"What does ail my lord, my dearie?"
Wet Stick rounds the corner, and misses colliding with Goosefat Bill by inches. They have arrived at the same door at the same time, and they stand there blinking at each other for a moment.
"What are you doing here?" Goosefat wonders. Wet Stick glances at the double doors before them, then back at Bill. Echoed hammering issues from under the doors as Wet Stick shrugs casually.
"Same as you, I expect." Together they contemplate the doors, and specifically the person they knew to be behind them. "Something's off with Arthur," Wet Stick notes concernedly. Bill nods, and pulls one of the heavy doors open, gesturing Wet Stick in.
"After you," he grins, bowing. Wet Stick shoves him as he passes through the doorway, and Arthur glances up at their quiet laughter. The two knights watch as their king sets down the hammer in his hand, picks up a nearby cloth, and begins to polish the styled wood of his beloved new project. His jaw is set, and his hand moves the cloth across the shining wood in strong, precise movements.
"I see you're hard at work on your precious wheel of cheese," Goosefat comments, pulling up a chair behind Arthur and sagging into it. Wet Stick grabs a chair of his own, places it beside Bill's, and then sets another chair pointedly at the back of Arthur's knees. The king ignores it.
"How are you doing, mate?" Wet Stick asks, settling into his seat beside Goosefat.
"Fine," Arthur answers shortly. He is polishing more vigorously now, trying to avoid conversation, but he is panting slightly with the effort. Wet Stick and Goosefat exchange glances.
"Do you need something?" Arthur asks them after a moment, still focusing his attention on the incomplete round table. His voice is slightly breathless, but neither of the knights call him out on it.
"Just wondering when you're gonna take a break," Wet Stick says instead, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him. He and Bill are the image of rest and relaxation, but still Arthur doesn't turn around.
"Yeah, mate," Goosefat pipes up. "You're making me tired." And before Arthur can argue, Bill kicks the chair in front of him hard; it hits the back of Arthur's knees and slides beneath him. The way Arthur collapses into it verges on alarming.
The king finally turns to glare at the two knights, but he doesn't stand up again, and that's something, at least. This close, Wet Stick and Goosefat are struck by just how pale Arthur is. He is sweating slightly, and there is a heated flush to his face that leaves no doubt about his current state of health, or lack thereof.
"Go get some sleep," Wet Stick tells him flatly. It isn't a suggestion.
"Is that how you're gonna address your king?" Arthur asks him, fist clenching around the cloth he still held. Wet Stick sighs inwardly, all too familiar with Arthur's irritation. He knows his friend hates any attention to his own illnesses or injuries, and resents the patronization and vulnerability that come with it. But Wet Stick doesn't back down; Arthur isn't well, whether he admits it or not.
"No, that's how I'm gonna address my best mate." Wet Stick watches as Arthur opens his mouth, but Goosefat speaks first.
"You know what? Never mind," he says lightly. "Let him work." Wet Stick gapes at him, and Arthur looks suspicious. "He'll eventually pass out, and then we won't have to argue with him."
"Good idea!" Wet Stick nods enthusiastically. "Your choice, Arthur. Go get some rest of your own volition, or watch us follow you around all day until you pass out and we drag you to your rooms." Arthur sighs, runs a hand through his hair.
"Fine," he relents. "You win." The king stands, his chair scraping against the stone floor, and then begins to head out of the room.
"We'll bring you some soup," Goosefat quips. The polish-coated cloth smacks him square in the face, and Wet Stick swears he hears a hoarse laugh as Arthur disappears around the corner.
…
Later, Goosefat wonders how the day went so wrong so quickly. He wakes up in chains, in a small, dingy prison in some long-forgotten part of the castle. At least, he thinks it might be the castle, but things are a little fuzzy, and he wouldn't put any bets on the veracity of his jumbled thoughts. But, wherever he is, the other knights are there, too - also in chains. Bill blinks away the blurred edges of his vision and meets eyes with the others. They are all alive, at least, and seem to have no major injuries. Goosefat is just getting ready to ask if anyone actually knows what's going on, when the door flies open and a hooded man storms in. He slams the door behind him without touching it. A mage, Goosefat notes.
The mage brings up a hand and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. Then he crosses his arms and glares threateningly at the captured knights.
"Now that you're all here," he begins, conjuring a ball of fire in his hands, "will anyone tell me where the king is, or do I have to resort to other methods?"
"I know where he is," Bill says immediately. He fights to conceal the sudden surge of pride he feels when the other knights do not look alarmed or upset. They trust him as steadfastly as he trusts them. Goosefat smiles pleasantly as the mage approaches him. "He's hiding," Bill informs him conspiratorially. "In the king's secret safe room. It's underneath the west wing." Triumph flashes across the mage's face for the briefest of moments, before-
"You idiot," Wet Stick scoffs. "He isn't there. I definitely saw him heading to the docks."
"Yes, well, you've taken a knock to the head, haven't you?" Bill retorts.
"So have you!"
"You've both been knocked out, and are therefore unreliable," Bedivere joins in, as the mage begins to growl. "I know for a fact that the king ran into the forest."
"Shut up!" The mage shouts, slightly hysterical, as Bill and Wet Stick begin to argue back. They quiet down and watch the frowning mage, who takes a deep breath, and then speaks through clenched teeth. "Does anybody know where the king actually is?"
"Yes!" all four knights respond vehemently. There is an instant uproar as each knight screams out their own location, and the mage ineffectually shouts for silence. With the noise and chaos, the mage doesn't notice the door behind him swing open slowly and soundlessly. He doesn't hear the slightly unsteady footsteps behind him, nor does he feel the extra pair of eyes watching him. But he does take notice when Arthur puts both hands on Excalibur's hilt.
Instantly, the room's temperature plummets, and sheer power explodes outwards from where Arthur is standing. The knights are shoved back against the wall by the force of it. Dust rains from the ceiling and is swirled around the room in the unearthly windstorm. Goosefat's vision is obscured by the gray winds, but he can feel Excalibur's power, and it makes chills run up his spine. The knights can see nothing, but they hear the metallic ringing of Arthur's sword, and then suddenly, there is silence.
The dust begins to settle, and Arthur is there, breathless and flushed, but standing nonetheless. The hostile mage, whether dead or unconscious, lies at the king's feet. As the scene settles, the chains keeping the knights against the wall fall out; the old wall is so blasted and degraded that the metallic chains come free of their own accord. Still vaguely shocked by the always-breathtaking display of Excalibur, and by the unexpected appearance of their sick king, the knights stumble forward a couple of steps, watching Arthur carefully. He is holding Excalibur loosely in one hand, and grinning at them all, half smug and half delirious with exhaustion.
"See? I told you I was fine," he laughs, and for the briefest of moments he sounds like his normal self and stands with his usual strength and assuredness. But then that moment passes; Excalibur slips from his grip, his eyelids flutter, and he sways dangerously. Goosefat Bill, nearest to Arthur, grabs him before he hits the floor.
"Yeah, we know," Goosefat assures him. "You're all right."