Berimund rolled his shoulders and tried to ignore the cacophony seeping even through the thick wooden doors of the king's chamber. It wasn't his place to intervene, he reminded himself. Still, part of him wanted to walk through those doors and share the king's burden.
Berimund had been attached to the castle as a guard less than a month ago. He might have taken pride in the appointment, but for the dark cloud he entered under. Their beloved queen's death had been the impetus for his rising in the ranks—more guards stationed throughout the citadel to prevent further attacks. The shadow of mourning persisted. Much of this had to do with the king who had gone about his duties but without the spirit he used to display. Many surmised this was due to his inability to capture the sorceress Nimueh who had been directly responsible for the queen's loss, but Berimund perceived more in his eyes. The king who had always seemed so valiant and fearless had lost confidence in himself.
Berimund kept mum, of course. He was the youngest of all the guards at just 21 with no established prestige to advise the illustrious King Uther. All the same, he wished he could do something to ease the man's pain. He wasn't sure what he would do if he had lost his Miriella.
The king's door creaked open. Berimund snapped to attention. Ever since Queen Ygraine's death, the king had been protected day and night. Berimund knew he'd been handed the unwanted night shift duty because he had no clout, but he considered it an honor nonetheless and he didn't want the king to think otherwise.
"You," the king addressed him gruffly.
"Sire?"
"I need..." The king looked bedraggled and helpless, dressed only in his night clothes. "A wet nurse?"
Berimund blinked at what he held in his hands—a squalling infant, crying out in pain. He started to speak, opening his mouth, then closing it. He should keep his peace and simply obey. But then the king prompted him.
"What is it?"
"I believe the wet nurse left but a few minutes ago, sire."
The king nodded, eyes bleary and concerned as he glanced at the infant.
"If I may suggest..."
"Yes?"
Berimund nodded at the babe. "May I take a look, sire?"
Uther seemed desperate for any help, thrusting the baby out at Berimund. In truth, Berimund had been quite impressed when the king sent the wet nurse away after the baby's feeding and refused any other help. No one knew why he wanted to be alone with his newborn son. It was common for kings to let their children be raised primarily by others. Berimund had suspected, though, when he'd seen the king holding his son and staring into his tiny face, that he bore a resemblance to his mother and maybe that eased the king's dark mind.
Berimund leaned his pike against a wall and approached, accepting the infant and cradling him into his chest. The king ushered him into the room and shut the door.
"I've tried everything," Uther insisted, running a hand through his nut brown hair.
"He's been fed," Berimund muttered thoughtfully. He set the baby down on the large bed, unwinding the swaddling cloth. He ran an eye over the infant, checking his fingers and toes for any stray hairs that may have wound around, cutting off circulation. The infant was a good sleeper, so his upset was unusual. Berimund heard a gurgle, and the baby clenched his fists and howled. Berimund smiled. "I think I might know, sire."
"Yes?"
Berimund draped the cloth over his arm and picked up the baby, turning him so he lay on his left side. He supported him along his right arm, then pulled him into his chest and began to walk up and down the room, gently rocking. The baby continued to cry.
"Are you sure this isn't hurting him?" the king inquired.
"He's already in pain."
"How do you know?"
"The type of cry. This will relieve it, I think." Uther looked on in amazement when the baby calmed and a loud puff of air sounded. Berimund grinned. "Gas, sire."
Uther stared for a moment longer than began to laugh heartily. He motioned to the bed where he sat and Berimund joined him. He made to hand the infant over, but Uther raised his hands. "Not yet. He seems to prefer you."
"I don't think so, sire. Any time you hold him he has eyes for no one else." Berimund heard a choked sob and turned his head away. "I was out of place, sire."
"No. No. It's all right. You're right. It's just...I cannot take my eyes from him. When he is not with me..."
"You feel alone."
"Yes. How do you know?"
Berimund turned the baby on his back, wrapping him up in the cloth. "I had several brothers and sisters. I was the oldest. Two died. I cannot help but think of their souls even to this day. There is something missing even now."
He caught Uther nodding out of the corner of his eye. "I am sorry for your loss, my lord."
Uther stood. "Thank you for your aid."
Berimund stood as well, peering into the far more content blue eyes of the babe. He handed him back to the king who cradled him as gently as he would a delicate flower. He made his way back to the door. "Sire?"
"Yes?"
"Has he a name yet?" In all the chaos of the queen's death, the baby's naming day had been postponed.
Uther smiled. He hadn't looked up, now entranced with the baby's tight grip on his finger. "Arthur."
"Prince Arthur," Berimund spoke. "A fine name. May he be as strong and resilient as yourself, my lord."
He shut the door as quietly as he could and took up his post once more. For the first time since he'd come here he sensed a ray of hope. The babe was a light in the king's darkness and perhaps Camelot would not remain shadowed forever.