Arthur Pendragon hasn't cried in years. Not since he was young, when he had cried alone in his bedchamber, wrapping the soft quilts around him to swallow the sound. He has learned early on never to do so in public- such displays are met with a sharp glare and immediate orders to retire to his rooms till such an unseemly exhibition has passed.
The last time he cried, it had been his father's fault. By the age of 6, had never been told why he seemed to have no mother- any mention of a Queen Pendragon was hushed far before it reached the young princes ears. It had puzzled him, puzzled him enough to ask about her, but soon the king had heard of the Princes questions, summoning him to his chambers for a blistering lecture. The little boy stands proud as his father rails at him, arms behind his back, head unbowed. He promises at the end never to mention her again, and is exiled to his rooms.
He walks out proudly, back straight under his father's iron gaze, but the pride slips as he walks away, and soon he is running, racing back to his chambers to fling himself on the bed and sob till he is exhausted. It is Morgana who comes that night, to hold him as he cries, to tell him everything will be alright.
But there is no Morgana now. She is gone, taking her sisters body with the magic he never knew she had, leaving his father broken, almost gone. He barely recognises his son, only stares out the window to the courtyard where his knights so nearly died. He does not respond when people speak, sits mutely as Gaius feeds him, and when he sleeps, it is nightmares that wake him till he must be drugged.
Arthur cannot see his father like this. Day after day, excuse after excuse till Gaius stops asking. To see him is to accept that this is happening and that... would be too hard.
He learned from his father how to be strong, if strong is the right word. A king cannot be seen to doubt himself, to do so is to invite questions. He cannot be seen to fear, or such a fear will spread. A king is infallible, unquestionable, unstoppable. But Arthur does not feel like a king, and he cannot help it.
He is alone. Even with the new knights he feels it, even with Gwen and Gaius, it follows him like a shadow on the sun. Only with Merlin is there some small respite, where he can forget the feeling that haunts him, too busy exchanging barbs and insults with his pale manservant. Sometimes it is even enough for him to laugh, honestly laugh, like he hasn't done in weeks.
It is one thing to keep a mask in front of the lords, his friends, even Merlin, to be strong and confident as the kingdom is slowly repaired but now, tonight, when Merlin blows out the last candle and bids him goodnight, it is all too much, and he is back where he started all those years ago. A frightened little boy who cannot cry where someone will hear him, burying himself in coverlets so no-one will know.
He does not notice when the door creaks open, a small shaft of torchlight falling on his shaking form. He does not hear a figure cross to his bed. But when warm arms wrap around him, he falls into them, relishing the comfort they offer with pathetic gratitude.
He buries his head in a pale neck, tears dripping down to soak the rough shirt as the Prince of Camelot finally lets go, the tears flowing faster as the misery he keeps locked away fights to escape, a prisoner denied its freedom far too long. It tears at him, threatening to rip him apart, but the arms hold him, hold him together, murmuring gentle words of comfort till at last the final tear is spent, and the Prince is drained and on the verge of sleep.
It is half dreaming he feels the soft kiss on his brow, the movement of the coverlet as almost maternal hands tuck him in. He probably will not remember in the morning just who gave him comfort, but for now the Prince of Camelot drifts to sleep, comforted, secure in the knowledge that he is not alone. Not anymore.