Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, I own none of the Merlin characters, but they are on my Xmas wishlist… We are all naught but pawns, in the strange game of Fate that probably could not be described as Chess…

Do R&R, if you feel that way inclined. Let me know not to give up the day job just yet… =D

Chapter One:

The King's Lament.

There is a moment, when the entire world is still. The broken king stands, his dignity, and all forms of majesty having entirely vanished from his demeanour, converting him to nothing but an ashen eminence. Naught but a weak shadow of the warrior he once was.

He embraces the world in his arms, the one boy who keeps him whole, yet he can feel the burden dragging him down. An utter loss slowly begins to trickle into his veins, influencing his thoughts and heading for his heart with every intention of shattering it, filled with the fixation that he is now alone,

His son is his only family, and now, he fears, he will lose the salvation that he has taken for granted within his court. Uther does not want even to so much as glance at the young man in his tight hold, although he can feel the strong hands of fault drawing his narrowed gaze down, towards the still body.

It had been him, the ignorant king of Camelot, who had given the abrupt, seemingly uncaring, order for Arthur's knights to ride out at breaking dawn, to meet the creature that would have such a great part to play in the fate of the Pendragons. The Questing Beast. He knows the identity of his son's killer. A magical creature, there is no doubt about that. Although Uther knows that, upon this earth, it breathes no longer.

There are few words that remain within the old king's mind when faced with a situation such as the one he has been thrown head-long into – A product of his own doing, as his hate-fuelled inner consciousness tells him – Although there is a phrase which is continually striking at his mind, a constant alarm as to the nature of the beast. The Old Religion. The practice of magic.

Previously to this earth-shattering moment, Uther had believed that he had outlawed the Old Religion many years ago, when he had first taken command of the kingdom of Albion, and he was but a young man, although his ambitions overshadowed his age. He had exiled the Old Religion, eradicated it completely from the face of the earth, like the race of the Dragons. Or so he had thought. The irony would seem bliss, if the situation were not what it is.

There is no way to save the young Pendragon. The truth strikes Uther like the razor-sharp point of a sword blade penetrating his very self, burying straight into his heart. The words, echoing through his mind, twist the blade in deeper, until there is nothing that can be done. The cold courtyard stone rushes up to meet his weakened knees as they scream their protests, destabilized by the negative thoughts from the king's mind, and the warm, heavy weight of the boy's body in his arms.

The king's feet, clad within their leather boots, curl up at the toes as he kneels, unable to do anything about the sudden, yet distinct, lack of vigour and strength that he finds himself unable to overcome or surmount. Uther feels weak, worse than he ever has done before, as realization dawns upon him, and he understands the true fate that will befall his once and only son. Only a miracle can save him now. This Pendragon does not believe in miracles.

Unwillingly laying the deathly pale, still and silent body of his beloved son upon the grey stone ground, Uther looks up, towards Camelot castle, and all of his surroundings seem to melt before him. Colours and shapes seem blurred within the kaleidoscope of clear crystals that form in his dark eyes, their usually narrowed glare opening up. And it is at that moment that the world sees their king cry.

The king's lament does not go unnoticed, although, later on in this series of events, Uther will wish that it had done… The young man's body is retrieved from the floor, which now supports it entirely, by four strong men, their blood-red cloaks billowing out behind them in the direct northerly wind, accentuating their physical prowess and the burden that they bear. Arthur's knights. Arthur's friends.

The once-great king, now but a pale and discoloured shadow of his former self, kneels upon the ground in his own courtyard, watched by the inquisitive and somewhat violating eyes of each and every passer-by around the static figure. Slowly, the silver tears, glistening upon the tanned and weathered cheeks of the weeping king, begin to slip across the surface, trickling into the aged grooves previously carved upon his skin. The cold from the stones starts to sink through the thin fabric of his trousers, freezing his skin, although he cares not. He prays.

"I shall not leave him." Uther's belligerent defiance to anything that his court tells him of is almost pugnacious and argumentative, and no one dares to persuade him otherwise. The king remains, as he has done for the past two days, at Arthur's bedside, departing from the room only for the most vital of state responsibilities. Otherwise, he remains right where the ostensibly incurable, comatose Arthur needs him most, discarding the rest of his rational life in favour of his son and heir.

No one has ever seen the king in such a state before this, except that one fateful night, just over twenty years ago, when Uther was a much younger man, and Arthur was no more than a tiny, newborn babe, clutched rigidly within the cold, lifeless arms of the mother that he would never know. It is a forbidden subject, tabooed within the court, and all those who have any dealing at all with the king of Albion know better than even to mention it.

Arthur is so precious that it hurts Uther gravely both mentally and physically to see him in such a state, and know that there is no cure for the injury that he has unjustly taken. Yet the king shall never truly accept defeat until there is no hope whatsoever, even for the rationalist. The sceptic. The disbeliever.

His head hangs low on his shoulders, his eyes turned away from Arthur's prone body - One of the rare moments when Uther's attention is not solely upon his son – As his brain slowly begins to adapt itself into a more immobile status, preparing himself for the respite that has been deprived of the king for so long. His breathing deepens, gradually welcoming Sleep to his weary body, without resistance.

However, even as he pauses in his self-proclaimed duties, watching over his son, Uther's mind never completely allows Arthur out of its metaphoric sight. He knows that he will awaken again, almost instantly, should the young prince so much as stir in his fever-induced rest.

And, with this final thought, Arthur's guardian angel sleeps.

A/N.
Yes, I know that was terrible. However. R&R and I promise you that the next chapter shall be pure, unadulterated awesomness. And shirtless Arthur. =D