It was a very painful process, grief.
The first bout was his denial of his father’s immi death. He summoned every possible resource, as if the right potion could scramble fate itself. Physis, medies—every impossible method known to man or myth…
Then, anger surged.
“None of you see anything?! Nothing at all that could expin his illness?!”
“Yhness, I assure you… we see nothing wrong at all. It appears it is simply His Majesty's time. His coughing, his symptoms... they present no answer.”
“Really? I’ve brought you merfolk’s fins and uni horn, and they’re utterly useless?! Don't these magical ingredients have some sort of magical effe rebuilding the body and purifying the soul!”
“But as, Sir… The cause is still unknown. Using these legendary pos will oend life at best, and frankly, given His Majesty’s current state, those mythical remedies might just finish the job quicker…”
Depression was , while Burn, finally notig 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 somehow kept tucked away.
“Father,” he called, his voice eg 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 mend? So all the servants and courtiers see you, alive, albeit in a state of recuperation?”
“Don’t you ime to y ylorious groundwork before my gra?” 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?” Theiced his son’s brisk retreat. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to fetch t,” Burn replied.
“Caliburn, your brother despises me,” 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 , being just a man who happens to be your father rather than the sn of realms.”
Burn's face torted in a mix e and incredulity, and even Arthur felt a flicker of fear. “You,” he said solemnly, “are born for unbelievable feats. Yet, I must fess, your wrath 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 me?”
“Who do you think my mentor was?” Burn managed a sardonic smile, his fa?ade crag just enough to reveal the truth beh. “Now it seems everyone around me has caught the same affli.”
“That’s because your wit is far too keen, my son,” Arthur remarked, feigning offense. “A’s not even discuss your utter odesty! Shameless!”
Bargaining. Burn, right about now, was bargaining.
“How loly you tether to your mortal coil? Do you think the merfolk fins and the uni horn 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 dition. You keep them or use them to help someone else instead of wasting them on me.”
Burn didn’t speak for a long time before settling into a chair he bed.
“I'll apany 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 bee so big, son?”
Burn sneered. “When have you bee so small, Father?”
Then, over the course of the month, Burn, who ehe night after night of his father’s suffering, had e to an acceptance.
Winter, ih 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 colpse from his mysterious illness.
t rushed to the pace, his face a portrait of stern resolve, taut as a b, while the white snow outside seamlessly blended with his white hair, making him look like a winter spirit having a particurly difficult day.
Upoering the chamber, the first thing that struck him was his younger brother’s wide back, a rather impressive silhouette hunched over a stool he bed.
It was as if Burn had taken on the role of a silery, preparing for the long vigil in the shadow of mortality—a role he never auditioned for but apparently nded quite well.
The Round Table, in all their somber reverie, kneeling across the floor. t couldn’t help but wonder if they were silently mog him, refleg on how even a legendary assembly could be reduced to mere furniture and decoration in the face of such despair.
“Why didn’t he call me?” t suddenly asked. “Why didn’t he summon me himself?!”
“Ah, he didn’t, huh?” Burn asked iurn. “But why didn’t you e?”
t gritted his teeth, his eyes bloodshot. “With you here, what use am I?”
“Sure. And even with me here, he still died,” Burn replied, cold as winter iron. t’s eyes wavered, caught between hurt and rage, as Burn tinued, “You truly are of no use, Brother. gratutions on successfully avoiding wasting your precious time.”
“Caliburn!” one of the kneeling men, Aroche, broke the thick tension by rising to his feet. “t, enough.”
Burn stood from his seat, a dark statue against the pallor of grief, log his gaze onto t’s. In that moment, t's gaze flickered with both fear and venom.
“It is rather unseemly for Arthur Pendragon’s two swords to csh on his funeral day. If you have more to say, let’s reserve it for when the old man’s fortably led in his coffin, six feet under.”
With that, Bured the room, the sharp ctter of his metal heels eg, like a clock tig down to the end of this absurd circus, stealing away the st remnants of warmth in the room.
“Proceed.”
.
.
.
.
.
-------------------------
Burn's version of 5 stages of grief :'v
