Notes: This is entirely self-indulgent. Even more than usual. prepare a throne of stars above me was written for the Cool Factor, because I love BAMF!Tsuna, and shameless fawning over King Arthur. This fic is all of that and because I wanted Arthur and Tsuna to interact and form a mentor/friend/father figure type bond. That's it.

If you're looking for crazy intense battles or plot twists or anything like that, you've come to the wrong place. This will be mostly fluff and bonding - between Arthur and Tsuna and the rest of the Tenth Gen. There might not even be any battles, just scenes before and after them. Like cut-scenes in a video game, if you will.

If that's a deal breaker for you, that's fine. You don't have to read. I'm writing this because I want to and because it's fun. On that note, I do not want constructive criticism, but I definitely appreciate the thought.

ALSO. My knowledge of Arthurian legend is still shoddy, at best. I've read a few more articles, and I'm slowly making my through The Once and Future King, but don't expect anything super in depth. If anyone wants to point me toward good sources of info, I'd appreciate it, but 'til then, this is what I've got. Please enjoy.

The title is from "The Promiseland" by Mika. A lot of its lyrics reminded me of Arthur lmao

Other Warnings/Tags: Major Character Death (Arthur's), Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Family, Gen (No Romance), Angst, Canon Typical Violence, No Character Bashing

There's a sword lodged in his chest, and his breath is coming in weak, haggard puffs, but the pain has long since gone. Now, there is only numbness, spreading out from his wound like the blood staining his armor crimson.

How he wishes that numbness would consume the turbulent emotions in his heart.

Rage and betrayal had overcome him upon hearing news of Mordred's usurpation, followed quickly by grim determination, but looking down at her still body, there is only resignation and regret and a sadness that feels like it will swallow him whole.

Battles are still being fought all around him. No one has noticed their leaders are dead or dying, and in the midst of this chaos, Arthur isn't sure even that would stop the fighting. Too much anger and hurt, too many dead already on both sides, for even those loyal to him to set aside their swords and call for peace.

Arthur can't even raise his voice, much less demand their attention as a king should. The irrational urge to laugh rises up within him, but instead, he chokes on a sob. Tears fall from his eyes unbidden, bitterness and loathing of this helplessness burning him up from the inside.

In this state of weakness, Arthur finds himself longing for Gwen, for her sweet smiles and gentle touch. Her exasperated, "Now, Arthur, really?" when he's irritably sent the servants away and dropped onto their marital bed, still clothed and with mud on his boots trailing from the door. Her twitching lips, trying not to smile when he catches her wrist and pulls her down into his arms, that lovely, breathless laughter as he kisses her.

When was the last time she looked at him with so much love and adoration, unable to stay angry with him for a minute more? Even before he learned of her adultery, it must have been a year or two, at least. Now, with the image of his wife in the arms of another man, that last glimpse of her sharing a swift, passionate kiss with Lancelot seared into his mind, even those memories are bittersweet.

He coughs, a weak, bloody thing, and then blinks, long and slow, even such a small action becoming more difficult. The fighting is dying down. He can't crane his head around to see, but he can hear it. It won't be much longer now - for him and for this damned civil war.

"My lord!" He hears the desperate call, feels the hands grasping his shoulders tightly, senses his knight's panic. "My king, stay with me!"

"Bedivere," Arthur manages to get out between gasping breaths, forcing his eyes to stay open. "Bedivere, did we-?" He coughs again, blood trailing down from his mouth as if he's bitten into a particularly ripe fruit.

"Don't speak, sire! Please!" He begs, sounding as tired and wrung out as Arthur feels. "There are… a great many casualties, my lord, but I believe we will be the victors come battle's end." That such a victory will be hollow at best is not lost on either of them.

Another inexplicable urge to laugh, but he reigns it in. Now isn't the time to dwell on his bitterness. "That's… good. Bedivere- There is something I need you- need you to do."

Manfully withholding another reprimand, Bedivere swiftly says, "Anything, sire."

"Take Excalibur… and return her… to the Lady of the Lake."

The sword slipped from his grip some time ago and lay abandoned in the dirt, much like its wielder, and when Bedivere follows his eyes to it, his faithful knight hastily picks it up and holds it reverently. "But, sire-!"

Arthur shakes his head, immediately regrets it, and his moan of pain stifles the rest of Bedivere's protests. "It's an order," Arthur tells him, and the weight of the command has Bedivere reluctantly agreeing, hands gripping the hilt tighter.

Excalibur calls to him, as always, but Arthur no longer feels worthy of it, just as he finds it fitting that Caliburn, the sword that marked the beginning of his reign, is also the sword to end it. "Go, now," he commands. "I'm not much longer for this world, Bedivere, and I'll not force you or anyone to witness my death. Leave me."

And with great reluctance, he does. Loyal to the end, that Bedivere. At least there is that, Arthur thinks, with little humor but grasping tendrils of hope. At least my people have not all forsaken me. At least I was not betrayed by all those close to me.

At least there is an end to this madness. Arthur is at his end, and he welcomes the reprieve, the promise of rest. He's so tired, aching all the way to his bones. It's easy to let his eyes fall shut one final time, to bid goodbye to the world that at times seems to have only caused him pain, to sink down into blissful unconsciousness.

He closes his eyes and lets go.

He wakes.

He's lying on the ground. His fingers clench around new grass, and the unmistakable scent of earth surrounds him. He's outside, but these sounds- Nothing about them is familiar, beyond the occasional bird call.

He opens his eyes, noting that the structure before him - colored a mild yellow and sporting impractical glass doors - is also utterly unfamiliar. He sits up, almost overbalancing, and realizes that even sitting on his knees, his line of sight is far too low. He looks down and is surprised to find the hands of a child.

No, not a child. His hands, which he confirms when all ten fingers wiggle accordingly. He investigates further and finds that his entire body is as small as it must have been when he was a child, and there is no sign of his wound.

"Merlin," he growls because this smacks of his usual tomfoolery, but the name evokes memories that knock the breath right out of him.

That's right. It's been almost three years since he last spoke with Merlin, not for lack of trying on Arthur's part. Merlin left on one of his infamous quests - to confirm a rumor about an enemy of Camelot, Arthur recalls, but also to find some rare ingredient for a potion - and then, he just... never returned. Never sent word, either, and Arthur had worried about him up until there were, unfortunately, bigger things to worry about.

And that brings him back to what he has been trying very hard not to think about-

He should be dead. He knows that he died. His wound had been fatal, and even if he'd been treated or healed after he lost consciousness, surely it must have been too late. Surely not even Merlin - if he somehow came back - could have saved him. Surely the gods or fate or destiny would not deny him his due rest.

But here he is, alive and physically younger in a place he does not recognize and- alone. Always, always alone. During life, during death, and now even here in this strange place.

This bitterness and hopelessness is unlike him, but he can't seem to stop. Can't seem to draw upon his inner strength and optimism as he has many a time before to rally his men or inspire his people. Can't seem to set aside his emotions and perform his rightful duty-

Because Arthur has just died, because he has just led his people to their deaths not for honor or glory but because one of their own betrayed them and sought to breed chaos and the destruction of everything they ever fought for. Because Arthur reacted poorly to Mordred's very existence and because Morgan let her hatred and jealousy blind her.

Because Arthur is only human, only a man, and distinguishing himself from that humanity was perhaps his worst mistake, the most costly, and he has only himself to blame.

How ironic, how humorous that he can only admit this to himself now that it is far too late to do anything about it. Arthur has found himself coming to such realizations long after they might have been of use all too often, it seems. Why not have this trend follow him into what appears to be life after death?

Pathetic and selfish as it is, he allows himself a few more minutes of self-pity, of brooding and self-flagellation, not touching upon the grief that threatens to overwhelm him (because Arthur is strong when he needs to be, but he is not strong enough for that, not yet), carefully skirting around thoughts of Mordred's cooling corpse and her blood on his hands and what if I had only tried-

After five more minutes, after ten, he pulls himself together, systematically shutting away his emotions and regrets and only focusing on the situation at hand. It's fortunate that he does so because not a moment later an older man, likely in his fifties, opens the impractical glass door and catches sight of him, friendly, open expression turning surprised before grim resignation settles over him like a cloak.

"Tsunayoshi-kun? Daijōbu desu ka?" He says something in a language Arthur does not understand, stepping out into the grass and crouching before Arthur, eyes clinical as they check him for injury, a look Arthur is able to identify from long exposure.

This man knows him- or rather, recognizes this child's body, which is more than a little worrying. Has Arthur not simply been de-aged but actually come to possess someone else? A child, no less? The thought is horrifying, enough to make him physically ill, and the man must read that in his expression because the worry becomes more pronounced.

How has this happened? What became of the original owner of this body? Why is he here, and what is his purpose? These questions and more assail him, one after another, and combined with his mental and emotional exhaustion from earlier, it makes for quite the distraction.

As a result, he doesn't notice the man's sudden resolution, nor the finger of one hand igniting with a flame and pressing firmly against Arthur's forehead. Surprised, Arthur's eyes jerk up and lock onto apologetic brown, and the last thing he hears before the world fades to black is also entirely unintelligible.

"Per favore perdonami, Tsunayoshi."

This time, he doesn't wake so much as abruptly return to consciousness. The sudden resurgence of sight and sound is startling, and it takes a few moments for him to regain his bearings.

The first thing he notices is that he has once again changed locations. The difference is that Arthur recognizes his surroundings. He's lying atop his bed in his personal quarters back in Camelot. The bed he shared with Gwen-

Dismissing the thought, he sits up, noticing other oddities as he does so. Rather than bedclothes, he's wearing a tunic and trousers, and again, there is no pain, no visible wound.

No child's body. He scrutinizes his hands and is relieved to find familiar scars and sword-born callouses, the large, steady hands of a grown man rather than that of a youth's, small and unblemished.

"A dream?" he wonders aloud, but no, he won't allow himself even a moment of self-delusion. The battle, his death, and the encounter with the old man had all been very real, even if Arthur can think of no possible explanation as to how or why these things are linked.

There is also another pressing matter. He climbs out of bed and walks over to the open window, the terrible certainty in his gut only affirmed by the picture below. As he'd thought, this is Camelot, as it was in its prime. But as sea-green eyes rove over the city below, he can see that there are no people, no noises of activity, no birdsong. He can feel the wind on his face and the ground beneath his feet, but it's muted, fake. An illusion or a dreamlike reality.

One of his own making, he is also certain and cannot explain why he believes so. Perhaps it is that there would have been no point in trapping Arthur in such a place or bewildering him into letting his guard down - by magical means or otherwise - not when he was most assuredly dying from Mordred's final strike or is, as he suspects, quite dead already.

He is confident this false Camelot was made for him, possibly by him, wishing as he was in those last moments to return to the world of even just a few years ago. A world where Gwen still looked at him with love and affection in her eyes, where Lancelot had not yet had cause to take his place in Gwen's heart, where Gareth and Gaheris and Agravaine and the rest of his departed knights still lived and laughed and made merry 'round that iconic table.

Yes, he knows very well why this illusory kingdom resembles the perfect Camelot in his memories.

He wanders through the castle and the town, finding no one and nothing that might explain how. Every room is empty. The kitchens are no longer stocked with food. The stalls in the market contain no wares. There is no sign of life anywhere, giving his once home a grim, uneasy atmosphere that proves hard to shake.

Arthur finds himself unable to properly keep track of time because the sun has yet to descend even though it surely must have been hours already. Even so, neither thirst nor hunger has made itself known, and the only exhaustion that plagues him is that of the mind.

All attempts to leave the city are thwarted. One moment Arthur is striding forth on the main road and out into the lands surrounding Camelot, intent on exploring the sprawling meadows and forests dotting the landscape, and the next he finds himself walking right back through the city gates, as if he'd somehow gotten turned around.

It is at this discovery that Arthur's newly learned bitterness wells up and over, unable to be contained, like a boiling pot left unattended. Perhaps this is another of Morgan's wicked traps, meant to mock Arthur one last time. Perhaps it is even a self-inflicted punishment. Because of him, Camelot is empty, as much of its people fell in the civil war. Because of his actions, he is once more alone. Or perhaps it is meant to hammer in the fact that Arthur has always been alone, has always kept himself apart, unable to connect to others in all the ways that truly mattered.

He huffs a humorless laugh at the direction his thoughts have taken. "Melodrama doesn't suit me," he muses, raking a hand through his hair. "I dare say I'm quite awful at it."

Nothing like Merlin in a snit, which might as well be performance art. He did so love his dramatics and aura of mystery, didn't he? Never mind his cheeky magic or that half his spells failed spectacularly. Or that his backsight led to all manner of amusing and frustrating conversations wherein he would forget what had happened or was to happen and whether he ought to intervene or let anyone else in on it. The amount of times he'd assumed Arthur knew something that Merlin hadn't told him yet and got all blustery and offended over it...

Arthur's laugh this time is entirely fond, eyes glittering with remembered glee, and with a clearer heart, he strides forward to continue his investigation. He hadn't checked the dungeons or done more than poke his head inside the cathedral, after all, and he's not ready to give up quite yet.

There is only one tomb where there should be many, and Arthur doesn't know whether he is relieved or disappointed by the revelation. Gingerly, he places a hand upon his own tomb, heart thrashing wildly in his chest, perhaps trying to prove quite desperately that it has not yet fallen still, perhaps reflecting Arthur's own vehement denial of the truth. His heart has always betrayed the emotions his mind rejects for cool logic.

"The after life?" he wonders, but no, it's more than that. He looks around at this empty room, considers the entire kingdom made from his own memories but without any of the people he loves, without anyone to rule over and protect as his duty demands. His own personal Hell, maybe, but any version of Camelot will always bring him a sense of comfort even as this hollow mimicry of it pains him.

There is also the encounter with the old man and the child he'd unknowingly possessed to mull over. An odd interaction that cannot be dismissed as his imagination. As it is, there are far too many questions and very little in the way of answers. Rather than drive himself mad ruminating, he sets his questions and theories aside for now and continues his exploration of the castle. Perhaps the answers he seeks lie within a forgotten room or an unchecked corridor.

The dungeons loom before him, ominous, foreboding, and yet undoubtedly calling to him. The very place he has unconsciously avoided in his investigation, knowing somehow that the answers he seeks lie within, a final confirmation, the last nail in his coffin. Indisputable proof that life as he knew it is now forever out of reach.

Despite himself, he opens the door and descends, quickly making his way down the steps and into the dungeons proper.

His breath catches in his throat. (His heart accepts the truth.)

In the middle of the room lies a stone like any other. Nothing about its size or shape or color is out of the ordinary. In fact, if such a stone had been in the courtyard outside, it might have been entirely overlooked.

Well, that is, if one didn't notice the sword embedded in it - a ridiculous notion, of course. The odds of one's eyes not immediately aligning on the golden holy sword, that promised sword of victory are quite small indeed. If one did, however, manage to miss that shining blade, surely the words carved into its surface would merit attention.

These are not the words of a prophecy, for this is not a sword to crown a king. No, these words are much more personal but no less important.

"She is yours, dear King, forevermore."

"Excalibur," Arthur says through a shuddered breath, an acknowledgement full of disbelief and longing. "How…?" he asks, trailing off when he realizes the futility of doing so. His eyes catch on the writing, and he staggers, throwing a hand to catch himself on the nearest wall, bewildered, touched, wondering, utterly overwhelmed. The Lady of the Lake gave her back?

As if sensing his presence, Excalibur glows for but a moment, inviting Arthur to step up and claim what is rightfully his. Forever, he thinks, and wonders what Her game is. Did She have something do with this?

"I can't," he says, voice pained with a lifetime of regrets. "I am no longer worthy. Not as your wielder and not as a king."

Excalibur glows again, insistent, but Arthur knows in his heart that he has not the resolve to pull the blade from the stone, nor even the desire. His mind is too clouded, his goals for the future too uncertain, and Arthur knows himself well enough to recognize that he has not yet recovered from the treachery and foolishness that lead him to this point.

Being human is not so simple, after all, especially not for a man who cast aside his own emotions for years. It will take time to work through his grief and guilt, and until then, he cannot take up the very symbol of the ideal world he had tried so hard to build and maintain and that had come crashing down around him within a matter of months. To do so would be yet another mistake, and Arthur has had his fill of them.

And so he looks to the sword that had always served him faithfully and quietly promises, "I will become a man worthy of wielding you once again."

Unbeknownst to him, as he takes his leave, an orange flame momentarily flickers over Excalibur's finely wrought metal before blade and stone disappear, sinking into the dark depths of a beautiful lake.

End Notes: Translations are from Google Translate, so forgive the inaccuracies.
(Japanese) Tsunayoshi-kun? Are you okay?
(Italian) Forgive me, Tsunayoshi.

- Bedivere doesn't actually leave Arthur to die alone. He gets his horse, grabs an unconscious Arthur, and races for the lake in the hopes that Arthur can be healed. What happens after that, well, you'll just have to wait to find out. ;)

- On that note, if you're curious about the message on the stone and its implications, I've got Plans for the Lady of the Lake, too. ;)

- I know they would've used different words and phrasing back then, but pretend they did and that this is simply worded this way for the reader's benefit. Or that it's influenced by Tsuna's memories or something. I'm not about to go all thou and thee for a fic I'm writing for fun.

- The women in KHR will have their chance to shine in this fic as well. Planning on having the same lineup of Guardians. The Women Being Awesome tag will apply.

Please let me know what you think! ;)