Arthur sat on the old stone bench in the lower courtyard, his boots scuffed.A chill wind wound through the open spaces, carrying the smell of smoke. The citadel bells tolled the slow, heavy notes of morning, though no one had much sense of time anymore. A practice blade, iron chipped and dulled, lay across his lap like an unwanted burden.
Mordred leaned against a cracked pillar, arms folded, hair tangled and windblown. Neither boy spoke. Little remained to say. They were both waiting, though neither admitted it aloud.
The castle above, once proud, now held a deepening quiet. Remaining servants moved like ghosts, heads low, voices lower. Dust gathered in high places. Grand, stained-glass windows stood dark, they sat cracked and forgotten. Camelot’s skin was splitting, and no one knew how to mend it. Arthur’s fingers curled unconsciously around the hilt. He didn’t remember when he started carrying it everywhere, only that he never left it behind. Its practice gave him something to hold onto, something with weight when the world grew lighter and less real.
“Take it.”
The voice was a breath against his ear, softer than the wind but sharper than any blade. He said nothing as he shifted slightly, but it still clung to his mind. The silence between Arthur and Mordred stretched, heavy and suffocating. It was Mordred who broke it, his voice low, rough from disuse. “They’re saying Uther has not left his chambers in three days. Not even for the council.”
Arthur said nothing. He had heard the same, even worse.
“They say he won’t,” Mordred continued, glancing toward the tower where Uther’s chambers lay hidden. “Not ever again.”
Arthur finally stirred, his gaze moving from the cracked stones to the iron-gray sky. There was no sun today and he doubted they would see it again soon. “I know,” Arthur said, his voice empty. “I know what they say.”
Mordred pushed off the pillar, crossing the courtyard in a few slow steps. He stood over Arthur, looking down with something too old for his young face. “What are we going to do if he never does?”
Arthur thought about the nights listening to the sword, about Uther hollowed out, gnawed to the bone.
“He is already dead, only you remain.”
“I think,” Arthur said slowly, “they are right and there is nothing we can do.”
Mordred’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. He watched as Arthur stood, the sword hanging loose at his side.
“You must take it. This is what you are.”
“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted. It was not the answer Mordred wanted.
For a moment, neither moved. The bells stopped tolling, leaving a hollow silence louder than any sound. Arthur turned, the sword dragging against the stone with a low scrape, and began walking toward the tower. Mordred fell in step beside him. They passed the kitchens, the air thick with the smell of something burning.
No one looked at them nor did anyone speak. The hallways beyond were nearly empty. Where once knights and squires had filled them with laughter, now there was only the scuff of their own footsteps. Tapestries hung limp, colors faded.
Arthur remembered how bright they once were, full of stories he had believed. At the foot of the tower, they paused. The door was closed, but unlocked. It hadn’t been locked for days. Arthur reached for it, hesitated, then pushed it open.
The chamber beyond was dim, light only from a narrow window slit. Uther sat slumped in the great chair before the cold hearth, a heavy fur draped over his shoulders. The sword lay across his lap, jewel dull and lifeless. Arthur stepped inside, the door creaking open. Mordred stayed by the threshold, unwilling to cross.
Uther didn’t move. His eyes were open, staring at the dead ashes as if something hidden there only he could see. His breath was shallow, but present. His fingers rested lightly on the sword’s hilt, not gripping it, not abandoning it. It sat in his lap like a relic of old battle, and he sat beneath it like the last stone of a crumbling tower.
Arthur crossed the room slowly, each step a sound against the silence. He stopped a few feet from the throne. He was close enough to see the fur on Uther’s shoulders damp with sweat, the skin around his eyes hollow and bruised.
Uther’s lips moved, but no words came out. Arthur said nothing. He made no move to touch the sword or the man who once called himself king. He stood there and watched, the sword at his side growing heavier by the second.
“He will not rise. You must.”
Mordred shifted near the door, uneasy, but did not speak. The room stank of old smoke and damp stone. Arthur breathed it in, It smelled like the end of something, like a grave left open too long. Time had passed but he didn’t know how long.
Uther did not move, his chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths. His fingers twitched once against the sword’s hilt, then stilled. Arthur knew the sword would not leave Uther’s lap easily, not yet.
There would be no final words or farewells. Only the slow, inevitable crumbling of a man once too large for this world, now worn down to a shell. Arthur’s gaze dropped to the sword. The jewel at its center pulsed once, faint and red, like a heartbeat struggling to keep time.
“Claim it. Claim him.”
He turned without a word and left the chamber. Mordred fell into step behind him. They descended the tower in silence. The corridors felt heavier now, the very stones weighted with what they had seen. No one crossed their path, not even servants or guards. There was only the rain tapping softly against the high windows, the sound of a castle settling into its own kind of death.
The rain fell in a steady, miserable curtain. Banners above the courtyard hung limp, soaked from the rain. Arthur paused at the base of the steps as he looked up at the sky, letting the rain touch his skin. He felt the weight of the sword at his side, a weight that would not leave him even if he cast the blade into the sea. Mordred stood beside him, silent. There would be no songs, no feasts. Camelot was already a tomb, and they were its last mourners.
Arthur lifted his head and stared into the gray sky, the rain sliding down his face. He did not know what came next, only that it would be heavier than anything he had carried before. He gripped the sword by his side a little tighter, as the rain washed over them.
