"Oh brother dear, let my bed be made..."

It had dwindled down to a look.

Backlack wasn't even sure how it had started, all those years ago. It had probably been the result of a bit of advice from Lucy, which had then perhaps been misquoted, misunderstood, and repeatedly misused until it had turned into their own saying, with its own meaning.

Let my bed be made. What a weight those words carried. They had become a kind of shorthand for a handful of terrible truths. When Arthur - leaning against the railing of a bridge, with blood flowing freely from the side of his neck, for example - looked Backlack in the eyes and said, "Let my bed be made," he was really saying three much more horrible things.

One: I am going to die. Two: I'm taking nothing with me. Three: My responsibilities are now yours. In other words, you make my bed and tidy up my affairs because I won't be here to do that anymore.

Over the years, as Arthur and Wet Stick each amassed a respectable collection of scars, Backlack had felt the heavy blow of that phrase more than a few times. The hollow feeling that came with acknowledging your friend's imminent death. The creeping sorrow, knowing how their absent would be felt. And the fiery determination of unending loyalty that says I've got your back, no matter what. And even if you go, I'll still be here for you.

Thankfully, those times had all turned out to be false alarms. They were close shaves, without a doubt, but Arthur or Wet Stick always pulled through. But tonight. Tonight was different, and for two very good reasons. One: Backlack was sure this was no false alarm. And two: He was no longer on the receiving end.

This time he had said the phrase himself, in a manner of speaking. By now it had dwindled down to a mere look, honed and sharpened over the years as they had come to better understand both their circumstances and each other.

Tonight, as Backlack sat slumped against a wooden pole in the flickering light of their safe house, he had raised his gaze above his son's head and met eyes with Arthur. He gave him the look. Let my bed be made, he had said silently. And Arthur had understood.

"C'mon, Blue," Arthur had said, leading Blue away from his dying father just as he had wanted. "You carry this. C'mon."

Backlack watched as Arthur gave him Excalibur, the sword that had started everything, and shuffled Blue off toward the back door, casting one last look behind him. Arthur's jaw was set. His eyes clear. He would make Backlack's bed.

And suddenly Backlack understood why the receiving end of the phrase felt so heavy. It was because the other end - the other side of the three terrible truths - was so dizzyingly light. Now, as Backlack could see it, they were no longer terrible truths. They were freeing realizations.

One: I am going to die. He had known it as he watched Arthur and Blue leave through the back, and it had only been further confirmed when Vortigern himself had walked through the door and pulled up a chair beside him. So now, he could look calmly into the king's face.

Two: I'm taking nothing with me. Soon, the smoldering wreck their lives and their country had become would no longer be on his shoulders. And the best part?

Three: My responsibilities are now yours. They were on Arthur's shoulders. And Backlack could think of no safer place to leave them. His boy. The girls. Their crew. George and the boys. Their new friends from the resistance. Even the whole of England.

They would all be just fine with Arthur.