Uther's face was stony whilst Bors, breathing heavily from running to the throne room to make his report, outlined his tale.

When the giant man finished, an awful silence stretched out.

Finally, after what seemed like aeons, the King spoke, staring resolutely into the middle distance. "Do you believe my son still lives?"

Bors shrugged. "My Lord, that I don't know. Merlin told me to pull the men back and get here as soon as possible. His view was that his apprentice had the matter in hand."

"How can you be sure it was Merlin that spoke to you? I am sure that the wizards who levelled Isca," the King paused at that fact, still unable to process the news. There had been rumours, but to hear of the fate of that great settlement from someone who had been there was something else. It staggered belief. And then the fall of Arthur? Calamity visited upon them after calamity. "I am sure that anyone with access to that sort of power would not find it hard to, for example, project their voice."

Bors nodded. "Yes, my Lord. I did think something very much the same. However, the voice that spoke to me had ... knowledge of me to which I am comfortable only Merlin would have access."

Uther felt his lip curl into a snarl. He knew he should not be directing his anger at this man. Gods know, if even half of the story he had told was accurate, Bors had performed acts of colossal bravery and stunning military cunning in guiding the shattered remains of the Marghekyon back home. But angry he was. The big man would take it and understand. "Heartened as I am that you are 'comfortable' with that assessment, I need a little more than your fucking comfort to convince me this realm still has a prince! It may have eased your conscience at leaving my son to die to not question a voice in your head that let you run away with your tale between your legs, but I'd like some damned evidence!"

Bors did not flinch. "Merlin thought you would say something like that, my Lord. He gave me a message to pass on, which he felt would quell your anxieties." He cleared his throat and then paused. "I should note, my Lord, that there is wording here I would hesitate to use in your presence in other circumstances. Should I not be wholly reconciled to the certainty that this comes from Merlin ..."

Uther flapped a hand to stem his words. "I have a vivid memory of you pulling me back to my feet in a shield wall and telling me if I ever dropped a fucking bollock like that again, you'd reach down my throat, tear off my dick through my gaping arse and use it to blind both my eyes. I think we're past the 'all due respect to the crown' stage of our relationship. Give me the fucking message, Sir Bors."

"Merlin asked me to remind you that only two of you know what went down behind the woodshed that summer, and if you persist in being such an enormous cock, that number will dramatically increase."

Uther felt the heat rise in his face. "Did he say anything else?"

"Yes, my Lord. Erm. Baa Baa."

The level of awkwardness in the silence that enveloped the throne room was substantial. Eventually, Uther cleared his throat. "I am happy to agree with your assessment that it was the shade of Merlin who spoke to you."

"Yes, my Lord."

Uther stood and came down from his throne. The room was empty save Bors, the King and Queen Igraine, who had not yet spoken a word. Resolutely avoiding eye contact, he strode past the younger man to stand at the window that looked out on the approach to Tintagel.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He visualised this view filled with a Saxon assault and felt a stirring of fear. If what Bors said was accurate, the number of invaders was more than enough to bring an end to the British presence on the island. And that was without whatever those damned wizards could do.

And he had no Merlin. And now, maybe, no Arthur.

He turned abruptly. "You say my son was badly injured. How badly?"

Bors did not see a benefit in mincing words. "Had not the Celt intervened, he would be dead."

"Assuming Merlin's plan worked, and they got him out, is he going to be able to play a part in the war to come?"

Bors opened his mouth to speak, paused, then began again. "My Lord, I have seen Merlin perform acts of such wonder and mystery that I hesitate to think there is anything in the world that is not possible. Should we have him with us today, I do not doubt we would see Prince Arthur on the field again. But in his absence ..."

"Were his wounds so dire?"

Bors nodded slowly. The aftermath of the fire that had consumed Arthur haunted his dreams all the way back to the castle. He suspected they would for the rest of his life.

"I thank you for coming directly with your report. Whilst your news is dire, you have, once again, performed us a great service. We will be forever in your debt."

Bors knew a dismissal when he heard one and gratefully gathered himself up to leave. He had jumped off his horse and ran directly from the courtyard. Even to a campaigner used to difficult conditions, he desperately looked forward to scraping off the thick coating of blood, dirt and sweat that clung to him. He knew his wife liked him to return from war "windswept and interesting", was how she put it. But there were limits.

Igraine and Uther watched him leave. "If it is possible, that man has grown even bigger."

Uther turned to his wife in surprise. They hadn't exchanged so much of a word in months.

"Oh, stop your gawking. If we don't talk following the death of our only child, what help for us is there?"

"You misheard, my Lady. Arthur still lives."

"Don't be an arse, Uther. You saw the expression on the big lad's face as well as I did when you asked about his wounds. If our son still breathes, then it is not for long."

The heaviness of that conclusion settled on Uther like an anvil. How had this all come to pass? The loss of Merlin had been a body blow. Then, no sooner had he begun to recover, but rumours came his way of the fiery destruction of Isca Dumnoniorum. As if that was not enough, tales of a giant Saxon host gathering to strike south came with them.

And now this. His son was dead. Or as good as.

He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes, and then Igraine slapped him.

"No."

He reeled back in astonishment. "Igraine!"

"Stop it. You stop that right now. You do not get to wallow in self-pity at the moment your people need you. Did you not hear what he said? There is an invasion force arriving at his heels. I am no military strategist, but I imagine there are all sorts of preparations to make."

"But Arthur?"

"Is dead. Washing the floor with your tears will not change that."

He stared at this woman. She had probably just said as many words to him in a few minutes as they had shared throughout the last few years.

"I did not know you held him in such low esteem."

This second slap made his ears ring.

"If you think my heart is not breaking, then you are an even bigger fool than I've taken you for. But we do not have the luxury right now of falling apart. The kingdom needs you to show leadership. It needs to rally behind you to war. And, whilst the people mourn their prince, they must know there is a succession plan."

Uther's eyebrows hit the top of his head. "Igraine, I fear your days or bearing children are -"

The third slap was a doozy. Blood swelled in his mouth. A tiny, forgotten part of his mind flared to life, remembering that there had once been something about the spirit of this woman he had found highly enticing.

"Not me, you half-wit. Guinevere. We announce she is pregnant, call in Leodegrance's promised spears, prepare for a siege and make clear the Pendragon line is secure."

"But she isn't pregnant! How long do you think it will be before we find ourselves with a Saxon army on our doorstep and thousands of armed, pissed-off Kernish joining them in the assault."

"So we make sure she is pregnant."

Uther threw his hands up in despair. "A fantastic idea. Why didn't I think of that? If only her husband wasn't fatally injured and whisked away in the keeping of some mysterious Celt."

Igraine shook her head. "Oh, Uther. You really are adorably dense. Listen to me very carefully. Wash your face, put on your crown, go directly to Guinevere's room and fuck her each way until Sunday until it magically turns out that the fallen, heroic prince left a lovely and much hoped-for surprise behind."

Uther's face was white, and his eyes were wide, as his wife took her leave of him.