The Sword in the Stone (Patreon)

The Castle loomed on the horizon, growing bigger as the carriage rode on. Soon, it'd be a giant staring down at Arthur from atop its high throne on the hill, bathed in the flaming light of the rising sun.

It was not his first time treading this road, not his first time laying his eyes on the seat of the crown. No, what was new was his perspective. For this time he did not arrive in the capital of Camelot as a squire but as its future king.

Anxiety had an ironclad grip on his insides, the contents of his breakfast threatening to resurface. He'd barely been able to swallow the food, but now it seemed all too happy to want to go back the way it came. The constant jostling and juddering of the carriage did not help his stomach settle. In this state of distress, he couldn't even feel tired.

Arthur was no stranger to waking up before the sun could even start its ascend up the sky; as a squire, he was expected to rouse and slumber early. Like a chicken, Kay would joke.

But last night, which still lingered all around them in the long shadows cast by the trees and the houses and in the crisp, dewy air, Arthur had slept as fretfully as a teething baby. The dread that plagued him hung heavy in his chest and made each of his limbs restless, constantly turning and twisting, fruitlessly seeking comfort. It riveted itself above Arthur like a dark cloud, uneasy thoughts pounding against him like rain. How was he supposed to be King? He didn't know the first thing about ruling. He knew how to wield a sword and the proper greeting for each rank of royalty but couldn't even fathom what a monarch did beside preside from his throne, swimming in some nebula of responsibilities. So many people counting on him. Cool tendrils racked his back like claws.

Arthur wasn't sure if it was the world who was too much or if it were his senses that were too acutely aware of it, but every sound was too loud, every smell too foul, every motion too forceful. Everything seemed to rattle him. So when something nudged his leg softly, he startled as if shoved. 

He turned away from the foreboding sight of the Castle to meet Kay's gaze. His adopted brother tilted his head slightly, posing a silent question. Are you alright? They may not have had the same telepathic bond Arthur shared with his dragon companion, Elewen, but they could understand each other through mere small gestures and quick glances. Arthur replied with a wan smile. It was all that he could muster, and even that felt tiring.

Kay's nostrils flared as he exhaled an inaudible, helpless sigh. He knew his brother wished he could ease his mind, yet it seemed to Arthur nothing could console him. Being revealed as royalty - a King, no less - should have been cause for celebration, but Arthur felt as if he'd been handed a sentence for a crime he didn't even commit.

Everything had been in a frenzy since he'd received the news - his mind, his family, who now rode beside him, quiet and grave. Everything had been turned upside down since Arthur was ushered into his father's study, garbed in his finer doublet, to meet a most esteemed guest who would utter the words that changed his life. The same esteemed guest now sat opposite from Arthur in the juddering carriage.

Royal Sorcerer Merlin Wyllt had his manicured hands clasped in his lap and his gaze, faraway and serene, turned towards the windows. His eyes didn't seem focused on anything in particular, merely registering the quickly passing scenery.

Arthur had heard the whispers that followed the news of the King's demise. Solemn, hushed, reverential, speaking of how Merlin had been caught dabbing at his cheeks before he could compose himself again - and how quickly he did so! Truly a pillar of our Kingdom. The King had been his companion and friend for many years and here he was, keeping it together to tide over the Continent through these uncertain times.

The King. His father. Or at least, the man who sired him. It felt wrong to assign that title - which in Arthur's mind and heart belonged to Ector - to someone he'd only glimpsed from afar. A statuesque figure, unattainable on his high throne, almost mythical, known to Arthur simply as the man he'd one day bound himself to protect and serve. Uther's gaze never lingered in Arthur's direction. How could he had guessed that their fates were so tightly intertwined?

Twin onyxes met Arthur's eyes and he realized with a jolt that he'd been staring, lost in thought. He ripped his gaze away to his lap where his nervous, sweaty fingers worked industriously at crumpling and dampening his sleeve. Embarrassed heat creeping up his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin's gentle smile.

The sorcerer leaned against the window to take a better peek at the road ahead. They were climbing up wide, clean streets lined with elegant houses. They had entered the Royal Quarter of the town, where nobles and knights and merchants with the biggest coffers resided. The neighborhood roused sluggishly, starting with the servants, who were the only ones who could be glimpsed this early in the morning, bustling down alleys and throwing open the windows of their attic chambers. Ahead, the Castle stood ready to engulf Arthur.

"We'll be arriving shortly," Lord Merlin noted and despite Arthur coming to the same logical conclusion as the Castle filled his vision in all its blazing glory, his stomach clenched. It took all of his concentration not to expel its contents as the carriage decided, with most unfortunate timing, to lurch at that same moment. 

I wish Elewen was here, he thought mournfully. He'd suggested - almost begged - to be allowed to arrive at the Castle by flying with her, but he was told it would be unsafe and reassured she'd join them later. He grimaced as bile, sour and foul, coated his mouth. He was sure it would have went a lot better if he'd arrived that way. The carriage shook and swayed like some wild beast in a mad, erratic haste; soaring the skies was both quick and smooth and felt so much more natural to Arthur, and having Elewen by his side would have soothed him greatly.

"Arthur." His gaze flit from the Castle that dwarfed him to the man in front of him. Having gained his attention, Merlin smiled. "I'm afraid I'll have to part with you momentarily once we get to the Castle, to ensure preparations are going well. But do not fret, I shall rejoin you at the closest opportunity to guide you." There was something steadying, calming about Merlin. Arthur couldn't quite pinpoint whether it was the soothing cadence of his voice, the gentle tilt of his mouth or even the self-assurance in his eyes. But he was a pillar in a dock to which you tie up a boat and Arthur clung to it to anchor himself among the furious waters of his mind. He took a deep breath and nodded.

Like it or not, he was to be King, and he needed to start acting like one. Even if as his gaze trailed back to the Castle, he felt like a small child about to enter the belly of a beast.

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror and saw a fraud. 

The garments they brought him matched his measurements - yet why did they feel so ill-fitting? The high collar felt about to smother him, the scarlet red jerkin pushed against his rib cage. He'd never enjoyed dressing up fancy for events but this was even worse. This wasn't just any fun feast or boring ceremony where Arthur could blend into the background and sneak out with Kay at the first opportunity. This time, he would be the center of attention and there was no getting out of it.

To prove himself as King of Camelot, Arthur had to draw the Sword from the stone under the scrutiny of the Court. Merlin had explained to him, the day before, that the Sword had been forged in dragon fire and set into the stone before Merlin himself charmed it to only yield to the hand of a Pendragon.

Arthur took a step back and tried to envision the stone in front of him. He conjured up the glimpses he'd caught of it in passing, from a great distance, out the window as he was ushered down corridors to get prepared. He'd been thoroughly instructed by Merlin about what was expected of him: he was to step into the arena, set up akin for a tournament, and walk all the way to the stone, mounted on a stage. There would be the Sword jutting out of it for him to pull out. And that's all that had to be done. Walk and draw the sword out. While the most important people in the Kingdom watched. 

Even in the best of scenarios that Arthur made up in his head, he still saw himself tripping over his own feet on the way to the stage. But in the worst one, that filled him with dread and choked him up, the sword wouldn't even budge. And everyone would see.

And yet a part of him wanted it. For if the sword didn't come out at his pull, it meant he wouldn't have to be King. He wouldn't be a Pendragon. He could still be what he'd been told he was when he was a little child - a miraculous survivor of another dragon blood line. 

Arthur resolved with himself that if he were to do this, he should at least rehearse in some capacity, lest he made a fool of himself. So he squared his shoulders, reached out to grasp the imagined hilt and pulled -

The door to the chamber opened and Arthur froze, arm in the air, staring at Merlin through the mirror. He spun around to face the man, heat blazing up his neck, to his cheeks and all the way to the tips of his ears. He wasn't even in the arena yet and he was embarrassing himself. "Lord Merlin!"

The sorcerer closed the door and approached slowly. "What were you doing, Arthur?" There wasn't any trace of accusation in his mild voice. It somewhat mollified Arthur.

"Practising?" It was more of a question than an answer. It felt ridiculous now that he was saying it out loud. "Practising pulling the sword from the stone."

Merlin merely nodded. "I see." He raised one hand and with a few elegant flicks of his wrist and elaborate wiggling and twirling of his fingers, as if strumming the strings of an invisible lute, a translucent shape started to materialize itself between them. It looked like a misshapen lump, its seams blurring and quivering as if not quite sure where it was supposed to begin and end, still working on molding itself. And like a piece of wood is given shape and detail in skillful hands with every new shave of the knife, so did it gain a form Arthur could recognize.

Where there had been nothing on the lush carpet moments ago, now stood the stone with the Sword thrust within, looking as solid and real as if it had been transported from the arena here. Arthur wasn't convinced it hadn't been.

Arthur looked from the man to the stone to the man back again. Merlin simply smiled indulgently at his shocked expression. The only thing more impressive than the stone and sword was how easily Merlin had done the deed, merely waving his hand in the air as if to some tune only he could hear, his features unmarred by any sign of struggle.

"Um. Thank you." Even in his stupefaction, he remembered what his mother had taught him about being polite, and someone conjuring you a perfect replica of a sword in a stone was certainly something you should be gracious about.

The sorcerer inclined his head. "You may practise better now." He sat down on the golden upholstery settee, crossing his legs and hooking his twined fingers over his knee.

Arthur approached the stone slowly. Even under the scrutiny of only one pair of eyes, he felt nervous; yet the scrutiny was one of such patience and gentleness that it allowed the vice grip on his insides to loosen a little bit. 

The stone reached to his knees, dark and sturdy and jagged as if cut out from a rocky mountain's side. But Arthur didn't pay it too much attention - he couldn't, not when the sword stole all of it. It was a mighty longsword, with a double-edged blade whose metal gleamed a fiery reddish, as if already bearing the mark of its enemies' blood, and crowned by the most beautiful hilt Arthur had ever laid eyes upon. 

The hilt was fashioned as a dragon, its scales a scarlet red that had been meticulously sculpted into the surface. Its spanning wings spread wide to form the guard, while its neck made up the grip, ending in the pommel carved as its gaping mouth, inlaid with an onyx for the eye staring out menacingly at Arthur.

This was not the kind of sword you bloodied and damaged on the battlefield. It was the kind of sword you put on a bed of silk and dusted gingerly with fine feathers. It was the kind of sword forged to be marveled at, forged to impress, forged for spectacle. 

The kind of sword perfect for the reveal of a King.

"Is this truly what it looks like?" Arthur asked, and regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. What if he had insulted the Royal Sorcerer by implying that his magic was less than perfect? His eyes darted, alarmed, in Merlin's direction. But the man was not scandalized. He nodded. "Yes, but I do believe you will find that this mere imitation pales in the face of the real one. Now go on," he encouraged, as if gently assuring one that the dog they hesitate to pet does not bite. "Give it a try."

Arthur took a deep breath and grabbed the hilt. The sensation was strange. There wasn't anything solid in his hand, as his eyes had led him to believe would be, but he wasn't grasping at mere air, either. There was a peculiar, feather-like touch, like a soft breeze, over his skin were it was supposed to come in contact with the hilt. He took another deep breath, pulled...

And stumbled back, solid-looking-yet-not-actually-quite-solid sword in hand, his free arm flailing as he struggled to regain his footing. When he did, he wished he hadn't. He could have at least hidden his face in the carpet if he had fallen. Maybe even just lay there and ask Merlin to convey to his would-be subjects a message: their would-be King would better fit the role of Court Jester. 

"It's alright, Arthur," Merlin assured him. "Try again."

Arthur tried to think over the swarm of his catastrophic thoughts and assessed the situation. The sword, despite being an illusion, was about as heavy as he expected it to be by its looks. What he'd misjudged, however, was the ease with which the rock released it. He'd put too much force behind the pull, expecting a struggle. Now, to put the sword back. After more blundering from Arthur and tolerance from Merlin, the sorcerer made the sword in Arthur's hand disappear, rematerializing in its stony hold.

Arthur rolled back his shoulders and grabbed the hilt for a second time. It wasn't quite that different from drawing a sword from a scabbard, so Arthur pulled his arm back as if he were preparing to jump into fight. The sword slid out of the stone noiselessly and with ease this time, and pride trickled through the dread in his chest like water through cracks.

Still holding the sword up high, Arthur turned to Merlin with a wide smile. The man smiled back. "It seems like you're ready now." With a wave of his hand, the sword and stone were gone like mist in the wind. "There's something I wanted to give you." Merlin got up, coming closer to Arthur. His hand disappeared under his short, crimson cape and reappeared holding a small box of dark wood, which he handed to Arthur. "Go on, take a peek inside."

Inside, laid upon black velvet, was a brooch. Much like the hilt of the sword, it had been fashioned in the form of a dragon. They stood up on their back legs, wings spread open and sharp claws at the front, as if about to take flight - or rather, as if about to charge. The frame was gold, each scarlet scale a small, shimmering ruby. It looked like something a King would wear. And Arthur did not feel like one. His head snapped up to Merlin, mouth agape.

"I want you to wear this for the ceremony. It's your family banner, Arthur. Wear it proudly." Merlin squeezed his shoulders and said the words in a tone that would have inspired the sentiment in Arthur were he not so dizzyingly overwhelmed.

Arthur ducked his head, staring down at the brooch. Tracing a finger along its figure, over the black gem it had for an eye. Fixing Arthur, glinting with some dangerous fierceness that he couldn't find in himself. He shook his head. His vision clouded, his voice got lodged in his throat. "I-I don't know if I can do this, Lord Merlin. I'm not a King. I'm just a squire. I don't even know what people expect of me." He sobbed on the words, chest rising and falling erratically as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"My boy." Merlin cupped his face, voice soothing. Soothing like a lullaby, cadence patient and understanding. "I know it is hard for you. The burden of a Kingdom and a legacy have been sprung on you." He tilted up Arthur's head so that he'd meet his black eyes. Black as a stone rising out of tumultuous waters, where you'd take refuge and wait for the storm to pass. A stone which withstands the violent and capricious currents of the sea and the whipping of the rain and the scorching of the sun and inspires within one the same resilience.

"You're not on your own. You do not have to rule without council or guidance. I'll be here, next to you, every step of the way. Guiding you, shielding you, teaching you." He smiled, and the sight was like a ray of sunshine. "There's no shame in it. Every monarch, no matter how great or wise, needs someone to offer comfort in times of need." 

"Like...like a rock?" His tears had subsided but they lingered in the frailty of his voice.

Merlin's brow shot up every so slightly in surprise, which was quick to soften to endearment. "Exactly, Arthur. Allow me to be that for you."

Arthur swallowed heavily and nodded.

"Now," Merlin produced a dainty handkerchief from the mysterious depths of his cape where the box had come from and gave it to Arthur. The white fabric was impossibly soft to the touch and Arthur felt bad by simply looking at it. He could never really understand why people made such refined, lovely little cloths for such a messy wet thing as crying - the cloths he used to wipe his sweat during training were always sturdy, simple linen. He felt awful to ruin it with his snot and then have to return the sorry thing to Merlin.  

"Dry your face, take a deep breath. We'll have to get going soon." Merlin raised a hand, making a motion as if snatching something out of the air, and the short black cape laid out on a nearby chair fetched itself to his waiting hand. He wrapped it over Arthur's shoulders while the boy wiped his face and subtly blew his nose. Arthur figured that doing it as slowly and noiselessly as possible might somehow reduce the amount of snot. The cape gathered at the shoulder with a simple, golden clasp which Merlin closed for him. He moved carefully, delicately, as if helping a little child prepare for his very first feast. And like a little child, Arthur felt the need to fret and complain about the uncomfortable clothes, but refrained from doing so.

"I'll present you to the crowd and you'll get on stage and draw the sword as practised. If it makes you feel any better, don't even look at the audience. Keep your gaze on the sword."

Arthur nodded and tried to neatly fold up the now completely soggy handkerchief. Despite his best efforts, it was still a rumpled mess as he returned it to Merlin, not quite meeting his eye as he murmured his thanks. Merlin took it with no indication he minded its sorry state. Instead, he pinned the red dragon brooch to the front of Arthur's cloak, where it stood out boldly against the black of it.

"There," he smiled and guided Arthur towards the mirror. "Already looking like a King."

And in that moment, all dressed up and with Merlin by his side, Arthur could almost believe it.

Whatever confidence Merlin had inspired in Arthur evaporated like water in heat when they reached the arena. The chamber where he'd been left to ready himself was quiet and intimate and if not comforting, it had at least offered somewhat of a respite to his senses. Now they seemed assaulted from everywhere - the noon sun was too bright, the crowd was too loud. It wasn't even all that warm outside yet he was already covered by a layer of sweat like a second chemise. Bile and nausea rose in him again with a vengeance.

They stopped in a small pavilion that shielded them from the view of the crowd but allowed Arthur to take a look at the audience. The audience, who whispered and buzzed like a nest of wasps, that rumbled like some terrible, hungry great monster. He saw a mass of faces from which he might have been able to pick out some familiar visages. But his eyes only sought a few in particular, the only ones capable of offering solace. 

He found Elewen first. She was hard to miss, with her frame twice the size of a man and deep purple scales. Warmth flooded his chest and he felt that he might cry desperate tears of relief. For despite the dark waters of anxiety he was drowning in, her sight was a comforting one.

Her voice, tender and uplifting, filled his mind like sunlight bathing a long forsaken room. You can do this, Arthur!

Arthur send back to her his gratitude, and did his best to summon a feeble smile. Then he leveled the same smile at his brother, mother and father, before Merlin called out to him. "Arthur, it's time."

His stomach clenched painfully. That's it. He would not trip over his feet on his way. He'd hurl all over the stone and the sword and himself.

Merlin squeezed his shoulder. "I shall go announce you and on my cue, you step forward. You can do this." He met Arthur's gaze with his steady, sturdy rock one. Composed, calm, confident, the complete opposite of everything Arthur felt at the moment. "Like I've told you, keep your eyes on the sword."

Eyes on the sword, eyes on the sword, eyes on the sword, Arthur chanted in his head as the sorcerer moved away from him and into the arena. The crowd silenced at once. It was so impressive to witness, in fact, that Arthur actually forgot about his nerves for a moment. Merlin had tamed the beast.

Merlin then spoke, welcoming the nobles. His voice was not booming, but it carried clearly and smoothly. Wind tends to snatch away one's words, lose them within its tumult; but Merlin's words seemed to fly on the wind, to spread like a soft breeze. Suave, measured hand movements accompanied his speech as if to illustrate his point, but after what he'd witnessed in the chamber, Arthur suspected he must be using magic to project his voice so.

Arthur tried to focus on the speech instead of his anxiousness. Merlin made all the necessary, introductory, gallant greetings before moving on to the burning questions everyone had been simmering on - Is there an heir? Who's to take the throne? - teasing the anticipation to a boiling point. 

"There is a Pendragon heir, son of Uther and Igraine, who for fifteen years, has been raised away from Court for his own protection."

Tension bubbled over and the crowd erupted into chaos.

Arthur withdrew farther inside the pavilion, his own stomach threatening an incoming explosion. Merlin, on the other hand, remained poised and calm. "Silence, please." This time, the people took longer to calm down, but Merlin waited patiently while the tumult dwindled, quietly letting them know he would not continue until they behaved once again. He spoke up again only when the crowd settled completely.

"May I introduce to you Arthur Pendragon, ward of Sir Ector Alistair and your future King." Merlin turned his head to the pavilion. To Arthur. This was his cue.

Arthur stepped into the arena to a chorus of applause, gasps and murmurs. He didn't look at the rows upon rows of people, at the multitude of eyes fixed on him. He kept his gaze on the sharp tips of his fancy boots and stopped next to Merlin, who waited for him with a small smile. 

"To prove himself as Uther's heir, Arthur will pull the Sword from the stone which you see upon the stage. It has been forged by dragons and enchanted by myself to only yield to the grip of a Pendragon." Then, in a quiet, mellow voice meant only for Arthur, he added: "Go ahead, Arthur. Eyes on the sword."

Arthur had thought that Merlin managed to tame the beast but as he walked slowly, eyes on the sword, towards the stage, he realized that it merely laid in waiting, observing Arthur, measuring him like prey. Was this truly the Pendragon heir? Arthur could feel their eyes boring into him every step of the way, but his own eyes bore into the sword in the stone. And underneath it all, he could feel another presence, a different kind of attention - warm and soft and subtle, yet soothing. Elewen. He walked steadily, better than he's seen himself in his mind's eye. He climbed up the stage without tripping or expelling the contents of his stomach.

He stopped in front of stone. Merlin had been modest. His conjured sword had captured the mastery of its carvings and the vibrancy of its colors in the same ways a skilled artist can bring the beauty of nature to the canvas: and yet the picture could never compete with its subject, could never quite perfectly seize the fullness of its charm. 

He kept his eyes on the onyx ones of the dragon. Twinkling in the bright sunlight as if daring Arthur to reach out. A menacing invitation, a dangerous challenge. Arthur measured them up and so they seemed to do in return, weighing if he truly had what it took to be King.

His hand closed this time on the real, solid grip. He could feel the minutely sculpted scales press against his palm, not unpleasantly. It was reassuring that, out of any way to prove himself, it was by drawing a sword. As a squire, it was the most familiar part of this whole kingly affair.

The whole arena was suspended in anticipation as time seemed to slow to the sluggish, languid, thick flow of pouring honey; spilling over the table, creeping towards the edge...while everyone waited for the moment it would drip and pool onto the floor. Waiting for the moment Arthur would release them from this agonizing suspension, where the fate of a Kingdom balanced precariously on the edge of a knife - or rather, of a sword.

Arthur himself felt as if he was trudging through molasses. Perhaps he prolonged this moment, torturous as it was, because he knew that once he'd draw the sword, his life would change completely. Change in such a definitive way that had yet to sink in, even after having learned from Merlin, the very man who brought him to Ector, of his true nature. The sword would seal his fate, for better or worse.

You've got this, Arthur, Elewen's voice slid into his mind again. Whatever happens, I'll be by your side.

Arthur pulled. The sword gave in with ease, rising smoothly, the metal of the blade sighing against the rock in relief, as if it had been waiting for a long time now for him to come around and free it. He raised his arm, blade pointing to the sky, as hubbub rose all around him - shouting and gasping and applause, crashing deafeningly against Arthur from all sides. A ship at the mercy of a tumultuous sea - yet he still kept above the waves, even as they threatened to drown and overwhelm him, both from within and without.

Keeping his sword aloft, keeping his eyes on the blade.