orange in the setting sun's glow.
But there was no mistaking the faces of the survivors. One by one, they lifted themselves from the sea of bodies and rubble, silhouettes against the shadow of Mount Badon.
The Knights of the Round Table. Gwen. Merlin.
All, mercifully, alive. Survivors of this final stand against the Saxon army, Morgana's latest attempt to take Camelot - and all of Albion.
All of them still living, still intact, save for one.
*
“You should eat something.”
He shakes his head at her touch. “No. If something should happen while I'm -”
“I meant to call a servant,” she says, gently admonishing.
He shakes his head again. “I'm not hungry.” He looks up at her, realizing how he nearly snapped just then. “Thank you, though.”
She hugs him again, leans her head on his shoulder. That's when he knows she's saying, as always, No need to apologize.
*
They said it was a poisoned arrow, shot through the window of King Uther's tower. The venom was too powerful, Gaius mourned. Enhanced by magic, it ate through the blood of the dying king, setting his veins on fire.
As he tossed and turned, attended to by his grieving son and heir, he said things. He moaned the name of his long-dead wife and begged forgiveness as he confessed his sins. He cried out for his daughter, at first spiteful and defiant, but towards the end, contrite, very contrite.
They said they heard something like laughter, cackling in the wind.
*
“Do you think he's in pain?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
He takes a shuddering breath, looks at her. “I'm sorry,” he says, not for the first time. “This must be so . . . strange for you.”
She sucks in her lips, looks off - carefully, not at the pillow. “Yes,” she finally admits. “But also . . .” She gives him a smile, tremulous, but genuine in its fullness. “I'm so proud of you.”
*
Arthur took a deep breath. He rose from his knees before the throne, as Geoffrey of Monmouth slowly backed away. Then he turned and faced the audience in the Great Hall.
Everyone was silent. “My father . . .” He paused, blinked, and swallowed. Here, he did not know what to say. He knew, in his heart, what was true: He was a proud man, a stubborn man. He made many mistakes, and many of those were terrible. Perhaps even unforgivable.
He thought of Morgana, with a tide of anger and fury and yet, an ebbing empathy. He thought of his mother - of the face he had seen and the warm form he had hugged, so many years ago, and not for the first time wondered if that was truly her, or if it mattered not. He thought of his father, lying pale and still on his bed, finally at rest.
And he thought of the people whom he hurt the most, from those that he said he loved dearly, to those who mattered naught at all to him. Gwen, and her father. The citizens of Camelot he ignored. Those that he killed - people like Merlin.
Arthur swallowed again, looked up, and met the eyes of the people who were still here, and meant everything to him. So many things to put to right. Guinevere smiled, tears upon her face, and in her happiness she never looked more beautiful and lovely to him than this, radiant in her hopefulness. Merlin gripped her hand and nodded, just once, his posture imposing and wise.
And then Arthur knew, with a purpose that can only come with time and lessons hard learned, what he had to say.
“I will not be a king like my father.”
*
Merlin shakes his head, heaves a great, resigned sigh as he looks up from examining the body. “It'll be soon,” he murmurs, distraught.
From his chair, Llacheu bites his lip, squeezes Arthur's limp hand tighter. “Mother?”
Gwen, who'd been hugging her son for the better part of the night, finally loosens her grip - only to fold her hands over Gwydre and Arthur's entwined ones. Merlin takes Arthur's free hand. Together, the three of them wait, and watch.
Arthur never opens his eyes.
Finally, Merlin bows his head - runs a hand through his grey hair, lets out a choked sob. Gwen stands and brushes the white fringe from Arthur's face, kisses him tenderly on both cheeks before laying her forehead against his. She whispers, very softly, “Oh my love. I'll see you soon,” before pressing Llacheu's hunched shoulder and going over to Merlin. Llacheu watches as the two friends embrace tightly, quietly crying.
That morning, Llacheu Pendragon kneels upon the dais, before his wife and children, his uncles and Knights of the Round Table, both retired and new, and his mother, now the Dowager Queen, who smiles with sadness and pride as she lays the crown upon her eldest son's head.
She touches his curls, leans down to kiss his nose as she had done when he was child, and murmurs, “He would not want you to be sad this day.”
He stands, hugs her close. When he releases her, he touches the crown on her head, glittering gold against the whitened waves. “I know.”
Then he turns, and faces the people. The sun streams in through the windows, awashes their upturned faces in a warm, expectant glow, and Llacheu remembers the first time he came to know them all, as his.
He'd been still very young, on horseback for only the fifth or sixth time, and of course accounting himself a masterful horseman already, despite the fact that the noble steed upon which he sat was more pony than magnificent stallion. He'd pouted because his father insisted on using a lead and tied the reins to the pommel of his own saddle, but he couldn't help but enjoy the day, because he was riding a horse, with his father, and it was high summer.
They let their horses graze atop a hill, and Father sat back in his saddle and pointed out their home to him. There was the castle, of course - and in one tower he could see the flash and spark of magic through a window, where Merlin must've been doing spellwork, and through the window of another tower he heard Mother's voice, speaking calmly but loudly to someone about the rations for the poor.
But there were also the villagers, going about their day. The mason workers, fixing the city walls - the baker, selling his wares with his wife - the merchants haggling and bartering - the milkmaids, the stableboys, the patrols.
“There is your mother and uncle's old forge,” Father said, gesturing. “From when they used to be commoners.”
“Just like everybody else,” Llacheu said, wonderingly.
“Yes. Just like everybody else.”
Llacheu chewed on his lip, and looked askance at his father. He was sitting easily in his saddle, the reins held loosely within his hands, and though he was squinting in the sunlight, there was no trace of the frown between his brows, or the hard line of his shoulders, that Llacheu was so accustomed to seeing whenever his father would leave a council meeting.
Father never said anything that day - just sat there and eventually asked if Llacheu was tired, and would like to go back. But even then, Llacheu knew they should stay a while longer, to bask in this little bit of peace - a peace, he knew, from the lines on his father's face and the set of his mother's spine and the gait of his uncle Merlin's, that was the result of hard labor, well fought for and earned.
And now, with the sun glimmering upon his subjects, Llacheu takes a breath, and remembers everything that his uncles, his mother, and most of all, his father, ever taught him. When he speaks, his voice is without doubt.
“I will be a king just like my father.”
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#3. Bonds (R for a bit of non-graphic sex, 1634 words)
Arthur stared sightlessly into the courtyard. In the back of his mind, he noted that the area was packed with mourners, clutching candles in silent vigil against the darkening of the day. However, he did not consciously realize it.
He could not think. All he could do was feel: loss, pain... fear.
It had never been only the two of them, their small family; their lives were too public for that. Still, there had been a bit of that bond, despite being perpetually surrounded by other occupants and staff of the castle. It changed when Morgana joined them, but had not dissipated. That unique connection remained-- man to man, current king to future king, father to son.
Now, it was all gone. And it was not just their relationship which was lost; Uther was also the closest link Arthur had to his mother. They may not have spoken of her, yet Ygraine was an implied presence between them. Or, perhaps that had all been in Arthur’s mind, wishful thinking at which the king would have scoffed. Either way, whether it had been real or imagined, it was ended, and it was as though a piece of him had been carved away. Uther Pendragon had not been an easy man, and he had made many unpardonable mistakes. Despite it all, he was Arthur's father, a fact few people seemed to acknowledge as they rushed around to entomb the late king and crown the new one.
Somewhere, his only remaining immediate blood relation was scheming to bring him down, no doubt toasting the death of their parent.
And, tomorrow, he was expected to appear in the throne room immediately after witnessing Uther's entombment. He would have to stand in front of hundreds of people and instill in them the belief that they could trust him to be their leader. They could not be able to tell how encompassing his grief was; they could not be allowed to sense how terrified he was at the knowledge that this time, his rule was not temporary. When he had stepped up in the past, Arthur had figured that he would be handing the command back to Uther, despite whatever afflictions had befallen the elder Pendragon at those times. That would never again be the case.
The most terrifying prospect of all, however, was being expected to survive the next day. If he could choose between going through all of those motions or singlehandedly facing down Morgause’s immortal army, he would pick up his sword in a heartbeat. He wished he had such a choice.
A gentle touch on his arm managed to get his attention, though he had not heard anyone enter the room. As he turned his head to look at her, Guinevere said softly, “Come to bed, Arthur.” For once, it was not an invitation, nor was it a seduction when she divested him of his clothes before guiding him onto the mattress. Usually, he held her when they were in bed. Tonight, however, she gathered him close, let him lay on her stomach, and held him as he cried. She continued to hold him until he finally drifted off to sleep, perhaps the only way he would have been able to do so. When he woke the next morning, he was still in her arms, although they had shifted somewhat in the night so that he was embracing her, too. She was also watching him, apparently having awoken first.
His initial inclination was to thank her for her understanding, but instead, he leaned up and kissed her- and once he did, he suddenly needed her on a very basic level. The rest of the day was going to be about Camelot’s crown prince becoming king; right now, he needed only to be a man making love to his wife. It was fast, and desperate. Her moans drowned out the doubts in his head; her fingernails digging into his back demonstrated that some pain could be good; her slick heat clenching around him as she reached her release, triggering his own, brought a deeper completion for him: the reminder that he was still part of someone.
They had only just finished dressing when there was a knock on the door, and Merlin entered at Arthur’s summons. Setting a large breakfast tray on the table, he said gently, “The escort will be here in half an hour.” Arthur began to ask why he had brought the meal so late, but caught something in Merlin’s expression that suggested he may have stopped by earlier than this.
Appreciating his tact, Arthur nodded. “Thank you.” At first, it was simply gratitude for the food and the consideration. But then, it hit Arthur how many countless times over the years Merlin had supported him, in large ways and in small. He had only ever known one other servant to show that sort of devotion, and he would be crowning her as his queen that evening. Merlin had already bowed and was moving toward the door, but Arthur caught his arm long enough to stop him. “Thank you for everything.”
Merlin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and while he smiled in return, it was tinged with a great deal of empathy. “It’s my pleasure,” he replied. He also apparently recognized that Arthur had no idea what to say from there, gesturing toward the table and suggesting, “You should eat.”
In truth, Arthur was not hungry, but when Guinevere began putting together a dish for him, he decided it was easier to at least make the pretense of eating than to put them both off. Nodding at Merlin, who took his leave, Arthur then joined Gwen at the table. Her appetite seemed no better than his, and most of the food remained untouched on their plates when there was another knock on the door a short while later. The sound hit him like a fist.
It was time to entomb the king.
Looking over at Guinevere, he knew the deep sadness in her gaze was for him alone, not grief for the deceased, nor could he blame her for that. All he could do was appreciate that she was so compassionate as to extend such sympathy to him, when it could only be a relief to her that Uther was gone. As she got to her feet, he rose, as well; and waited as she joined him. Slipping her hand into his and giving it a squeeze, she murmured, “You will get through this.”
Blinking against the sudden dampness in his eyes, he could do little more than offer her a brief smile, unable to speak just then. There was a rapping on the door again, and he looked at it, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders. His personal guard were in the corridor, and after bowing, escorted Guinevere and him to Uther’s chambers; Sir Leon, Sir Elyan, and Sir Lancelot in front of them, Sir Gwaine and Sir Percival at the rear.
The council and a handful of high-ranking guests were gathered outside the king’s rooms, but Arthur barely took note of them. Gaius, Merlin, and Geoffrey awaited them within, having prepared the body and arranged it on a pallet for the journey to the crypts. Everyone had already been instructed as to what they would do, and took up their positions around the bed; when they were all in place, they lifted the pallet as one and processed out of the room. Arthur and Leon were at the lead, on either side of the king’s head, with Percival and Lancelot at his feet. Guinevere was immediately behind, with Elyan and Gwaine as her escorts. Geoffrey, Gaius, and Merlin followed them, and the rest of the gathering fell into step by rank as they made their way through the castle and to the crypt.
Arthur could not look at the enshrouded form beside him, keeping his eyes straight ahead. When they reached the stairs, he and Sir Leon had to raise their end of the pallet to keep it as close as possible to level as the foot of it, and that actually helped, giving him a practical task on which to focus. That came to an end as they laid their burden in the open tomb, and the enormity of what they were doing flooded him all over again. As if on cue, Guinevere’s hand slipped into his once more, and although he did not hear a word that Geoffrey said, Arthur was able to keep steady when they slid the marble slab bearing Uther’s likeness into place.
He would never see his father again. It still did not seem real.
Nor did it seem real as the procession made its way to the throne room, where a much larger group of people was gathered. Horns blared as they entered, people swept low, and Arthur felt like he was moving through a very strange dream as he made his way down the long gallery. Guinevere had to step aside then, taking her place nearby as he faced Geoffrey.
It was the vows that brought everything back to reality. As he agreed to each responsibility Geoffrey laid before him, Arthur realized exactly what it was he was agreeing to. Camelot was his now, his responsibility to protect and lead, and he would do so to his dying breath. He had never been one to take a task lightly, but the only other one he had ever felt to his soul before was when he had married Guinevere. And, as he was devoted to her, so too was he devoted to this kingdom. The crown was heavy when Geoffrey placed it on his head, but Arthur knew he could bear that weight.
Turning as the crowd burst into applause, King Arthur faced his people.
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* Thank you SO MUCH to our last three participants for submitting their entries.
* I hope I didn't mess up any of your fonts ie. italic fonts. I tried my best to keep your fonts. :D
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