Merlin Fic: How Magic Returned to Camelot (9/?)
OK, my (totally unannounced) Christmas/New Year hiatus is over! More multipart Merlin fic. (Also: I want to change the title. Badly. Ugh.) Oh, and my music choice is totally, totally inappropriate to this chapter. :P
This was the hardest chapter to write so far. Making up ceremonies is difficult!
Title ~ How Magic Returned To Camelot (9/?)
Rating ~ 15+
Characters ~ Full cast, eventual Merlin/Arthur & some Gwen/Lancelot
Summary ~ It has been five years since Nimueh was defeated on the Isle of the Blessed, and all is well in Camelot. However, Morderd’s return on the eve of Uther’s sixtieth birthday sets in motion a chain of events that will change everything …
Warnings ~ Character death (in Chapter Six; not one of the main four). Angst.
Notes ~ Not compliant with Series 2 canon (therefore technically a future!AU). Huge thanks to ice_elf for the beta. See Index Post for further notes.
Disclaimer ~ Merlin belongs to the BBC and Shine.
Chapter Index can be found here.
The next day, Uther’s body was carried out into the castle courtyard and laid on a bier. He wore his robes of state, the regal scarlet and gold bright against the pallor of his skin; his signet ring and crown gleamed in the sunlight. Arthur himself, in full armour except for his helm, took part in the first guard on the body, along with the three knights in Camelot’s service whose families had been Uther’s oldest and most trusted allies.
Once the four knights were in place at the corners of the bier, their heads bowed respectfully, the castle gates were opened. Beyond them was a silent line of citizens, their ranks forgotten as they came to pay their last respects to the dead king. They filtered into the courtyard silently, their eyes fixed upon the red-draped bier, and were directed to walk around the circumference by a line of guardsmen.
Many tossed garlands or posies as they filed past; other dared to step out of the ranks to place a delicate trinket on the flagstones out of the way of tramping feet. Some cried; some were dry-eyed; none stopped in their ponderous circuit of the courtyard.
After an hour, the guards around the edge of the courtyard changed; after two, Arthur and his fellows were relieved by four other knights, all of them the sons of high-ranking noblemen. For Merlin, who had been sitting on the castle’s steps the entire time, watching Arthur’s carefully impassive face beneath his golden coronet, it was the longest two hours he had ever endured.
There was a constant procession past Uther’s body for the rest of the day. All of the villages surrounding Camelot seemed to have turned out in force, and arrived throughout the day to pay their last respects. Merlin tried not to notice them, but their reverent silence was oppressive and seemed to seep through the walls: the servants went about their business without laughter, song, or idle chatter; the knights were busied by their solemn guard duty; the nobles dressed in mourning colours and talked only in low, sibilant whispers.
When night fell, the column of Uther’s subjects slowed and became a trickle. By midnight, there was no one left in the courtyard except for the quartet of knights and the circle of guardsmen.
Merlin, who had been sitting in silent vigil waiting for Arthur’s window to go dark, watched as the castle gates were swung closed, leaving only the small door open so any night-time pilgrims could be allowed inside after a close inspection. At midnight, the knights on duty were relieved and finally the light from behind Arthur’s curtains dimmed. Merlin sighed deeply, stretched himself, and with a final glance at the bier hurried inside for his own bed.
***
The funeral took place three days later, and was every bit as horrible as Arthur had imagined it would be. The ceremony took place in the Great Hall, which had been decked in black. The main space had been filled with ranks of stiff-backed chairs for the congregation, split into halves by a central aisle. The throne had been moved back to make a space for the bier, and a pair of elaborate candelabra, each the height of a man, had been filled with tall candles and set so that they would stand at Uther’s head and feet when his bier was brought inside.
In the days since Uther’s death, nobles and their representatives from the outlying regions had been arriving at the castle; Arthur had been mostly occupied by entertaining them and the envoys from the lands on Camelot’s borders. He had been informed, to Merlin’s almost comical surprise, that he was not needed for the funeral or coronation preparations, and ought to spend his time accepting condolences and engaging in polite conversation.
He hated it. He did not want pity or condescension, and it seemed his guests were unable to offer anything else. Still, for the sake of diplomacy, he made himself smile and excused himself with excruciating politeness from each conversation, blaming his grief for his lack of manners. It was partly the truth; hearing so many people extol his father’s virtues brought a lump to his throat that made it difficult to speak without his voice breaking.
The court had assembled in the Great Hall to wait for the ceremony to begin at noon. Morgana was there, under heavy guard and relegated to a position at the very back, because Merlin and Gaius and about fifteen different nobles had decided to plead her case, and Arthur wasn’t so cruel as to deny her that much, in any case.
The bier was carried in by Arthur and the three other knights who had taken the first watch over the body. It seemed to take a long time for them to manoeuvre the bier into position. By the time they set it down between the brilliantly lit candelabra Arthur’s knees were beginning to shake with nerves he knew he had no right to feel, and he was glad to sit down. As he sat, he heard the protesting creak of the chairs behind him as the congregation followed suit.
Geoffrey of Monmouth stepped forward and unrolled a long scroll, cleared his throat and began to read the genealogy of the late King Uther Pendragon from it, as a testament to his noble birth, his right of kingship, and the need to honour his bones. From his position in the front row, Arthur could clearly see his father’s face, gilded in the light of the many candles. He focused upon that rather than on the ceremony; it was the only way he could hold back his emotions.
The ceremony itself passed in a blur; Arthur was barely paying attention to the rites that were going on around him. He knew that this was the moment for him to officially bid his father farewell, but he personally felt that he had done so already, in his father’s chambers on the night he had passed away.
Gaius had suggested that the funeral might provide him with some consolation. Arthur disagreed; he felt only grief, so strong that the stoic mask his father had ingrained into him was in danger of cracking right down the middle, and he could not allow that, especially not today.
Finally, the knights who had been lined up down the sides of the hall came forwards in pairs to kneel and offer their swords to the king for the final time. Arthur watched them, outwardly appearing dispassionate. Inside, his stomach roiled at the thought of this self-same ceremony taking place at his coronation, with the hilts of many swords offered to him instead of his father. When they moved back, it was his turn. He stood and walked over to stand before the bier, and made the mistake of looking down.
His father’s gloved hands were tight with rigor-mortis around the hilt of his sword; the metal and gold thread on his body glittered; his face was grim and unsmiling in death, as it had been in so much of his life. Even now, Arthur half-expected him to open his eyes and sit up, take command of the situation.
He fumbled with his sword, swallowing thickly as he knelt and bowed his head, offering the hilt up to his father. His father’s corpse, he corrected quickly, and felt his throat tighten further. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds up to fifteen before he rose and sheathed his sword again, walking back to stand in front of his chair. The rest of the assembled peers got to their feet.
Another knight took his place to carry the bier out of the Hall. They passed Arthur at what seemed like a snail’s pace, and he turned to walk out after them without looking up from the flagstones, his feet easily falling into the halting pace of their funeral march.
Only Uther’s closest friends and confidants followed in the procession, taking the places that would ordinarily belong to his family. The rest, Arthur knew, would be directed into one of the smaller chambers where wine would be served. Once they had been moved out, the Great Hall would be put back into its previous order for the funeral feast. He focused on these details as they marched down the corridor towards the main steps, then gave himself over to contemplating the cold funeral cuts that would be served, and wondering which wine the steward had chosen: anything to keep from focusing on the fact that he was accompanying his father to his final resting place.
If anyone had later asked him, Arthur would have admitted that his most vivid memory of the day was of the walk through the courtyard. The knights did not falter as they carried the bier down the steps, allowing Uther his dignity even then. Arthur dared to look up as he took the first step, and only just stopped his jaw from dropping.
The courtyard was full and overflowing into the street beyond; everyone who had come to see Uther Lying in State had returned for his funeral. The path the bier would take across the courtyard was kept clear by a contingent of guards, but no one was pressing forward to get a closer look. They stood instead in total stillness, with barely a murmur to break the silence.
Arthur looked down again, his throat tight and his nose stinging as grateful tears threatened to well in his eyes. He knew that his father had been a harsh king and a hard man, quick to anger and even quicker to punish, but this was his testimony: his people had come out in force to honour his passing, once more throwing flowers onto his bier if they were close enough. Arthur blinked, and felt tears spill from his lids.
A collective sigh seemed to spread through the crowd, rippling outwards from him with whispers as the silence changed from respectful to sympathetic. Arthur felt the outpouring of emotion from the people - his people - instinctively, and couldn’t help but wonder if his father had ever experienced this.
When they reached the far side of the courtyard, Uther’s body was carried into the cool darkness of the crypt. Tradition dictated that Arthur remain outside in the sunlight: a symbol of the continuation of the line, or so Geoffrey had said the day before. He stared into the darkness, intensely aware of the hundreds of eyes on his back, and waited.
Minutes passed slowly, but sooner than he expected the knights reappeared. He nodded respectfully to them, reminding himself to give them further thanks and praise later, then turned and walked through the scant ranks of advisors to lead the procession back inside for the feast.
Tomorrow, it would be exactly a week since the night of Uther’s death, and he would have another ceremony to face. His father’s reign would be entirely laid to rest when the heavy crown alighted on his head: its new rightful place.
Before that, however, Arthur had to survive tonight: another feast, with yet more condolences and cold funeral meats on his platter. He felt himself shudder at the prospect.
***
Merlin woke at dawn on the day of the coronation, for once wide awake as soon as he opened his eyes. He dressed quickly and hurried out of Gaius’ rooms as quietly as he could manage so as not to wake the old man. On his way out, he grabbed the packet of herbs Gaius had prepared the night before and an apple to munch on as he went to collect hot water for Arthur’s bath.
As he took the stairs down to the kitchens, Merlin picked up the scent of roasting meat and hot pies, then the smell of spices and sauces assaulted his nose as he stepped inside. The kitchens were a bustle of activity, and from the look of things the servants had been busy for some time. Cakes and tarts were laid out to cool on every flat surface; a pot of stew was hanging over the fire, carefully watched by a young boy to make sure that it didn’t boil; some of the servants were arranging fruit into bowls while others placed sweet delicacies onto silver trays, and still more were preparing fish and poultry for cooking.
Merlin quickly realised that all of the fires were being used for cooking, so asking to heat water for the bath Arthur had asked for would be useless. Instead, he grabbed one of the water buckets stacked haphazardly by the door and went back up the stairs to the courtyard. He filled the bucket with cold water from the pump just outside the castle gates and went up to Arthur’s room.
The future king was still fast asleep in a tangle of sheets; he didn’t even move when Merlin opened the door. He tiptoed across to the anteroom, where Arthur’s bathtub had been set up the night before, and breathed as he glanced at the curtains, “Pullien.”
The drapes pulled themselves back as his eyes passed over them, letting the light of dawn into the room. Merlin looked back at Arthur; once reassured that he had seen nothing, he walked across to the wooden tub and poured the water into it. Pulling out the packet of herbs, he sprinkled them across the surface of the water to scent it then took up the bucket once again and went to refill it as he had before. Sometimes, he was tempted to fill the tub by magic, but he usually dismissed the idea as too dangerous. It took a lot of buckets to fill the tub to Arthur’s liking, and it would arouse suspicion if no one saw him running up and down the stairs with water.
Arthur started to wake up when the bath was half full, and Merlin decided to take a risk. Several of the castle’s servants had seen him with the buckets and Arthur had heard him come in and out several times now; if he used magic for the rest of the water, it wouldn’t look too suspicious. He glanced back towards the bed, where Arthur had just rolled over, then bent over the tub and held out one hand.
“Wes inflede,” he mouthed, the words escaping his lips as quietly as breath. He felt the magic respond to the words, streaming down his arm and through his palm faster than thought. The water rose suddenly, sloshing against the side in waves until it calmed but thankfully not spilling or making much sound. Merlin glanced over his shoulder towards Arthur, then hastily murmured, “Hæte.”
The surface of the water danced momentarily with ripples, as if peppered with invisible rain, then lightly scented steam began to rise around Merlin’s fingers. He smiled, triumphant, and got up from his knees.
Somehow, he managed to roll a very reluctant Arthur out of bed and into his bath. He brought a plate of fruit, cheese and warm honey bread up from the kitchens and left it on the table, then went to collect the Coronation Robes while Arthur finished bathing and breakfasting.
Camelot’s finest seamstresses and tailors had been working on the robes from the moment Uther’s death was announced. There was a linen tunic with gold thread embroidered into the seams and the Pendragon crest emblazoned across the chest, and a velvet cloak trimmed with white fur. Both were a richer scarlet than Merlin had ever seen, even in the prince’s wardrobe. The supple belt and matching scabbard were of red leather, buckled and studded with gold. Underneath this ensemble, Arthur would wear a loose-fitting white linen tunic with a high collar and black trousers and boots.
All of the clothing had been made specifically for the Coronation. Before, Merlin had considered it a waste, but a single look at the garments convinced him not to argue his point again. It was clear that they were special; the material was of the highest quality and they had been prepared with infinite care for the new king. They were not just a symbol of a fresh start in Arthur’s life; they were a physical representation of Camelot’s acceptance of him, and of the people’s love.
By the time Merlin brought the costume back to Arthur’s chambers, his master had finished bathing and was sitting on the bed. Merlin glanced at the table and saw that the breakfast he had brought had barely been touched. Arthur stood and went over to the screen he habitually dressed behind.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, heaviness in his tone. Merlin knew that Arthur had never liked being bathed or dressed by someone else, so he passed the clothes to him around the side of the screen in turn then retreated with the heavy cloak to wait.
Merlin vividly remembered Arthur as he stepped out from behind the screen in his robes of state, which he would wear only once. His hair shone from his recent bath and the clothes fit his form perfectly. His skin was as pale as marble against the rich colour of the cloth. He looked exactly as Merlin had once imagined the kings from the tales told by his mother on the long winter evenings: handsome and regal, made untouchable by their status but with kindness in their eyes.
“Sire,” he croaked, suddenly feeling humble in Arthur’s presence in a way he had never felt before. He saw Arthur take a deep breath, and as the cloth moved against his chest it looked almost as if the golden dragon was flexing its wings.
“It’s time,” he said.
The ceremony was to take place in the Great Hall an hour after dawn. By the time Arthur arrived, the double doors had been drawn closed, shutting in the assembled nobles so that they could be opened at the right moment for Arthur to stride in. He took up his position and let Merlin arrange the cloak around his shoulders.
“Good luck,” Merlin murmured as he fussed with the fur lining against Arthur’s throat. It would be the last time he would address him as a prince; the next time they spoke, he would be King.
Arthur turned his head slowly to look at him, his lips slightly parted and eyes just a fraction too wide. He looked vulnerable, but he sounded like his old self when he quietly replied, “What do I need luck for, Merlin?”
The way he said Merlin’s name gave it undercurrents of ‘you idiot’ and made him smile. Arthur’s lips quirked up at the corners a little, then he turned to the doors and straightened himself. Merlin stepped aside, so that he would be out of sight, and they waited. A few moments later, the distinctive sound of a hunting horn drifted down from the castle’s highest tower, where men had been posted to count the time and announce to the castle and the town that the Coronation had begun.
The doors swung open. Arthur took a breath and stepped through, starting the long walk through the ranks of nobles and courtiers to his father’s throne. Merlin waited until the doors closed, then hurried around to one of the many servants’ entrances to the hall, shouldered his way through the press of servants squashed against the door to listen and pushed into the hall. It was crowded even around the edges by lesser noblemen and their families, who were not important enough to merit a seat, and so Merlin could stand against the wall and watch without attracting much attention.
Afterwards, he remembered little of the ceremony. He entered part way through the list of ancestors that Geoffrey of Monmouth read as proof of Arthur’s right to the crown, and what he did hear went in through one ear and out of the other. Nor could he recall the ritual by which Arthur received his sword and placed it within the scarlet scabbard, except that Arthur’s voice did not waver when he swore to remain loyal to his people and to protect them.
He did remember the moment that the crown came to rest on Arthur’s head. He knew that no one else in the room would see it behind Arthur’s mask, but as the officiator held the crown over his head, Arthur looked both capable of the post he would hold and a little afraid of it. Then the crown was lowered and the gold of Arthur’s hair and the gold of the crown seemed momentarily to be of the same substance, as if the man and the crown were one.
Merlin felt a weight lift from him, as though all of his life had been building up to this moment, and now the burden of bringing it about was gone. The officiator stepped back and the knights began to move forward in ranks to offer their swords to the new King. Merlin opened the servants’ door and slipped out of the hall unnoticed.
.
This was the hardest chapter to write so far. Making up ceremonies is difficult!
Title ~ How Magic Returned To Camelot (9/?)
Rating ~ 15+
Characters ~ Full cast, eventual Merlin/Arthur & some Gwen/Lancelot
Summary ~ It has been five years since Nimueh was defeated on the Isle of the Blessed, and all is well in Camelot. However, Morderd’s return on the eve of Uther’s sixtieth birthday sets in motion a chain of events that will change everything …
Warnings ~ Character death (in Chapter Six; not one of the main four). Angst.
Notes ~ Not compliant with Series 2 canon (therefore technically a future!AU). Huge thanks to ice_elf for the beta. See Index Post for further notes.
Disclaimer ~ Merlin belongs to the BBC and Shine.
Chapter Index can be found here.
The next day, Uther’s body was carried out into the castle courtyard and laid on a bier. He wore his robes of state, the regal scarlet and gold bright against the pallor of his skin; his signet ring and crown gleamed in the sunlight. Arthur himself, in full armour except for his helm, took part in the first guard on the body, along with the three knights in Camelot’s service whose families had been Uther’s oldest and most trusted allies.
Once the four knights were in place at the corners of the bier, their heads bowed respectfully, the castle gates were opened. Beyond them was a silent line of citizens, their ranks forgotten as they came to pay their last respects to the dead king. They filtered into the courtyard silently, their eyes fixed upon the red-draped bier, and were directed to walk around the circumference by a line of guardsmen.
Many tossed garlands or posies as they filed past; other dared to step out of the ranks to place a delicate trinket on the flagstones out of the way of tramping feet. Some cried; some were dry-eyed; none stopped in their ponderous circuit of the courtyard.
After an hour, the guards around the edge of the courtyard changed; after two, Arthur and his fellows were relieved by four other knights, all of them the sons of high-ranking noblemen. For Merlin, who had been sitting on the castle’s steps the entire time, watching Arthur’s carefully impassive face beneath his golden coronet, it was the longest two hours he had ever endured.
There was a constant procession past Uther’s body for the rest of the day. All of the villages surrounding Camelot seemed to have turned out in force, and arrived throughout the day to pay their last respects. Merlin tried not to notice them, but their reverent silence was oppressive and seemed to seep through the walls: the servants went about their business without laughter, song, or idle chatter; the knights were busied by their solemn guard duty; the nobles dressed in mourning colours and talked only in low, sibilant whispers.
When night fell, the column of Uther’s subjects slowed and became a trickle. By midnight, there was no one left in the courtyard except for the quartet of knights and the circle of guardsmen.
Merlin, who had been sitting in silent vigil waiting for Arthur’s window to go dark, watched as the castle gates were swung closed, leaving only the small door open so any night-time pilgrims could be allowed inside after a close inspection. At midnight, the knights on duty were relieved and finally the light from behind Arthur’s curtains dimmed. Merlin sighed deeply, stretched himself, and with a final glance at the bier hurried inside for his own bed.
***
The funeral took place three days later, and was every bit as horrible as Arthur had imagined it would be. The ceremony took place in the Great Hall, which had been decked in black. The main space had been filled with ranks of stiff-backed chairs for the congregation, split into halves by a central aisle. The throne had been moved back to make a space for the bier, and a pair of elaborate candelabra, each the height of a man, had been filled with tall candles and set so that they would stand at Uther’s head and feet when his bier was brought inside.
In the days since Uther’s death, nobles and their representatives from the outlying regions had been arriving at the castle; Arthur had been mostly occupied by entertaining them and the envoys from the lands on Camelot’s borders. He had been informed, to Merlin’s almost comical surprise, that he was not needed for the funeral or coronation preparations, and ought to spend his time accepting condolences and engaging in polite conversation.
He hated it. He did not want pity or condescension, and it seemed his guests were unable to offer anything else. Still, for the sake of diplomacy, he made himself smile and excused himself with excruciating politeness from each conversation, blaming his grief for his lack of manners. It was partly the truth; hearing so many people extol his father’s virtues brought a lump to his throat that made it difficult to speak without his voice breaking.
The court had assembled in the Great Hall to wait for the ceremony to begin at noon. Morgana was there, under heavy guard and relegated to a position at the very back, because Merlin and Gaius and about fifteen different nobles had decided to plead her case, and Arthur wasn’t so cruel as to deny her that much, in any case.
The bier was carried in by Arthur and the three other knights who had taken the first watch over the body. It seemed to take a long time for them to manoeuvre the bier into position. By the time they set it down between the brilliantly lit candelabra Arthur’s knees were beginning to shake with nerves he knew he had no right to feel, and he was glad to sit down. As he sat, he heard the protesting creak of the chairs behind him as the congregation followed suit.
Geoffrey of Monmouth stepped forward and unrolled a long scroll, cleared his throat and began to read the genealogy of the late King Uther Pendragon from it, as a testament to his noble birth, his right of kingship, and the need to honour his bones. From his position in the front row, Arthur could clearly see his father’s face, gilded in the light of the many candles. He focused upon that rather than on the ceremony; it was the only way he could hold back his emotions.
The ceremony itself passed in a blur; Arthur was barely paying attention to the rites that were going on around him. He knew that this was the moment for him to officially bid his father farewell, but he personally felt that he had done so already, in his father’s chambers on the night he had passed away.
Gaius had suggested that the funeral might provide him with some consolation. Arthur disagreed; he felt only grief, so strong that the stoic mask his father had ingrained into him was in danger of cracking right down the middle, and he could not allow that, especially not today.
Finally, the knights who had been lined up down the sides of the hall came forwards in pairs to kneel and offer their swords to the king for the final time. Arthur watched them, outwardly appearing dispassionate. Inside, his stomach roiled at the thought of this self-same ceremony taking place at his coronation, with the hilts of many swords offered to him instead of his father. When they moved back, it was his turn. He stood and walked over to stand before the bier, and made the mistake of looking down.
His father’s gloved hands were tight with rigor-mortis around the hilt of his sword; the metal and gold thread on his body glittered; his face was grim and unsmiling in death, as it had been in so much of his life. Even now, Arthur half-expected him to open his eyes and sit up, take command of the situation.
He fumbled with his sword, swallowing thickly as he knelt and bowed his head, offering the hilt up to his father. His father’s corpse, he corrected quickly, and felt his throat tighten further. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds up to fifteen before he rose and sheathed his sword again, walking back to stand in front of his chair. The rest of the assembled peers got to their feet.
Another knight took his place to carry the bier out of the Hall. They passed Arthur at what seemed like a snail’s pace, and he turned to walk out after them without looking up from the flagstones, his feet easily falling into the halting pace of their funeral march.
Only Uther’s closest friends and confidants followed in the procession, taking the places that would ordinarily belong to his family. The rest, Arthur knew, would be directed into one of the smaller chambers where wine would be served. Once they had been moved out, the Great Hall would be put back into its previous order for the funeral feast. He focused on these details as they marched down the corridor towards the main steps, then gave himself over to contemplating the cold funeral cuts that would be served, and wondering which wine the steward had chosen: anything to keep from focusing on the fact that he was accompanying his father to his final resting place.
If anyone had later asked him, Arthur would have admitted that his most vivid memory of the day was of the walk through the courtyard. The knights did not falter as they carried the bier down the steps, allowing Uther his dignity even then. Arthur dared to look up as he took the first step, and only just stopped his jaw from dropping.
The courtyard was full and overflowing into the street beyond; everyone who had come to see Uther Lying in State had returned for his funeral. The path the bier would take across the courtyard was kept clear by a contingent of guards, but no one was pressing forward to get a closer look. They stood instead in total stillness, with barely a murmur to break the silence.
Arthur looked down again, his throat tight and his nose stinging as grateful tears threatened to well in his eyes. He knew that his father had been a harsh king and a hard man, quick to anger and even quicker to punish, but this was his testimony: his people had come out in force to honour his passing, once more throwing flowers onto his bier if they were close enough. Arthur blinked, and felt tears spill from his lids.
A collective sigh seemed to spread through the crowd, rippling outwards from him with whispers as the silence changed from respectful to sympathetic. Arthur felt the outpouring of emotion from the people - his people - instinctively, and couldn’t help but wonder if his father had ever experienced this.
When they reached the far side of the courtyard, Uther’s body was carried into the cool darkness of the crypt. Tradition dictated that Arthur remain outside in the sunlight: a symbol of the continuation of the line, or so Geoffrey had said the day before. He stared into the darkness, intensely aware of the hundreds of eyes on his back, and waited.
Minutes passed slowly, but sooner than he expected the knights reappeared. He nodded respectfully to them, reminding himself to give them further thanks and praise later, then turned and walked through the scant ranks of advisors to lead the procession back inside for the feast.
Tomorrow, it would be exactly a week since the night of Uther’s death, and he would have another ceremony to face. His father’s reign would be entirely laid to rest when the heavy crown alighted on his head: its new rightful place.
Before that, however, Arthur had to survive tonight: another feast, with yet more condolences and cold funeral meats on his platter. He felt himself shudder at the prospect.
***
Merlin woke at dawn on the day of the coronation, for once wide awake as soon as he opened his eyes. He dressed quickly and hurried out of Gaius’ rooms as quietly as he could manage so as not to wake the old man. On his way out, he grabbed the packet of herbs Gaius had prepared the night before and an apple to munch on as he went to collect hot water for Arthur’s bath.
As he took the stairs down to the kitchens, Merlin picked up the scent of roasting meat and hot pies, then the smell of spices and sauces assaulted his nose as he stepped inside. The kitchens were a bustle of activity, and from the look of things the servants had been busy for some time. Cakes and tarts were laid out to cool on every flat surface; a pot of stew was hanging over the fire, carefully watched by a young boy to make sure that it didn’t boil; some of the servants were arranging fruit into bowls while others placed sweet delicacies onto silver trays, and still more were preparing fish and poultry for cooking.
Merlin quickly realised that all of the fires were being used for cooking, so asking to heat water for the bath Arthur had asked for would be useless. Instead, he grabbed one of the water buckets stacked haphazardly by the door and went back up the stairs to the courtyard. He filled the bucket with cold water from the pump just outside the castle gates and went up to Arthur’s room.
The future king was still fast asleep in a tangle of sheets; he didn’t even move when Merlin opened the door. He tiptoed across to the anteroom, where Arthur’s bathtub had been set up the night before, and breathed as he glanced at the curtains, “Pullien.”
The drapes pulled themselves back as his eyes passed over them, letting the light of dawn into the room. Merlin looked back at Arthur; once reassured that he had seen nothing, he walked across to the wooden tub and poured the water into it. Pulling out the packet of herbs, he sprinkled them across the surface of the water to scent it then took up the bucket once again and went to refill it as he had before. Sometimes, he was tempted to fill the tub by magic, but he usually dismissed the idea as too dangerous. It took a lot of buckets to fill the tub to Arthur’s liking, and it would arouse suspicion if no one saw him running up and down the stairs with water.
Arthur started to wake up when the bath was half full, and Merlin decided to take a risk. Several of the castle’s servants had seen him with the buckets and Arthur had heard him come in and out several times now; if he used magic for the rest of the water, it wouldn’t look too suspicious. He glanced back towards the bed, where Arthur had just rolled over, then bent over the tub and held out one hand.
“Wes inflede,” he mouthed, the words escaping his lips as quietly as breath. He felt the magic respond to the words, streaming down his arm and through his palm faster than thought. The water rose suddenly, sloshing against the side in waves until it calmed but thankfully not spilling or making much sound. Merlin glanced over his shoulder towards Arthur, then hastily murmured, “Hæte.”
The surface of the water danced momentarily with ripples, as if peppered with invisible rain, then lightly scented steam began to rise around Merlin’s fingers. He smiled, triumphant, and got up from his knees.
Somehow, he managed to roll a very reluctant Arthur out of bed and into his bath. He brought a plate of fruit, cheese and warm honey bread up from the kitchens and left it on the table, then went to collect the Coronation Robes while Arthur finished bathing and breakfasting.
Camelot’s finest seamstresses and tailors had been working on the robes from the moment Uther’s death was announced. There was a linen tunic with gold thread embroidered into the seams and the Pendragon crest emblazoned across the chest, and a velvet cloak trimmed with white fur. Both were a richer scarlet than Merlin had ever seen, even in the prince’s wardrobe. The supple belt and matching scabbard were of red leather, buckled and studded with gold. Underneath this ensemble, Arthur would wear a loose-fitting white linen tunic with a high collar and black trousers and boots.
All of the clothing had been made specifically for the Coronation. Before, Merlin had considered it a waste, but a single look at the garments convinced him not to argue his point again. It was clear that they were special; the material was of the highest quality and they had been prepared with infinite care for the new king. They were not just a symbol of a fresh start in Arthur’s life; they were a physical representation of Camelot’s acceptance of him, and of the people’s love.
By the time Merlin brought the costume back to Arthur’s chambers, his master had finished bathing and was sitting on the bed. Merlin glanced at the table and saw that the breakfast he had brought had barely been touched. Arthur stood and went over to the screen he habitually dressed behind.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, heaviness in his tone. Merlin knew that Arthur had never liked being bathed or dressed by someone else, so he passed the clothes to him around the side of the screen in turn then retreated with the heavy cloak to wait.
Merlin vividly remembered Arthur as he stepped out from behind the screen in his robes of state, which he would wear only once. His hair shone from his recent bath and the clothes fit his form perfectly. His skin was as pale as marble against the rich colour of the cloth. He looked exactly as Merlin had once imagined the kings from the tales told by his mother on the long winter evenings: handsome and regal, made untouchable by their status but with kindness in their eyes.
“Sire,” he croaked, suddenly feeling humble in Arthur’s presence in a way he had never felt before. He saw Arthur take a deep breath, and as the cloth moved against his chest it looked almost as if the golden dragon was flexing its wings.
“It’s time,” he said.
The ceremony was to take place in the Great Hall an hour after dawn. By the time Arthur arrived, the double doors had been drawn closed, shutting in the assembled nobles so that they could be opened at the right moment for Arthur to stride in. He took up his position and let Merlin arrange the cloak around his shoulders.
“Good luck,” Merlin murmured as he fussed with the fur lining against Arthur’s throat. It would be the last time he would address him as a prince; the next time they spoke, he would be King.
Arthur turned his head slowly to look at him, his lips slightly parted and eyes just a fraction too wide. He looked vulnerable, but he sounded like his old self when he quietly replied, “What do I need luck for, Merlin?”
The way he said Merlin’s name gave it undercurrents of ‘you idiot’ and made him smile. Arthur’s lips quirked up at the corners a little, then he turned to the doors and straightened himself. Merlin stepped aside, so that he would be out of sight, and they waited. A few moments later, the distinctive sound of a hunting horn drifted down from the castle’s highest tower, where men had been posted to count the time and announce to the castle and the town that the Coronation had begun.
The doors swung open. Arthur took a breath and stepped through, starting the long walk through the ranks of nobles and courtiers to his father’s throne. Merlin waited until the doors closed, then hurried around to one of the many servants’ entrances to the hall, shouldered his way through the press of servants squashed against the door to listen and pushed into the hall. It was crowded even around the edges by lesser noblemen and their families, who were not important enough to merit a seat, and so Merlin could stand against the wall and watch without attracting much attention.
Afterwards, he remembered little of the ceremony. He entered part way through the list of ancestors that Geoffrey of Monmouth read as proof of Arthur’s right to the crown, and what he did hear went in through one ear and out of the other. Nor could he recall the ritual by which Arthur received his sword and placed it within the scarlet scabbard, except that Arthur’s voice did not waver when he swore to remain loyal to his people and to protect them.
He did remember the moment that the crown came to rest on Arthur’s head. He knew that no one else in the room would see it behind Arthur’s mask, but as the officiator held the crown over his head, Arthur looked both capable of the post he would hold and a little afraid of it. Then the crown was lowered and the gold of Arthur’s hair and the gold of the crown seemed momentarily to be of the same substance, as if the man and the crown were one.
Merlin felt a weight lift from him, as though all of his life had been building up to this moment, and now the burden of bringing it about was gone. The officiator stepped back and the knights began to move forward in ranks to offer their swords to the new King. Merlin opened the servants’ door and slipped out of the hall unnoticed.
.