Warnings: most of the blood and violence of the story is in this chapter, but it's not graphic.
"You'll keep me informed at all stages of the evacuation?" Arthur demanded. Leon was standing in front of him, bloodied from the battle, but having lost none of his dignity.
"Yes, my lord," he insisted. "The reports are all good so far. The first two groups are now away, and the third is preparing to leave. Messengers have come back reporting no resistance, and no attack. No doubt this fog is assisting them in their escape. Thank god for it."
"Or useless servants," Arthur muttered quietly, rubbing his eye, which was twitching annoyingly with exhaustion.
"My lord?"
"That will be all, Sir Leon," he said louder. "I will to my chambers and then to sleep, but you are to wake me at any hour if there is anything new to report, is that understood?"
"Of course sire. Sleep well."
And he had intended to. On reaching his chambers, he removed his armour, washed, and ate the food that had been left out for him. He looked longingly at his bed, perfectly made up as always, and thought seriously about crawling under those crisp white covers and losing himself in oblivion.
But there was a gnawing guilt at the back of his head, and the more he thought about it, the less he was able to ignore it. He couldn't leave things as he had with his father.
Well, he could, it wasn't as if the old boy was actually going to remember. But for his own peace of mind, he couldn't. It wasn't Uther's fault after all that he was no longer in full control of his faculties. It was up to Arthur to make their new relationship work, and above all, he needed to make his father leave Camelot for his own safety. He'd been so angry at their last meeting, he hadn't even been able to even get near having that conversation. Better to do it now and get it over with. He'd made arrangements for his father to leave in the morning, with his agreement or without it. The least he could do was tell him.
It was late when he left his room again. He could hear the continuing noises from outside and knew that the evacuation was moving ahead apace. One thing to be thankful for anyway: that and the fog.
Following Gwaine's none-too-subtle comments at the council meeting, he'd had a sneaky suspicion that if he left Merlin behind rather than including him in the battle, there was a chance he would make good the suggestion, and provide the necessary cover for all those thousands of people to escape. It made Arthur feel slightly underhand, using magic while publicly condemning it with full force of law. And also for using Merlin in that way. He wished things could be different, wished for the first time that they could actually sit and talk about it. But with everything that was happening, it just wasn't the right time.
That would change. Once all this rubbish was over, they'd do things properly. He'd find out about magic, not just scraping the surface and blindly following all those things he'd soaked up from his father without question, but look at the genuine threat, and what good if any, it could do for the kingdom. If that night was anything to go by, then surely it should at least be something they could consider using. They'd have lost far fewer men in that battle if they'd had a sorcerer or two of their own to fight with them.
But for now, he couldn't see any other option than to keep up the pretence, publicly deny magic, and rely on trusted swords instead. Magic was simply too distrusted in Camelot; his father and his sister had seen to that. That couldn't be changed overnight. And even he couldn't jump in and instantly accept something that he'd rarely seen used for anything other than to cause harm. He was getting there, but he wasn't there yet.
He met very few people on his way to his father's chambers, and thought little of that. Most were helping with the evacuation, or preparing themselves and their families for departure. Soon the castle would be as empty as it had ever been, the long corridors desolate and silent in preparation for the end.
The ground shook suddenly under his feet, and so violently that he had to put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. Dust fell about him from the ceiling, and somewhere close-by he heard a smash of something breakable falling over – and breaking. He looked around, wondering how long these old walls could take the punishment. And there was still, supposedly, two days to go. If this was going to continue getting worse, the demon was going to rise itself out of the ground and encounter little more than a big pile of rubble, possibly with a little flag pole on top, but certainly not much else.
Sighing, he set off again, reaching his father's chambers, and knocking firmly on the old oak doors.
There was no response from within. Nothing. Not a noise, not a shout, not a scraping of furniture. Perhaps he was asleep?
He knocked again. Still nothing.
Arthur considered. Maybe he should leave this until morning. It was after all, his own rather selfish desire to settle things and clear his conscience that had compelled him to make this journey. Surely he was just going to compound those feelings if he had to disturb his father's sleep and force him to listen as to how sorry he was?
He put his hand on the door handle. He'd sneak a look, and then leave. No harm in that surely.
The room inside was dark, but not completely. Candles were still lit, and an orange glow spread its flickering fingers out from the fireplace, throwing trembling shadows against the walls and curtains.
Arthur took a step inside, and knew instantly that something was wrong. Soldiers had that ability sometimes, hard battles gifting them with senses that helped them stay alive in the face of blistering attacks. Perhaps it was the smell in the room, or the unnatural silence, or something other and intangible, but whatever it was, Arthur pushed the door wide, and walked in, cautious, but determined.
Immediately, he saw his father lying on the bed under the covers as if tucked in for the night and ready for sleep. But his eyes were wide with terror or pain, and the front of his shirt, down onto the once white sheets that rose to his abdomen, were dark red with blood. He was clearly dead.
"Father!" Arthur rushed to the left side of the bed, a mix of fear and horror and grief gripping his heart and squeezing hard, threatening to burst it. He felt a paralysing confusion strike him, wiping away all purpose from his visit.
Forcing his shaking hands to function, he reached down tenderly, cupping his father's cheeks, knowing instantly that there was no hope of recovery.
"No," he whispered, his eyes brimming with overwhelming sorrow. He leaned down to kiss his father on the forehead, his skin still warm to the touch. Pulling back, his battle hardened senses kicked in once more, even in this distracted state, and he turned sharply at the sudden movement behind him, blocking the knife blade that was swinging down directed straight at his heart. It hit wide of the mark, slicing into his left shoulder, his blood turning icy at the shock as the injury sent a searing pain down his arm. He yelped as the knife was pulled out, but it fell loose as he stumbled backwards, his attacker clearly caught off guard by the sudden movement. Grasping at his shoulder, Arthur finally recognised who it was.
"Morgana!" he wheezed.
His sister had tracked the knife as it fell, looking like she wanted to go after it. But at his words, she straightened, smirking into Arthur's face triumphantly.
"Brother," she said. "I would say well met, but it hardly seems appropriate."
Arthur's mind went blank with rage and shock and pain. He spat out the first thing he could think of.
"How did you get into the castle?"
"The fog was most – advantageous," she said. "Though truth be told, you're in so much chaos here, an army of my people could have made it within these walls with little difficulty."
Arthur felt the blood seeping from between his fingers, but he ignored it, forcing himself to focus. "You killed our father!" he blurted out, blinking away the tears that were suddenly blurring his vision.
"You can't be surprised," she shot back. "I've been trying to kill him for years. Now, finally it's done." She looked over at the bed with hatred in her face, eyes dark.
Arthur shook his head. "He raised you," he said incredulously. "He treated you like a daughter!"
"I was his daughter!" she cried back. "He denied me, Arthur. All those years he had a chance to own up, to tell the world who I was and what he'd done, and he never did." Her face hardened. "A father who will not acknowledge his children is no father at all. He has no claim on that word with me."
Arthur was just staring at her. The horror of seeing his father dead, and the pain of his wound all but overwhelming him. "How could you do this to us?" he said quietly. "What did we do to you?"
"What did you do? You rejected me!" she screeched. "You rejected my kind! I have magic, dear brother, magic inside me that I did not ask for. My kind accept me, my kind support me. I have found friends and allies that you can not imagine, outside these walls."
"Friends?" Arthur spat. "Friends that are willing to betray you for their own purposes?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"Alvarr? He's one of your friends isn't he? He wanted to make a deal with me. He'd already told me everything you were planning before you came here. Your own people betrayed you, Morgana, just as you betrayed us!"
"You're lying," she spat. "It's just what I'd expect of you, Arthur Pendragon. Just what I'd expect of someone who hates magic."
"But things could have changed," Arthur shook his head again. "Things could have been different, if you'd only waited. It didn't need to be like this."
"Things will never change," she said patronisingly. "You hate magic every bit as much as he did." Her head jerked towards their father. "And you deserve to die every bit as much." She smiled, her red lips stark in her pale face. "And soon you will."
There was a pounding of feet, and suddenly Merlin crashed into the room. Morgana turned in shock, giving Arthur the chance to kick the knife away under the bed.
"Morgana," Merlin was panting from his run. He looked dishevelled and Arthur guessed he'd been in bed.
If anything, Morgana's smile widened at the interruption, but then it plunged away. "Traitor!" she called to him. "Here to watch your precious prince die?"
"I don't – think so," said Merlin, still out of breath. He circled away from the door, trying to move around to the opposite side of the bed from Arthur. He glanced at Uther and swallowed, clearly disturbed.
Morgana's cat-like eyes followed him, wary of them both, knowing acutely that she was outnumbered. Not that it mattered. She'd achieved what she'd come to do.
"You think you can stop me?" she demanded. "The two of you? Do you think anyone in this petty kingdom has the power to stop what I've started?"
"Stick around if you want to find out," Merlin said seriously, his eyes fixed on her pointedly. "You're weak Morgana. Your hatred makes you weak. You see only enemies, only what lies in front of you, and that makes you vulnerable."
"I see more than you know!" she responded with passion, raising her hands to cast a spell. But before anyone could act, there were more feet outside, and a contingent of guards swept into the room. Taken by surprise, Morgana tried to turn, but was quickly overpowered, and as she screeched and struggled, someone hit her over the head, knocking out her argument as quickly as her consciousness.
Arthur saw Merlin flinch at the brutal move, but felt nothing himself at seeing the girl he'd grown up with fall to ground.
In the confusion, he saw the figure of Gaius staggering into the room, also out of breath.
"Gaius," Arthur called. "My father…"
The physician came forward, his face haggard at the sight before him.
Merlin moved swiftly round the bed to Arthur. "You're injured," he muttered, trying to see the wound, but Arthur flinched away, his eyes on Gaius, as if somehow expecting a miracle.
Gaius simply lowered his head, his shoulders slumping. Then he reached up a hand, and gently closed Uther's eyelids. He turned to address the room.
"The King is dead," he stated. Then he looked at Arthur. "Long live the King!"
TBC