We're all mad here

Scattered laughter.

“‘I rarely, if ever, have interest in sympathising with an English king—and I certainly didn’t back then.”

The laughter takes on a puzzled note.

“But.” Professor Smith holds up a finger. “If we don’t humanise our oppressors, we run the risk of treating their actions like Doctor Doom’s attack of the week—rather than something they actively choose to inflict on others. Do you understand my point?”

Around the lecture hall, students hum and nod in agreement.

“At the same time, one cannot forget that a king is a king. Arthur was obligated to execute Gwen—er, Guinevere—or else run the risk of showing weakness and shaming himself in front of his people. Yes, he knew Lancelot would save her. It was a decision informed by trust in his friend and his position in power. Arthur was a man with a job to do; an obligation to his people and his predecessors. And with those duties come human emotion: fear of letting down his country and his father, of disrespecting Camelot’s history. Gwen and Lancelot stuck by him despite that fear, because they believed in him and they knew he would be a great king.”

Professor Smith sighs and clasps his hands behind his back.

“But destiny did not come to pass in the way they expected it. Perhaps they wished they had listened to other perspectives. Perhaps they wished they had taken the chance to live freely together. They wished they had not put so much faith in one man and done themselves and their people a disservice in the process.”

There’s a long silence.

Students look fearfully at each other, passing discreet notes—for the professor looks like he may cry.

“But they were human too,” the girl from earlier pipes up. “We talk a lot about Guinevere and Lancelot’s love for Arthur and the way their relationship is depicted as almost ethically non-monogamous, by modern standards. Yes, they may have made a mistake by not living for themselves, but they were living for the love and hope they had in Arthur. It’s, like, proper Shakespearean, when you think about it.”

“And,” the boy adds, “Arthur became a symbol we can all look up to. He’s still very much relevant in the cultural consciousness—otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Yes, he died prematurely, but he is still the greatest king Albion has ever seen, if only because he has remained a constant ideal which we can look up to. Arthuriana gave TH White comfort after the events of World War II, after all. We cannot underestimate his importance as a symbol.”

“True, especially when we can’t rely on current politicians,” the girl agrees. “Rebellions are built on hope.”

“A Star Wars reference is fairly gauche in this context, do you not think?” The boy sneers.

“I don’t think something has to be highbrow to have academic relevance, Charles, no,” she hisses back.

“I never said anything about it not being highbrow, I just don’t believe Star Wars to be a worthwhile comparison—“

“Really? Really? Luke Skywalker, the Jedi Knight training to save the galaxy from his evil father? You think that has no relevance, you prat?”

Merlin smiles and steps behind the podium, dabbing at his eyes with the cuff of his corduroy blazer.

He lets them argue until the bell rings.