No. 7—The Way You Shake and Shiver
Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attack
A/N: This is set somewhere in Season Two, I think, after Morgana started figuring out she had magic but before she really turned evil. Not that she's in this fic, but, you know.
Arthur curled up on himself. He had only a thin shirt and ripped pants between him and the cold of the dungeons. The bruises had finally faded, the whip wounds turned into scars. Once King Wayef and his sorcerer had found the right spell, Arthur had unwillingly told them everything they needed to know in order to take Camelot.
And now, he was of no use. Wayef had kindly let him live long enough to heal while they set up his execution. After all, they had no reason to torture him anymore.
Arthur glanced at the back of his cell. With the light of the new day, he could see the long rows of lines he had made with a rock to mark the days. Ninety-seven days.
Somewhere about day fifty-three, he had lost hope of rescue.
His hands shook. He hid them in between his knees and his chest. His fingernails had just begun to grow back in. The crooked fingers on his left hand couldn't be helped, but he wouldn't be troubled by them anymore. He could practice standing so he could go to his execution with dignity, but if he hadn't been able to recover from the poison yet, ten more minutes wouldn't make much difference.
"I'm sorry, Father," he whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't stay strong enough. I'm sorry I couldn't keep Camelot safe." Wayef's armies would march just as soon as they saw Arthur burned at the stake this morning. They would take their swords and torches to the streets, destroy Arthur's people.
And it would be all his fault.
He fought for breath against the icy pain in his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ignored you, Merlin. I'm sorry I ignored you, Morgana. You were right. The patrol was too dangerous. I should have been more careful." Morgana, who had ran out just before he left frantic from a bad dream and begged him not to go. Merlin, who, even badly ill with influenza, had tried to come and insisted that if Gaius wouldn't let him go, then Arthur shouldn't go either because he'd get hurt.
Arthur had called him a delusional wimp and left anyway.
The last time he ever spoke to Merlin, and he called him a delusional wimp. Not that he hadn't been acting like a delusional wimp at the time, but Arthur wished his last words to his best friend—yes, he could acknowledge it now—had been a little nicer.
Guinevere…she had kissed him and told him to be careful when he left. He had promised he would.
But at least Lancelot was still out there. Somewhere. She wouldn't be completely alone.
He gasped for breath, his chest tight. He was going to die. The flames would lick his feet, run up his pants, sear his chest. He would die in horrible agony in just a few minutes. And he wasn't ready. He thought he would be strong when he died, but he didn't have any strength left.
Tears spilled down his cheeks. His chest clogged. "I don't want to die," he whispered.
The cell door creaked open. "Time's up," a guard said.
Arthur started. He wiped his face with his sleeve and sat up. "I'm ready." His voice failed him halfway through. Not the strong face he wanted to put on.
Two armored guards hauled him up and dragged him out of the dungeons into the cold cloudy courtyard. A platform with a stake and bundles of firewood had already been set up in the middle of the square. The army surrounded it, King Wayef standing on a balcony above. A small crowd of ordinary subjects gathered below the balcony. One old man with a long white beard stared at him with sorrowful blue eyes. Something was familiar about him, but Arthur couldn't place what.
The guards dragged Arthur up the platform to the stake. A small path had been left in the bundles of firewood to the stake in the middle.
Despite the biting cold, sweat trailed down Arthur's face. His breath quickened. He scuffed his bare feet against the wooden platform. Splinters dug into the bottom of his feet.
The guards slammed his back against the stake and chained his hands behind him. They wrapped chains around his chest and his knees, stopping his automatic sag. One stooped to fill in the last empty bit with firewood.
"Wait!" Arthur said.
The guard froze. "What?"
Arthur met the guard's green eyes. He swallowed down the pleas that leapt to his tongue. He still had the chance to go out with dignity. He didn't want to die. He certainly didn't want to die alone like this. But this guard couldn't help him. "Nothing."
The guard nodded and set down the bundles. "Try to breathe in as much of the smoke as you can. Then you'll go out easier. It's better than burning."
"Thank you." The words leapt out of Arthur before he could stop them. He curled his hands together to quell the violent shaking. The clanking of his chains would give him away.
The guard hung his head as he left with the others. Four stood at the corners of the platform with lit torches.
"Today, my friends, we strike the first blow against Camelot!" King Wayef called. "Today, we kill the son of Uther Pendragon. Today, we march to Camelot!"
The army cheered raucously. Arthur flinched. The court of Camelot would be caught by surprised when the armies poured out of the siege tunnels Arthur should have been able to keep a secret, never mind the magic and the brands and the whips and the blades and the clubs. They wouldn't have a chance.
"Soon, we will be just as rich as our neighbors have been for years. Your women will wear warm wool this winter. Your children will not cry out in hunger as the days freeze. You will all have two pigs and a cow of your own. We will all be feasting in Camelot in a couple weeks!" Wayef called.
The army cheered again.
Arthur gritted his teeth. Camelot and its people did decently, but they were far from rich. Instead of invading another kingdom to improve his subjects' lives, why didn't Wayef try the measures Father had implemented that made sure Camelot wasn't wracked with poverty?
"Light the fire!" Wayef ordered.
The four guards with torches stepped forward. They lowered the torches to the bundles of firewood. The firewood caught easily, orange curls creeping towards Arthur. He couldn't catch his breath. He jerked against the chains, but they held firm. A tear trailed down his cheek. The fire crawled down a branch towards him. The flames spread throughout the wood. A flame caught on his pants and another on his shirt. Heat burned his skin. He clamped his mouth shut against a scream.
Lightning flashed in the sky. A storm was coming and Arthur was about to die.
A/N: Just to give you some hope, the old man in the crowd with the familiar eyes was Merlin. And so was the lightning.