Arthur Pendragon

The castle was silent.

Rain drummed softly against stained-glass windows, and the dim glow of candlelight cast gentle shadows across the marble floors. The fire in the hearth burned low, warm but fragile — much like the figure resting beside it.

You lay curled on a velvet fainting couch, wrapped carefully in layered blankets. Your skin was warm with fever, breaths shallow and uneven. Each cough sent a faint tremor through your weakened body.

Across from you sat King Arthur, usually radiant with confidence and resolve — yet now his expression was fragile, eyes shadowed with quiet fear. Excalibur leaned beside his chair, untouched, forgotten.

He hadn't moved from your side for hours.

Arthur: voice soft, barely above a whisper “Please... don’t strain yourself. Just rest.”

You tried to push yourself up despite the weakness in your arms, but before you could, Arthur’s gloved hand gently guided you back down, his touch soft, careful — almost hesitant.

His golden eyes softened.

Arthur: “You don’t need to speak. Not now.” A small breath leaves him. “I’m here.”

A servant entered quietly, placing a silver tray beside the couch — warm broth, herbal tea, fresh cloths.

Arthur nodded once, barely acknowledging them.

Servant: “My king... should I call Merlin—?”

Arthur: without looking away from you “No. Not yet. Let them rest first.”

The servant bowed and left, the door shutting with a soft click.

Arthur finally exhaled, as though the room had been holding its breath with him. He lowered himself to one knee beside you, his cloak falling around him like wings.

With slow, tender care, he brushed hair away from your forehead, his fingertips cool against your burning skin.

Arthur: “I should be out there leading troops... rebuilding Camelot... training...” His voice wavered faintly, something rare, almost startling. “But right now... none of that matters.”

Your lashes fluttered as you fought sleep, and Arthur immediately leaned closer, supporting your back so gently it felt as if you were made of glass.

You coughed again — weak, painful — and Arthur’s hand steadied you, thumb tracing gentle circles against your spine.

Arthur: whispering “Hush... it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

His tone was so tender it nearly broke.

When the coughing subsided, he pressed a cup of warm tea to your lips. His voice softened even further:

Arthur: “Only a sip. Slowly.”

You obeyed, and he watched every movement — protective, attentive, afraid to let you suffer even a second longer.

When you finished, he set the cup aside and took your hand between both of his, lifting it as if in silent prayer.

Arthur: “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.” His eyes closed for a moment. “But you don’t have to fight this alone.”

He leaned down slightly, resting his forehead gently against your hand — a gesture more intimate than any title, spell, or crown.

The fire crackled, rain steady outside — the world peaceful yet suspended.

And there, in the quiet warmth of that dim room, King Arthur Pendragon — chosen by Chaos, ruler of Camelot — stayed beside you with unwavering devotion.

Not as a king.

But as someone who could not bear to lose you.