Swords are scattered through the dark hallway, worn down shields discarded in every corner. Dust and dirt stains the cracked windows, sills cluttered by burnt out candles. The light barely seeps in through the cracks, illuminating the torn tapestries and the chards of glass littering the floor. He steps onto the cold stone, closing the battered doors to his chambers behind him, and can't suppress a flinch as he steps into a puddle of dark red splashed on the floor. He walks on, crimson foot prints trailing him through the hallway. He can't hear his own footsteps.
He tries to remember the last time he heard a living soul walk these halls.
The staircase brings him down, further down into the castle, and he opens a familiar door. The bookshelves lining the walls tower over him, the tapping of spiders skittering across the floor. A book, well-thumbed and worn, is lying open on the table, waiting for the moment when its owner will return. Sitting next to the open book is a test tube, its congealed liquid oozing through the glass tube. A worm-eaten apple resides on a pile of yellowed books strewn with tassels. The bed is left as it always has been, in the middle of the room, unkept and unmade. The ashes are gathering in the fireplace, logs half charred by a fire put out in a hurry.
Even further down, on the first floor of the castle, the doors to the kitchens are left half open, but he doesn't go in. The stench makes its way into the hall, and he covers his mouth and nose, hearing the shrill squeaking on the other side of the door. Turning away, he swallows, trying to ignore the sound of claws on stone, and steps outside in the still morning air, not even a breeze easing the atmosphere, making his throat tighten in unease. With searching, uncertain steps, he finds the dwindling passage leading to the courtyard. As he walks through the narrow alleyway, outer walls covered in tangled vines, his breathing grows quicker, heavier, and he involuntarily hastens his steps. Looking up at the dark, gaping windows looming high above him, a torn curtain flutters suddenly.
His eyes remain on the near-shredded curtain, for one beat, two, three. But the curtain doesn't move. The window remains empty. And with a breath, he drops his gaze, and walks out of the passage, resisting the urge to turn around. A stream of sunlight hits his face as he finds his way to the courtyard, and he raises his hand to shade his eyes as he takes a few steps forward. Sharp objects dig into his bare feet, and he pauses, taking a step back.
The ground is littered with small, round objects, their gilded layers glistening in the sun. He sinks to his knees, looking closer, but not needing to. The signet rings gleam at him on splintered cobble stones, weed seeping up through the cracks. He recognizes every seal of nobility.
Sir Owain. Sir Pellinor. Sir Edric.
His hand etches out to pick the rings up, when the shadows of wings appear on the sundrenched courtyard. Looking up, he sees crows riddling the sky, flying in circles on their way down to the ground. They move down, down, and his gaze follows them, and lands, as they do, on the gallows in the middle of the courtyard. On the bodies covered in capes.
There is only one body, hanging by the neck on the gallows furthest to the left, that isn't wearing one. The white, receding hair is almost entirely gone, his sunken features as passive as they were in life. Wrinkled hands are dangling by his sides, smudges of ink still on his fingers.
Crumpled masses are surrounding the gallows. Seasoned peasant hands are palming the stones, bodies struck down with masks of terror etched on their faces. Some are charred by fire. Others bear the marks of ropes around their necks, knives in their chests, arrows in their hearts. The form of a woman, face curtained by scorched, grimy locks, is crumpled on her back in front of him. Her cheeks are ridden by burns.
As is the baby cradled in stiffened arms.
Its staring eyes meet his.
The memories appear in flashes, whirling before his eyes quicker than he can grasp them in their entirety. He needs to sit, but remains standing.
He remembers secret council scrolls, signed by younger, stronger hands, the screams of a child ringing in his ears. Books marked by blood, stowed away in the royal library. Incriminating documents, evidence of treason etched on the pages, and the noble names of the knights in his service. The chairs around the council table gaping empty. The library left in neglect. The castle guard's armory sealed off, filled to the limit with weapons proved ineffective. The tax vaults of Camelot emptying. The city growing silent.
Unmarked graves, too many to count.
A child crying itself to sleep with no one there to hold it.
No one but a man without a purpose, who has turned their future to dust.
He only hears the sound of footsteps as they are almost upon him, their slow pace echoing around the courtyard. As he turns, a lone figure has just made its way down the chipped castle steps, armor glistening in the sun. The dulled sound of boots against the stones rings in his ears, appearing as heavy, ominous thumps. The man – for it is a man, he sees this now that he has come close enough – is walking directly towards him, sword in his right hand, spear in his left.
He knows those eyes. That golden hair, brighter than the sun itself. The confident posture. The way his hands handle his weapons as if he was born with them.
He knows should he choose to kill, neither his hands, nor his heart, will betray him.
The man walks closer still. He doesn't stop, even as blue eyes settle on the man before him.
"Son …" he croaks out, wanting to shout for him to stop, to tell him what is happening, but doesn't find his voice.
The man reaches him.
Their eyes meet.
And Uther Pendragon knows, whether Arthur's hand severs or soothes, that this is the end.