It was a very painful process, grief.
The first bout was his denial of his father’s imminent death. He summoned every possible resource, as if the right potion could scramble fate itself. Physicians, dicines—every impossible thod known to man or myth…
Then, anger surged.
“None of you can see anything?! Nothing at all that could explain his illness?!”
“Your Highness, I assure you… we see nothing wrong at all. It appears it is simply His Majesty's ti. His coughing, his symptoms... they present no answer.”
“Really? I’ve brought you rfolk’s fins and unicorn horn, and they’re utterly useless?! Don't these magical ingredients have so sort of magical effect in rebuilding the body and purifying the soul!”
“But alas, Sir… The cause is still unknown. Using these legendary components will only extend life at best, and frankly, given His Majesty’s current state, those mythical redies might just finish the job quicker…”
Depression was next, while Burn, finally noticing he was halfway in grief, chuckled at the absurdities of life over yet another drink with Aroche.
It was midnight, a month into his father’s slow unraveling, and Burn finally realized the suffering brewing inside him—one he’d been battling for years yet sohow kept tucked away.
“Father,” he called, his voice echoing in the dim room.
A low groan escaped his father’s parched lips, a sound that might have been his new version of a greeting.
Burn squeezed his eyes shut. “Will you still force yourself to rise tomorrow, pretending you’re on the nd? So all the servants and courtiers can see you, alive, albeit in a state of recuperation?”
“Don’t you need ti to lay your glorious groundwork before my grand exit?” the man whispered.
“Is that why you’re holding on?” Burn asked.
Arthur chuckled, the sound deep and cracked. “I could keep this charade up for months. What of a little suffering?” Then he noticed his son’s brisk retreat. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to fetch Clarent,” Burn replied.
“Caliburn, your brother despises ,” Arthur halted him with a choked breath. “You could tell him I’m on my deathbed, and he’d likely shrug it off.”
“Father,” Burn snapped gravely.
Arthur chuckled softly but was quickly seized by a fit of coughing. “Ah, the sweet sound of you dropping ‘Your Majesty’ for ‘Father’… It’s as if I’m finally shedding the weight of the crown, becoming just a man who happens to be your father rather than the sovereign of realms.”
Burn's face contorted in a mix of rage and incredulity, and even Arthur felt a flicker of fear. “You,” he said solemnly, “are born for unbelievable feats. Yet, I must confess, your wrath can be so formidable that it sends shivers down my spine. God help us, what of your future, I don’t know; I dare not imagine.”
Silence.
The old man’s smile appeared genuine as he fixed his gaze on Burn. “What? Out of cruel, sarcastic remarks? Surely you’ve saved your sharpest barbs for ?”
“Who do you think my ntor was?” Burn managed a sardonic smile, his façade cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath. “Now it seems everyone around has caught the sa affliction.”
“That’s because your wit is far too keen, my son,” Arthur remarked, feigning offense. “And let’s not even discuss your utter lack of modesty! Shaless!”
Bargaining. Burn, right about now, was bargaining.
“How long exactly can you tether to your mortal coil? Do you think the rfolk fins and the unicorn horn can help you with the pain?” Burn asked.
Arthur shook his head. “No, they won’t help with the pain. I’ve tried the prescription with the miraculous essence of the mythical ingredients, but I don’t think it suits my condition. You keep them or use them to help soone else instead of wasting them on .”
Burn didn’t speak for a long ti before settling into a chair near the bed.
“I'll accompany your rest every night from now on.”
The old man on the bed, seemingly surprised by his hard-boiled egg of a son’s words, widened his eyes. No. How was it only now that he saw this side of him? It just proved to him how bad of a father he was, to only see this truth right on his deathbed.
“When have you beco so big, son?”
Burn sneered. “When have you beco so small, Father?”
Then, over the course of the next month, Burn, who endured the night after night of his father’s suffering, had co to an acceptance.
Winter, in the 28th year of King Arthur’s reign, the distinguished king, all of 52 years old, departed from the world. It was almost exactly two months after his first collapse from his mysterious illness.
Clarent rushed to the palace, his face a portrait of stern resolve, taut as a bowstring, while the white snow outside seamlessly blended with his white hair, making him look like a winter spirit having a particularly difficult day.
Upon entering the chamber, the first thing that struck him was his younger brother’s wide back, a rather impressive silhouette hunched over a stool near the bed.
It was as if Burn had taken on the role of a silent sentry, preparing for the long vigil in the shadow of mortality—a role he never auditioned for but apparently landed quite well.
The Round Table, in all their somber reverie, kneeling across the floor. Clarent couldn’t help but wonder if they were silently mocking him, reflecting on how even a legendary assembly could be reduced to re furniture and decoration in the face of such despair.
“Why didn’t he call ?” Clarent suddenly asked. “Why didn’t he summon himself?!”
“Ah, he didn’t, huh?” Burn asked in return. “But why didn’t you co?”
Clarent gritted his teeth, his eyes bloodshot. “With you here, what use am I?”
“Sure. And even with here, he still died,” Burn replied, cold as winter iron. Clarent’s eyes wavered, caught between hurt and rage, as Burn continued, “You truly are of no use, Brother. Congratulations on successfully avoiding wasting your precious ti.”
“Caliburn!” one of the kneeling n, Aroche, broke the thick tension by rising to his feet. “Clarent, enough.”
Burn stood from his seat, a dark statue against the pallor of grief, locking his gaze onto Clarent’s. In that mont, Clarent's gaze flickered with both fear and venom.
“It is rather unseemly for Arthur Pendragon’s two swords to clash on his funeral day. If you have more to say, let’s reserve it for when the old man’s comfortably nestled in his coffin, six feet under.”
With that, Burn exited the room, the sharp clatter of his tal heels echoing, like a clock ticking down to the end of this absurd circus, stealing away the last remnants of warmth in the room.
“Proceed.”
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Burn's version of 5 stages of grief :'v
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