"It simply doesn't suit the purpose of a coronation," Arthur said, insisted! It was for the fourth time that evening and he was growing rather sick of saying it. "A coronation is to welcome in a new monarch. I'm not new. You might as well have a coronation for Alfred the Great, what with the good it'll do you - what is there to coronate anyway?"

"Are you listening to him, madame? You know I have warned you about listening to him," Francis, having barged in several hours ago 'to translate Arthurian to English' had made himself quite at home, never addressing the queen by her proper titles and gorging himself on royal hard candies.

"I must listen to him," The queen said politely, only to be nearly interrupted, an experience she had probably never had in her life thus far. Francis had forgotten how to be respectful of authority.

"You cannot listen to what he says, but what you know in your heart is true," Francis said sternly. "He is an Englishman. Englishmen never mean what they say."

She turned to Arthur as if she was going to say something, but didn't, perhaps realizing it was about as prudent to argue with a Frenchman as it was to argue with an Englishman. Both her country and the country across the channel, in all their long years on Earth, had never quite been able to realize this. And so they continued their ridiculous arguments until at last, the queen left the room. It took Arthur ten full minutes to take notice but by then the date had been set and the men deemed knowledgeable enough to train him for the job were deployed, and the more and more Arthur thought about it the less frightening it seemed.

It was not destined to be nearly the theatrical, explosive affair like coronating a new monarch, who was always set to inherit what their (often parents) predecessors had left to them atop their grave. Quite rarely were they ever allowed time to mourn the loss before it was time to smile and sit tall, and wave for all the little children waving flags. Many a time he'd had to wipe his new monarch's tears away as they rode towards the abbey; would anyone be there to do the same for him now?

The Archbishop of Canterbury, an old man, had made the ceremonial trip up only days prior and stared at Arthur with heavy but smiling eyes. He was one of the few outside the royal family allowed the knowledge of Arthur's existence before the media vultures got to it; back when it was worth something to be told about them.

"How do you feel, my son?" He asked, sounding almost hoarse. England stared past him at the light trickling through Westminster Abbey. A brief 'fine' was all he got for his trouble, until he looked a little closer, past England, to see a human being clutching tight fists to his knees.

"About everyone knowing about you?"

"This is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes."

The mortal man chuckled a little at that. "Isn't it?"

The day came. Arthur stared out the window of the palace, his shoulders trembling a little. One by one angry drivers took detours around the predetermined route, which was swiftly being blocked off. People stood on their tiptoes and lifted children high on their shoulders to get a glimpse inside the palace, guessed and pointed to which room he may or may not be in. Outside there was a gilded carriage with four horses as nervous as he was, itching for the chance to pull him to his destination. Perhaps if they knew how little he wanted to go, they would not take him, but horses are dumb beasts and do only as their human masters tell them. They would take him and they would march back home to have their dinner and never think twice about how it would feel to sit in that damned chair -

Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand was pressed to his shoulder. Matthew blinked at him with a smile, taking a polite step back and pretending he didn't see Arthur shaking like a house in a blizzard. "It's okay," He said with a shrug, "I would be scared too."

"There's always room to fuck up," Alfred chimed in from the sofa. Like Francis he had immediately gone for the candy jar and had popped a cheekful into his mouth. Arthur frowned and Matthew gave him a warning look far too much like the ones Arthur used to give him. England found himself feeling proud of him as the greatest military power on Earth begrudgingly corrected himself, "You colonized like, a fifth of the world. A ceremony should be cake."

"A third of the world."

"A fifth sounds better."

"It doesn't."

"Well whatever, you get a party after. And there really will be cake there, right?" This, at least, seemed to arouse interest in him. "Because I could totally eat some of that chocolate cookie cake -"

"If you eat my whole cake I'll reach down your throat and take it back by force -"

Just then, the doors to the room opened slowly. Arthur shook again and Matthew took hold of his wrist, letting go only when he had to, when he and his brother were left in the room and Arthur went to finish getting dressed and somehow find his way into the carriage.

"This isn't ermine -" Arthur grumbled against the glass of the window. "This doesn't even feel like real fur."

"It's fake, actually," The queen interjected. Arthur dared to give her a dirty look.

"Why's that?"

"Animals have the right to life these days."

So some stoat got to keep his fur and Arthur was left itchy and nervous in the world's slowest carriage. His feet tapped the floor anxiously as he shifted from side to side, as if it would make him any more comfortable.

As the towers of Westminster Abbey floated into view above the rooftops in the distance, looming like a promise of the end, Arthur swallowed somewhat audibly. The archbishop finally decided to speak. "You look stunning, you know," He said with a nod. "Like a real prince."

"I feel like a coatrack," Arthur scoffed. The immense amount of robes and neccessary decorations weighed on him like they were lined with bricks, but maybe that was the point of it all, he thought to himself. Maybe the point of the heavy crown and the endless mass of thick, hot clothing was to drive the point of the coronation home.

Coronations were never welcoming parties for a new king - they were, if anything, funerals for the man the king used to be, often just a boy with all the toys he wanted and a friend who would be whipped when he should have been. It was a coming of age ceremony of the worst sort. If only he'd had a warning like all his kings before him, he thought. If only someone had been there to put a crown on his head and tell him that he'd have to be a big boy before the Vikings came and took what wasn't theirs to take. He looked across the seat at his queen, clenching her wrinkled hands tightly around the thick robes she herself had to wear.

Of course she had her own ideas of how his ceremony would go. And of course she'd written herself a part and memorized her own script and now she sat before him, bearing the same burden as he was, squeezing the embroidery until her knuckles grew white. Arthur could tell her that she didn't have to do this with him - she would deny it. And his rulers (but especially his queens) always got their way.

The carriage stopped, suddenly their inertia was entirely in his stomach and it twisted and burned like a furious snake. The door opened and everyone started shuffling out, her majesty first, the archbishop after... Arthur shuddered, the screaming crowd just beyond the little world inside the carriage calling his name and calling for more bloodshed. His feet hit the ground with a cold hard thud and the yelling only grew louder. Somehow he made himself step, once, twice. With all the weight of his robes and the world tugging on his shoulders he followed his queen to the doors and somehow didn't startle when they burst open, welcoming him inside.

"Good afternoon everyone," He murmured to the ghosts within.